"And there you have it, another exclusive report from Cable Network News." Dionna the anchorperson smiled, and the screen faded again, this time to a commercial for Lite Beer from Miller. Marty stood up and put on a robe.
"I'll get the coffee going."
"Holy shit," Toland said again. He took longer than usual to shave, nicking himself twice as he kept looking in the mirror at his own eyes rather than his jawline. He dressed quickly, then looked in on his sleeping children. He decided against waking them.
Forty minutes later, he was in his car heading south, down U.S. 301, with his windows open, allowing cool night air to wash over him, and the car radio tuned to an all-news station. It was clear enough what was happening in the U.S. military. A bomb had been set off-probably a bomb in the Kremlin. Toland reminded himself that reporters hard up against deadlines, or TV types trying to score an instant scoop, often did not have the time to check things out. Maybe it was a gas main? Did Moscow have gas mains? If it were a bomb, he was sure the Soviets would instinctively think that the West had something to do with it, regardless of what that Suddler fellow thought, and go to higher alert status. The West would automatically do the same in anticipation of possible Soviet action. Nothing too obvious, nothing to provoke them further, mainly an exercise conducted by intelligence and surveillance types. The Soviets would understand that. That's how the game was played, more from their side than from ours, Toland reflected, remembering assassination attempts against American presidents.
What if they really do think? Toland wondered. No, he decided, they had to know that no one was that crazy. Didn't they?
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
He drove for another three hours, wishing that he'd drunk more coffee and less wine, and listening to his car radio to stay awake. He arrived just after seven, the normal beginning of the day's work. He was surprised to find Colonel Lowe at his desk.
"I don't report to Lejeune until Tuesday, so I decided to come in and take a look at this. How was the drive?"
"I made it alive-that's about all I can say. What's happening?"
"You'll love it." Lowe held up a telex sheet. "We pirated this off the Reuters wire half an hour ago, and CIA confirms-meaning they probably stole it, too-that the KGB has arrested one Gerhardt Falken, a West German national, and accused him of setting off a bomb in the fuckin' Kremlin!" The Marine let out a long breath. "He missed the big shots, but now they're saying that among the victims are six Young Octobrists -from Pskov, by God!-who were making a presentation to the Politburo. Kids. There's going to be hell to pay."
Toland shook his head. It couldn't get much worse than that. "And they say a German did it?"
"A West German," Lowe corrected. "NATO intel services are already going ape trying to run him down. The official Soviet statement gives his name and address-some suburb of Bremen-and business, a small import-export house. Nothing else yet on that subject, but the Russian Foreign Ministry did go on to say that they expect 'this despicable act of international terrorism' to have no effect on the Vienna Arms Talks, that while they do not believe at this time that Falken was acting on his own, they 'have no wish' to believe that we had anything to do with it."
"Cute. It's going to be a shame to lose you back to your regiment, Chuck. You have such a nice way of finding the important quotes."
"Commander, we just might need that regiment soon. This whole thing smells like dead fish to me. Last night: the final film in the Eisenstein film festival, Alexander Nevsky, a new digitalized print, a new soundtrack-and what's the message? 'Arise, ye Russian people,' the Germans are coming! This morning, we have six dead Russian kids, from Pskovl and a German is supposed to have planted the bomb. The only thing that doesn't fit is that it ain't exactly subtle."
"Maybe," Toland said speculatively. He spoke like a halfhearted devil's advocate. "You think we could sell this combination of factors to the papers or anybody in Washington? It's too crazy, too coincidental-what if it is subtle, but backwards subtle? Besides, the object of the exercise wouldn't be to convince us, it would be to convince their own citizens. You could say it works both ways. That make sense, Chuck?"
Lowe nodded. "Enough to check out. Let's do some sniffing around. First thing, I want you to call CNN in Atlanta and find out how long this Suddler guy's been trying to tape his story about the Kremlin. How much lead time did he have, when was this approved, who he worked through to get it, and if someone other than his regular press contact finally did approve it."
"Setup." Toland said it out loud. He wondered if they were being clever-or clinically paranoid. He knew what most people would think.
"You can't smuggle a Penthouse into Russia without using the diplomatic bag, and now we're supposed to believe a German smuggled a bomb in? Then tries to blow up the Politburo?"
"Could we do it?" Toland wondered aloud.
"If CIA was crazy enough to try it? God, that's more than just crazy." Lowe shook his head. "I don't think anybody could do it, even the Russians themselves. It's got to be a layered defense. X-ray machines. Sniffer dogs. A couple of hundred guards, all from three different commands, the Army, KGB, MVD, probably their militia, too. Hell, Bob, you know how paranoid they are against their own people. How do you suppose they feel about Germans?"
"So they can't say he was a crazy operating on his own."
"Which leaves..."
"Yeah." Toland reached for his phone to call CNN.
KIEV, THE UKRAINE
"Children!" Alekseyev barely said aloud. "For our maskirovka the Party murders children! Our own children. What have we come to?"
What have I come to? If I can rationalize the judicial murder of our colonels and some privates, why shouldn't the Politburo blow up a few children...? Alekseyev told himself there was a difference.
His General was also pale as he switched off the television set. "'Arise, ye Russian people. We must set these thoughts aside, Pasha. It is hard, but we must. The State is not perfect, but it is the State we must serve."
Alekseyev eyed his commander closely. The General had almost choked on those words; he was already practicing how to use them on the crucial few who would know of this outrage, yet had to perform their duties as though it never existed. There will come a day of reckoning, Pasha told himself, a day of reckoning for all the crimes committed in the name of Socialist Progress. He wondered if he'd live to see it and decided he probably wouldn't.
MOSCOW, R.S.F.S.R.
The Revolution has come to this, he thought. Sergetov was staring into the rubble. The sun was still high, even this late in the afternoon. The firefighters and soldiers were almost finished sorting through the wreckage, heaving the loose pieces into trucks a few meters from where he stood. There was dust on his suit. I'll have to have it cleaned, he thought, watching the seventh small body being lifted with a gentleness all too late and obscenely out of place. One more child was still unaccounted for, and there was still some lingering hope. A uniformed Army medic stood nearby, unwrapped dressings in his quivering hands. To his left a major of infantry was weeping with rage. A man with a family, no doubt.
The television cameras were there, of course. A lesson learned from the American media, Sergetov thought, the crews poking their way into the action to record every horrible scene for the evening news. He was surprised to see an American crew with their Soviet counterparts. So, we have made mass murder an international spectator sport.