“Bad news, she rides a fast horse,” the Russian said in easily understandable English.
“So I’ve heard,” Jake Grafton replied and looked curiously around the room, a vast cavern with ceilings at least eighteen feet high. Mirrors, chandeliers, a massive wooden desk atop a colorful Persian carpet, walls covered with books and several oil paintings — apparently Communists were as fond of perks as Democrats and Republicans. They were on the second floor of the Kremlin Arsenal, a two-story yellow building inside the walls.
“Nice room,” he commented.
The general smiled. “So, Admiral, what did the American government really send you here to do?”
“Watch you take tactical nuclear warheads apart, General.”
“Sounds very boring.”
“I’m also supposed to count them.”
“Ah, one… two… three… four…” Yakolev laughed. “And you, Mr. Tenney?”
“I’m with the State Department, sir. Here to assist the admiral.”
Yakolev nodded and shifted his eyes to Jake. “Is that true?” he asked.
Jake mulled it for about two seconds, then said, “He’s here to keep an eye on me all right, but he’s CIA.”
“Ahhh, a political officer, a commissar. I’ve known a few of them in my time. But as you gentlemen know, our zampolits are at the moment unemployed. The world changes. So, please, Mr. Tenney, since I am at the disadvantage, I ask you to let the admiral and me converse alone. Then no harm will be done if we inadvertently make any little political mistakes.”
Tenney glanced at Grafton, then rose and left the room.
Jake got a glimpse of twinkling eyes behind Yakolev’s bushy brows, then the general turned his attention to a file that lay before him. “Your dossier,” he said, indicating the file. “The GRU is very thorough, one of their few virtues.”
He flipped from page to page. “Let us see. You had combat experience in Vietnam, the usual tours aboard numerous aircraft carriers, command of two air wings… Ah, here is a summary of a regrettable incident in the Mediterranean that we thought would surely end your career — and that involved nuclear weapons, I believe.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
The general laughed, a hearty roar. “Very funny, Admiral. You make a little joke, and I like that. We Russians laugh to make the pain endurable. But I tell you frankly, if you expect to work with me, you and I must learn to tell each other the unpleasant truths.” He wagged a finger at Jake. “Regardless of what our politicians say or the lies they tell, you and I must treat each other as professionals. We must work together as colleagues. No lies. All truth. Only truth. You comprehend?”
Jake studied the Soviet general in front of him. He held out his hand. “May I see the dossier?”
“It is in Russian.”
Jake nodded.
The general closed the file and passed it across the desk. Jake opened it on his lap. It was thick, contained maybe thirty pages of material. Most of the pages were indeed in Russian, some typewritten, others in script. There was a front page of the New York Times with his photo and another photo taken on a street somewhere several years ago. He had been in civilian clothes then. Also in the files were several photocopies of newspaper and magazine articles about the A-12 Avenger stealth attack plane for which he had been the project manager, before full-scale production was canceled. One of the articles was from Aviation Week and Space Technology: a magazine commonly referred to as Aviation Leak by the American military. The file also contained a photo of Toad Tarkington. Jake closed the file and passed it back.
“I don’t read Russian.”
“I know. That fact is in the dossier.”
“You speak excellent English.”
“I spent several years in Washington and two in London. But that was years ago, when I was just a colonel.”
“This is my third trip to the Soviet Union — Russia.” This of course was a lie. It was Jake’s first trip.
The general merely nodded and lit a cigarette. The heavy smoke wafted gently across the desk and Jake got a dose. It stank.
Jake looked around the room again. Hard to believe, after all those years of reading intelligence reports about the Soviet military, all those years of planning to fight them, here he was in the inner sanctum talking to a Soviet — now Russian — four-star. And the subject was nuclear weapons. The whole thing had an air of unreality. He felt like an actor in a bad play devoid of logic. Life without reason— that’s the definition of insanity, isn’t it?
Jake Grafton scanned the room yet again, rubbed his hands over the solid arms of his chair, reached out to touch the polished wood of the desk.
But are these guys on the level? Do they really intend to destroy their tactical nukes? Or is this whole thing some kind of weird chess game with nuclear pieces, something out of one of those wretched thrillers about crazed Communists out to checkmate all their opponents and take over the planet?
“Do you play chess?” Jake Grafton asked the general behind the desk, who was watching him through the drifting smoke.
“Yes,” Yakolev said, “but not very well.” His lips twisted. This was his grin. After the lie came the grin. Very American, like a used-car salesman.
Jake Grafton grinned back. “I looked at your dossier in the Pentagon a week or so ago. It says you like to fuck little boys.”
The lips twisted again. “I like you, Grafton. Da!”
Jake cleared his throat. “We know your politicians are”—he was going to say “less than accurate” but thought better of it—“lying about the degree of control they have — the army has — over these weapons. I am here to evaluate the extent of your problems and make a report to my superiors. And to offer suggestions if you are receptive.”
Jake Grafton paused as he eyed the Russian general. “My superiors want the Yeltsin government to succeed in the revolution that Gorbachev began. They do not want the Communists to regain power, nor do they want to see the Soviet Union balkanized unless there is no other way. Baldly, they want to see a stable government in this country that has the support of the populace, a government that indeed is trying to improve the lot of its citizens.”
“They are humanitarians,” General Yakolev said lightly.
“Don’t ever think that,” Jake Grafton shot back. “They are damn worried men. Their primary concern is nuclear weapons. They do not want to see nuclear, chemical or biological weapons technology exported. They desperately want you to establish a viable democracy here, but first and foremost — the most important factor — your government must keep absolute control of all the nuclear weapons that exist on your soil.”
“Yeltsin is not in control of anything right now. He is at the center but the storm revolves around him. How I say it? — he is like one of your cowboys on a crazy bronco horse. He is still on the saddle but the horse goes his own way. Understand?”
“I will give you the frank, blunt truth, General. I will not repeat the platitudes of the politicians. The Americans will deal with whoever has these weapons, be it a Communist dictator, fascist demagogue, religious fanatic, or a criminal gang leader. Whoever. And I suspect the same is true of the British, the Germans, the French — all the Western democracies. But their liaison officers can tell you that themselves.”
Yakolev came around the desk and pulled a chair closer to Grafton. He sat. “You and I can work together. We are both military men, both patriots. I serve Mother Russia. You understand?”