“I very much doubt that. Your feelings about physicians are no secret. Nonetheless, your appointment is at nine sharp. No food or drink after midnight. After your physical, I’d like you to meet me out at the old Naval Dockyards. You’ll find a car and driver waiting outside the hospital. I’m looking at some real estate out there, and I would value your opinion.”
“Real estate, sir?”
“Yes. Let’s skip the chase and cut to the denouement, shall we?” C said, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees.
“Fine with me.”
“It’s the Russians.”
“Back to the good old Cold War, are we?”
“Not yet. A lukewarm peace, perhaps. But it won’t last. There’s a distinct chill in the air.”
“A new turn for the worse?”
“You remember when Mother Russia was the sworn enemy of democracy and freedom?”
“I do.”
“She’s swearing again. Like a bloody sailor.”
“I’d really no idea.”
“Good heavens, Alex, have you read a newspaper lately? Turned on your television?”
“Don’t have a telly. And my reading pretty much centers around a pair of chaps named Huck Finn and Nigger Jim at the moment. I did hear something about critics of President Vladimir Rostov, journalists, getting bumped off at a rather alarming rate, but I’m afraid that’s about it.”
Sir David rose to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and began pacing back and forth in front of the hearth as if he were stalking the poop deck while enemy mastheads climbed the far horizon.
“These recent political assassinations are the tip of the iceberg. Our relations with the Russians have just about bottomed out. Last summer, Russia signed a billion-dollar arms deal with Hugo Chavez, the charming Venezuelan chap you had a run-in with recently. Chavez wasted no time in fantasizing aloud about using Venezuela’s new weapons to sink one of our aircraft carriers, the HMS Invincible, which is in the Caribbean at this time. Last week, the Russians delivered highly sophisticated SA-15 antiaircraft missiles to Iran. We know why, too. To defend Iran’s nuclear sites, a clear threat to the balance of power.”
“The new Russia’s sounding a lot like the old Russia.”
“If that’s not enough, the Sovs-excuse me, the Russians-are building a bloody billion-dollar Bushehr reactor for Iran, which will produce enough spent plutonium to produce sixty bombs minimum.”
“These are not our friends.”
“How much do you know about the Grey Cardinal and the Twelve?”
“Sorry? Grey Cardinal?”
“Kremlinese for Rostov. Tells you a bit about how he’s regarded.”
“Don’t know a great deal, sir. Ex-KGB. Strong, silent type. Cold as ice. Impossible to read.”
“Hardly. He’s a passionate, emotional man who is extraordinarily good at concealing his true feelings.”
“A good poker player.”
“As a matter of fact, yes, he loves the game.”
“I hope you’re not going to ask me to lure him into a few hands of five-card stud. Cards are hardly my strong suit, sir.”
A brief smile crossed C’s lips.
“Vladimir Rostov is not a democrat. Nor is he a Tsar like Alexander II, a schizophrenic paranoid like that pockmarked dwarf Stalin, or a religious nationalist like Dostoyevsky. But Alex, he is a little of all of these. And that is just what the Russians want in a leader right now. He is nashe, even though he frequently drinks Diet Coke instead of vodka.”
“Nashe?”
“Russian word for ‘ours.’ Symbolic for the new Russian pride in all things Russian. A reaction against the groveling, humiliating embrace of Western culture during the nineties, guilty embarrassment at being caught at a McDonald’s wolfing down a Big Mac, slurping Pepsi instead of quaffing vodka like a true Russian. Listening to the Dixie Chicks on the radio.”
“I would also imagine it is quite refreshing not to have your brave leader stumbling around the Kremlin knocking over the samovars.”
C smiled. “I miss Yeltsin, actually. Look here, I have our abbreviated Rostov dossier, which you can read at your leisure. But let me give you a quick sketch as a basis for our immediate discussion. Vladimir Vladimirovich Rostov, known popularly as Volodya, was born into a poor working-class family in 1935. Both parents were survivors of Hitler’s brutal nine-hundred-day siege of Leningrad. His two brothers were killed by the Nazis and his father grievously wounded in the defense of the city. These were prime motivators in his decision to enter the intelligence game.”
“So, he hates the Germans. That could be useful.”
Trulove nodded, happy to note that Hawke was already thinking ahead. He said, “At age fifteen, Rostov saw a film, The Sword and the Shield, which glorified a Soviet spy’s exploits inside Germany during the war. He tried to join the KGB at age sixteen. Just marched into the local headquarters and asked to sign up. They turned him down, obviously, and told him to get a university degree, study law and languages. He did, and they recruited him upon graduation from Leningrad State University.”
“He finds espionage romantic,” Hawke said, rubbing his chin.
“What?”
“I’ve seen that film you mentioned. Very romantic portrayal of the fearless Soviet double agent, alone, deep inside the Reich, stealing secret documents to sabotage German operations. In other words, accomplishing single-handedly what whole armies could not.”
C took a sip of his whiskey.
“I wonder, do you find it romantic, Alex? Espionage? The black arts of derring-do?”
“Not even slightly.”
C’s eyes registered approval, and he continued, “Tall, thin, and delicate in appearance, our little Volodya, at age ten, fell prey to neighborhood bullies. He began a lifelong study of sambo, a Soviet combination of judo and wrestling. He was deadly serious about it. Still is, actually. He earned black belts in both sambo and judo and nearly made the Olympic team. A year after earning his international law degree and joining the KGB, he became judo champion of Leningrad. I mention all this only because I think it provides a vital clue to his true personality.”
“Yes?”
“His boyhood judo coach is still alive. One of our chaps in St. Petersburg had a chat with him recently. Let me read you a bit from his dossier: ‘Volodya could throw with equal skill in both directions, right and left. His opponents, expecting a throw from the right, would not see the left one coming. So, he was pretty tough to beat because he was constantly tricking them.’”
“I see what you mean.”
“Rostov’s inherent inscrutability and judo were perfectly matched. He’s got an innate ability to read his opponent’s moves while concealing his own intentions.”
“It’s not a sport to him. It’s a philosophy.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s fascinating, sir,” Hawke said. “I’m most anxious to learn where all this leads.”
“To Moscow, Alex.”
“And once there?”
“You’ll know more tomorrow. For now, let me just tell you why I’m here on Bermuda. I intend to establish a new top-secret section of MI-6. For want of a better name, I’ve decided to call it Red Banner. Its sole reason for being will be vigorous counterintelligence operations against the newly reconstituted Russian Cheka.”
“Cheka?”
“Chekists were the Bolshevik version of the KGB. A word formed from the Russian acronym for Lenin’s Extraordinary Commission, or secret police. It’s run by a group of men inside the Kremlin I may have mentioned earlier. They’re called the Twelve. In Russian, it’s the siloviki. Translation, the all-powerful.”
“Their role?”
“We think it’s possible they pull all the strings. That the Grey Cardinal serves at their pleasure and acts at their direction.”