“Lord, what a mess. Okay, Dick, what’s next?”
Moving on again, Mason thought Martin was loath to make executive decisions. Fence riding, when skillfully done, was safer. From here, Angola would be dumped on Bousikaris, who would in turn dump it on either the National Security Council or the President’s Foreign Advisory Council. Meanwhile, the situation in Angola would deteriorate and the death count would mount until Martin had to move lest he lose face. You don’t have to like the man, Mason reminded himself.
“The elections in the Russian Federation. The issues are no different: the economy, agriculture, oblast autonomy — but it looks like the current president might have a real race on his hands.”
“You’re kidding,” said Martin. “From this Bulganin fellow?”
“He’s gaining ground fast.”
“What do we know about him?” asked Bousikaris.
“Not as much as we would like,” said Mason. Not nearly enough, in fact.
Vladimir Bulganin, a former factory foreman and local politician from Omsk, had founded the Russian Pride Party six years before and had been gnawing at the flanks of the major parties ever since.
On the surface, the RPP’s platform seemed based on moderate nationalism, infrastructure improvement, a more centralized government, and, paradoxically, an emphasis on the democratic power of the people. That Bulganin had been able to dodge this apparent inconsistency was largely due, Mason felt, to his chief advisor, Ivan Nochenko.
A former colonel in the KGB, Nochenko was an expert at propaganda and disinformation. Before the fall of the Soviet Union, the First Directorate had toppled governments, swayed world opinion, and covered up disasters that would have been front-page news in the West.
Since his retirement in 1993, Nochenko had worked as a freelance PR consultant in Russia’s always uncertain and often dangerous free market. Though no one on Madison Avenue would dare admit it, there was little appreciable difference between public relations and propaganda.
Lack of solid evidence notwithstanding, Mason suspected Nochenko was not only the driving force behind Bulganin’s success, but also the reason why no one seemed to know much about this dark horse of the Russian political scene.
Mason said, “We don’t think he’s got enough backing to take the election, but a solid showing will give him clout in Moscow.”
Martin nodded. “Leverage for the next go-around.”
“Yes, sir. Maybe even some policy influence. Problem is, nobody’s been able to nail down Bulganin’s agenda. So far he’s done little but echo the frustrations of the average Russian citizen.”
“Dick, it’s called politics. The man’s building a constituency.”
“In a country as volatile as Russia, sir, political ambiguity is dangerous.”
“For who?”
“The world. The fact that Bulganin has gained so much support without tipping his hand is worrisome. There can be only two explanations: Either he’s avoiding substance because he doesn’t have any, or he’s got an agenda he doesn’t want to lay out until he’s got the influence to make it stick.”
Martin leaned toward Bousikaris and mock-whispered, “Dick sees a conspiracy in every bush.”
Mason spread his hands. “It’s what I’m paid to do, Mr. President.”
As astute a politician as Martin was, he was naive when it came to the world scene. Though the concept of the “global village” was finally taking hold in the public consciousness, it was nothing new to the intelligence community. Nothing happens in a vacuum, Mason knew. With six billion people and hundreds of individual governments on the planet, there existed lines of interconnectedness that only God could fathom.
Some events — say, a farm county in Minnesota hit by flooding — take longer to exert influence. Others — such as a neophyte candidate in Russia gaining leverage in a national election — have an immediate and powerful effect on everything from world markets to foreign relations. The fact that Martin, arguably the most powerful man in the world, didn’t understand this frustrated Mason.
“My point is,” the DCI continued, “is that unless something changes in the next few weeks, Vladimir Bulganin is going to become a player in Russian politics. I’d feel better if we knew more about him.”
“Understood,” Martin said. “What do you propose?”
“I want to do some back-channel nudging of the net works — CNN, MSNBC, ABC…. We plant the seed and hopefully their Russian correspondents will start asking some tough questions of Bulganin. If we can get a snowball rolling, it may put some pressure on him.”
Martin looked to Bousikaris. “Thoughts, Howard?”
“As long as it can’t come back to bite us.”
Mason shook his head. “It’s a routine play. Once Bulganin starts talking more, we can start dissecting him, see where it takes us.”
“Okay, get on it. Anything else?”
“Toothpick,” said Mason. “Live-fire testing is scheduled for next month; I think it’s time we consider briefing members of the Armed Forces Committee, but we need to choose carefully.”
“Toothpick — the Star Wars thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
Martin turned to Bousikaris. “Let’s put some feelers out. Make sure whoever we brief is fully on board; I don’t want any wafflers when it comes to funding.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Anything else, Dick?”
“No, sir.”
“That’ll be all, then.”
Once Mason was gone, Martin sighed. “Howard, that man is a naysayer.”
“As he said, Mr. President, that’s what he’s paid to do.”
“I suppose.”
“We could replace him.”
“Better we wait until this Redmond thing dies down.”
While the appointment of former-senator Tom Redmond to the directorship of the Defense Intelligence Agency had been politically necessary, Bousikaris had argued against making the change so soon after Martin took office. But Redmond had delivered California during the campaign, and that was the kind of favor you didn’t want hanging over your head.
“How’s the schedule today?” Martin asked.
“One addition: The ambassador to the People’s Republic of China. He wants a few minutes. In person, in fact.” Almost exclusively, the PRC communicated by formal letter. Bousikaris often joked that the dictionary entry for the word taciturn should simply contain a photo of a Chinese diplomat.
“Any idea what’s on his mind?” Martin asked.
“His secretary declined to answer.”
“Okay, give him ten minutes before lunch.”
Though he had considered them worthless back then, Roger Brown found himself glad he’d paid attention during those mind-numbing economics courses he’d taken at Notre Dame; they’d given him the ability to look attentive while being bored out of his mind. However gifted they may be at diplomacy, government functionaries rarely made good conversationalists.
Ah, well, Brown thought. Such is the price of success at the CIA.
Working under the title of advisor to the secretary for economic affairs, Brown was in fact the embassy’s new CIA station chief. Of course, the title was not designed to fool anyone (the Guoanbu was very good at keeping tabs on embassy personnel), but rather to give him diplomatic immunity should he get caught playing spy. Then again, he thought, the Chinese secret police wasn’t known for its strict adherence to diplomatic rules.
Tonight was his first official embassy dinner, a meet-and-greet affair for members of China’s Ministry of Agriculture. So far he’d had no trouble playing his part, discussing the impact of corn nematodes on world grain markets, but as the evening had worn on, the novelty had worn off.