Red Storm Rising Part 10

"Now, at that point the militia captain who had been escorting us-the militia is the Soviet equivalent of, oh, like a U.S. state police force-he made us stop taping and confiscated our tape ca.s.sette. We weren't allowed to tape the fire trucks or the several hundred armed troops who arrived and are now guarding the whole area. But the tape was just returned to us and we are able to give you this live picture of the building, now that the fires have been put out. In fairness I really can't say that I blame him-things were pretty wild there for a few minutes."

"Were you threatened in any way, Rich? I mean, did they act as though they thought you-"

Suddler's head shook emphatically.

"Not at all, Dionna. In fact, more than anything they seemed concerned for our safety. In addition to the militia captain, we have a squad of Red Army infantrymen with us now, and their officer was very careful to say that he was here to protect us, not to threaten us. We were not allowed to approach the site of the incident, and of course we were not allowed to leave the area-but we wouldn't have, anyway. The tape was just returned to us a few minutes ago, and we were informed that we'd be allowed to make this live broadcast." The camera s.h.i.+fted to the building. "As you can see, there are roughly five hundred fire, police, and military personnel still here, sorting through the wreckage and looking for additional bodies, and just to our right is a Soviet TV news crew, doing the same thing we are." Toland examined the television picture closely. The one body he could see looked awfully small. He wrote it off to distance and perspective.

"Dionna, what we seem to have here is the first major terrorist incident in the history of the Soviet Union-"

"Since the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds set themselves up," Toland snorted.

"We know for certain-at least we've been told-that a bomb was detonated in the Council of Ministers building. They're certain it was a bomb, not some kind of accident. And we know for sure that three, possibly more people were killed, and perhaps as many as forty or fifty wounded.

"Now the really interesting thing about this is that the Politburo had been scheduled to hold a meeting here at about that time."

"Holy s.h.i.+t!" Toland set the aerosol can on the night table, one hand still covered in shaving cream.

"Can you tell us if any of them were among the dead or wounded?" Dionna asked at once.

"No, Dionna. You see, we're more than a quarter of a mile away, and the senior Kremlin officials arrive by car-when they do, that is, they come in from the other side of the fortress, through another gate. So, we never even knew that they were here, but the militia captain with our team did, and he kind of blurted it out. His exact words were, 'My G.o.d, the Politburo's in there!"'

"Rich, can you tell us what the reaction in Moscow has been like?"

"It's still pretty hard for us to gauge, Dionna, since we've been right here covering the story as it unfolds. The Kremlin Guards' reaction is just what you might imagine-just like American Secret Service people would react, I suppose-a mixture of horror and rage, but I want to make it clear that that rage is not being directed against anyone, certainly not against Americans. I told the militia officer who's been with us that I was in the U.S. Capitol building when the Weathermen's bomb was set off, back in 1970, and he replied rather disgustedly that Communism was indeed catching up with capitalism, that the Soviet Union was growing a b.u.mper crop of hooligans. It's a measure of how seriously they're taking this that a Soviet police officer would comment so openly on a subject that they're not all that willing to discuss normally. So, if I had to pick one word to describe the reaction here, that word would be 'shock.'

"So, to summarize what we know to this point, there has been a bombing incident within the Kremlin walls, possibly an attempt to eliminate the Soviet Politburo, though I must emphasize we are not certain of that. We have had it confirmed by police at the scene that at least three people are dead, with forty or so other wounded, those wounded being evacuated to nearby hospitals. We will be reporting throughout the day as more information becomes available. This is Rich Suddler, CNN, coming to you live from the Kremlin." The scene s.h.i.+fted back to the anchor desk.

"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 s.h.i.+t," 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 a.s.sa.s.sination 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 f.u.c.kin' 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 G.o.d!-who were making a presentation to the Politburo. Kids. There's going to be h.e.l.l 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 Pskov! 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 Was.h.i.+ngton? 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? G.o.d, 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. h.e.l.l, 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 four 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 ma.s.s murder an international spectator sport.

Sergetov was far too angry for visible emotion. That could have been me, he thought. I always show up early for the Thursday meetings. Everyone knows it. The guards, the clerical staff, and certainly my Comrades on the Politburo. So this is the penultimate segment of the maskirovka. To motivate, to lead our people, we must do this. Was there supposed to be a Politburo member in the rubble? he wondered. A junior member, of course.

Surely I am wrong, Sergetov told himself. One part of his mind examined the question with chilling objectivity while another considered his personal friends.h.i.+ps with some of the senior Politburo members. He didn't know what to think. An odd position for a leader of the Party.

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.

"I am Gerhardt Falken," the man said. "I entered the Soviet Union six days ago through the port of Odessa. I have been for ten years an agent of the Bundesnachrichtendienst, the intelligence apparat of the government of West Germany. My a.s.signment was to kill the Politburo at its Thursday-morning session by means of a bomb placed in a storage room directly beneath the fourth-floor conference room in which they meet." Lowe and Toland watched their televisions in total fascination. It was perfect. "Falken" spoke perfect Russian, with the precise syntax and diction that schoolteachers in the Soviet Union sought to achieve. His accent was that of Leningrad.

"I have run an import-export business in Bremen for many years, and I have specialized in trade with the Soviet Union. I have traveled into the Soviet Union many times, and on many of these occasions I have used my business ident.i.ty to run agents whose mission was to weaken and spy upon the Soviet Party and military infrastructures."

The camera closed in. "Falken" was reading in a monotone from a script, his eyes seldom rising to the cameras. Behind the gla.s.ses on one side was a large bruise. His hands shook slightly when he changed pages of the script.

"Looks like they beat up on him some," Lowe observed.

"Interesting," Toland replied. "They're letting us know that they work people over."

Lowe snorted. "A guy who blows little kids up? You can burn the b.a.s.t.a.r.d at the stake, and who'll give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n? Some serious thought went into this, my friend."

"I wish to make it clear," Falken went on in a firmer voice, "that I had no intention of injuring children. The Politburo was a legitimate political target, but my country does not make war on children."

A howl of disgust came from off-camera. As though on cue, the camera backed away to reveal a pair of uniformed KGB officers flanking the speaker, their faces impa.s.sive. The audience was composed of about twenty people in civilian clothes.

"Why did you come into our country?" demanded one of them.

"I have told you this."

"Why does your country wish to kill the leaders of our Soviet Party?"

"I am a spy," Falken replied. "I carry out a.s.signments. I do not ask such questions. I follow my orders."

"How were you captured?"

"I was arrested at the Kiev Railroad Station. How I was caught they have not told me."

"Cute," Lowe commented.

"He called himself a spy," Toland objected. "You don't say that. You call yourself an 'officer.' An 'agent' is a foreigner who works for you, and a 'spy' is a bad guy. They use the same terms that we do."

The CIA/DIA report arrived on the telex printer an hour later. Gerhardt Eugen Falken. Age forty-four. Born in Bonn. Educated in public schools, good marks on his records-but his picture was missing from his high school yearbook. Military service as a draftee in a transport battalion whose records had been destroyed in a barracks fire twelve years before, honorable discharge found in his personal effects. University degree in liberal arts, good marks, but again no picture, and three professors who gave him B grades can't seem to recall him. A small import-export business. Where did the money come from to start it? n.o.body could answer that one. Lived in Bremen quietly, modestly, and alone. Friendly man, after a fas.h.i.+on. Always nodded to his neighbors, but never socialized with them. A good-"very correct," his elderly secretary said-boss to his employees. Traveled a lot. In short, many people knew he existed, quite a few did business with his firm, but n.o.body really knew a thing about him.

"I can hear the papers now: this guy has 'Agency' written all over him." Toland tore off the printer paper and tucked it into a folder. He had to brief CINCLANT in half an hour-and tell him what? Toland wondered.

"Tell him the Germans are going to attack Russia. Who knows, maybe this time they'll take Moscow," Lowe mused.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Chuck!"

"Okay, maybe just an operation to cripple the Russians so that they can reunite Germany once and for all. That's what Ivan is saying, Bob." Lowe looked out the window. "What we have here is a cla.s.sic intelligence op. This guy Falken is a stone spook. No way in h.e.l.l we can tell who he is, where he comes from, or, of course, who he's working for, unless something big breaks, and I'll wager you that it doesn't. We know-we think-that the Germans aren't this crazy, but the only evidence there is points to them. Tell the Admiral something bad is happening."

Toland did precisely that, only to have his head nearly taken off by a senior man who wanted and needed hard information.

KIEV, THE UKRAINE.

"Comrades, we will commence offensive operations against the NATO land forces in two weeks," Alekseyev began. He explained the reasons for this. The a.s.sembled corps and division commanders accepted the information impa.s.sively. "The danger to the State is as great as anything we've had to face in over forty years. We have used the past four months to whip our Army into shape. You and your subordinates have responded well to our demands, and I can only say that I am proud to have served with you.

"I will leave the usual Party harangue to your group political officers." Alekseyev ventured a single smile in his delivery. "We are the professional officers of the Soviet Army. We know what our task is. We know why we have it. The life of the Rodina depends on our ability to carry out our mission. Nothing else matters," he concluded. The h.e.l.l it doesn't . . .

11.

Order of Battle