Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (52 page)

 
          
“Yes,”
Maraklov said. General Tret’yak seemed happier. “Tell the chairman that he can
assure the Politburo that their orders will be carried out.” But the satellite
link had gone dead by then.

 
          
“Ochin prekrahsna,”
Tret’yak said,
slapping him on the shoulder. “It looks like the pilots have beat the
ribniys
once again.”

 
          
Maraklov
erased the relieved expression on his face as Tret’yak led him out of the
communications center. Well, he had made Tret’yak a buddy once again—at least
until the next crisis blew in.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
In
Vladimir Kalinin’s office at KGB Headquarters in
Moscow
, Vorotnikov threw the phone back on its
cradle. “I did not understand most of what was going on,” he said. He waved a
hand, dismissing Ryzhkov, waited until his assistant had left, then reached for
the bottle of fine Viennese cognac on the desk and poured himself a glass. He
took a sip, then drained the glass in one loud gulp. “But the pilot, your
Colonel Maraklov, appears to be in charge.”

 
          
Kalinin
nodded, moving the silver tray with the cognac
decanter closer to Vorotnikov. “An extraordinary man. His loyalty is firmly to
the Party and to his country.”

 
          
Vorotnikov
shrugged, lifted his thick body far enough up off the chair to pour himself
another cognac. “Excellent cognac,
Vladimir
.”

 
          
“If
you enjoy this, Luscev, I will see to it that you will have a bottle.” He
buzzed his outer desk, and a young, blonde woman in a red low-cut dress entered
the office. “Anna, would you please see to it that Comrade Vorotnikov is given
a bottle of this cognac ... at his convenience?”

 
          
Anna
favored the old bureaucrat with a dazzling smile, folded her hands behind her
back, which served to accent her breasts, and bowed slightly. “It would be my
pleasure.”

           
“Thank you very much, Vladimir,”
Vorotnikov said. “Very kind of you. Back to business—this Maraklov, can he be
trusted?”

           
“I believe so, sir.”

 
          
“Yet
he countermanded your orders that the aircraft be dismantled and shipped back
to
Russia
.”

 
          
“He
. . . what . . . ?”

 
          
Vorotnikov
was too busy enjoying his cognac to notice
Kalinin
’s confusion. “He wants to fly the thing all
the way from
Nicaragua
to
Russia
, under the very noses of the Americans.
Foolish. You should get that straightened out.”

 
          
What
was this Maraklov thinking?
Kalinin
was furious.
Fly
DreamStar to
Russia
? If he screwed up this mission now,
everything he was trying to accomplish would be destroyed.

 
          
To
Vorotnikov,
Kalinin
said, calmly as possible, “Yes, sir. Now,
if you would like to review my files on the project ...?.”

           
“Not necessary at the moment,
Kalinin
.” Vorotnikov glanced at the door for a few
moments, then hauled himself to his feet and straightened his tie. “I think I
have heard enough to report to the General Secretary.” He held out his hand,
and
Kalinin
grasped it. “I believe the operation is
being run in a satisfactory manner and I shall so report to the General
Secretary in the morning. I must leave.”
Kalinin
buzzed his outer office, and Anna arrived
to escort the smiling Vorotnikov outside.

 
          
When
the two had left,
Kalinin
hit the outer office buzzer again. “I want another secure voice-line
set up to Sebaco immediately.” Suddenly
Kalinin
realized how little he really knew about
Andrei Maraklov. Vorotnikov, the General Secretary’s fat spy, was easy to take
care of—this Maraklov, who had spent eleven years in the
United States
, was a loose cannon. More than anyone else,
Andrei Maraklov was now the greatest threat to his plan for ultimate power.

The White House,
Washington
,
D.C.

That same morning

 
          
The
secret, Lloyd Taylor had discovered, of staying on top of things as President
of the
United States
was information, information and more
information. Gather as much as possible from as many sources as possible, and
as quickly as possible. Moreover, although he had a capable and trustworthy
staff, the information should not be diluted or encapsulated by his staff.
Interestingly, he found that if he got his information from the same sources
that served most of the American people, he was able to stay on top of events
that the people were most concerned about. He rarely found himself caught up in
events in the
Persian
Gulf
, for example,
if most Americans were really concerned about the economy.

 
          
It
was not a foolproof system, but it had served him well during his first three
and a half years in office and, with luck, would serve him well in a second
term.

 
          
Taylor
’s precedessor was a fanatic about daily
exercise the way
Taylor
was about information, and so
Taylor
combined the two shortly after arriving in
the White House. After rising at five-thirty every morning, the President would
change into shorts and sneakers and make his way into the well-equipped
exercise room in the back west corner of the White House.

 
          
There,
in the middle of the room, sat a walking/jogging treadmill, a self-contained
physical fitness evaluation device that measured and recorded two dozen
different vital signs from pulse to weight to blood pressure as he walked. That
was his predecessor’s contribution. In front of the treadmill was
Taylor
’s—a large-screen voice-command computer
monitor and terminal.

 
          
“Good
morning, Mr. President,” Paul Cesare, the Chief of Staff, greeted him. Cesare
set a glass of orange juice and a fresh towel on a table near the treadmill.
“How do you feel this morning?”

 
          
“Just
fine, Paul.” The President stepped onto the treadmill. The pre-programmed
machine beeped five times in warning, then automatically started.
Taylor
slipped his hand into a glovelike device on
the handlebar that had sensors in it that would feed information to the body
function monitors. As the President started walking, the computer terminal came
to life.

 
          
“Good
morning, Mr. President,” the terminal said in a quiet feminine voice. On the
screen was a recorded view of the
Potomac
and
the Jefferson Memorial. The screen changed to several columns of information in
large letters showing the weather, date, important holidays and the day’s
appointments. “The following is an encapsulation of your morning appointments:

 
          
“You
have a Cabinet meeting at
eight o’clock
. At
ten o’clock
, a meeting with the Senate Foreign
Relations committee. At
noon
, the luncheon with the International
Kiwanas at the Ambassador Hotel. There are five desk flags.” Desk flags were
items left on his desk that would require some study or consultation. A brief
description of each flashed on the screen; none seemed too important. “Would
you like to review them now?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“Would
you like to review the afternoon appointments?”

           
“No.”

           
“What would you like, Mr.
President?”

 
          
The
treadmill had sped up to about three miles per hour as it automatically sought
to raise
Taylor
’s heart rate to its optimum aerobic
exercise rate. “Go back to bed,” he said, stepping up the pace.

 
          
The
computer thought about it for a moment, then, “Please make another choice, Mr.
President.”

 
          
“Thanks,”
he said, and Cesare grinned. “How about wire- service headlines?”

 
          
“Please
select a keyword, or select ‘All.’ ” The keywords

 
          
were
phrases used to narrow down the huge selection of news items.

 
          
“
‘White House,’ ” the President requested.

 
          
A
long list of news bulletins flashed on the screen, all containing the words
“White House.” The computer-synthesized voice continued: “Selected headlines as
of five A.M. Eastern Standard Time: ‘White House may announce decision on
Korean trade bill today.’ ‘Foreign Relations Chairman Myers travels to White
House to break impasse.’ ‘Russian KGB spy disaster stymies White House
advisers.’ ‘First Lady will receive veteran’s group in White House ceremony . .
.’ ”

 
          
Taylor
pounded a fist on the treadmill
STOP
button. “What the hell . . . ?
Stop. Read item three.”

 
          
“Headlines
Stop,” the computer acknowledged. “Review. Item three.
Washington
Post
Wire Service, date twenty-one June, nineteen hundred and ninety-six.
Washington
desk, first paragraph: ‘A Russian KGB
deep-cover agent may have caused the crash of an experimental B-52 bomber in
the southern
Nevada
desert on Tuesday, an unnamed military source said today. He may also
have been responsible for the downing of an F-15 fighter over
Mexico
and the crash of a second F-15
^over
southern
Arizona
, with loss of life as high as six. Second
paragraph: Despite the attacks, the White House has apparently decided to take
no action that may provoke the
Soviet Union
until more evidence has been received and analyzed. Third paragraph: Sources
confirm—”

 
          
“Stop,
dammit. Who the hell authorized
that news release? I didn’t—”

 
          
“It
sounds like it came from the Pentagon, sir . . .”

 
          
“The
Pentagon? Get General Kane on the phone.”

 
          
Cesare
hit the auto-dial button for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “I’ll
get hold of Walters, too,” Cesare said. Ted Walters was the White House Press
Secretary. “He might be able to keep that story from going out on the morning
news shows if we catch it in time.”

 
          
“The
morning news . . . Goddamn, get on it, Paul. Of all the things to leak out . .
.”

 
          
“General
Kane on your speakerphone, sir,” Cesare said a few moments later. The President
punched the flashing button.