Digital Winter (29 page)

“We good to go, Jeremy?”

“Yes, Mr. President. The camera is ready to go.”

“Microphone?”

“On the table, sir. The techs tell me they'll be able to hear you just fine.”

“I'm not sure I want to hear him.” He moved to the long table. “My regular seat good enough?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barlow and Grundy sat. “Okay, let's get this over with.”

The large monitor on the far wall lit up, revealing the Russian version of the sit room. It was dim, as if lit from battery-powered lights that flickered. In a moment, a short, thin man entered and sat in a chair. Two other men entered with him. All looked as if they had just finished eating a large bowl of lemons.

“Mr. President,” Barlow said.

Bogdan Arturovich Vysotsky greeted Barlow with a string of obscenities, all in English. The tirade continued for a full minute. Jeremy tried not to stare, but he couldn't keep from looking at his president. The man sat in his chair, unmoving at first, and then began to study his fingernails as if bored.

Vysotsky continued to spew venom, and Barlow let him. Finally the Russian president had to stop for air.

“Impressive, Bogdan Arturovich. You may have used every English swear word in existence. Did I detect a few Russian slurs in there as well? Yes? How cosmopolitan of you.”

On the monitor, a translator began to relay the message when Barlow slapped his hand on the conference table. He hit it with enough force to move the microphone an inch. “No! No translator! You just proved you can handle English as well as any longshoreman. I assume you can speak and understand more civil terms.”

Vysotsky leaned forward as if intending to climb through the camera and throttle the president. He stabbed a finger at the lens. “This is your fault, Barlow. The streets of my country are littered with the bodies of our great citizens. They starve to death. They freeze to death. They turn on each other and on their government. All because of your American aggressiveness.”

“You don't believe that, Bogdan. We didn't attack you.”

“It was your EMP satellites that have crippled us. Yours and the Chinese—”

“And it was yours that knocked us off the grid. Do you think we would do this to ourselves?”

“We had to retaliate.”

Barlow didn't blink. “Retaliation, eh? Is that what you're going with, Bogdan? Really? Retaliation? For a politician, you are a lousy liar. You didn't retaliate. Those satellites went off because of a computer worm. I'm sure your people have already told you that.”

“Yours shouldn't have been there in the first place.”

“And neither should yours!” Barlow bellowed the words. “But they were, and now we are where we are.”

“You're safe in your Mount Weather—”

“And you in your Mount Yamantaw. So what? Every major nation has a facility like this, and it's a good thing, or we wouldn't be involved in this pleasant conversation. Now, maybe we do away with the posturing and get down to business.”

More curses flowed over the cable. The image faltered and slipped out of focus before returning to normal. Jeremy had warned the president about this. The EMP satellites were nuclear and left a great deal of radiation circling the planet, radiation that still played havoc with electronic devices.

“Stow the language, Bogdan. You can't intimidate me. I work with the most frightening things on the planet—politicians.”

Jeremy thought he saw the Russian president fight back a grin.

Bogdan motioned for the translator to leave. The moment the door closed, Bogdan leaned over the desk as if attempting to whisper in the president's ear. “So, do we blame the Chinese?”

Barlow grinned. “I wish we could, Mr. President, but they know the lay of the land. They're next on my call list. They may be worse off than we are with that huge population.”

“It is true. I have already exchanged words with them. Their winter is as harsh as our Russian ones. They do not have food reserves enough to feed their billions.”

“We don't have reserves enough to feed our hundreds of millions. India must also be suffering.”

Bogdan nodded, his face a canvass of sadness. “Yes, we have been getting reports.”

“I was hoping you were.” Barlow looked distant for a moment and then snapped back to the moment. “Mr. President, it is important we keep in contact. I am told that your people had the same idea to use the undersea cables. I commend you.”

He shrugged. “What else is there?”

“True. Bogdan Arturovich…” The president had returned to using the Russian's patronymic. “The time has come to put away national rivalries. Our countries will recover, but it will take a long time, maybe more years than you and I have left. We just don't know. I do know that the blame game won't work. Our losses will be severe. The worst is ahead of us, I'm afraid, and we still have to track down the real culprit.”

“What is your plan, Mr. President?”

“My father used to say that a man walking across the country would fare better if he focused on his next step and not his final one.”

“He sounds like a wise man.”

“He was, Bogdan. He was, and so are you. Your country needs you, and the world needs your country. Let's work together.”

“That won't be easy, Mr. President. Most of our leaders blame you.”

“I can imagine.”

“The Chinese blame you. So do the North Koreans, or so I hear. The French are a little put out too. Is that the right phrase? Put out?”

“It is. Can you convince the Chinese to work with us?”

“No one convinces the Chinese. We must convince them to convince themselves.”

“Will you try?”

Bogdan scratched his scalp, mussing his gray hair. “I will try, Nathan, but their anger is acute. Honestly, I'm not sure many countries will follow your lead.” He hesitated and then added, “Nor will they follow mine. I fear I have burned too many bridges.”

“We have to try.”

Bogdan nodded. “Many leaders will use this opportunity to seize more power. Not everyone is as understanding as I.”

That made Barlow laugh. Bogdan joined him.

“So that you know, I am sending technicians by submarine to some of our allies. We hope to expand our makeshift communication.”

“Submarines. An excellent idea.”

“You've done the same thing, haven't you?”

“Of course.”

“I never know if I can trust you, Bogdan.”

Another chuckle. “That's the way Russian politics works, Nathan.” He looked straight into the camera. “You can trust me, Nathan. You can trust me, even if no one else does.”

L
iam Burr studied himself in the mirror and still liked what he saw. Five feet eleven, trim and fit, coal-black hair without a strand of gray, dark and intelligent eyes, olive skin, a distinctive chin and nose. His appearance turned the heads of men and women alike. The gaze of the women lingered. At thirty-eight, he carried himself with the aplomb of a man twenty years his senior and the humor and zest for life of a man fifteen years his junior. Young women ached for him; older women dreamed of him. To call him movie-star handsome fell short of the mark.

He placed a red tie over the buttons of his white dress shirt and examined it in the mirror like a jeweler counting facets on a diamond. He didn't feel red today. He tried a brown tie with the image of books stitched into the fabric. Too casual. Next came a cobalt-blue tie with no pattern. The same color as the background of the flag of the European Union. Strong. Bold. Businesslike. A tie fitting a leader in the ever-tightening band of member states.

Burr represented Italy and had done so for the past six years. It took only two years to secure a position of influence among the twenty-seven member states. He moved through the halls of the three political centers of Brussels, Luxembourg, and Strasbourg with ease, making friends and sealing supporters for his causes. He granted favor upon favor, year after year, until the bulk of the key leadership owed him. Some owed him mere courtesy; others owed him much more. Those who didn't owe him for some favor still showed deference. Rumor was he had dirt on almost everyone. The rumor was true.

Politicians around the world came to agreement by debate, mutual benefit, or fear of exposure. The formula stretched back to the ancient Greeks, and the principle had not changed in the twenty-first century. Politics was human chess. Push the right piece at the right time, and one's opponent was on the defensive. To date, Liam had never had to throw open his “vault of secrets,” as his enemies called it. Liam's raised eyebrow usually sufficed.

As much as Liam liked women, he loved power and money more. He had plenty of both, but he longed for more of the former.

He slipped the blue tie around his neck and under his collar, tying a Windsor knot with practiced ease. Right the first time. It was one of the many games he played. Having to retie a necktie was a failure of concentration and execution. Liam hated failure of any kind. He didn't tolerate it in himself or anyone else.

“Benito!” His voice was clear and strong.

Two seconds later, Benito Moretti entered—a stout man with the shape of a German beer keg. “Yes, signore.”

“My coat, please.” Liam watched Benito take a moment to analyze his boss's attire. Dark pants, no pinstripes, white shirt, blue tie. Without hesitation he disappeared into the large walk-in closet and emerged with just the right coat—a Valentino. Liam liked to test Benito. He had several suits of the same color, the cheapest of the lot costing 2500 euros—$3500 US—and kept the suit coats and trousers on separate hangers. It took a practiced eye to discern the subtle differences between the Valentino and the Caraceni. Not that those numbers mattered now. The price of a suit in a society with no power and a rapidly depleting source of food no longer impressed anyone. Still, Liam liked to look good. Just because others struggled with the basic needs didn't mean he had to. Besides, looking good was part of his personality and image. In his world, the man with the expensive suit held power over the man in the cheap rags.

“Is the car ready, Benito?”

“It is, sir.”

“The Rolls?”

“Yes, sir. I'm still trying to get the other cars working. Fortunately, we maintain spare parts for the Phantom II.”

“They are difficult to come by, Benito. I've been buying parts where I can find them.” He thought about the rusted corpses of the other Phantom IIs sitting inside his twenty-car garage. Liam was no mechanic, but he loved vintage vehicles, and he could afford the best wrench monkeys in Italy. By today's standards, the electrical system of the Phantom was simple. No computer chips in 1931.

“I have replaced most of the electronics, and the car starts and runs as it used to.”

“But…”

“The electromagnetic pulse burned out the filaments in the bulbs. We must travel by day or when the moon is up.”

“You've done well, Benito.”

“I have taken too long, sir. Pietro could have done better and faster.”

Pietro was the full-time mechanic in Liam's employ. He had not been able to return to the estate since the outages. For all Liam knew, the local mobsters or the Roman city government had pressed the poor man into repairing their vehicles. Cosa Nostra or politicians. In Liam's mind, they were often the same thing.

“You are too hard on yourself, Benito. You have proven your value to me many times, but never more than these past two months. You have remained faithful to me during this difficult time.”

“I have no family, sir, and it is my honor to be of service to you.”

Benito lived on the estate just outside Rome. He was more than a butler; he was also in charge of Liam's safety. His skills had been put to use in the Vatican guard until he knocked one of his superiors to the hard surface of Saint Peter's square. Liam rescued him from a prison term by calling in a few minor favors. Benito proved grateful, and Liam paid him three times what he had been making before. He made a salary normally reserved for upper executives. Liam learned early on that money could buy loyalty.

“I take it you were able to get fuel.”

“Yes, sir. I had to rig a hand pump, but it worked just fine.”

“I trust you've taken precautions for additional fuel.”

“Yes, sir. We should have no problem reaching Strasbourg. We will have to find fuel once there.”

“That won't be a problem, Benito.”

“I have prepared several days of food. Fortunately, we still have Alda to feed us. I'm afraid my cooking would be substandard.”

Alda was the cook. She and her daughter lived on the premises. “The drive is only ten or twelve hours. Why plan for several days?”

“We don't know what awaits us along the way, sir. If the roads are blocked or we have mechanical trouble, we might be stranded for a time.”