Privateers (36 page)

to seize the cargo of the Venezuelan spacecraft and even to detain its crew. On the other, we maintain that no one has the right to seize the cargoes of our spacecraft carrying ores between the Moon and the space stations in orbit around the Earth.”

“Excuse me, Comrade Minister,” said Malik, “but there is no contradiction at all. The Soviet Union has the approval of the International Astronautical Council to carry all ore shipments between the Moon and the space stations. The capitalist asteroid mission was not approved by the IAC. And certainly no one in the IAC or the United Nations gave permission for the capitalists to move that body of rock out of its natural orbit.”

“It can’t fall on the Earth, can it?” the Premier asked again.

“No, sir,” Malik repeated. “Not unless the capitalists deliberately alter its orbit once again.”

The Premier’s waxen complexion paled even further. “Would they do that?”

Malik spread his hands, the equivalent of a shrug. “My information is that the capitalists brought the asteroid into orbit around the Earth so that they can use it more conveniently as a mining base-a source of metals and minerals.”

The Minister of Industry stirred. “That would compete with our lunar ores,” he rasped in his dry, aged voice.

“To some degree,” Malik conceded.

“But they’re not allowed to do that! Only the Soviet Union has the right to mine ores in space.”

Malik fought down the urge to remind the Minister of Industry that he had explained the situation at the last two council meetings. Instead, he patiently explained again, “We have the exclusive right to mine ores from the Moon, Comrade Minister, and transport them to the space stations. There has been no ruling by the IAC on mining asteroids.”

The withered little man looked puzzled. He turned to the aide sitting behind him and exchanged a few hurriedly whispered words with him. Malik guessed that he was asking what an asteroid was.

“We are drifting off the subject,” said the Premier. “What are we going to do about these acts of piracy?”

“Pirates should be hanged!” snapped the Minister of Transportation, sitting on Malik’s left. He was the next-youngest man at the table, and had long been Malik’s rival. “Find them and hang them, every last one!”

“It’s not that easy,” Malik said. “They don’t fly the skull and crossbones, you know. They don’t show themselves publicly.”

“You know who they are,” the Transportation Minister insisted. “We all know who their ringleader is. The American-Randolph.”

Malik nodded. “He started it, of that I am certain. But over the past six weeks, acts of piracy have grown far beyond what Randolph alone is capable of doing.”

Focusing directly upon the Premier, Malik went on, “Six weeks ago, the pirates made their first raid and stole one of our ore freighters. Within a week, two more freighters were looted of their cargoes. On the same day. The following week, it was three freighters.”

“On the same day?”

“Two on one day, the third two days later.”

The Premier absently rubbed his paralyzed arm as Malik continued, “Since then, not a week has gone past without at least one ore freighter being emptied of its cargo or stolen altogether.”

“Outrageous!” snapped the Transportation Minister.

“Yes, it is. And it is the work of more than one organization. Randolph and his group, working from the Venezuelan space station, could not possibly be doing all this by themselves. The space organizations of the other Third World nations are also helping themselves to our ore shipments. Apparently they send the ores to the Chinese space complex, which then exports them to the various Third World factories as excess Chinese material.”

Marshal Titov’s shaggy white brows knitted together in a frown that would have been ferocious in a younger man. “Then round them all up. Seize all these space stations and send their crews to the lunar mines. That will stop the piracy.”

“Seize the Chinese space station?” The Foreign Minister looked startled at the thought.

“Not them! The others.”

“And turn the entire Third World totally against us,” countered Malik.

“We can’t have that,” the Foreign Minister agreed.

“Why not?” Titov demanded. “Who’s to stop us?”

The Premier smiled wanly at the old soldier. “Gregory Gregorovich, I know that we have the military power to conquer any nation on Earth, but after we conquer, we must rule. It would put too much of a strain on us to try to rule a hostile world. Not only is that contrary to Marxist-Leninist principles, it is simply not practicable. Remember the troubles we used to have with Poland and the rest of Eastern Europe.”

Titov glowered at the Premier. “Yes, and I remember that it was our tanks and our inflexible will that brought them into line.”

The Premier’s smile remained fixed on his face. “But it was our economic and political policies that finally ended the troubles and brought them under control once again.”

The Foreign Minister quickly agreed. “Not even the Red Army can be everywhere at once. If all the nations of Latin America, Africa and Asia turned against us, think what an opportunity for the Chinese!”

“We should have crushed them years ago,” Titov grumbled. “And of course the Red Army can’t take on the rest of the world, now that you’ve cut it back to a shadow of its former strength.”

“Gregory Gregorovich, my dear friend and comrade-inarms,” said the Premier soothingly, “we live in a new era.

The old days, when you commanded those squadrons of tanks and I directed the Strategic Rocket Corps, were glorious days. It was the strength of our arms that brought the capitalists to their knees, we all recognize that. But now that we have no serious rivals for leadership, now that we can work to bring Marxism to every corner of the world, we must not frighten the smaller nations into resisting us. Our policy is to win them with sugar, rather than force them to swallow vinegar.”

“And above all, do nothing to antagonize the damned Chinese,” Titov mumbled.

“We will win them over, in time,” said the Premier.

“We should bomb them out of existence, that’s what we should do.”

“And their retaliatory stroke?”

“That’s what our satellite defense system is for, isn’t it? It cowed the Americans, didn’t it?”

“The Chinese are not as easily cowed,” the Premier answered gently. “They are not as afraid of nuclear devastation as the Yankee capitalists.”

“They would fire their missiles at us,” the Foreign Minister added. “Even with all our lasers up in the satellites, a few would get through. Would you be willing to see Moscow go up in smoke? Or Leningrad?”

“Yes!” Titov snapped. “If it would eliminate the damned Chinks once and for all, it would be a price well worth paying.”

From the far end of the table, the gaunt, hollow-cheeked, dark-eyed man who was in charge of state security spoke up, his voice surprisingly deep and powerful. “Even if you destroyed China and conquered all the other nations, Gregory Gregorovich, as I’m sure you could, we would then have to control them, administer them.”

The old marshal scarcely hid the contempt he felt. “Are you saying that the KGB could not keep them in line, once the Red Army had shown them who’s boss?”

The taunt did not ruffle the Minister of State Security; not visibly, at least. “I am saying that it is better to have these nations cooperating with us, even though their cooperation is far from perfect, than to force them into submission.”

“We are not going to use a bludgeon,” the Premier said firmly, “when a scalpel is called for.”

Marshal Titov made a sour face, but did not reply. The others shifted in their chairs.

“Then just what steps should we take to stop these pirates?” the Transportation Minister asked. He was looking at the Premier as he spoke, but his words were aimed at Malik.

The Minister of Economic Planning spoke up. “The losses are becoming somewhat serious. Almost ten percent of the ores shipped from the Moon over the past six weeks have been stolen. And the rate of loss is increasing.”

“Why can’t you stop them?” Transportation demanded. “Aren’t the freighters under radar surveillance? Can’t you see the pirates when they attack one of our spacecraft?”

Malik said, “It isn’t that simple. Yes, each freighter is under constant radar surveillance from the moment it leaves the Moon until it arrives at Kosmograd or one of the other stations. But the pirates are using very sophisticated electronic systems to trick our radars. We are fighting a battle of electronics.”

“If I were you,” the KGB chief said, hunching forward in his chair and locking his long-fingered hands together, “I would put troops in a few of the ore carriers. When the pirates went to raid it, the troops would be able to deal with them quite swiftly.”

“Yes, but which freighters?” Malik asked. “There are some two dozen in transit on any given day. Which ones will the pirates attack? Should we arm all of them? We simply don’t have that many trained men available at Lunagrad. We would need more manpower.”

“That can be done, if it is necessary,” the Premier said.

“But what if we capture one band of the thieves,” Malik countered, “and the others simply hang back, waiting until we stop putting troops aboard the freighters? Then we go right back to where we started.”

“With one band of pirates removed,” Titov muttered.

“It would be better,” Malik said, “to get the ringleaders. When exterminating weeds, it is necessary to kill the roots.”

“You know who the ringleaders are?” the Premier asked.

“The instigator of these outrages is the American capitalist, Daniel Randolph.”

“Then kill him,” said the KGB chief.

Malik shook his head. “And create a martyr?”

The Transportation Minister snickered. “Comrade Malik tried a campaign of terror against the American, but it frightened his fiancee too much. …”

“That is not true!” Malik snapped, feeling his face redden. “My personal life has not and never will interfere with my duties.” He took a breath and, turning to face the Premier, said more calmly, “We initiated a program of selected violence to isolate and intimidate the American. It was my decision not to assassinate him, since doing so would disrupt the Venezuelan space industry operation in an unpredictable way, and antagonize Venezuela and the other Third World nations.”

“I am aware of your decision, Vasily Maximovich,” said the Premier. “I agreed with it, at the time.”

“We wanted to bring the Yankee capitalist to heel, not kill him. We wanted to bend him to our will.”

“But the results have not been satisfactory,” the Transportation Minister said.

Malik told himself that this conference room was too small to contain both of them. Sooner or later, either he would do in the Minister of Transportation or he would be done in himself. But he kept his rage under tight control, looked past his rival and addressed the Premier.

“Comrade Chairman, the Minister of Transportation is misinterpreting the facts. When I tried violence against Randolph, his capitalist friends rallied around him. His Japanese associate sent a team of bodyguards. His friends elsewhere in the world not only refused to abandon him, they actually began their piratical raids at that time. Clearly the campaign of terror was counterproductive.”

“So what do you propose to do, Vasily Maximovich?” the Premier asked.

“The idea of putting troops aboard the freighters is basically sound,” Malik said. “But instead of arming all of them, I propose to arm only one.”

“One?”

Nodding, Malik said, “One will be sufficient, if we obtain the necessary intelligence to reveal which freighter Randolph will attack next.”

“Ah …” The Premier smiled. “A Trojan Horse.”

“You grasp the situation immediately,” Malik praised, stopping himself at the very last instant from saying, “as quickly as ever.” It would not be wise to remind the Premier of his recent stroke.

“So you catch one band of pirates,” the Foreign Minister said. “How does that differ from what was suggested earlier?”

“In two ways, Comrade Minister,” answered Malik. “First, we have no need of greatly increased manpower. We arm one freighter only. Second, at the same time we are eliminating the pirates, we take command of the space station from which they came and arrest their ringleader, the American, Randolph. We bring him to Moscow for a trial, before the World Court and with full world coverage on television. Then we hang him, in accordance with international law. That will stop the others.”

“Do you believe so?” asked the Premier.

“I am certain of it.”

The others around the table nodded their agreement. All except the Minister of Transportation.

“It sounds very good,” he said, cold disdain in his voice. “But how do you learn exactly which freighter should be your Trojan Horse?”

“For that,” Malik said, “I will need an informer. And I believe I already have one.”

“An informer? Is he reliable?”

“The most reliable kind of informer,” Malik retorted, smiling at his rival. “She doesn’t even know that she will be informing on the Yankee capitalist.”

Rafael Hernandez sat gloomily at the head of the long, polished dining table, carefully watching his daughter. Lucita sat at her father’s right; the massive, high-backed chair dwarfed her, made her look like a little child again in her father’s eyes. The long mahogany table, built to take thirty or more, was empty except for the two of them. No candelabras glittered. No musicians played. No laughter or conversation passed across the table. The room was lit only by the chandelier overhead and the wall sconces. The silence was broken only by the occasional sound of fork or knife against plate, and the hollow boom of thunder outside, from a distant rainstorm.

Lucita had eaten practically nothing of her dinner. The servants brought course after course and then carried each dish back to the kitchen, virtually untouched.