Chapter Seven: No perestroika after all

Langley

Nature was at its prime; the trees carried the bare gloom of autumn. They were fragments of a forest that once had been dense and profuse, inhabited by a large population of American wildlife in the hills overlooking the Potomac Valley. Now many had been cut to make way for the 200-some-acre tract that was the home of one of the biggest intelligence agencies in the world. The trees that abided had been left so to hide the buildings from the public eyes, a doing followed around the world by many intelligence services.

From his window and over the 12-foot fence, Roger Craig could see the trees disrobed as they were. They felt no shame for it.

Craig turned back to face his desk.

A dossier lay on it with 268 pages of notes and 36 pictures staring up at him, retorting his tired glare.

He had spent the last few days traveling between Langley, the White House and the Pentagon, and sleep had been a privilege he could not afford too often.

Now, sitting behind his oak desk on the top floor of Spook Central, sleep did not wish to come. There where too many perturbations troubling his mind. All Craig was able to do was stare down at the dossier and ask: "Why?"

"Why Bedny, why? You are the driving force in the Soviet government and therefore the one behind all this. What are you up to?"

Craig leaned back into his chair, making an old spring screech in protest, and begun to analyze what he knew of Bedny.

He remembered Bedny well. It had been about three years ago at a U.N. meeting. A firm handshake and a straight gaze, deep-blue and slightly visionary, had introduced him to Bedny's peculiar charisma for the first time. He had the judicious superiority of a psychiatrist, listening to Craig the way somebody listened to music: motionless, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning, seemingly agreeing to everything he said, then formulating his own questions as the good diplomat he was. He could tell anybody to go to hell and make him feel glad to be on his way.

Craig was talking to himself, considering all the details he knew about Bedny. "You loved flowers. Roses. You loved to talk about roses. And your family. Your son, your daughter. Your beautiful wife. Your dacha in the woods.

"You seemed to be the perfect Soviet family man and to plan to revitalize the creaky Soviet bureaucracy -- or at least so I described you in my report later.

And now...

Had it all just been a charade? A play perfectly performed on the international stage called "diplomacy"? Had the power you've come to gone to your head?

Craig shook his own head in disbelief.

"How can a man I respect so much, a man who we believed really could turn around the Soviet government, give the orders for world annihilation? How can you be so thoughtless, Bedny? Or is this another one of you charades? Another play?"

Craig bend forward, scooped up a sheaf of printed data from his desk and started to leaf through them.

What if this was another play? What if your attempt is of a nature we can not yet perceive?

Craig pulled a small folder marked "AMUDARYA" from under the heap and skimmed through it. "...Soviet interests in Afghanistan ... Hafizullah Amin less successful in consolidating his power.....rebels advancing..."

No, this can't be...

20,000 feet above Kola Peninsula

Smith sat in the lush seat of the Antonow, contemplating the last few days. Everything had gone awkwardly. Kuba was in the hands of the Sluzba Bezpieczenstwa, he was running with a girl from an invisible enemy and the soviets were about to launch a massive nuclear attack at NATO. Not the best position to be in.

Jadzia stared out the window. The naked landscape of Kola stretched out beneath them and far into the horizon. She spotted a herd of reindeer dash over the plains, charged by wolves, running for whatever life they had.

A wild country. The only question: is she on the winning side? To be the hunted -- or the hunter.

The sun glared though the left window. Soon it would disappear beneath the horizon. Smith suddenly started. Something was wrong.

He got up and walked the short distance into the cockpit. The two pilots where having a lively conversation in Russian when Smith came in. Smith's eyes flew over the instruments.

His speculation was confirmed.

"Where are we going!" Smith demanded in Russian.

The pilot answered quietly and in accentuated English.

"Your home."

"Who do you guys think I am? Santa Claus?" Smith said in agitated English. "I don't live at the North Pole!"

The pilot smiled. He reached into his side pocket and extracted something.

"Sit, Mister Smith. Please. We still have a long flight ahead of us."

Smith gaped at the muzzle pointing at him in disbelief.