Cyborg Strike (22 page)

He knew how long it had been because no one
bothered stealing his expensive watch. That in itself frightened
him deeply, because when the usually corrupt Russian bureaucracy
turned righteous, it meant death waited in the wings, and he should
expect no better than a bullet in the back of the head, the
traditional mercy for the purged. It meant he could not buy his way
out. Someone would undoubtedly take the bauble from his corpse, but
for now, its smooth functioning gave him cold comfort, merely
ticking off the seconds to his inevitable end.

A quick check of that watch told him it was
three in the morning as the tramp of goose-stepping feet proceeded
down the corridor toward his door.
This is it
, he thought.
Composing himself, he put on the resolute face he had always shown
to the world, determined he would go out with dignity.

That resolve cracked slightly as he saw
Sharion Prandra already handcuffed and waiting in the passageway,
two muscular female wardens at her elbows. She nodded to him, but
kept silent as the prison guards snapped shackles on his wrists and
ankles, and marched them both to a surprisingly benign-looking
interrogation room.

That such was its function was obvious by the
plate of one-way glass on one wall. Even so, he saw no bloodstains
or instruments of torture, and there was none of that faint smell
of corruption that signified an abattoir no matter how deeply it
was cleaned. The guards marched the two prisoners to separate
chairs on the same side of the table, and then left them there
alone for a moment.

“Winthrop,” Prandra hissed.

“Shut up,” the other responded. “They are
watching. Just wait and see what they want.”

A moment later an unfamiliar man entered,
smoking a foreign cigarette, a mark of prosperity in this
dysfunctional nation. He set down an ashtray he carried and then
sat down across from them. With narrowed eyes he sucked in a
lungful of smoke, then blew it out into the space between them,
causing them both to blink.

“So,” the man began in fluent English. “What
is the State to do with you? I am not sure we even have names for
some of your crimes.”

“And you are?” Winthrop asked.

“Trosikian. FSB.”

“Might as well call it by its right name:
KGB,” Winthrop retorted.

Trosikian reached across to casually press
the burning ember of his cigarette against the back of Winthrop’s
manacled hand. The motion was so smooth that it took him a moment
to really notice he was being burned, and then he yelped and jerked
back. “Bastard!”

“You really do not understand your position,
Mister Jenkins. I am here because I am the highest ranking member
of my agency not addicted to this.” He fished in his pocket and
took out a very familiar item: a nanocrack injector. “Oh, look. I
just happen to have another.” He placed one more alongside it, so
that they stood like two salt shakers in the center of the heavy
steel table between them.

“What’s your game?” Winthrop blustered.

“No game. I just wanted to experience this
moment for my own satisfaction. Do you know I watched from
surveillance devices as you briefed the Cabinet with a bowl of
these prominently displayed in front of them? As you ground the
proud leaders of the Russian State under your filthy American
feet?” Trosikian raised a hand, and four guards trooped in.

Two held heavy leather uniform belts, and two
others carried Makarov automatics in their gloved hands. Without
warning, the belt-wielders looped the leather around the prisoners’
necks from behind and drew them tight, leaving them just enough
slack to breathe. Each of the other two placed the muzzle of his
pistol against the base of each captive’s neck.

“As I am a fair and reasonable man, I will
give you much the same choice you gave our leaders. Take an
injector and use it…or take a bullet. You have ten seconds to
decide.”

Before two had passed, Prandra reached for
the metal cylinder in front of her and pressed it convulsively to
her neck. A moment later it dropped from her nerveless fingers to
clatter onto the floor, and she relaxed in her seat, head lolling,
only kept upright by the pressure of the belt around her neck.

Winthrop thought about it for five or six
seconds before fixing his eyes on the secret policeman and
deliberately picking up the injector. Instead of aiming it at his
neck, he sneered and poked its tip directly into the cigarette burn
on his hand, then placed it upright back on the table before he
could feel the effects. Closing his eyes, he smiled faintly,
looking for all the world as if he had won instead of lost.

Trosikian ground out his cigarette and
frowned faintly, then jerked his head peremptorily. “Take them back
to their cells. The new Cabinet will decide what to do with them.”
Somehow he felt as if the American had cheated him of his
satisfaction, but then he brightened as another thought crossed his
mind.

Perhaps there was some consolation to be had.
The other one, the South Asian woman, was not bad looking, and for
the next hour or so was unlikely to complain if he paid her a
friendly visit in her cell.

A very, very friendly visit.

***

For the first time in the collective
political memory, the Russian delegation to the Neutral States
Assembly seemed cowed and cooperative. Obviously this had
everything to do with the events of the past two days. They all
knew that what had really happened was ten times worse than what
got into the media or past the firewalls and censors, and it had
been made plain to them – by the Free Communities delegation if not
explicitly by the Neutral States – that all of their wiggle room
was gone.

In short, the word was: cooperate or be
crushed. Or more politely: clean up your own mess, or we’ll clean
it up for you.

Even the normally slow moving Europeans had
agreed to the meeting and general strategy, led by a rare
British-French accord. No longer would Russia be allowed to lumber
along like some bullish Frankenstein’s Monster, helping and harming
the world defense effort in equal measure. The only choice they had
now was who would oversee the transition: the Neutral States or the
Free Communities.

A triangular table big enough to seat five on
a side had been assembled from the fine Swedish furniture of the
Assembly Council’s halls and facilities in Geneva. However, despite
the attempt to create a meeting of equals, it felt like what it
really was: two powerful blocs facing one weak one.

Or perhaps it resembled a job interview with
two employers who held all the cards.

Plus one. A Chinese observer. That nation had
found out about the negotiations and requested a representative to
be present. While not strictly required, the two other alliances
had thought it wise to grant the request.

Minister-Representative Horton of the British
delegation cleared his throat in that pompous fashion only an
Englishman ever really manages. He glanced left and right at his
French, German, Polish and Bulgarian counterparts, and then across
at the Free Communities delegation. “I suppose we can begin,
now.”

“I concur.” Special Envoy Travis Tyler led
the Free Communities’ team, a not-so-subtle reminder that the
United States was rapidly regaining a place of eminence, if not
preeminence, in world affairs. His co-consuls represented South
Africa, Australia, Argentina and Brazil, arguably the four most
influential members of that power bloc.

“I would like –” the Russian lead began
tentatively.

“Shut the hell up,” Tyler cut him off. The
others in the room stared at him in shock as he plowed on in a
voice of steel. “With all due respect to our hosts, the Free
Communities are not here to listen to the usual blather. Every day,
every hour, every minute is precious. I am here to deliver a
message to Russia, and our esteemed allies in the Neutral States,
in the name of and with the full support of the FC Council.”

“And that is?” Horton asked, his stiff upper
lip frozen beneath his voluminous mustache.

“Simply this: by midnight, Russia will
announce that it has joined either the FC, or the Neutral States.
If not, the FC will consider that nation a rogue and will do
everything in its power short of nuclear war to dismantle it. And
that decision will not be rescinded by future capitulation, short
of an unconditional surrender of sovereignty. One chance, and one
only.”

“China concurs, in this case,” a voice from
the rear spoke up. All eyes turned to the urbane young man with the
perfect suit and haircut who sat idly looking at his nails. He
flicked his eyes upward for a moment, then looked back down as if
he did not care much, despite the bombshell of his simple
declaration.

“Now see here,” Horton blustered, turning to
crane his head at the Chinese. “Is this some kind of, of
coordinated effort to seize Russia for yourselves?”

“Quite the opposite, Mister
Minister-Representative. Moscow can choose for itself. I am merely
insisting they do so, in a timely fashion.” Tyler stood up, as did
the rest of the FC team and the dozen functionaries and aides
behind them. “Now we will bid you good day.”

“Now see here,” Horton said again, “now see
here!” That seemed to be the extent of his commentary as he and the
rest watched the Free Communities representatives file out, leaving
the Neutral States group and the unnamed Chinese man alone with the
Russians.

The Russian representative, an older woman
only identifiable as such by her ample breasts sagging inside her
generously cut pantsuit, turned her bulldog-jowled face to the
others on her side and spoke with them in Russian for several
minutes while the others waited. Eventually she turned back to
Horton.

“Subject to ratification by the Central
Cabinet, I would like to make a tentative application for Russia to
join the Neutral States Assembly.”

A smile broke out on Horton’s face, mirrored
on the visages of those around him. Even the Chinese man’s mien
seemed to lighten slightly, as if pleased. “I say, then, fine show,
jolly good,” the Brit burbled. He stood to walk around and shake
hands with the Russian team. “Then we can leave it to our
respective staffs to draw up the details for signature. Bloody
good!” He turned around toward the Europeans. “Does anyone have any
champagne handy?”

The French delegate turned to her staff and
made the arrangements.

***

Behind the secured and bug-swept doors of the
nearby Free Communities Delegation enclave, Tyler poured Jack
Daniels for his team and staff with his own hand. Even the
teetotalers picked up tumblers and saluted politely, touching rims
to lips. Others drank deeply as he polished off his three fingers
and lifted his empty glass. “Now that’s how a Texan negotiates,” he
laughed.

“It certainly seemed effective,” the
Brazilian delegate, a strikingly handsome woman, responded with a
purr.

“Effective at what?” one of the bolder staff
spoke up, a genuinely young black man with a South African flag
pin. “There’s no way they’ll join the Free Communities now,” he
stated sourly.

The Brazilian woman stepped over to him with
sinuous grace and tapped his face gently with her open palm.
“
Exatamente
,
meu lindo amigo.
But they will run
screaming into the arms of the Neutral States, and thus will become
their problem, as it naturally should be.”

Had the young man’s skin color been able to
show a blush, he would have. As it was, the sweat that broke out on
his forehead and the way he dropped his eyes said it all.

“Marta, leave the poor fellow alone,” Tyler
said gently.

The statuesque woman shrugged and turned back
to Tyler. “Then pour me another drink,
Senhor
Travis, and I
shall find someone else to bother. Let us celebrate victory!”

The score of people in the room laughed, and
others began talking among themselves. Tyler leaned closer to
Marta. “If you want to go robbing cradles, at least don’t do it in
public, my dear.”

“Actually I’d rather you robbed my cradle,
Travis,” she breathed.

“Oh, you already know the answer to that. I’m
a happily married man. Now, go give that boy the night of his life
– discreetly, that’s all I ask.”

Marta pouted. “All right. You are just a fish
on my line,
Senhor
Travis. I have many years to reel you
in.” She ran her tongue across too-red lips and turned with a
flounce back toward her latest target.

Russia as a Neutral States Assembly member –
and one in beaten disarray – made arranging the legalities of
recovering Roger Muzik’s body much easier than Jill Repeth had
expected. A couple of phone calls from Travis Tyler to the new
Prime Minister and the Karelian Oblast’s officials had become much
more obliging, even eager to please.

She still didn’t let their police get any
closer than one hundred meters away, back with the media. In fact,
it looked like there were more reporters standing around on the
unusually hot, unusually dry lakeside than cops.

Big picture, she was glad of that. It showed
that the long-brutalized Russian media wasn’t completely cowed, and
the spirit of investigation had come alive under the new more
liberal rules. Unfortunately it also confirmed that someone,
perhaps many someones, in the bureaucracy supplemented his or her
income with a few sheaves of rubles from those same reporters in
return for story tip-offs.

This threatened to complicate her operation
but Jill decided that she just didn’t give a damn. She’d been
charged with recovering the body and the submersible, more to keep
the technology out of others hands than at any particular
embarrassment. Nobody told her it had to be a deep dark secret.
Wild rumors and eyewitness reports of the Salmi operation, as well
as the others that toppled the illegitimate junta, mingled in the
open press, so the mere news about the mission’s existence wasn’t
any particular revelation.