PART TWO

Moscow, August 1991

Ambassador Stephen Metcalfe hung up the phone, shaken.

It was after midnight, Moscow time. He sat in a secure room on the second floor of Spaso House, the ornate putty-yellow mansion a mile west of the Kremlin that served as the residence of the American ambassador to Moscow. This had been Metcalfe’s home for four years in the 1960s; he knew it well. The current ambassador, a friend of Metcalfe’s, was pleased to give the illustrious Stephen Metcalfe the use of the sterile telephone line.

The President’s national security adviser had just provided him with the latest signals intelligence on the growing crisis in Moscow, and it looked ominous.

Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev, who had been on vacation with his family at the seaside presidential villa in the Crimea, was being held hostage. The conspirators-including the chairman of the KGB, the Defense Minister, the chief of the Politburo, the Prime Minister, and even Gorbachev’s own chief of staff-had declared a state of emergency. They had announced, falsely, that Gorbachev had fallen ill and was unable to govern. They had ordered 250,000 pairs of handcuffs from a factory in Pskov and had had 300,000 arrest forms printed. They had cleared two entire floors of Moscow’s Lefortovo Prison to incarcerate their enemies.

The 2IL limousine was waiting for him in front of Spaso House. Metcalfe got in next to his old friend the three-star general. The Russian who had used the code name “Kurwenal” was, Metcalfe saw, dressed in civilian attire. The man nodded at the driver, and the car immediately sped through the tank-choked streets.

The general spoke without preamble, the tension in his voice evident. “Gorbachev has no way to communicate with the outside world. All of his telephone lines have been cut, even the special commander-in-chief line.”

“There’s worse,” said Metcalfe. “I’ve just learned that the conspirators now have control of the nuclear football.”

The general closed his eyes. The briefcase that held the top-secret Soviet nuclear codes would enable the junta to launch Russia’s entire arsenal of nuclear weapons if and when they so chose. The thought of such power in the hands of madmen was staggering.

“Is Gorbachev alive?”

“Apparently so,” replied Metcalfe.

“The coup plotters want change,” the general said. “Well, they will get change. Just not the change they imagine. If…”

Metcalfe waited. Then he asked, “If what?”

“If the Dirizhor will intervene. He is the only one who can stop this insanity.”

“They’ll listen to him?”

“More than that. As the chief of my country’s entire military-industrial complex, the Dirizhor, as he’s called, holds vast power in his hands.”

Metcalfe settled back in his seat. “It’s strange, you know,” he said. “You and I seem to speak to each other only at times of extraordinary crises. When the world is at the precipice of nuclear war. The Berlin Wall crisis, the Cuban Missile crisis-“

“Was I not right that Khrushchev would never fire his missiles?”

“You’ve never compromised the interests of your own country, and neither have I. I suppose we’ve both acted as… as…”

“As circuit breakers, I’ve always thought. We’ve been there to ensure the house doesn’t burn down.”

“But we’re old, both of us. We are respected because of our reputations, our age, our alleged ‘wisdom’-though I always say that wisdom is what comes from making a shitload of mistakes.”

“And learning from them,” the general added.

“Perhaps. Still, I’m superannuated. I’m just about irrelevant in Washington. If it weren’t for my money, I doubt I’d still get invitations to the White House.”

“The Dirizhor will not consider you irrelevant or superannuated.”

“I belong to the past. I’m history.”

“In Russia the past never remains the past, and history is never just history.”

But before Metcalfe could reply, the limousine screeched to a halt. In front of them was a roadblock: traffic cones, road flares, a line of uniformed soldiers.

“Alpha Group,” said the general.

“Order them to stand down,” said Metcalfe. “You’re their superior officer.”

“They’re not army. They’re KGB. The elite commando group that was used in Afghanistan, in Lithuania.” He added regretfully, “And now here in Moscow.”

The men surrounded the limousine, submachine guns pointed. “Step out of the car,” ordered the squadron leader. “You driver. You two old men in the back. Now!”

“Dear God,” breathed the general. “These are men with orders to kill.”