Conspiracy (25 page)

Zadiev’s interest quickened. He admired the smoothness of the man’s approach. Even under stress, Kormelin’s hint that he would soon have increased power to reward Zadiev had been delivered with grace and tact. Zadiev knew well the value of giving a Deputy Minister on the way up a sense of obligation. Yet he did not wish to seem too easy. There was always the chance that Kormelin might begin to imagine that he had been manipulated, if Zadiev made the path too smooth for him. Therefore a quid pro quo was in order. And Kormelin’s hint of great changes in the offing had awakened a fear that had troubled Zadiev greatly during the last few months.

He leaned his tall, thin frame forward in a slight bow. “It would give me pleasure to do you a service, Comrade. However, I could not take any official action in that way. You understand, I have been operating under ordinary standards of honor and decency by calling you here. All I want is to continue to operate under those same standards. I ask no support from you, either now or in the future, beyond your silence. There is only one small favor I wish to ask of you in return. A bit of information.”

Kormelin’s face turned expressionless. “Ask,” he said.

“I shall, Comrade, in a few minutes. At that time you will be more certain that I am speaking the truth, and I hope you will be more candid with me. Agreed?” He went on without waiting for Kormelin’s answer. “Now, if you will continue with me into the stadium, I hope to be in time to prevent the defection of Katya Romanova in precisely the manner you requested.”

Shortly they were on the green turf of the Bernabeau field, watching the lithe figure of Katya move gracefully between cameras on the far side. Zadiev had some worry that they would move her out over there, using the truck with the cameras, but he saw Tamara in the crowd close to Katya. Getting past the burly weightlifter would require brute force, something Zadiev doubted the American TV crew would be up to. Then he saw the other truck, moving slowly out of the tunnel just to the left of where he and Kormelin were standing.

“Watch,” he told Kormelin. “They’re going to try something cute.”

Both men waited as the second truck parked along the sidelines across from the first and nearly half the length of the field closer to the west goal line. Two uniformed technicians, one with a belly that overflowed his belt, the other with an Afro haircut, got out and set up a handheld camera. When they were ready, they waved. On the far sideline, someone waved back.

Dan Richards spoke into his microphone as he looked at Katya. “Okay now, Katya, we’re going to try an extended downfield run controlling the ball,” he said. “You see those cameras over there? You and I are going to run straight for them, passing the ball back and forth between us. Ready?”

She nodded, and Richards handed the mike to a technician. Before Tamara or anyone else could interfere, he tapped the ball lightly with his wing-tipped cordovan shoe, feeling rather foolish to be jogging across the field in his coat and tie, but knowing it had to be him, and that he had to move quickly. He caught up to the ball and nudged it to Katya on his left.

“When we reach the sideline,” he said, “you just keep right on going into the camera truck. Climb in the back and put on the technician’s uniform you’ll find there. We’ll do the rest. Just don’t tell anyone that UBC helped with your escape, or we’ll all get into trouble, okay?”

She said, “You needn’t worry,” thanked him, and sent the ball spinning out in front of them both with a burst of speed.

“Here they come,” said Yuri Zadiev. “We’d better move closer.”

They strolled casually up to a spot along the green sideline turf about three yards behind the two cameramen. “You do the talking,” Zadiev said to Kormelin. “It will sound more coincidental. You were in Madrid and stopped by to see Katya at my office, and I—”

“Yes, yes, I can manage that,” said Kormelin. He pursed his lips and watched Katya running toward him, wondering if she was carrying his son or daughter.

Seconds later, a puffing Dan Richards stopped ten yards in front of the camera and began speaking for the benefit of those who monitored the directional microphone that Walter J. was holding up toward him. “Hey, that was pretty good for an old man, wasn’t it, Katya?”

She kept on going, past Richards, past the cameramen, and would have run on by Zadiev and Kormelin unknowing, had she not noticed the soft black Gucci slippers and remembered them from her evening in his apartment. At first the familiarity did not penetrate, and she merely slowed. But then she heard the voice of the Deputy Minister.

“Katarina Ivanovna!” Kormelin called. “What good fortune to have found you!”

She looked up and saw him. And beside him Zadiev, the publicity man who everyone said was KGB. “I came by to look you up,” he was saying, “and Yuri here told me I could see you in action if I’d trouble myself to walk across the street. You look wonderful, my dear!”

He stood and chatted with her for a few moments in Russian, inquiring about her brother and the Spanish restaurants, blocking her path to the TV van that was parked behind them. “And you, sir,” Katya replied, “how is your family and how is Moscow?” It was all she could think of to say, so great was her disappointment that he had happened to stop by for his well-meaning visit at so unfortunate a time.

Yet Nikolai Kormelin read into the remark a self-sacrificing concern not to disrupt his domestic life and his reputation as a solid family man, as well as a would-be expatriate’s longing interest in the capital city of the Motherland. He was touched. Had Zadiev not been standing beside him, and had he not believed that the America to which she wanted to travel would soon become a country where his child could not be raised in prosperity, Kormelin would have stepped aside and let her go free.

Instead he offered to walk her back to the opposite side of the field.

Dan Richards had seen instantly that something had gone wrong. Cutting his prepared commentary short, he motioned to Max the cameraman to stop shooting, and walked over to where Katya stood with the two men. He looked pleasantly cordial. “Hey, Katya, found a friend? Hi, I’m Dan Richards.” If they were just about to leave, he thought, there was still a chance.

Kromelin and Zadiev introduced themselves, neither giving his official title. Kormelin said he was only in town for the day, and wanted to take Katya shopping when she was through here with their “televising.”

Dan’s hopes went out like a candle flame in a rainstorm. Yet he kept up a cheerful demeanor, not wanting Katya to become more discouraged than he knew she already must be. Plainly the two were prepared to stand here by the truck, and just as plainly, the burly Tamara was prepared to block any attempts at escape on the other end of the field. “Fine,” he said. “We’re just going to do a retake moving back across, the two of us, and then a few more questions.”

They were jogging slowly back towards the opposite side. “Do you think they knew?” he asked her.

“I don’t think so. He’s an admirer, and naturally he’d have gone to Mr. Zadiev to find out where I was when he came into town. I think it was simply bad luck.”

“Then we’ll try again, Katya,” he said firmly. “Don’t worry, we’ll think of another way. We’ll get in touch with you before the tournament’s over. Don’t give up hope!”

4

On the sidelines, Kormelin and Zadiev watched the girl. Kormelin seemed lost in thought, his eyes clouded with emotion.

Zadiev waited a few moments more, until Katya had rejoined the group behind the other camera. “That must have been difficult for you,” he said softly.

Kormelin nodded. He whispered as though talking to himself, and Zadiev did not hear him. When Katya was hidden from view by the others, Kormelin cleared his throat. “It appears you were correct on all counts,” he said. “The girl must be well cared for. I shall need to make many arrangements.”

Zadiev nodded, trying to keep his mind free of the Deputy Minister’s emotionalism over the girl’s predicament. He felt fortunate that he had brought Kormelin directiy over here, and more fortunate still that he had bullied the man into arriving precisely on time. Otherwise they would have come to the stadium after Katya had disappeared, and Zadiev would have looked the fool indeed.

“In the meantime,” Kormelin went on, “I trust you will maintain a continued watch on her and prevent any further attempts, using the same discretion. It is important that she not be made aware of our knowledge until we can provide the proper care for her. If she was to learn now or in the next few weeks that she could not escape, I would be gravely concerned for her well-being. She is, you will appreciate, a strong-willed and emotional young woman.”

“I shall see to it personally, Comrade Deputy Minister,” said Zadiev. “No one other than you and I knows of her condition among our people here. No one shall.”

Kormelin bowed slightly, acknowledging the favor Zadiev was doing him. “Then that settles the matter.” He looked up again at the taller man. “Now I believe you mentioned some information that would be of use to you.”

Zadiev suppressed a smile as the moment he had been waiting for arrived. “Yes, Comrade. Concerning something you mentioned earlier. A great change, you said, that would bring increased powers to your ministry.”

Kormelin frowned and tugged at his lower lip again. “It is highly confidential. Even I, who created much of the plan, do not know the complete details.”

“You may rely on my discretion, Comrade.”

For the first time that afternoon, Kormelin gave a wry smile. “I suppose I’d better be able to rely on your discretion,” he said quietly. “The plan concerns the petro-ruble concept that I devised, along with our nation’s gold supply, and the major American international banks. By manipulating those three elements, we shall destroy the position of the United States in the world economy.”

5

The two UBC cameramen were dismantling their equipment, carrying camera and porta-pack and microphones back to their truck. “I suppose they’ve given up,” Kormelin said, watching them. “Do you want to walk across? I’m going to keep my promise to take Katya shopping. She’ll be in need of something to raise her spirits.”

Zadiev’s mind raced, recalling the rumor that had spread throughout Moscow Center in February. An elite organization had been formed, it was said, to bring about the economic ruin of the capitalist system and clear the way for a new Soviet-dominated world economic order. Zadiev’s fear stemmed from his not being part of that elite. The KGB, he had heard, had a central role in the plan, and word had it that the plan concerned Madrid. To be assigned to Madrid and left out of such important action would be a very bad sign for Zadiev, an indication that his star was falling in Dzerzhinsky Square’s command centers. 

He had wondered if word of his wife’s Friday pilgrimages had reached his superiors He had spent many predawn hours in fruitless speculation on why he had been excluded.

Yet if Kormelin were one of the elite, and this bold plan of his succeeded, Zadiev would have an important ally— tremendously important!

“Which banks are they, Comrade?” Zadiev asked as the two men began walking across the emerald-green grass.

“Chase, Citibank, a half-dozen others. They’ve lost hundreds of billions in bad loans to the underdeveloped nations. They’re carrying those loans on their books, even though they should be written off. To cover themselves, they’ve been writing new loans and borrowing from the Eurodollar market, but it’s only paper. They don’t have the assets to withstand a run of withdrawals. For that matter, they are equally vulnerable to a rash of unexpected defaults.”

He paused, and stopped in the middle of the field—out of range, Zadiev supposed, of any American directional microphones. He looked at Zadiev. “We have people in place now to stimulate massive withdrawals and defaults.”

“How?”

“Soon there will be a far-ranging wave of anti-American sentiment. Our people will direct that sentiment against the banks. It’s a natural form of protest to withhold payment of a loan, isn’t it? And people will also be urged to withdraw money from American banks as a political protest. With the proper publicity, the movement will spread quickly. Then people will begin to fear for their savings. In major cities across the world, people will soon rush to take their money away from American banks as a matter of self-interest.”

Zadiev recalled his history. “A repeat of 1929? The collapse of an American bank triggers a capitalist depression?”

Kormelin smiled. “In the event of a major drop in the value of American currency, all but two of the OPEC nations have secretly pledged to forsake the dollar and trade their oil in petro-rubles. And the dollar will drop following the bank difficulties, believe me. We have appropriated nearly a year’s production from the Kolyma gold mines to make certain that it drops.”

“You’re going to bribe the capitalists with gold?”

Kormelin shook his head and said that bribes would not be necessary. “For years,” he went on, “the oil sheiks have snatched up most of the gold that has come on the market. It will come as no surprise when our massive offering of gold is bought. Only the price will be a surprise.”

“The price?”

“Two thousand five hundred dollars an ounce. Libya will be the buyer, through many different intermediaries in Hong Kong and Zurich. The details of the purchase have already been worked out. In addition to our gold, of course, the Libyan government will receive other compensations. But those will not be made known to the public. All they will see is that the dollar is suddenly worth dramatically less on the gold market. A parallel drop on the world’s currency exchanges will soon follow.”

Zadiev whistled softly. “And that drop will be the justification for OPEC to abandon the dollar. Very neat.”

Modestly, Kormelin shrugged off the compliment. “The timing is the important factor,” he said. “If we were to sell our gold to the Libyans tomorrow, the effect on the currency markets would be negligible. But if we move at the time of political protest against America, in the midst of American bank difficulty, the shock to the dollar will be irreversible. The American crash will come in a whirlwind.”