Footfall (7 page)

“Fingerprints. Have to be suit you’re you.”

“Oh. Who does that?”

“I can if you like.” Clybourne lifted a phone and spoke for a few moments. Presently another clean-cut young man entered and sat at the desk.

“Tom Bucks,” Clyboume said. “Captain Jeanette Crichton … Next time you see her she’ll be wearing oak leaves. The President just promoted her. She’s the newest addition to NSC. Personal access.”

“Hi,” Bucks said. He studied her, and Jenny felt he was memorizing every pore on her face. They both act that way. Of course. Not Joe Gland, just a Secret Service agent doing his job.

Clybourne led the way downstairs and through a small staff lounge. “I keep gear back here,” he said. He took out a large black case and put fingerprinting apparatus on the counter of the coffee machine.

“You really have to do this? My prints are on file.”

“Sure. What I have to be sure of is that the pretty girl I’m talking to now is the same Jeanette Crichton the Army commissioned.”

“I suppose,” she said.

He took her hand. “Just relax, and let me do the work.”

She’d been through the routine before. Clybourne was good at it. Eventually he handed her a jar of waterless cleanser and some paper towels.

“How did you know the President had promoted me?” she asked.

“The appointment list said ‘Captain,’ and the Chief of Staff called you ‘Major.’ Jim Frantz doesn’t make that kind of mistake.”

And you don’t miss much, either.

She cleaned the black goo from her hands while Clybourne poured two cups of coffee from the pot on the table. He handed her one. “Somebody said you live in Washington?”

“Grew up here,” she said. “Which reminds me, can you call me a cab?”

“Sure. Where are you going?”

“Flintridge. It’s out Connecticut, Rock Creek Park area.”

“I know where it is.” He glanced at his watch. “If you can wait ten minutes, I can run you out.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble…”

“No trouble. I go off duty, and I’m going that way.”

“All right, then. Thank you.”

“You can wait for me at the main entrance,” Clybourne said. He took a memo pad bearing the White House seal from his pocket and scribbled on it, then took a small triangular pin from another pocket. “Put that in your lapel, and keep this pass,” he said. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He smiled again, and she found herself answering.

General Narovchatov paused at the door and waited to be invited inside even though Nadya had told him that Comrade Chairman Petrovskiy was expecting him. Petrovskiy did not like surprises.

The Chairman was writing in a small notebook. Narovchatov waited patiently.

The office was spartan in comparison to his own. Petrovskiy seemed not to notice things like rugs and tapestries and paintings. He enjoyed rare books with rich leather bindings and was fond of very old cognac; otherwise he did not often indulge himself.

There had been a time when Nikolai Nikolayevich Narovchatov was concerned that it would be dangerous to enjoy the trappings of wealth and power while the Chairman so obviously did not. He still believed that in the early days that concern had not been misplaced; but as Narovchatov rose in status, the gifts sent him by Petrovskiy had become more numerous and more valuable, until it was obvious that Petrovskiy was encouraging his old associate to indulge himself, to enjoy what he did not himself care for.

Narovchatov had never discussed this with Chairman Petrovskiy. It was enough that it was so.

Chairman Petrovskiy looked up. His welcoming smile was broad. “Come in, come in.” Then he grimaced. “I suppose it was not a joke. They continue to come, then?” He lifted his glass of tea and peered at Narovchatov over its rim.

“Da, Anatoliy Vladimirovich.” General Namvchatov shrugged. “According to the astronomers, at this point it would be difficult for them not to come. The rocket forces will be brought to full strength, and we are anticipating their arrival. They move toward us very fast.”

“And they arrive, when?”

“A few weeks. I am told it is difficult to be more precise because it is a powered ship. That makes it unpredictable.”

“And you continue to believe that this is an alien ship, and not more CIA tricks?”

“I do, Anatoliy Vladimirovich.”

“So, I think, do I. But the Army does not.”

Narovchatov nodded. He had expected nothing else. And that could be a great problem for a man who had no need of more problems. The Chairman looked old and tired. Too old, Narovchatov thought. And what might happen when … Perhaps the Chairman had read his thoughts. “It is long past time that you were promoted, Nikolai Nikolayevich, my friend. I wish you to have the post of First Secretary. We will elevate Comrade Mayarovin to the Politburo, where he can rust in honor.”

“It is not necessary.”

“It is. Especially now. Nikolai Nikolayevich, I have long hoped to be the first leader of the Soviet Union to retire with honor. One day, perhaps, I will, but not until I can give the post to someone worthy. You are the most loyal man I know.”

“Thank you.”

“No thanks are needed. It is truth. But, my friend, I may not be with you so long. The doctors tell me this.”

“Nonsense.”

“That it is not. But before I am gone, I hope to see us accomplish something never before done. To give this land stability, to allow its best to serve without fear of their lives.”

The czars had never done that. Not the czars, and not Lenin. This was Russia. “That requires law, Anatoliy Vladimirovich. Bourgeois lands have law. We have—” He shrugged expressively. “We have had terror. It is not enough. You will remember little of Stalin’s time, but I recall. Khrushchev destroyed himself in trying to destroy Stalin’s memory, and we shall never make that mistake; but Khrushchev was correct, that man was a monster, Even Lenin warned against him.”

“He did what was necessary,” Narovchatov said.

“As do we. As will we. Enough of this. What shall we do about this alien spacecraft?”

Narovchatov shrugged, “The Army has begun mobilization, constructing new space weapons.” He frowned. “I do not yet know what the Americans will do.”

“Nor I,” the Chairman said. “I suppose they will do the same.”

I hope so, Narovchatov thought. If they do not… There were always young officers who would begin the war if they thought they could win it. On both sides. “Also, we have warned the commander of Kosmograd. I scarcely know what else to do.”

“We must do more,” the Chairman said. “What will these aliens want? What could bring them here, across billions of miles? If they are aliens at all, and not a CIA trick.”

This again? “Such a trick would make our space program look like children’s games. It is alien, and powered. I would believe a spacegoing beast with a rocket up its arse before I thought it a CIA trick. But I think it must be a ship, Anatoliy Vladintirovich.”

“I do agree,” the Chairman said. “Only I cannot believe what I believe. It is too hard for me! What do they want? No one would travel that far merely to explore. They have reasons for coming.”

“They must. But I do not know why they have come.”

“No, nor will we, until they are ready to tell us. We know too little of this.” Petrovskiy speared Narovchatov with a peasant’s crafty look. “Your daughter has married a space scientist. An intelligent man, your son-in-law. Intelligent enough to be loyal. Intelligent enough to understand what your promotion to First Secretary will mean to him.

“Someone must command the space preparations. Who?”

He means something, Narovchatov thought. Always he means things he does not say. He is clever, always clever, but sometimes he is too clever, for I do not understand him.

Who should command? The news of the alien ship had brought something like panic to the Kremlin. Everyone was upset, and the delicate balance within the Politburo was endangered. Who could command? Narovchatov shrugged. “I had assumed Marshal Ugatov.”

“Certainly the Army will have suggestions. We will listen to them. As we do to KGB.” The Chairman continued to look thoughtful.

What is his plan? Narovchatov thought. The meeting of the Defense Council is in an hour. The heads of the Army and the KGB. The chief Party theoretician, Chairman Petrovskiy, and me because Petrovskiy has named me his associate. At that meeting everything will be settled, then comes the meeting of the entire Politburo, and after that the Central Committee to endorse what we have already decided. But what will we decide? He looked at Petrovskiy, but the Chairman was studying a paper on his desk. — What did Anatoliy Vladimirovich want? The Soviet Union was ruled by a troika: the Army, the KGB, and the Party with the Party the weakest of the three, yet the most powerful because it controlled promotions within the other two organizations. Other schemes had been tried, and nearly brought disaster. When Stalin died, Party and Army had feared Beria, for his NKVD was so powerful that it had once eliminated nearly the entire central committee in a matter of weeks.

Party and Army together acted to eliminate the threat. Beria was dragged from a meeting of the Politburo and shot by four colonels. The top leadership of the NKVD was liquidated.

Suddenly the Party found itself facing the uncontrolled Army. It had not liked what it saw. The Army was popular. The military could command the affections of the people. If the Party’s rule ever ended, it would not be the Army’s leaders who would be shot as traitors. The Army could even eliminate the Party if it had full control of its strength.

That could not be allowed. The NKVD was reconstructed. It was shorn of many of its powers, divided into the civil militia and the KGB, never allowed to gain the strength it once had. Still, it had grown powerful again, as always it did. Its agents could compromise anyone, recruit anyone. It reached high into the Kremlin, into the Politburo and Party and Army. Alliances shifted once again…

Here, in this room, origins did not matter. Here, and in the Politburo itself, the truth was known. No one of the three power bases could be allowed to triumph. Party, Army, KGB must all be strong to maintain the balance of power. Ruling Russia consisted of that secret, and nothing more.

Petrovskiy was a master at that art. And now he was waiting. The hint he had given was plain.

“I believe Academician Bondarev might be very suitable to advise us and to direct our space forces during this emergency,” Narovchatov said. “If you approve, Anatoliy Vladimirovich.”

“Now that you make the recommendation. I see much to commend it,” Petrovskiy said. “I believe you should propose Academician Bondarev at the Central Committee meeting. Of course, the KGB will insist on placing their man in the operation.”

The KGB would have its man, but the Party must approve him. Another decision to be made here, before the meeting of the full Politburo.

“Grushin,” Narovchatov said. “Dmitri Parfenovich Grushin.”

Petrovskiy raised a thick eyebrow in inquiry.

“I have watched him. He is trusted by the KGB, but a good diplomat, well regarded by the Party people he knows, And he has studied the sciences.”

“Very well.” Petrovskiy nodded in satisfaction.

“The KGB is divided,” Narovchatov said. “Some believe this a CIA trick. Others know better. We have seen it for ourselves. Rogachev has seen it with his own eyes, in the telescopes aboard Kosmograd. The Americans could never have built that ship, Anatoliy Vladimirovich.”

Petrovskiy’s peasant eyes hardened. “Perhaps not. But the Army does not believe that. Marshal Ugatov is convinced that this is an American plot to cause him to aim his rockets at this thing in space while the Americans mobilize against us.”

“But they would not,” Narovchatov said. “It is all very well for us to say these things for the public, but we must not delude ourselves.”

Petrovskiy frowned, and Nikolai Narovchatov was afraid for a moment. Then the Chairman smiled thinly. “We may, however, have no choices,” he said. “At all events, it is settled. Your daughter’s husband will take charge of our space preparations. It is better that be done by a civilian. Come, let us have a cognac to celebrate the promotion of Marina’s husband!”

“With much pleasure.” Narovchatov went to the cabinet and took out the bottle, crystal decanter, and glasses. “What will the Americans really do?” he asked.

Petrovskiy shrugged. “They will cooperate. What else can they do?”

“It is never wise to underestimate the Americans.”

“I know this. I taught it to you.”

Nikolai Nikolayevich grinned. “I remember. But do you?”

“Yes. But they will cooperate.”

Narovchatov frowned a moment, then saw the sly grin the Chairman wore. “Ah,” he said. “Their President called.”

“No. I called him.”

Nikolai Narovchatov thought of the implications of a deal. Petrovskiy was the only man in the Soviet Union who could have spoken to the American President without Narovchatov knowing it within moments. “Does Thisov know this?” he asked.

“I did not tell him,” Petrovskiy said. He shrugged.

Narovchatov nodded agreement. The KGB had many resources. Who could know what its commander might find out? “You will discuss this in the Defense council then?”

Nikolai Narovchatov poured two glasses of rare cognac and passed one across the large desk. The Chairman grinned and lifted the drink in salute. “To the cooperation of the Americans,” he said. He laughed.

Naruvchatov lifted his glass in reply, but inwardly he was confounded. This alien ship could be nothing but trouble at a time when had come so close to the top! But nothing was certain now. The KGB would have its own devious games, so twisted that even Bonderev would not understand. And the Army was reacting as armies always reacted. Missiles were made ready.

Many fingers hover over many buttons.

Nikolai Naruvchatov felt much like the legendary Tatar who had saddled a whirlwind.

The shows were over and Martin Carnell was driving home with his awards, one Best Bitch, three Best of Breed, and a Best Working. One more than he expected.

From behind him, from the crates in the back of the heavy station wagon, came restless sounds Martin flipped off the radio to listen. None of the dogs sounded sick. Barth was just a puppy, and he wasn’t used to traveling in the station wagon. His mood was affecting the others.

Martin was taking it easy. He stayed at fifty or below with half a minute to change lanes. You couldn’t drive a station wagon like a race car, not with star-quality dogs in the back. Otherwise they’d be ready to take a judge’s hand off by the day of the show.

Martin saw a lot of country this way. This had been a typical dog-show circuit. Two shows on Saturday and Sunday, sixty miles apart, five weekdays to be killed somehow, and three hundred miles to be covered; two more shows, much closer together, the following weekend; two thousand miles to be covered on the trip.

“Take it easy guys,” Martin said, because they liked the sound of his voice. He turned on the radio.

The music had stopped. Martin heard, “I have spoken with the Soviet Chairman.” It sounded like the President himself — that unmistakable trade union accent. Martin turned up the sound.

“We are also consulting on a joint response to this alien ship.

“My fellow Americans, our scientists tell us that this could be the greatest event in the history of mankind. You now know all that we know: a large object, well over a mile in length, is approaching the Earth along a path that convinces our best sc entific minds that it is under power and intelligently guided. So far there has been no communication with it.