Summit (38 page)

"It will also guarantee that the use of the drug against the United States would not be resisted," Stashinsky observed.

In the new regime, you will be the first to go,
Volnikov thought. "Any such use would of course have to be authorized by the Politburo," Volnikov said. "I personally would not be in favor, and I'm sure that most of my colleagues would concur."

There were murmurs of agreement.

Volnikov allowed himself a small smile as he poured a glass of water. The room was silent. No more questions? But the most important person had not yet spoken. Volnikov waited.

"I would be interested in your reaction to all of this, Pavel Fyodorovich," Marshal Falin said finally, addressing Grigoriev.

Volnikov took a sip of his water.

Grigoriev nodded. "First of all, I too would like to congratulate Comrade Volnikov on the success of this operation so far," he began, his voice low and flat. "It certainly demonstrates once again the superiority of our security forces. We are fortunate indeed to have such a man in charge of them."

And then his tone became urgent. "It seems to me, however, that to go ahead with the operation against President Winn would not be in our best interests. We are being asked to base our entire relationship with the United States on the supposed psychic conversion of this man. The future of this planet is too important for us to proceed on such a basis. I would rather have an enemy I can understand than a supposed ally whose thought processes no one can begin to comprehend. What guarantee do we have, for example, that this mentally unstable psychic, realizing that she is doomed no matter what she does, will not plant the suggestion in Winn's head that he would do the Soviet Union a favor by detonating all of America's nuclear warheads? Or perhaps she does what she is told, but Winn makes a misstep and the plot is made public. He is removed from office, and Soviet-American relations are set back a generation.

"I would much rather sit down with Winn amid the same old conflicting pressures and desires and fears that are always present at a summit, and see what we can agree to. We have worked hard to come up with arms-reduction proposals that both sides can live with; Winn may well be forced to accept them, even if he doesn't want to. I would hate to see that progress lost in pursuit of some fantastic scheme whose outcome no one can predict."

"It will work!"
Volnikov roared. "We have seen it work time and time again. I have the case reports here if anyone wants to read them." He brandished a stack of files. "We have not rushed into this blindly. We know what we're doing."

People shifted in their seats; disagreement made them anxious. "Perhaps," someone said, "we are rushing things a bit. This summit may not be the best time to—"

"It is the only time!" Volnikov interrupted. "The opportunity will not come again. The psychic may commit suicide, the pianist may escape, Winn may decide not to talk to us anymore. And the danger will only grow. Our agent on their National Security Council informs us that an important faction in the CIA is pressuring Winn to stockpile the endorphin drug and make plans to use it." He was improvising now, but he had to. He would not let Grigoriev slip out of this. "They see it as an alternative to conventional weapons if the arms-reduction treaty should be signed. We cannot let them do that. We cannot waste time worrying. It is our patriotic duty to complete what we have begun."

There was another brief silence. And then the defense minister slapped his palm against the table. "I agree," Falin said. "This is the chance we have always wanted to lift the Soviet Union to its rightful place at the head of the nations of the world. Future generations will revile us if we do not take the chance."

Silence again. Volnikov glanced at the dozen or so faces around the table, and knew that he had won.

Grigoriev, head down, was staring at his clasped hands. "If it is the will of the Politburo to go ahead with this operation," he said, "I do not see how my presence at the summit will be helpful. Nor do I see how I can continue as general secretary. I would therefore like to submit my resignation."

There were cries of protest.
Let him go,
Volnikov thought, but of course it would not do to say that. Grigoriev was looking for a vote of confidence, and of course he would get one. But it wouldn't last for long. "It seems to me, Pavel Fyodorovich," Volnikov said to Grigoriev, "that you have a duty to the Party and the state not to resign. You know that your resignation would cause chaos and threaten the summit. If it is the Politburo's decision that this operation proceed, you should not undermine that decision because your individual will clashes with that of the group. I urge you to reconsider."

Grigoriev looked up at him across the table. "Very well, then," he replied. "I will go to the summit. If the operation is successful, I will hand over the formula to you along with my resignation. You would not then question my devotion to the Party, would you?"

More protests. But it was obvious that this was the appropriate thing for Grigoriev to do. The resignation would be accepted. "We are confident, of course," Volnikov murmured, "that you will do your best during the summit to ensure that the operation
is
successful."

Grigoriev glared at him. Volnikov did not flinch. Finally Grigoriev stood up. "Comrades," he said, "I will report to you when I return from New York."

Volnikov watched with satisfaction as the defeated man strode from the room.

Chapter 35

Valentina stayed in her room. It was not like the rooms in her dreams, thank God. It was almost pleasant, with white curtains over the barred windows, fine mahogany furniture, and a Persian rug on the floor. They must have considered her a dignitary, worthy of the best they had to offer. The building itself smelled of borscht and cabbage—not far different from any apartment house in Moscow. She did not want to be reminded of Moscow.

When she wasn't crying, she read about President Winn. They had provided all the necessary materials for her; they knew the routine as well as she did. To break him she had to learn how to hate him, and she had to know him to find a way to hate him. It wasn't hard, she supposed, from their point of view. There were any number of anti-Soviet and anticommunist quotations in the reading matter to inflame you; he was an unashamed capitalist who had started his own business before entering politics; he believed in God and the primacy of individual freedom and the unsurpassed greatness of the United States of America.

But none of that seemed so awful to Valentina now. Love, not hatred, would have to motivate her this time. Love and fear.

What were they doing to Daniel? Was he all right? She closed her eyes and tried to find a power that would reach him, reach his mind. But there was nothing, only her own despair, swirling like a hot, suffocating wind through her thoughts.

It occurred to her that they might have already killed him. He had served their purpose; why keep him around and take the risk that he would escape? She groaned and buried her face in her pillow. But after a moment anger replaced her misery. If that's what they had done, they wouldn't get away with it. If he was dead, she had no reason to work for them. Nothing would happen unless she was sure he was safe.

With that decided, she felt a little better. Soon she would die or go insane, but she wasn't entirely powerless yet.

* * *

Olga Chukova's fears were confirmed soon after they reached the Soviet Mission in New York, and Rylev told them what was going to happen. Of course it had all been a trick. They knew everything, they controlled everyone.

She should have known that when they uncovered her own feeble attempts at spying almost as soon as she herself realized that she was in fact a spy. She had sense enough to figure out that she was in danger—that someone they had broken could have found out about her. But by then it was already too late. Rylev had given her a choice: to be executed for spying, or to work for him, to become part of their plot. Ever since, she had wondered if she had made the right decision.

He had told her what to say to Volodya and what to keep secret, making sure that the Americans knew only what the KGB wanted them to know. She hadn't tried to understand it all then; she was too frightened. If she had understood, she would have been even more frightened. And still she could have done nothing to stop them.

Now that she did understand, it didn't surprise her. What surprised her was that they hadn't killed her once her part was completed and Valentina was here.

Rylev explained. "She's your patient. She trusts you—although perhaps her feelings will have changed now. You will keep her reasonably happy. More important, you will keep her alive."

"And then what will happen to me?" she dared to ask.

"Do your job properly, and it will be taken into consideration."

He clearly despised her, and she loathed him. But there was nothing she could do about it.

She thought about trying to escape. All she needed to do, it seemed, was to get outside and find an American policeman. But even that was beyond her power. She was confined to the KGB area of the mission, on the seventh floor, with heavily armed guards in front of the elevator and the locked door to the stairs. And if she did manage to escape and find a policeman, wouldn't he turn out to be KGB? Wouldn't they have secretly planned it all along, so that she would fell into some incomprehensible trap they had laid for her? No, she lacked the courage to escape, as she had lacked the courage to refuse to spy for them. As always, she would do what she was told.

And so finally, late at night, she knocked on Valentina's door. When there was no answer, she pushed it open and went inside.

Valentina was lying on her bed, her clothes disheveled, her eyes red from crying.

"My poor darling," Doctor Chukova whispered. She sat on the edge of the bed and put her hand on Valentina's forehead. Valentina gazed at her silently for a moment, and it looked as if she was struggling against the sympathy. But then the tears began again, and she buried her head in Olga's lap. Doctor Chukova stroked her fine blond hair and murmured meaningless reassurances, and eventually she calmed down. "I'm so sorry for what I've done to you, Valentina," Doctor Chukova said then.

Valentina rolled off her lap and back onto the pillow. "Oh, it's not your fault, Olga. I've done it all to myself—and to Daniel. They'll kill him if I don't obey them."

Doctor Chukova thought of Volodya. She would probably never see him again. Would he miss her? Love was a terrible thing, but it seemed impossible to avoid. "Please don't blame yourself, child. That's what they want you to do."

"I suppose you're right." Valentina closed her eyes.

There was so little Doctor Chukova could do for her. "Can I give you something to help you sleep?" she asked.

"No, thanks."

"Is there anything you need?"

Valentina shook her head, and then reconsidered. She opened her eyes. "Tell Rylev I have to talk to him."

"Of course." Doctor Chukova stared at her. She longed to help, but it was futile. "I'll see you in the morning," she said.

Valentina nodded and attempted a smile. Doctor Chukova kissed her on the forehead, and then went to find Rylev.

He was watching Trofimov assemble his machine. Trofimov's beard had been shaved off as part of his disguise for the trip; he looked younger and somehow more trustworthy without it. He also looked happy. Valentina was back, and that meant he was important once again.

"She wants to talk to you," Doctor Chukova said to Rylev.

He nodded. "How is she?"

"Under the circumstances, she is all right."

"Good. I'll see her in a while."

He turned back to Trofimov. She had done her job for the moment, and now she was dismissed. She returned to her room and tried to sleep. Sleep did not come easy for her anymore, however; there was too much guilt, too much despair inside her.

And only one dim hope, one small thing to be proud of: she had defied them and told Volodya that they were going to New York. Apparently Rylev had not found out about this. Would Volodya get the information to the CIA? Would they know what to do? Or was it all merely a last futile challenge to her omnipotent masters?

She didn't know, and it was out of her hands now. When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of lying in the Lenin Hills with Volodya, laughing and drinking vodka in a meadow as they gazed out at the city before them. But she finally noticed that it wasn't a meadow where they lay, but a cemetery. She looked at Volodya; why had he taken her to this place? And instead of his familiar smiling face she saw a skull, grinning, not out of joy, but at the insanity of life, the idiocy of believing you could ever be happy. "Did you get the message to them?" she tried to ask, but his skull merely grinned some more, and then his bony hand reached out to her.