The Threat

Freck was going through banana pudding like Godzilla through downtown Tokyo, but he was nodding, seemed to be with him. Dan was getting excited. If he could get Freck to back it in Congress, the Threat Cell could be up and running in a year.

The fat man said, “It might be worth funding for a cycle, see what comes out of it. And you know what? You might be just the fella to head up something like that.”

“Me? Well … thanks,” Dan said. Taken aback, but pleased. Maybe it wasn’t impossible to get something done around Washington after all.

“You must run or something,” Freck said. “What is it? Gymnastics? Play tennis? Pretty buffed up.”

“I work out,” Dan said. “Not so much since I got to D.C., but when I can.”

“Look like you’re in shape. Good chest. Good arms. But you carry yourself stiff. No looseness there, like you see with most men in good shape. You know, we might get together sometime,” Freck said.

Surprised someone with so much power on the Hill could be so approachable, Dan said, “Sure, we could do that. You mean run?”

“No, no … been a long time since the knees were up to that! Just hang out. Just spend some time together. You like to swim? Come over to my place, we could swim. See what develops.”

To his utter astonishment, Dan felt Freck’s hand sliding up his thigh. He jerked away. Freck’s face didn’t change, not an iota, still the grave mien of the rectitudinous statesman. Dan started to get up, felt his face burning. Freck was folding his napkin, blotting his lips, perfectly comfortable. Past him Dan saw two of the crew members grinning at him. As if they’d known all along.

* * *

It was dark when they landed, though only 3 p.m. local time. They left Pulkovo Airport in a motorcade, limos, but without the pomp and security that would have accompanied them had the president stayed. But De Bari was off again, en route to the emerging central Asian states. Actually he’d only landed here to pick up people he wanted to speak with en route to central Asia and perhaps on the way back as well. Or so Blair had said. Which was why they’d gotten to fly in Air Force One instead of the more usual military or commercial air.

Dan had never been in what had so recently been the USSR. In fact security regulations had still required him to get clearance to enter the country. Blair was in another car, with the other Defense people; they’d had time for a hug-and-peck coming down the jetway, but no more.… He looked out curiously. They were heading down a broad avenue, six empty lanes of concrete lined with apartment blocks like some enormous, badly funded prison. Between them stumpy figures pushed snow around with brooms. As they passed a polished granite pylon, huge bronzes of soldiers, workers, women, their driver called back that this was the monument to the blockade during the Great Patriotic War. The main line of defense against the Germans had been two kilometers away; the monument marked where the relief forces had broken through to the jubilant Leningraders in 1945.

As they neared the heart of town the buildings sank, grew lower, became stone and plaster instead of preformed concrete. Dostoevsky’s city. Dan remembered Raskolnikov stalking the slums and bars of the Haymarket, his crime gnawing at his sanity. The overcoated people, the babushkaed women, looked ground down and afraid, as if even after the fall of the Party so many years of state terror had milled deep into their souls. The only spots of color were advertisements for Western liquors and cigarettes. They crossed bridges, islands, more bridges. A golden spike jabbed the sky; the Admiralty Tower. A turn-of-the-century cruiser he guessed was Aurora. Spaced between the palaces, glimpses of lead gray sea. White-gloved policewomen waved them through barricades. Trucks filled with troops idled on the side streets.

Their hotel was a Scandinavian-style aluminum-sheathed central block with two even taller wings. The limos deposited them before a reception table marked with the U.S. flag, one among dozens cracking in the chill wind. It overlooked a shingle beach and then the Baltic. He didn’t see any ice yet, but to judge by the temper of the wind, it would be forming soon. Blair smiled at him over bent heads.

Dan was working his way toward her when he bumped into Dina White. The State staffer was supporting a bent senior with a fringe of cottony hair. He looked feeble and, without even a topcoat, was seriously underdressed for the windchill. White said, “Dr. Sola, this is Commander Lenson, National Security Council. Dr. Umberto Sola, director of the Office of Nuclear Affairs.”

They shook hands, but the old man dropped his grasp as a dark-eyed woman in a business suit and fur hat whacked her clipboard against the table for attention.