FOREWORD Read online

  She carried him down into the yard and hurried along the alleyway to the front of the house. Dick’s battered blue pick-up was parked in its normal spot on the other side of the street. Nina and Rhonda were already over there, hiding behind it. Tabatha could see them craning their necks over the hood to see who was coming. She also saw the relief on their faces when they realized it was only her, and not Dick.

  She placed Garry down again and opened the cab door. “Get in,” she told the other children. They obliged, becoming more assured with each passing moment. They’d put all their trust in Tabatha, and so far she’d kept them safe. So far.

  Tabatha climbed into the driver’s seat, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  “Now what?” Nina said, still keeping her voice quiet, even though Dick was out of listening range. “He’s got the keys. How you gonna start this heap of shit?”

  Tabatha was already crouching beneath the steering wheel. “Who needs keys?” the teenager responded as she began hot-wiring the car. Apparently, gymnastics wasn’t her only area of expertise. The other children stared at her in admiration. A couple more years in this neighborhood, Tabatha thought, and they’d all learn how to do this as well. The process took her a few minutes, and she breathed an audible sigh of relief when the engine – which was actually almost as old as her – spluttered into life.

  She put the pick-up into gear and drove away, not really sure where she was heading, but knowing that it would be far away from Dick and Louise. Tabatha also knew that her mother’s bank account now contained a $100,000 check, courtesy of a certain supermarket tabloid. The fifteen-year-old had her mother’s looks and could easily pass for being several years’ older (if she could fool the National Security Advisor, she could sure as hell fool a dumb-ass bank clerk). Fortunately, she was also an expert at forging her mother’s signature, a talent that had until now been useful only for signing school documents and sick notes.

  By the time Dick discovered what had happened, the four children were thirty miles away, heading north towards the Missouri state line.

  THE STATE DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON D.C.

  Like a lamb to the slaughter. That was precisely how Alexander Lukin, Russia’s ambassador to the United States, felt whenever he visited the State Department. The palatial decor and trappings of power were designed to intimidate. As a career diplomat, he respected this. But like many things in this amazing country, the tactic lacked subtlety; a concept that the Americans had never quite understood. Well, they were still a young country, he thought. They would learn given enough time.

  An aide showed Lukin into the John Quincy Adams drawing room, where he gently lowered himself into one of two identical armchairs arranged in front of the fireplace. He remembered reading somewhere that both chairs had been handmade in Philadelphia and dated back to the colonial era.

  As indeed did many items in this extraordinary room. A grand portrait of Adams, painted in 1816 when he had been Minister to Great Britain, adorned the wall over the fireplace. A collection of Chinese export porcelain that had once belonged to George Washington himself was prominently displayed in an illuminated cabinet.

  Lukin’s favorite piece of furniture in the room, however, was arguably the least eye-catching. It was an inconspicuous writing table made out of mahogany, spruce and white oak. On a previous visit to Foggy Bottom, it had been explained to the Russian Ambassador that the table boasted an extraordinary historic association. For it was the table upon which the Treaty of Paris had been signed in 1783, bringing to an end Britain’s ownership of the American colonies. A keen student of history, Lukin had often wondered how different things might have been had the British won the War of Independence.

  Perhaps, he mused, this rather ordinary piece of furniture would yet bear witness to yet another great turning point in history. As he sat there awaiting his host, Lukin reflected that history was quite a relative term when one thought about it. American history, for example, hadn’t even begun when Prince Alexander Yaroslavevich routed the invading Swedish and German knights in the thirteenth century. Time was somewhat equivocal to the Americans. They were a young country, yes, and their preoccupation with youth was certainly evident in their popular culture. But, in dealing with other nations, they tried to act like an ancient civilization, blessed with the wisdom of millennia. And that had always been their weakness, hadn’t it? They thought that because they had worn down the British in 1783, helped to beat the Germans twice in the twentieth century (they didn’t like to be told that they couldn’t have won those two wars without assistance) and taught that Arab barbarian Saddam Hussein a lesson or two about the exercise of might in 1991, they had the right to lecture the rest of the world about how it should conduct itself. America was a land of many contradictions, he had learned in his five years as Ambassador to the United States. It would willingly go to war to fight for freedom and democracy, and yet it would just as often provide assistance to nations whose governments didn’t even understand such concepts. Lukin didn’t dislike the Americans, but he did sometimes find their arrogance bewildering. They were like the Roman Empire of old, he thought. And just like the Roman Empire, decadence and complacency would probably be their nemesis.

  He realized that his mind was drifting, and he attributed that to jetlag, having only landed back at Dulles an hour earlier following a six-hour meeting in Moscow with Russian Foreign Minister Suronev. The meeting had been convened at extremely short notice in the wake of President Godonov’s death. Lukin had expected it to be a purely routine meeting. What he hadn’t expected was to return to Washington with a revelation that could irrevocably change the existing world order. He was certain that the young American Secretary of Statecertainly wouldn’t be anticipating the news that he was about to receive.

  “Alex.”

  Bradley Copeland entered the room, a warm and friendly smile on his face. An aide followed two steps behind him. The Secretary of State and the Russian Ambassador had been diplomatic acquaintances - if not quite friends - for almost a decade, since the time Copeland had been part of a US trade delegation to Russia. In those days, Lukin was an undersecretary to the then Minister of Agriculture, and was a key member of the Russian negotiating team. Lukin and Copeland had struck an instant rapport, the Russian remembered. His English was just about flawless – the product of a classical education – and he was known for a relaxed sense of humor that had made him somewhat unique among his rather severe mannered colleagues.

  Lukin stood to shake the Secretary of State’s hand. It occurred to the Russian that this was the first time he had met Copeland in that capacity. The last time he’d visited the State Department, it had been to meet Copeland’s predecessor for a discussion about President Mitchell’s planned state visit to Moscow; a visit that, due to Godonov’s death, had now been temporarily postponed. In the three months that had passed since that meeting, both Godonov and the former Secretary of State had died. Yet, as the Americans said, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

  “Congratulations on your promotion, Bradley.”

  “Thank you, Alex.” Copeland gave him a cordial nod. “It’s a shame it couldn’t have been under more auspicious circumstances. This is Carl Taylor, my new Undersecretary for Russian Affairs,” he went on, introducing his aide.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Taylor,” Lukin said, bowing respectfully. He’d already read the file on the American, of course. It wasn’t terribly flattering.

  Taylor didn’t like the Russians. Despite an Ivy League education and heaps of worldly wisdom, his inexplicable dislike of all Slavic races bordered on racist. He thought that they smelled strange and looked shifty. But, all said and done, he was a professional diplomat, and was well practiced in concealing these sentiments behind a poker face that had taken years to perfect.

  “Likewise,” he lied.

  The three men sat down in front of the fireplace. Lukin and Copeland took their places in the armchairs, which were set to face each oth
er at a slight angle. A coffee table sat between them. Taylor took his place in a beautiful pre-revolution side chair, which he pulled up as if it were a piece of cheap garden furniture.

  As Copeland and Lukin engaged in the compulsory niceties that were an integral element of such meetings, a maid fetched tea on a solid silver tray. Even that gesture was extravagant in a typically American way. The solid silver neoclassical tea service, designed by John LeTellier, dated back to the 1790’s. Lukin nodded his thanks to the maid as she poured, wondering what the Bolsheviks would’ve made of such ostentation. The thought almost occasioned a smile.

  The more things change…

  Next came the exchange of pleasantries, a mandatory if somewhat tiresome element of such meetings. Yes, I’m fine, how is your wife, my wife is fine, and my children are fine too, and I agree it is indeed quite cold for this time of year, but they forecast better weather soon, andblah, blah, blah…

  That took about ten minutes. Now it was time to get down to business.

  “Mister Ambassador,” Copeland began. “First let me extend to you our nation’s gravest sympathies regarding the death of President Godonov. He was a great statesman, and a good man. I have here with me a personal note from my President to yours, extending the regret of the American people.” He handed a sealed envelope to the Russian, which was duly pocketed.

  Godonov was a drunken buffoon who took my country to the brink of oblivion, Lukin didn’t say. Instead, he smiled graciously. “Thank you, Bradley. I will convey your sentiments to my government.”

  “You might be pleased to know that the Vice President intends to remain in Moscow for the funeral. In fact, he was rather hoping to arrange a brief private meeting with your new President Pushkin while he is there. A show of moral support for your new President, if you like.” And also to check him out, look into his eyes and see what’s ticking, the Secretary of State didn’t add.

  Lukin’s reaction caught the two Americans off guard. Normally, such an offer of support for a new leader would have been warmly embraced, particularly by a country such as Russia, which needed all the support it could get. But instead Lukin grimaced, which in diplomatic terms was as close as one could come to cold shouldering a proposal without rejecting it out of hand. “I am sure that my President will be receptive to your offer,” he remarked, sipping his tea.

  A brief pause. Something was clearly troubling the Russian, Copeland saw. What the hell is going on here? Something isn’t right.

  “Bradley,” the Russian said finally, glancing at Taylor, “could we speak in private?”

  The Secretary of State blinked. This wasn’t going at all how he had anticipated. After momentary consideration, he gestured Taylor to leave the room. The aide, making his displeasure clear, did so. Lukin watched Taylor shut the door behind him before he spoke again. Bradley Copeland, the youngest Secretary of State for over a century, would remember the moment for the rest of his life.

  “Bradley. We have spoken as diplomats. Now I speak to you as an old friend. My nation is in very grave danger. Things were unstable enough before Godonov’s death. But now, events have moved beyond instability. Pushkin lacks the necessary qualities to hold the country together. The people don’t know him, the Duma doesn’t trust him and the military doesn’t respect him. He has no ideas of his own, other than to seek power for its own sake. I am certain your own people” – he glanced at the door through which Taylor had just left – “have given you a similar analysis, have they not?”

  Jesus! Copeland thought in astonishment. How many diplomatic rules has he broken here? Of course, the State Department and the CIA had, as Lukin stated, already reached much the same conclusion about Pushkin, and the Russians would almost certainly have known that. But there was a time and place to discuss such things, and this sure as hell wasn’t the timeor the place.

  The Secretary of State cleared his throat. He was shaken, the Russian saw. Copeland wasn’t old enough to have perfected the ability to always mask one’s true feelings. Yes, he was a good diplomat and, yes, he was even effective when it came to trade negotiations and the like. But where really important issues were concerned, he hadn’t been tested yet. Lukin almost felt sorry for SecState, but the boy had to learn sooner or later, didn’t he? Diplomacy was not a game in which mercy played a great role.

  “I’m not sure this is really…” the American stuttered, until the Ambassador cut him off.

  “I have been authorized to convey a message on behalf of certain individuals who are attempting to save my country,” Lukin said flatly. “You may take notes if you wish, but I’m sure your bugs will record this conversation for the record.” That was an educated guess on the Russian’s part, but he was an old pro and would have been surprised had the Americans not littered the room with recording devices for later scrutiny by voice analysis equipment.

  Copeland swallowed hard, trying to maintain a neutral expression. In all the years he’d known Lukin, he had never seen the Russian look so intense. Or is that just me?

  “As you have probably guessed,” the Ambassador stated, “my government has been trying to find an acceptable solution to the Ukrainian problem for some time. In fact, we have been engaged in low-level direct talks with the Kiev government for several months.”

  The Secretary of State raised his eyebrows at that, feigning surprise, although British intelligence had already informed their counterparts at the CIA of the secret talks. Lukin’s admission had just made the revelation official. That in itself was a major development, but the Russian’s tone was almost dismissive of the fact. Something else was coming, Copeland knew.

  “I regret to inform you that these negotiations have been unsuccessful.” There was genuine sadness in the Ambassador’s voice. “This war, Bradley, has taken my country to the brink of bankruptcy. Our Central Bank has very little reserves left, and my people are facing their hardest winter for years. A famine, perhaps. Quite frankly, Mr. Secretary, the war in Ukraine is unwinnable, and yet we cannot seek a truce with the Ukrainians that would allow us to save face. If we surrender, Ninchenko and others like him will be in the Kremlin before Christmas. Nobody wants that, least of all your government.” He took a deep breath before concluding his statement. “We must therefore seek other means to bring a swift end to this conflict before it destroys us.”

  The grim finality of that last sentence – particularly the way Lukin had stressed the words “other means”–caused Copeland’s heart to skip a beat. He felt a ball of ice form in his gut. He sensed what was coming and prayed that he was wrong, just this once.

  Lukin leaned forward, lowering his voice to a mere whisper. “Bradley, I have been charged to inform you that twelve low yield tactical nuclear warheads have been approved for deployment against Ukrainian forward positions.”

  The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees from where the Secretary of State was sitting. There was no precedent for this. How was he supposed to react? Jesus… For the first time, he felt completely out of his depth, and it showed in the sudden loss of color in his face.

  “I assure you,” the Russian added, “that this does not constitute part of a wider campaign involving nuclear weapons. It will be an isolated operation calculated to generate a strategic advantage, and neither the United States nor its NATO allies has any need to be concerned. Indeed…”

  “Hold on, Alex.” Copeland cut him off with a raised hand. “Did you just say what I think you said?”

  Lukin’s mouth twitched at the corner. The Secretary of State was reacting exactly as he had anticipated. That was not necessarily a good thing. He’d hoped his old sparring partner would be more understanding of Russia’s dilemma. That was why he’d requested they be left alone in privacy, to allow the American the opportunity to demonstrate his personal, if not official, sympathy.

  “Bradley,” he said softly, trying to reassure the Secretary of State, “I understand your concern, and I imagine that your President will raise the alert levels
of your strategic forces as soon as this meeting is concluded. We would probably do the same in your position. But please try to understand our predicament. The Ukrainian war is crippling our nation, and this is really the last course of action open to us.”

  “If you need economic assistance, Mr. Ambassador, I’m sure my government can come up with some kind of emergency package. If it’s food you need, we can do that too. But not this, Alex. Please, not this.”

  “I am sorry, Bradley. But we have no other choice. We cannot afford another Afghanistan or Chechnya. Neither politically nor economically.”

  “So what are you telling me? That Godonov didn’t have the guts to go through with something like this? For God’s sake, Alex, the man’s body isn’t even cold yet, and you’re opening a can of worms that could lead to who knows where. This could spin out of control, can’t you see that? Once you set a precedent of using nuclear weapons against a non-nuclear power, there is no telling where we’ll end up. Just think of all the things that could go wrong.” Copeland was struggling to maintain his composure. Focus on the ball, he kept telling himself. Focus.

  Lukin replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Forgive me, Bradley, but it was the United States that set the precedent of using nuclear weapons against a nation unable to respond in kind, was it not?” Deuce!

  “When is this going to happen?”

  The Ambassador placed his teacup gently on the saucer and glanced at his watch. He looked Copeland straight in the eye. “Within the next hour. I should add, Bradley, that the only other nation we are informing of our decision is China, for obvious reasons. I imagine that the United States will inform her other NATO allies as she sees fit.”

  “I need to consult with my superiors,” Copeland remarked bluntly. Which meant, of course, the President. He knew that he would only waste precious time by trying to dissuade Lukin from a course of action that had already been decided upon by the people in Moscow who were responsible for making such decisions. “I’m certain that our official response will be, at the very least, one of strong condemnation. We will almost certainly feel compelled to impose some form of sanctions against Russia, a trade embargo even, and there’ll be hell to pay at the U.N.. I mean… hell, Alex, these are uncharted waters. Do your superiors understand the risk they’re taking? Damn.”