James Rouch - Plague Bomb

It was a wry interest, founded only on a comparison of the lavish use of light bulbs here, and the difficulty he’d experienced in getting even a single forty-watt for his desk lamp at the Lubyanka, let alone the special electrical apparatus they’d been unable to obtain for the Intensive Treatment wing of the interrogation block.

He was not quite alone in that huge apartment. At its far end, flanking carved and inlaid double doors, were immaculate soldiers of the elite Kremlin Guard.

Rozenkov had done the best he could with his appearance, but he knew that when he passed between those two men he would by comparison be little better than a uniformed scarecrow. Their boots had walked no other surface than these highly polished floors, their jackets and trousers and caps had never been exposed to the elements. It was not security nor ceremony alone that put them there in that condition. The colonel recognized a contrived situation when he saw one; he should, he arranged enough for prisoners, in order to instil uncertainty, and inflict fear.

It was for the same reason, to over-awe and unsettle him, that he’d been ushered to the only chair in the surprisingly spartanly furnished Czarist showpiece. To stand would have betrayed nervousness, sitting removed the risk of giving that impression but meant his jacket would become creased, and so he sat forward, just a little, to keep his back from contact with the seat’s elaborate embroidery.

Like chess, for every move there was a counter-/ move, and he was good at chess. Under pretence of smothering a slight cough with the back of his hand he glanced at his watch. One hour and forty-nine minutes. Not much of a wait set against the years he had spent working to get here.

The doors swung silently open. Colonel Yuri Nikolai Rozenkov stood, tugged straight the hem of his jacket and started forward. He realized he was sweating; he, who had killed a hundred men himself and signed away the lives of countless thousands more, he was experiencing fear.

As he approached and passed between them he could have sworn he saw the guards’ blank expressions animate for the merest fraction of a second in sardonic smiles before instantly reverting to their previous immobility. They knew what he was going through. Rozenkov let his camera-sharp eye snap memory of them both and file the images in the ‘retribution pending’ section of his mind. Should they ever find themselves within the reach of his power, he would take great satisfaction in prompting their recollection of this moment before making their lives unpleasant, and shorter.

There was more furniture in the side room. Much smaller than the hall, it was no less sumptuously decorated. If anything its ornamentation was a trifle richer, with gold leaf glinting from every corniche.

Eight men stood in a formal semi-circle in the centre of the enormous Persian carpet that dominated the room. They in turn dominated it, in Rozenkov’s eyes.

Several of the group were members of the Politburo, including two rumoured contenders for the shortly to become vacant position of foreign minister, but senior among them was Ivan Forminski, a squat gorilla of a man whose political clout was the match of his reputed physical strength, and who was said, though only ever in whispers, to be within reach of the absolute pinnacle of power, the Presidency itself.

The stakes were suddenly much higher. At most Rozenkov had expected one, perhaps two tired old members of the Politburo, their presence padded by some of the rising stars from the Supreme Soviet, but this… If he read the signs correctly then there need be no limit to his ambition, the protégé of a man like Forminski could go on to anything. If the risks had become greater, the potential reward, the prospect of it, had grown in proportion.

For an instant he inwardly cursed his involuntary nervous hesitation as he stepped forward, then forced himself to calm down as he realized it had done him no harm. Men such as these expected others to fear them, expected such a reaction as their due and would most likely have been displeased had they felt they’d not made such an impression. It was Forminski himself who spoke.

‘Comrade Colonel. It has been decided by a meeting of the Politburo, after consultation with the Main Military Council and the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union that you be appointed Head of Department A of the First Chief Directorate of The Committee for State Security. With the sudden… retirement of KGB General Khramoveski, for… health reasons, you are instructed to take charge of the department immediately.’

Rozenkov had always imagined that this, what he had worked so hard and long for, would be the crown of all his efforts, but now he could dare to speculate where he might go from here. With Forminski taking an interest in him, the only limit to how high and fast he climbed was the speed with which that man rose above him… He had missed something… what was he saying…

‘…at the end of one month, if everything is to the satisfaction of the Central Committee you will then be confirmed in the appointment, with the rank of general…’

He was lucky, it was nothing vital, or was it?

‘…but in your case, Comrade Colonel, we are presented with a unique opportunity. A particular operation is in its early stages. It is a matter that will require careful, even delicate handling, but it is potentially a source of much valuable propaganda. An interest is taken at the very highest level. You will make it your first task, to the exclusion of all else. A rapid and successful conclusion would bring immediate confirmation of your new rank and position without need for further delay.’

Careful to make sure his palm was dry, Rozenkov returned Forminski’s grasp with the merest fraction less pressure. Each of the other formal salutes was as carefully calculated.

‘Thank you, Comrades. You will find your trust well placed.’ Rozenkov had put many hours of deep consideration into the selection of those words; he was relieved to see that with them he appeared to have struck the correct balance between adequately expressing his gratitude at the honour being done him, and being brief.

As the doors glided shut behind him he experienced a sensation of surging relief pour through his whole body, and became aware at the same time of an urgent need to visit the lavatory. The tension had gone from him, and with it the shreds of fear, but his bladder and bowels kept record of their effect upon him.

A guide was waiting and led him from the building, pausing on the way to direct him with a silent gesture to a door discreetly tucked out of sight behind marble pillars where he never would have found it on his own. He only just made it in time. The paper was a soft pastel green tissue and he had to resist the temptation to take a spare roll from a shelf. That was a small indulgence he might be able to arrange for himself soon, the trappings of power in the Soviet Union sometimes took a bizarre form.

Absently Rozenkov returned the salutes of guards and drivers as he waited for his car. He was not concerned with the architectural wonders of the palace about him; through his thoughts swarmed speculations as to what the important operation might be. Well, he would know soon enough, he would go directly to his new office. Forminski had said that an interest was taken in it at the highest level. No Russian, certainly no Moscovite, would have needed to apply any great amount of his inbred skill at reading between the lines to see the full implications of that simple sentence.

Whatever the operation, he was going to make it succeed. Nothing else mattered, that would be everything. Instant oblivion would be the happiest fate of anyone who stood in the way of his achieving that.