Eric Lustbader - Last Snow

But of course now that he looked around the Technicolor store with blind eyes he realized that it was no coincidence that he had ordered the rendezvous here at this particular place, because it was on this very spot, long before Globus was even an idea in the mind of its developer, that he had first seen Nikki. She had been walking with Gourdjiev, he remembered the moment as if it had been transferred from his retinas, seared into his brain, an image that could neither fade nor crumble. That first sight of Nikki transcended time, existed outside it, as if he had caught a glimpse of a creature beyond human ken. For Batchuk, who had never before allowed himself an emotional connection with another human being, the response to Nikki was galvanizing. In fact, he was forced to sit down, though it was not yet time for his meeting with Gourdjiev. He watched, transfixed, as Nikki, arm in arm with Gourdjiev, floated at his side. Then she detached herself and, running past startled shoppers, flew into the arms of a tall, regal-looking man with black hair and hazel eyes. The man, laughing, lifted her up, whirling her around while Gourdjiev stood by, a fatuous grin on his face.

When Nikki planted a kiss on the man’s lips a tiny, involuntary noise escaped Batchuk’s mouth, terrifying him. It was as if an ice pick had been shoved into his belly. He felt sick and dizzy, and was thus at a disadvantage when Gourdjiev left the blissful couple and came to where Batchuk was slumped over in his chair.

“Are you ill?” Gourdjiev said as he slid onto a chair opposite Batchuk. “You’re sweating like a pig.”

“An excess of vodka last night,” Batchuk improvised, “or I should say this morning.”

Gourdjiev laughed as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Your partying will be the death of you, Oriel Jovovich, of that there can be no doubt.”

This was in the days before Batchuk had been named deputy prime minister, before Yukin has ascended to his self-styled throne, but the two were already close, stars rising in tandem through the perilous firmament of the Russian political chop shop. In fact, it was Batchuk who had introduced Yukin to Gourdjiev, who was then already the éminence grise in the power politics of Ukraine, in all of Eastern Europe, in fact. At that time it was essential to have Gourdjiev’s backing and influence in order to rise to the first tier of power. Batchuk, who loved Roman history, thought of his friend as Claudius, a man who had decided to step away from the bloody turbulence at the center of Eastern European politics, but not from the corridors of power, where he manipulated people and events from deep within its shadowed recesses. Like Claudius he was an unprepossessing man, a man you assumed to be in the twilight of his life, who, like the generals of antiquity, was content to gaze out over the Palatine hill to the magnificent centurion cypresses, dreaming of past glories. Until you came in contact, or perhaps conflict was the correct word, with his astonishing intellect.

For many years Batchuk had stood in awe of Gourdjiev, dealing with Yukin and others as the older man did, with discretion, shrewdness, and diabolical foresight, but try as he might Gourdjiev’s mind was always six or seven steps ahead of him, and in denying the lack in himself he began to envy Gourdjiev, and this malice slowly and inexorably curdled their friendship.

“Who is that man with Nikki?” he said almost as soon as Gourdjiev sat down. He had not meant to, but to his dismay—or, more accurately, horror—he couldn’t help himself.

“That’s Alexsei Mandanovich Dementiev,” Gourdjiev said.

It disgusted Batchuk that he could not take his eyes off her. He’d heard about her, of course, but until this moment Gourdjiev had kept her away from him. Was it by design, he wondered. He watched Nikki and Alexsei, absurdly jealous that they seemed to fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, as if their births were also the birth of a shared destiny. They cleaved to one another, so blissful only a cataclysm, he was certain, could separate them. He said naively, stupidly, “They’re seeing one another?” and immediately despised himself for it.

“You could say that.” Gourdjiev laughed again. “He and Nikki are getting married next month.”

With a start, Batchuk returned to the unpleasant present. The candy-colored world of the Baskin-Robbins, with its yammering kids and harried-looking parents, turned his stomach. Sick to his soul, he rose and stalked out, only to return and glare at them all.

“I’LL CALL the president,” Jack said, “and tell him what’s going on. He’ll take the appropriate actions as far as General Brandt is concerned.”

“He may, indeed, do that,” Magnussen said, “but do you really think he will hold up the signing of this historic accord based on your say-so?” He shook his head. “We have no hard evidence of Brandt’s personal involvement.”

“But I know he ordered a sanction on Annika,” Jack said. “That, surely, is overstepping his authority.”

“It may or it may not, we have no way of knowing,” Kharkishvili said. “But the thornier issue, the conundrum that we cannot even begin to solve, is if someone is behind General Brandt and, if so, who it is. This is why we need you. Because getting rid of Brandt, even stopping the signing may not be enough to keep Yukin and Batchuk from ordering their troops across the border. You have no idea how desperate Russia is for new energy sources, how far Yukin is prepared to go in order to obtain them.”

“Either way,” Jack said, “I’m going to have to inform the president.”

Magnussen nodded. “We understand that, but before you do we needed to let you know the immense stakes. If Russia moves across the border into Ukraine without that treaty being signed it will trigger a regional war that will quite rapidly escalate, dragging your country into it.”

Jack looked from Magnussen to Kharkishvili. “In other words we’re all damned if the accord is signed and doubly damned if it’s not.”

Kharkishvili nodded. “Unless you can come up with a solution. Annika was right from the beginning: I think you’re the only one who can.”

“What if there is no answer?” Jack said.

“In that event I fear we’re all doomed.” Kharkishvili looked around the room at each of the faces, each one grimmer than the last. “Then everything will come to an end, the greed of wealth, the lust for power. In that final moment, everyone will fall, even the kingpins of empires.”

PRESIDENT EDWARD Carson had just returned from the Kremlin, having received Yukin’s full agreement to the accord. To Carson’s mild surprise the Russian president did not object to the time of the signing tomorrow evening at eight o’clock, local time, noon back home—more than enough time, after the Internet sites and the blogosphere had their say, for all the major news feeds to have developed think pieces that would be popping up on TV just in time for the six and seven o’clock newscasts.

He was sitting down to the first decent meal he’d had in days when his cell phone rang. His entire entourage, including the press secretary, jumped to attention because he was sitting across the table from the senior political correspondent from Time , who was about to engage him in a major interview that would be the magazine’s cover story next week.

The president took the call because it was from Jack. Excusing himself, he stood and whispered into the press secretary’s ear, then hurried out of the hotel dining room, accompanied as always by his Praetorian guard who, in this instance, was loaded down with equipment designed to jam any attempt at electronic eavesdropping.

“Jack, what progress?” Carson said. “And is Alli okay?”