I’m just taking in with a sightseer’s bliss the particular atmosphere you’ve chosen.” Raising his voice to be heard over the rhythmic clangor, he said, “Nothing could be farther from the truth, Mr. He was profoundly uncomfortable underground, unlike Karpov who more and more seemed to him like a creature of the dark. They had agreed on using the pseudonyms Mr. Smith, you appear distracted,” the Russian said. Because of the administration’s dismissive relationship with Russia, the NSA had limited knowledge of the workings inside the Russian political system, not to mention FSB-2, whose actual mission was highly covert, far more so than the FSB, the political inheritor of what had once been the KGB. No such photo existed, of course, no more intel than the four threadbare paragraphs on the single sheet of paper watermarked top secret.
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He was hoping Karpov’s deal would provide the political capital that would at once restore his prestige with the president and his power base within the multinational military-industrial complex.Īs the trio on stage opened a box full of noise Halliday once again mentally reread the file on Boris Karpov, as if this time he’d find some further information-anything, including a surveillance photo, no matter how grainy or out of focus, of the colonel. Friends and allies alike were criticizing or second-guessing him behind his back, and he had to wonder which one of them would be the first to sink the metaphorical knife into his back.īut he’d been around long enough to understand that hope sometimes arrived in seemingly unpleasant forms, like a bed of nails. The shockingly abrupt fall from power of Luther LaValle, his handpicked intelligence czar, had shaken Halliday’s power base.
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He knew full well that quid pro quos could be painful to accept, but compromise was the name of the political game, whether it be domestic or international.Įven so, Halliday might not have taken up Karpov’s offer had it not been for his own suddenly tenuous position with the president. He was a veteran of the political infighting that perpetually surrounded the president like a Kansas dust storm. There was always a quid pro quo to these deals, Halliday knew only too well. The defense secretary might have been wondering what that might be, but he was too busy trying to figure out what the Russian would want in return. It was a measure of the FSB-2’s meteoric rise to power that one of its officers was able to get a message to Halliday, let alone entice him out of Washington.īut Karpov had hinted that he could deliver something Halliday wanted very much. What was so special about the Russian to bring the American secretary of defense forty-two hundred miles to a city he despised? Boris Karpov was a colonel in FSB-2, ostensibly the new Russian anti-drug enforcement agency. Unfortunately, here he was in this godforsaken, smoke-clogged subterranean jazz club, having stepped out of the back of an armored Lincoln limousine onto tourist-infested Rumfordstrasse. If he never saw this miserable excuse for a city again it would be too soon for him. The smog that choked Munich-the same precise shade of filthy gray as Karpov’s eyes-perfectly mirrored Secretary Halliday’s mood. He had come all this way for a reason, he reminded himself. He trampled the impulse to get up, walk out, and never look back. The bulbous, veiny nose only served to intensify their implacable peculiarity: It was as if there was no one home, as if the soul of the man did not exist, leaving nothing but a monolithic will, like something ancient and evil Halliday had read about in an H. It was as if he were looking at a photograph of eyes rather than the real thing. But it was his eyes-pale, deep-set, unblinking-that truly unnerved the secretary. He possessed a peculiar stillness that unsettled Halliday. Halliday could see, beneath his suit, the play of muscles as now and again they bulged against the cheap material. For another, he looked like a man of action. His blond hair was thick, without the slightest wave, and cut short in the style of the Russian military. For one thing, he was younger than Halliday had imagined. We’ll get this done faster.” But instead of beginning, he stared at a wall full of very bad portraits of jazz greats like Miles Davis and John Coltrane, copied, he had no doubt, from press photos.Īfter seeing the colonel in the flesh he had begun to have second thoughts about this meeting. It was well told that Americans overseas only wanted to speak English. Halliday gave the Russian a sour smile in response to his jibe. “I’m always happy to speak foreign languages.” “That suits me,” the Russian colonel said with a heavy accent. I SPEAK RUSSIAN well enough,” Secretary of Defense Bud Halliday said, “but I prefer to speak English.” Who started it all with one simple question.