Free Rockets' Red Glare by Greg Dinallo Page A

heartily.
    As the soviet minister settled, Churcher unzipped the portfolio, removed the painting, and placed it on the table in front of Deschin.
    In the cramped, somber compartment, the impact of the vibrant colors and powerful structure of the canvas was overwhelming—as Churcher knew it would be. For a moment, the four Russians stood blinking and stunned.
    Churcher set the portfolio aside, and gestured magnanimously to Deschin. “You have the floor, Aleksei,” he said. “I’m quite certain as minister of culture you can explain this.”
    Deschin took a long moment to think it through, deciding to force Churcher to keep the ball. “We have assembled at your request, The-odor—and at great inconvenience. The first explanation should be yours.” He paused locking his anthracite pupils onto Churcher’s and added pointedly, “My government doesn’t take kindly to being threatened.”
    “I assume you’re referring to my conversation with your people in Washington?” Churcher asked rhetorically. Then nodding compassionately, added, “I can see how it would be upsetting coming so close to the talks.”
    “I’d say your timing was particularly unnerving,” Deschin snapped. “Yes.”
    “You mean, your people aren’t going to put all their missiles on the table?” Churcher asked facetiously.
    “Nuclear disarmament isn’t my area,” Deschin bluffed. “I’m not privy to the strategy, nor will I speculate what they—”
    “Then allow me,” Churcher interrupted. “Sometime last night, you got a call from—Kaparov? Pykonen? Whoever. And he said, ‘What the fuck is going on here, Aleksei? I thought we owned this guy? If Churcher does as he’s threatening, we’ll lose our edge. The very thing that has prompted us to go to Geneva; that will allow us to trade system for system, missile for missile, warhead for warhead, and still come out ahead will be kaputnick!’ ”

    Churcher let it sink in for a few seconds.
    “How am I doing?” he asked almost mischievously.
    “Very well, I’m afraid,” Deschin replied.
    “Right,” Churcher snapped. “The bottom line is —the United States representative can’t ask to negotiate for something he doesn’t know exists.”
    He spread his arms in a magnanimous gesture.
    “So, here we are,” he concluded. “My apologies for my tactics, my friend; but had I not used that leverage, Aleksei, would you be here now?” Churcher didn’t expect an answer. He matched Deschin’s contemptuous glare with one of his own, and continued. “Now I don’t take kindly to being taken,” he said, stabbing the painting with a forefinger. “The currency used to make your last payment and, as best I can determine, to make most of the others over the years"—he paused to emphasize the scope and premeditated nature of the deception—"is counterfeit. All brilliant works, no doubt of that. Works of genius. But, nonetheless, fakes, forgeries.”
    Deschin stared at Churcher blankly.
    “Come on, Aleksei,” Churcher prodded. “You don’t expect me to believe you didn’t know?”
    Churcher had him and knew it. Many times in his forty years of dealing at the top, his adversaries tried to put things over on him. A few had succeeded; but sooner or later, he found them out.
    Deschin pulled a cigarette from a pack.
    Uzykin stepped forward and lit it.
    Deschin inhaled deeply, his mind searching for a way to avert this disaster. Finally, he exhaled, and more than credibly, replied. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Theodor. I vouch for their authenticity myself.”
    Churcher shook his head no emphatically. “There’s no disputing that this one’s a fake,” he challenged.
    Deschin wondered how Churcher could be so positive. His face darkened at the possibility that crossed his mind. He decided to be direct because he had to know. “You didn’t go to someone?” he asked, uneasily. “You didn’t have it authenticated by a professional?”
    Churcher scowled, insulted by the