Free The Red Eagles by David Downing Page A

his pass and called for someone to escort him up to Sheslakov’s office. On the way he consciously pulled himselftogether. He was out of practice at playing politics, but there was no need for anyone else to know that.
    His guide knocked at the door, but Kuznetsky pushed past him and entered without waiting for a reply. Old habits die hard, he thought. Never surrender an initiative.
    The man sitting behind the desk seemed unperturbed. He’d probably received the same training. Kuznetsky took the seat offered by the man’s flourish of the jade letter opener and for several moments neither spoke.
    His host, Kuznetsky observed, was a medium-built, middle-aged man with graying hair. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a well-cut dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark red tie. Most unusual, the shirt collar and tie were loosened at the neck, giving him a vaguely dissolute appearance. He had high cheekbones and deep-set dark eyes – Tartar blood probably – and a mouth that seemed on the verge of an ironic smile. The eyes contained the same air of amused condescension. Whoever this man was, Kuznetsky thought, he was sure of himself.
    Sheslakov examined Kuznetsky with the same thoroughness. He was tall, over six feet, with thick, dark hair and the sort of profile you saw on hero-of-the-revolution wall posters. He
did
look American, but he could have passed for a Russian easily enough. The eyes – Fyedorova always told him to look at the eyes
first
– were quite extraordinary. Not because of anything intrinsic – because of the total contrast they offered to the rest of the man. The mouth, the posture, the sense of physical power, all shouted “Fighter”; the eyes whispered “Calm,” the calm of killers and saints. He knew now what Fyedorova had meant by a wild card.
    “Colonel Kuznetsky,” he said, “you have been provisionally selected to lead an operation outside the Soviet Union. It is not an NKVD operation, nor a GRU operation. Both apparats are working together under the direct authority of the Atomic Division, which is itself responsible only to theSecretariat.” He paused. Kuznetsky said nothing, only nodded slightly. “Your participation will be on a voluntary basis; you will understand why when you read this.” He passed across a thin folder, the words “American Rose” stenciled on the cover in red.
    Kuznetsky stared at the words. “The United States?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    He read for twenty minutes, increasingly absorbed, pausing only once to examine the old woman who came in and lay back on the cot under the window. Who the hell was she? And why was she staring at him?
    Finally he closed the folder and placed it gently on the edge of Sheslakov’s desk. “When will the bait be offered?” he asked.
    “At the moment of maximum psychological impact. After the Allied invasion of France, which we expect on June 6, and before our summer offensive, which is set for June 22. The combination of a known disaster and an imminent one usually provides a potent mixture.”
    Kuznetsky looked amused.
Very neat
as Americans would say. “And what if the Germans throw the Allies back into the English Channel?”
    “That is unlikely.”
    “I wouldn’t know. There are a lot of hopeful assumptions built into this. Maybe correct ones. But it
feels
like thin ice.”
    “There is very little margin for error,” Sheslakov admitted. “But that is unavoidable when we have to be more concerned with avoiding detection and exposure than anything else … You are willing?”
    “I am not a believer in voluntary work, Comrade, but in duty. I will go for that reason.” And, he admitted to himself, out of curiosity. What would America look like after twenty-six years? And how would it feel to be back there?
    * * *
    “Come in, Anatoly Grigorovich,” Zhdanov boomed, “sit down, tell me some good news.”
    Sheslakov took the proffered chair. “Thank you, Comrade Secretary. I do have good news – the First Priority is