Free Atropos by William L. Deandrea Page B

firm in the first place.”
    “It would be a much better smoke screen to sup a bomb on the guy’s bus and surround him with stiffs of a bunch of civilians.”
    “Precisely,” Bulanin said.
    Trotter rose. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, think about it, will you? You know how to get a message to me.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “What would you do, Grigory Illyich?”
    “I would find a few such specialists as were still alive, question them closely, and provide protection, if I felt it necessary.”
    Trotter looked at him and smiled. “Maybe we could have ruled the world, at that. I’ll let myself out. Take care of yourself.”
    The Russian rose and shook his hand. “You too, my friend,” he said. “You, too.”

Chapter Nine
Moscow, USSR
    G ENERAL BORZOV REACHED FOR a fresh handkerchief from the stack on the upper right-hand corner of his desk. He brought it to his mouth and coughed into it. Then he opened it and looked at it. Disgusting. Truly. But he was under orders.
    Borzov was not used to taking orders. This desk, this simple scarred piece of wood, had been the site of origin for some of the most important directives in the history of the Motherland. Borzov would never say such a thing himself, of course, but the trait that more than any other had made him who he was was his ability to accept facts. And the fact was, he was one of the most important men in the history of the Soviet Union, and therefore, of the world.
    The fact that few people at home or abroad would ever know of his importance bothered him not at all. Borzov lived to serve his country as long as his country needed him.
    And the time of the Motherland’s need of him had not yet passed. He had that from the Chairman’s own lips. Glasnost and Perestroika were all very good (in Borzov’s opinions, better than very good— superb as propaganda; tolerable as actual policies) but there would still be the need for the Menagerie Men.
    Borzov smiled. It was his old ally-turned-adversary, the Congressman, who had coined that term, one cold night in 1943 in German-occupied Yugoslavia. Menagerie Men were war horses with the cunning of a fox, the courage of a lion, and the sting of a serpent. Borzov possessed all of those in full measure; until recently, he had also had the constitution of a bull. Now he was old. No—he had been old for a long time. Now he was old and infirm of body. That was the problem. That was what took getting used to.
    And that was why he had submitted himself to the orders of someone other than the leader of the nation. To a mere colonel, a woman. Because Borzov had, of all things, a virus. It had kept him in bed for several days, until Comrade Colonel Doctor, who resembled an upright piano with a straight blond wig on top, had decided he would be more tranquil and recuperate better if she let him go back to work.
    Tranquil. Borzov snorted just thinking of the word. He had a delicate mission under way, one that he had been preparing for the better part of two decades. It was vitally important. On the rare occasions Borzov allowed himself to daydream, it did not seem unreasonable to think of it as decisive. And it would all be decided in the fall, when the Americans chose their next President.
    Once this operation could be successfully concluded, Borzov would be perfectly content to die. He would have left the Motherland in such a secure situation, that whatever young fool they chose to succeed him, said fool would be hard-pressed to ruin things.
    So he did what the doctor told him, in order that he might live the required time. He made sure Madame Piano had the necessary information.
    Such as the color of his phlegm.
    General Borzov estimated that in person or through his subordinates, he had been responsible for the gathering of more information than any human being who had ever walked the earth. This information had been gathered through stealth and seduction and theft and extortion and assassination and torture, but none