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Authors: Warren Adler
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He wondered if he was not dreaming this; if he would not soon awaken in his own bed and discover the whole episode was simply the result of too many Swiss cheese sandwiches before retiring. But the Secretary was quite real. Alex watched him clean the mist again from his glasses.
“Really, Mr. Secretary!” he said finally. He had determined to show his skepticism in its mildest form.
“I assure you, Dr. Cousins, this is not speculation. I am merely paraphrasing Dimitrov.”
“And you believe this?”
“Yes.”
“You know, of course, that a terminal disease affects a man’s logic. His mental state might be drastically impaired. He could easily slip into paranoia.”
“I commented earlier on his mental state. He was depressed, but quite lucid. And I assure you that, as ridiculous as all this may sound, it is believable and probable. In the game of nations such activities are commonplace.”
Suddenly impatient, Alex tossed aside the medical documents.
“Well, it’s not my game. I’m a doctor. That’s all I know. All I care about.”
“And that’s all we’re expecting you to be.”
“It can be done long distance.”
“I’m afraid not. Dimitrov would not trust your instructions coming through third persons.”
“You can’t force me to do this. Not in this country,” Alex said, surprised by his sudden outburst of belligerence.
“I know,” the Secretary said calmly. “It’s your choice.”
Alex stood up, feeling hesitant. Damn them, he thought. He disliked being forced into anything, especially decisions outside the scientific realm of abstraction. He could be bold and courageous when dealing with theoretical conclusions amid the clutter of his charts, test tubes and animals. But he had steeled himself against the cries of human suffering. He had seen too many men and women die, and he hoped it had hardened him. The process had taken years of discipline, years of controlling himself as he watched the human body wither under the onslaught of mysterious forces. But even as he pursued his scientific endeavors, he knew what he was sacrificing. He could see it in the faces of those who lived close to him—Janice, their daughter Sonia, his father. He felt isolated, blocked, cut off from humanness, as if he had forgotten its language.
He felt a shiver of that isolation now. Was there some mystical force that had sent this message to him halfway across the world, mysteriously pulling him back to his roots? No. It was just a crazy coincidence, nothing more. To believe anything else one would have to believe in fate and that was surely unscientific, beyond the limits of logic. What did he care about all this intrigue, these political stupidities wrapped in academic explanations? Even the prospect of nuclear war was an abstraction. He had speculated on its results too often not to see it as an interesting abstraction. What did he care about Dimitrov, the besieged leader, the manipulator, the keeper of the flame of all their silly dialectics? Nothing. Politics was an annoyance, a babble of words that filled newspapers. But the giant land that Dimitrov governed was very real. It was the land that called him.
“At least until the Politburo meeting,” Secretary Carlyle pleaded.
“I can promise nothing,” Alex said. He was thinking about his roots, not Dimitrov.
6
IVAN Vasilyevich Godorov waddled along the passageway, his fingers balancing his ungainly body against the steel panels. He stopped to look at “The Russiya’s” timetable, which was posted under glass and screwed to the far wall of the carriage. He had memorized it, knew every line, every variation of every train that traversed the ribbon of track which snaked its way back into the black pit of his own private nightmare. Kirov, 596 miles; Sverdlovsk, 1,130 miles; Omsk, 1,688 miles; Novosibirsk, 2,077 miles and Krasnoyarsk—Krasnoyarsk!
He smiled inwardly, although his hard thick features expressed only perpetual contempt. Krasnoyarsk!
“Really, Mr. Secretary!” he said finally. He had determined to show his skepticism in its mildest form.
“I assure you, Dr. Cousins, this is not speculation. I am merely paraphrasing Dimitrov.”
“And you believe this?”
“Yes.”
“You know, of course, that a terminal disease affects a man’s logic. His mental state might be drastically impaired. He could easily slip into paranoia.”
“I commented earlier on his mental state. He was depressed, but quite lucid. And I assure you that, as ridiculous as all this may sound, it is believable and probable. In the game of nations such activities are commonplace.”
Suddenly impatient, Alex tossed aside the medical documents.
“Well, it’s not my game. I’m a doctor. That’s all I know. All I care about.”
“And that’s all we’re expecting you to be.”
“It can be done long distance.”
“I’m afraid not. Dimitrov would not trust your instructions coming through third persons.”
“You can’t force me to do this. Not in this country,” Alex said, surprised by his sudden outburst of belligerence.
“I know,” the Secretary said calmly. “It’s your choice.”
Alex stood up, feeling hesitant. Damn them, he thought. He disliked being forced into anything, especially decisions outside the scientific realm of abstraction. He could be bold and courageous when dealing with theoretical conclusions amid the clutter of his charts, test tubes and animals. But he had steeled himself against the cries of human suffering. He had seen too many men and women die, and he hoped it had hardened him. The process had taken years of discipline, years of controlling himself as he watched the human body wither under the onslaught of mysterious forces. But even as he pursued his scientific endeavors, he knew what he was sacrificing. He could see it in the faces of those who lived close to him—Janice, their daughter Sonia, his father. He felt isolated, blocked, cut off from humanness, as if he had forgotten its language.
He felt a shiver of that isolation now. Was there some mystical force that had sent this message to him halfway across the world, mysteriously pulling him back to his roots? No. It was just a crazy coincidence, nothing more. To believe anything else one would have to believe in fate and that was surely unscientific, beyond the limits of logic. What did he care about all this intrigue, these political stupidities wrapped in academic explanations? Even the prospect of nuclear war was an abstraction. He had speculated on its results too often not to see it as an interesting abstraction. What did he care about Dimitrov, the besieged leader, the manipulator, the keeper of the flame of all their silly dialectics? Nothing. Politics was an annoyance, a babble of words that filled newspapers. But the giant land that Dimitrov governed was very real. It was the land that called him.
“At least until the Politburo meeting,” Secretary Carlyle pleaded.
“I can promise nothing,” Alex said. He was thinking about his roots, not Dimitrov.
6
IVAN Vasilyevich Godorov waddled along the passageway, his fingers balancing his ungainly body against the steel panels. He stopped to look at “The Russiya’s” timetable, which was posted under glass and screwed to the far wall of the carriage. He had memorized it, knew every line, every variation of every train that traversed the ribbon of track which snaked its way back into the black pit of his own private nightmare. Kirov, 596 miles; Sverdlovsk, 1,130 miles; Omsk, 1,688 miles; Novosibirsk, 2,077 miles and Krasnoyarsk—Krasnoyarsk!
He smiled inwardly, although his hard thick features expressed only perpetual contempt. Krasnoyarsk!
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