The Fourth Rome (11 page)

The team was heading toward the elevators when the beefy security guard intercepted them. Grainger’s hand went reflex-ively
to the acoustic pistol in his pocket.

“Sir,” the guard said in heavily accented, guttural, and painstaking English. “Come, please.”

Grainger just stared at him.

“Come where?” Roebeck asked when Tim didn’t respond.

The guard, frustrated, put a hand on Grainger’s elbow. He was about to shoot down the guard there and then when he saw the
pretty desk clerk beckoning. “Passports!” he exclaimed, realizing what was afoot.

“Da, da, da,”
said the guard, nodding vigorously.
“Pass-porta.”

Grainger deftly disengaged the guard’s grip, patting the big man’s arm, twice the width of his own.

“Passports,”
Grainger reiterated to Nan. “They still have our passports.”

Under the guard’s watchful eye, they went to reclaim their visas and passports.

The desk clerk handed each one back, but then she frowned. “All—there is—
problema
.”

A problem. Terrific. The guard was still watching them.

“Problem?” Nan and Chun said nearly together. “What kind of problem?”

“The baggages.
Nyet
baggages.”

The ARC Riders exchanged glances.

“That’s no problem. We’ll make do with what’s in our overnight bags,” Chun assured her.

Grainger was too tense now to pay attention to the words. Turning his back on the desk clerk, he leaned both elbows on the
reception desk, ready to draw on the guard and any number of comrades at the slightest additional provocation.

“Nyetproblema?”
said the desk clerk wonderingly.

“Nyet problema, “
Nan assured her.

Tim Grainger’s skin crawled all the way to the elevator. He looked at the passport he got back. There wasn’t a stamp or mark
that he could see. The blue-gray paper Russian visa with his picture, however, clearly had been processed.

As they waited for a car to take them to their floor, he said, “Well, you two are making real strides in the Russian language,
anyway. When you find out how to say ‘where’s the bathroom,’ there’ll be no stopping you. I don’t know about you, but I’m
ready to try my share of Chun’s phone numbers. How about it, Nan? Chun?”

Each of them had a group of phone numbers to try. Tim’s were at 11 Gorki Street, where the current General Director for Foreign
Relations held court in the Ministry of Science, Technology, and Education Policy. Nan had the Foreign Ministry. Chun had
the Academy of Sciences. Central had narrowed the field for possible revisionists to those three government departments. But
Central also didn’t know whom within those bureaucracies to target. So you picked a number and you took your shot.

“Let’s go do it. The first one to get somebody who’ll let us buy him dinner, call the others.”

Within half an hour, each ARC Rider had a dinner date.

“That’s not good,” Nan said. “I wanted one meeting for all three of us, not three meetings. What time is yours, Tim? Chun?”

No one had thought it would be so easy to access senior officials. When Tim had called to tell Nan he had a meeting with Alexander
Matsak, Deputy Director for Privatization of the Science Ministry, her extension had been busy.

The same thing had happened when Nan had called Chun to say Nan had arranged a meeting with the Foreign Ministry’s Special
Assistant for Proliferation, a Sergey Orlov.

And Chun had gotten through to a Professor Viktor Etkin of the Academy of Sciences.

Tim’s meeting was at 1730 hours. Chun’s was at 1700. Nan’s was at 1800.

“Unless they’re real short meetings, we’re each on our own,” Nan said. “Let’s check these names with Central’s database.”
They were in Chun’s room, a virtual double of Tim’s, even to the pictures on the walls. Chun had set up a countermeasures
suite that blocked ninety-five percent of EM surveillance and a sound cancellation program that made the area around the twin
beds safe for conversation. It would have to do. A live Russian peeking through a pinhole might take verbatim transcript,
but the ARC Riders were safe from primitive electronic surveillance. They ran the full names of their dinner companions, found
the patronymics in Central’s database, and read historical profiles and cross-references until it was time for Chun to meet
her guest downstairs.

“Won’t this Etkin ring your room?” Nan asked.

“Evidently not the custom. He asked me how he’d recognize me and gave a pretty good description of himself. He says he’ll
be carrying a red umbrella. He must keep it handy for meetings such as this. His English is better than mine.”

“Ought to be. He’s KGB or whatever they called it this week, if Central’s right. Section 6—Technology. Hold on to your own
technology, and don’t leave the hotel without us for any reason,” Roebeck said. Chun wasn’t experienced as a field operator.
“After five minutes, ask if we can join you and we’ll come down. I’ve got to meet my guy downstairs, too.”

Tim’s man, Matsak, had made similar arrangements.

Chun began disassembling her portable secure facility, reeling antennae into a keeper that she replaced in her bag along with
a handheld EM generator. “I’m ready, Nan.”

Roebeck looked at her chronometer. “I have 1655 local time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Quo.”

After Chun had left, counterfeit business cards in hand, Tim eyed Nan until the team leader spoke.

“Don’t say anything, Tim, okay? Don’t say a word. She’ll do fine. Neither you nor I were going to cut it with some ‘Doctor
Professor.’ Central says they have to believe they’re talking to an expert of some parity before they’ll open up.”

“I don’t think that can happen when a white Russian male meets an Oriental female, no matter how much more she knows than
he knows,” Tim said mildly. “But as long as Chun doesn’t get mugged for her handheld, I don’t care. Keeps her out of my way.”
Had to be careful what they said now that they had no countermeasures in place.

“And you’d like me out of your way as well?”

Last time they’d gone into the field together, Roebeck had behaved more like a woman and less like a superior officer toward
Tim Grainger. This time, it wasn’t happening. Or at least, not yet it wasn’t.

“I’m going to go shower and change, assuming my readout shows insufficient toxins in the water to be more of a problem than
not showering.” Central had warned them about the water, the food, and the pollution-ridden atmosphere, and then loaded them
up with vaccinations and a list of additional required immunizations that were circumstance dependent. Presumably, Chun and
Roebeck had already complied with the immunization requirement.

Tim had yet to self-administer his shots. The exact immunization recommendations could only be finalized from site data added
to previously stored data. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He could put it off a few hours, but he couldn’t skip it. First
he had to take air and water samples to feed to his handheld. Once the handheld analyzed the samples, it would transmit directions
to his pharmakit. He had to discharge his pharmakit’s recommended load into his flesh during the first twelve hours of this
mission. If he couldn’t show that he’d taken his shots, he’d be quarantined and disciplined when he got back to Central.

“And take your shots, Grainger,” Nan said as he left the room. “No cheating.” She knew him too well.

When he got back to his room, he unpacked his handheld, then his pharmakit. He hooked up the sampler and fed samples to his
handheld. The handheld transmitted its requirements to his pharmakit. He monitored the process using his comm membrane. His
arm was going to hurt for a week. His pharmakit had decided that he needed not only immunization boosters against hepatitis
B and C, cholera, and diphtheria, but an antiradiation shot as well. Usually, his standard immunization load was adequate
for fieldwork. The antiradiation shot was going to limit his mental agility for at least twenty-four hours. The hepatitis
boosters were going to make whichever arm he chose real sore. He dialed everything into one unpleasant cocktail and pressed
the pharmakit against his left biceps with his right hand. Then he pulled the trigger and pretended he didn’t mind the pain.
He could feel the antiradi-ation drug burning its way into his system.

By the time he was done, he didn’t want the real H
₂
O shower as much as he had before. He took it anyway.

When he came out, Nan had let herself into his room.

“Time to go down and meet Chun’s blind date.”

“Yeah, well, I want to be wearing clothes when I do that,” he said, peeking around the Russian-style wardrobe at her. She
looked downright accommodated to the venue in dark loose pants and shirt over her bodysuit and flat shoes. She’d worked on
the color scheme of her comm membrane. It was now displaying something much more like paisley than cammo.

“Good enough,” she said when he’d dressed in what Central had provided, a dark lightweight jacket and slacks. They’d made
adequate padding for the weapons in his gearbag. He shouldered the bag. “I’m not leaving this. You didn’t leave yours …?”

You couldn’t. Not here. A good investigation of empty guest rooms was part of the culture in Moscow. It would change later,
at least on the surface. But not yet.

Roebeck’s lips twitched. She pulled her own black bag from under the bed. “We’re Americans. All women of this era carried
tons of stuff. I’m way ahead of you, Grainger. Don’t forget that.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. He understood the larger message. Keep your place. Don’t cut the line. The addition of Chun to the ground
team made this a much different, more formal mission format than their last outing.

They found Chun with her Academy of Sciences hon-cho/KGB agent, Viktor Etkin, who carried the promised red umbrella. Etkin
was six feet tall, smooth as silk, handsome as a Russian TV commentator. He had a firm, dry handshake and a full blond head
of hair. He was wearing impeccably tailored Western clothes. Lucky Chun. Maybe she’d get laid in the process. She looked impossibly
diminutive beside him.

Grainger wasn’t expecting anywhere near Etkin’s level of polish from his guy, Matsak of the Ministry of Science, or from Nan’s
Mr. Orlov from the Foreign Ministry.

“Completely my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grainger. And you, my dear lady official, Madam Roebeck. On behalf of the Academy
of Sciences of the Russian Federation, let me welcome you to our beautiful capital. You have chosen one of my favorite hotels.
This is a place that is truly Moscow, but not… truly Russia, not yet. If you understand me. I apologize for my sorry English.”

Grainger said, “Nice to meet you, sir. And don’t apologize. Your English is lots better than my Russian. I’ve got another
meeting, but we’ll sit for a moment with you.” He put his hand in the small of Chun’s back and pushed her toward the bar in
the rear of the Métropole ’s lobby.

“Yes, let’s have a drink and see what we can do to arrange for follow-on meetings before Tim and I have to dash,” Nan suggested.

“It is sad you must be leaving us so soon …” Etkin looked disappointed in a polished, insincere way as he strode alongside
them. The bureaucrat knew this place like the back of his hand, Grainger realized.

The bar, despite some uniquely Soviet artifacts still displayed, was comfortingly similar to bars everywhere and every when.
Low lights gleamed on wineglasses hanging inverted over a long counter. So early, patrons were sparse. Etkin chose a table,
seemingly at random. A white-shirted waiter scurried over. Before the ARC Riders could suggest anything, Etkin said, “You
say this is first time in Moscow, yes? Then, Jack Daniel’s for me, in your honor, of course. And for you a special wine—from
Stalin’s favorite vineyard.” He spoke rapidly in dialectic Russian to the waiter, who melted away into the convivial dimness.

Etkin leaned forward. He had shooter’s eyes that stared ap-praisingly at Grainger as if from a thousand miles away. “Tomorrow
night, your party will be our guest at my club. This is private club. Very much unchanged since before … the new government.
Concretne
—concrete business can be done there, has been done there for many years. Tonight, we get to know one another, Dr. Chun.”

“Professor,” Nan said, pulling out her “visit” card with English on one side and Russian on the obverse, “let me give you
my card.”

Everybody dove for their cards. The Russian put the ARC Riders’ cards in front of him, professionally arranging them so that
each card was closest to the person who’d given it to him.

The ARC Riders’ cards all said, “US Department of Commerce, International Programs.” Under Chun’s and Nan’s names were some
likely titles. Nan’s was Assistant Principal Deputy Undersecretary for Special Projects. Central’s choices were savvy, considering
the current state of the Russian security system. The titles were junior enough to not raise flags, senior enough to ensure
access.

Chun’s card dubbed her “Doctor,” “Physical Engineer,” and “Staff Specialist.”

Tim’s said nothing under his name. He wasn’t trying to hide his intent here, just where he was from. It was a calculated risk
meant to cut to the chase, through what otherwise might have been a lot of Ruskie hemming and hawing. There were guys with
cards like Grainger’s hunting technology all over Russia, and buying it for dollars.

You had to give a card to get a card. The three for one trade produced Etkin’s “visit” card, with a lot more information on
the Russian side than on the English side. The fact that the card was printed on both sides proved that visiting delegations
were part of his everyday business. Grainger increasingly didn’t like Chun’s blind date. But he had his own coming up.

As the waiter brought the wine, the Academy of Sciences official looked at Grainger’s card and then at Grainger again. “Ah,
yes. I see.” Etkin shifted his gaze to Nan Roebeck and said collegially, “Madam Roebeck, there are many things I already miss
about the old days, and men like this are one of these things. I understand why you have him. And it makes me feel, umm, right
at home.”