The Fourth Rome (14 page)

“I don’t want to eliminate the two revisionists we’ve found until we locate the other pair,” Pauli said. He didn’t know if
that was the right decision or not. He
had
to decide; it was his responsibility to decide. “We’ll observe the pair we’ve got unless they force our hand with some overt
action or until they bring us to the others. I’m aware that we might be able to find the others faster by interrogating one
of these two.”

“The radios Hannes and Istvan have in their luggage are short range, no more than ten kilometers or so,” Gerd said. “I believe
the equipment’s intended for the pair of them to coordinate, not to communicate with the other pair.”

The analyst looked at Beckie and added, “I’d be able to locate a nuclear weapon at a considerable distance, Rebecca; at least
two hundred kilometers. Though nerve gas or biological weapons wouldn’t be nearly as easy to detect before employment.”

“The target’s too dispersed for area weapons,” Pauli said with a brusque shake of his head. “Until the Germans come in contact
with the Roman army, at least; though the revisionists may not realize that. Well, we’re still going to wait a few days.”

“Hannes and Istvan have a gang of local goons around them,” Beckie said. “It’d be risky to try to snatch them with the equipment
we’ve got. If we wait till they’re deep in their own operation, then the chances are a lot better.”

Pauli looked at her and grinned broadly. What she said was about half true. You could just as easily claim that hitting the
revisionists before they got keyed up to act themselves greatly increased the chances of success. Beckie was supporting his
decision because that’s the sort of person she was: supportive.

Pauli put a big arm around each of his teammates, hoping the darkness would disguise the hug he gave them. “Come, faithful
slaves,” he said as he broke away. “Back to the barracks. Gerd, I want to see all the imagery you’ve got of this pair and
their local talent. And I also want to get a night’s sleep, because I think we’re going to need it in the next few days.”

A group of two-wheeled mule carts carrying light catapults trotted down the road. The soldiers driving the vehicles laughed
and sang. They were looking forward to loot and a chance to kill people they didn’t really think were human.

They’d soon find that the Germans felt exactly the same way.

A
s soon as Grainger met his target, Matsak, in the lobby, sparks began to fly.

“Your Western standard of living has made your people lazy and complacent, sapped your creativity. Our lower standard of living
gives us the great competitive advantage. We will soon outdo you in all forms of capitalism!” Alexander Matsak of the Science
Ministry told Grainger flatly through chapped lips. “Help us now, and you will be our great friend. We wish alliances with
our peers in the US, rather than with our inferiors from lesser powers. On the American side, your country should either keep
its promises of assistance or stop proclaiming them publicly. The Russian people think we in the new government are getting
all these dollars you are not sending and keeping these fairy-tale dollars for ourselves. On our side, it damages our government’s
credibility to proclaim that the mighty US talks of assistance but does not deliver. Other nations are already doing, while
the US is still talking. Soon we will not need you. And we will not forget.”

Nan Roebeck was pretending to examine black pottery for sale to tourists inside the hotel entryway. When she heard Matsak’s
words she turned, mouth already opening.

Grainger forestalled whatever she might have said: “Nan, I didn’t see you. Let me introduce you to Deputy Director Matsak,
of the Privatization Committee of the Ministry of Science, Technology, and Educational Policy. Mr. Matsak, this is my boss,
Nan Roebeck, Assistant Principal Deputy Undersecretary for Special Projects for the US Department of Commerce.”

Nan strode over to shake hands with Matsak. The lanky Russian grasped her outstretched right hand in his and raised it firmly
to his lips, stopping her cold and completely short-circuiting her game plan.

Grainger sympathized with Roebeck but couldn’t help giving Matsak credit for sizing up the enemy and moving in fast to neutralize
any possible threat. Roebeck was even more confused by the gallant gesture than a woman of the nineties might have been. She
stuttered. She didn’t seem to know what to do with her hand when Matsak released control of it.

The work modalities for this sort of mission were coming back to Grainger fast. It felt as natural as breathing to tick off
bureaucratic protocols, track the infinitesimal wins and losses that added up to success or failure. Play the old game, the
old way.

To give Roebeck time to recover, Grainger handed her Mat-sak’s visit card. The obverse, in Russian, said that Matsak was a
general officer.

Roebeck frowned, studying the Cyrillic. “An army general? Good to meet you, sir.”

“In these days, Ms. Roebeck, I use my Ministry titles only. Everything before the new regime is long ago and far away. Are
you directing Mr. Grainger in his search for unique Russian technology? Perhaps I can be of service. My Ministry has the charter
for privatizing the best of Russian science. Russian scientists need hard currency. We have created a semi State organization
to facilitate interaction with the West and to protect our scientists’ know-how. No matter what you wish to see from the former
military-industrial complex, we can help you find the best of it.”

Having given his pitch, Matsak waited for Roebeck to answer.

Grainger was praying that Nan could handle this tough, seasoned, turn-of-the-century bureaucrat.
Just say something nice
and get
out
of here, he thought, wishing he could use his comm membrane to alert her.

Matsak was drawn and pale. His translucent skin had a greenish cast from exhaustion or poor nutrition or both. He had a receding
hairline and a full beard beneath an aquiline nose and long-lashed, burning eyes. Around those eyes were dark circles like
bruises. His suit was domestic. His shoes were gray Russian leather. They seemed at first to be orthopedic. His shoulders
were flecked with dandruff. His tie was silver-gray silk, slubbed from wear. He carried a battered briefcase.

This was a man staggering under a workload beyond anyone’s ability to manage. Grainger had recognized Matsak the moment the
man had stepped through the door, without having to reference the gray tie or the briefcase. Commitment burned in Matsak like
fire. The intensity of it radiated like physical heat from his person.

This was one of the people who would make this revolution work or die trying.

Nan Roebeck, regaining her composure, said, “Mr. Matsak, we’ve just been meeting with the Academy of Sciences about accessing
some of your unique technology. I think the meeting was very—”

“Stupid,” Matsak interrupted. “You Americans
still
do not understand, I suppose? Or you just wish to exhibit the appearance of action? Which is it? You meet with this official,
that functionary, what do you think happens? Each Russian wants the contact to be his alone, go through his channels, no one
else’s. Then what happens? They fight among themselves. They argue about who will get what.
Aahb-so-lute-ly,
the difficulty of access increases. The price to you goes up with each ministry or department involved. In our new Russia,
your officials can no longer deal through their old channels. You must accept this.”

“But—” Nan began.

“No excuses, please.” Matsak shook his head dolefully. “We have told your side this repeatedly. Now, if you wish to deal with
the Academy, then go deal with them.” The Ministry man took two steps backward. “In my opinion, they cannot get you what you
want. They have to come to us for permission to make any deal. We are the signature authority. Yeltsin has signed a paper
saying this. So what have you accomplished?” His voice was very low and sibilant. His cheeks were flushed. He had no time
for amateurs.

Nan said archly, “Tim … I have another meeting.” She looked at her watch huffily. “Mr. Grainger has my full authority to bring
to bear on our joint interests … I’m sure we’ll meet again, if you and Mr. Grainger can determine a specific area of—fruitful—discussion.”

Matsak was incredulous that she hadn’t responded placat-ingly to his accusations. He watched disbelievingly as Roe-beck turned
her back on him and climbed the stairs into the bowels of the Métropole.

“Perhaps this meeting is over? Perhaps we are wasting our time. This woman is your superior?”

“She’s a senior official,” Grainger said dryly. “I’m my own authority.”

Matsak peered sharply at him for a moment, and then began to laugh. He came up to Grainger in two quick strides and clapped
him on the back.
“Bolshoi privy et, tovarisch.”
A big hello, comrade. “I have been waiting a long time to meet an American with authority, like myself. We who get things
done are in constant conflict with those whose life is dedicated to avoiding action. Now, say me what you want.
Concretne stoh?”
Concretely, what? “And do not be shy.”

“Here?” In a hotel lobby?

“I have a driver outside, a car. We may go wherever you wish.”

“I wish, Deputy Matsak,” Grainger said, taking his cue from the other man’s candid style, “to meet scientists in the area
of geochronometry and spacetime physics, who may be working on temporal realignment programs. I have such a program of my
own and money to spend on anything that may accelerate it.”

“Ah, a real deal. So. This is well. Mr. Grainger, we will be working together very hard. Call me Sasha. And I will call you…?”

“Tun. I’d like to meet whomever you suggest, in any discipline, who might be working on concrete programs in this technology
area.” He felt light-headed, maybe from the anti-radiation shot in combination with everything else he’d injected into himself.
Maybe from elation. He’d hit pay dirt.

“Then, Tim, we must go to a house phone. I will make some calls. It is late, you must realize. I suppose some scientists may
be available here, but the most important ones are not in this city, in any case. Will you go with me tonight—just a short
drive from Moscow—to meet such scientists? See an enterprise? A laboratory demonstration?”

“I’d love to get out of this city, Sasha,” Grainger said honestly, aware of the privilege of using the diminutive. “If I see
what I want, I can buy it, cash on the spot—hardware, technical report, whatever meets my criteria. I can give you technical
detail in your car.”

Matsak was nodding. “To the phones then. Lead the way. And
spacebo,
keep your woman official from complicating my job by involving too many other officials. What we do must stay between us,
Tim, until we’re sure we can make a contract. Specifically, until we have permissions of my senior officials. Perhaps even
after that, depending on what is involved.”

“You’re saying she’s not invited?”

“I say you that only principals need attend. I also say you that I suppose prudence is advisable. I have all the contacts,
all the friends I need to make a contract. Different friendship networks cannot be included, or nothing will come of our labor.
How many days are you staying in Moscow?”

They were walking toward the house phones. Grainger could feel how real this Matsak was. Roebeck had made a bad mistake, perhaps
a critical one. “I’ve got maybe a week.” If they found any technology to buy, they’d better buy it quick. If they could steal
what they needed or destroy the revisionists’ program out of hand, so much the better, but time was still an issue. Time,
in Grainger’s line of work, was always
the
issue.

“Not much time for complex negotiations,” Matsak said as if reading Grainger’s mind, “but let me see what I can do. Our only
option may be to undertake some visits which will take place quite late tonight. Is it possible for you?”

“It is possible for me,” Tim Grainger affirmed as they reached the phones. He was feeling hot, flushed. Probably a mild fever
reaction from the shots.

Matsak pulled a worn black leather folder from his breast pocket and thumbed through it.

The Russian’s tone as he talked on the phone was nowhere as gentle as he’d been with Roebeck. Grainger caught a few phrases,
including
voyenna technologie,
which roughly translated meant “military technology,” followed by growled colloquial and scatological orders.

Grainger picked out,
Yop t’voyu robotnicki,
and then stopped trying. “Fuck your workers” was an indicator of intensity but not substance.

This hotshot Matsak was capable of rousting people out of their homes, or beds, and opening up some sort of laboratory or
facility after hours. That was all Grainger could glean, and all he needed to know. He’d gotten to somebody with juice. If
he could hold on to the momentum building here, he’d see whatever Matsak had to sell. He could only hope that the Ministry
of Science official had access to what ARC was trying to find.

If Tim Grainger believed in luck, he’d have thanked his lucky stars that he, and not Roebeck or Chun, had drawn Mat-sak’s
number from the contact list that Central had established. This general had plenty of use for women, but not as peers. If
Grainger’s card had contained any ranking data, Matsak probably would have decided that Grainger was too junior to be worth
his time. As it was, Grainger hoped he could maintain the fiction of parity in this culture where friendship networks and
parity were just about all that mattered anymore.

When Matsak was finished on the phone, he patted his pockets ostentatiously. “Do you have American cigarettes, Tim? I have
left mine in the car.”

Right. The game begins. “I have to buy some anyway. Can I get Marlboros here?”

“Certainly, I suppose.” Off they went to get cigarettes. Tim bought two cartons for twice what he expected to pay, and gave
one carton to Matsak. “Please accept these as a personal—not state to state—token of appreciation.”