按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
How bitter it was to learn that Fedorin…one of the KGB's own…was no better than all the rest of the career diplomats who had populated the Kremlin before him。 Oh yes； at first he had seemed to be getting the sluggish leviathan that was Soviet Russia working again。 Movement here and there could be discerned。
But in the end it had all been a sham； a self…serving political maneuver whose scope could not long conceal its sole purpose： to rid the munist hierarchy of all those who might oppose the new premier。
But of course Protorov had held out no real hope that Fedorin… or anyone else in power for that matter…would grasp the one true key to awakening the USSR； the essential nature of the beast： and that was that Russia was not one country but an uneasy amalgam of many different Russias； all fiercely protective of their own part of the mother country。 What did an Uzbek or a Kirghiz give a fig what was happening in Moscow anyway？ Did a Belorussian or an Azerbaidzhani care how many missiles America had leveled at Vladivostok？ And the Lithuanians； Estonians； Georgians…not to mention the non…Slavs such as the Tatars； Bashkirs； Mordvi…nians； Udmurts； or Komi…did they feel any differently？ What was there to bind them together？
Protorov knew the answer to that one。 Nothing。
The first step to putting Soviet Russia on the move lay in uniting all its divergent people。 Because once that happened； the USSR would be unstoppable。 No nation on earth…no coalition of nations…could stop her。
Fedorin had had a chance to get the new revolution underway。 But he； like all the bureaucrats who ran the country； lacked the scope of vision necessary to make that one great leap； to cross the Rubicon into dangerous and unknown waters。 Thus he had allowed the slothful giant to lapse back into somnolence。
Protorov knew only too well how long a time it could be between Soviet premiers。 He was unwilling to wait his turn…or perhaps he was intelligent enough to understand that it might never e on its own。 Therefore he had begun his own plans for cutting short the current premier's term in office。
And now he believed that Tenchi was the wand of power he needed to persuade the cabal of militant generals and officers in the KGB to exert their influence at once。
A point of ignition had to be reached； Protorov knew。 He must be the bridge between the traditionally feuding KGB and GRU。 To that end he had spent more than six years cultivating a young GRU colonel。 Powerful and ambitious； Yvgeny Mironenko would soon be in a position to also be a bridge between the factions。
For only by uniting these two mailed fists outside the Kremlin could Protorov be certain of the success of his coup。 Without them； he was lost。 And without him； Russia was lost。 He lacked only the one element of power that would bring all of them into his palm。
And that one element was Tenchi。
The inter buzzed on his desk like an angry insect； and for a moment Protorov's attention was deflected。 He reached out one long finger。 〃Yes？〃
〃The subject is ready。〃
〃Good。 Bring him in。〃 He reached out and extinguished the mauve light； plunging the room into utter darkness。 There were no windows here and only one egress； its fifteen…inch steel door。
Protorov sat back in his chair and fought the urge to smoke。 He promised his restless hands by lacing his fingers。 Presently he heard movement。 The thick door sighed open pneumatically as three men crossed the threshold。
For just a moment the heavy light of the hallway streamed across the black rubberized flooring； then as the door swung shut； darkness swallowed the floating ribbons。
Without sight Protorov knew who had entered： the young lieutenant； the doctor； and the subject。 Protorov and the doctor； who was a neuropharmacologica expert； had been at work on the subject for almost three days now。 The American was a very stubborn man； Protorov had to give him that。 He had not broken and； frankly； Protorov did not expect him to。 He expected him to die。
In a way Protorov felt sorry for the man as he heard the semi…articulate babbling created by the multitude of sera the doctor had shot into the subject。 This was not the way for a modern…day warrior to go； captured by the enemy； forcibly ejected into rapid…paced day…night continua so that weeks became pressed into hours until a state of body vertigo was induced。 According to the prevalent theory； the body would do their work for them； breaking down the mind blockages through its own induced trauma。
Protorov believed none of it。 These days there were ways to stop a ferret from talking when he did not want to： hypnosis； electronic implants。 And if all else failed； he could self…destruct。
Sadness overwhelmed Protorov as the increasingly animated animal noises invaded his ears。 This was not the way it should end for any of them。 Better by far the fierce hand…to…hand struggle； the rising anima； the primal urges that came in the struggle to avoid death at all costs。
Protorov's mind raced back to the first time he had felt the cold。 〃To feel the cold〃 was the KGB wet…meaning active in the field…directorates' phrase for the kill。 The first time for Protorov was indelibly etched into a corner of his mind。 He had been a raw lieutenant then； well trained from the KGB plex outside Sevastopol。 He thought he was a crackerjack； a world…beater。 He had not reckoned on the field； which cut all men down to size。
They had sent him to Siberia。 A top…secret series of experiments attempting to tap the perpetual gale…force winds in the north had been infiltrated by the Americans。
In Verkhoyansk； the coldest place in the world； he had ferreted out the infiltrator； made him bolt from his hole； and one after the other they had raced across the frozen tundra onto the ice fields。 Two utter madmen。
Only the cold could win in Verkhoyansk。 Man was nothing； a tiny mote in nature's vast well of snow and ice。 The snow。 The snow。 Always and forever the snow。 It was blinding； chilling； numbing。 It was death。
But all Protorov could think of was his first assignment。 Oh； but he did not understand the meaning。 Not at all。 Singlemindedly he pursued his quarry； seeking to feel the cold。
Together they tumbled to the ice； skidding and sliding； froths of loose snow fountaining upward as they collided。 Stupidly Protorov had decided on a gun with a silencer。 But long since the elements； laughing； had frozen all the carefully oiled working parts。 Similarly； his knife would not unfold。 There was nothing left but his hands。
For almost half an hour they grappled indecisively in the ice and snow。 The bulky clothes made hand…to…hand bat clumsy and difficult。 Meanwhile the frost was sapping their energies and； later； Protorov would e to understand that it was only his stamina that had allowed him to prevail。 He had not been smarter or stronger or quicker； all the things he had been taught to believe he was。 Those were lies。 He had just outlasted the American。
What little satisfaction he had found in grinding the dark； foreign head into the blood…pink snow while the breath slowed and； at last； stilled； stemmed from the knowledge that he； Protorov； was still alive； chest heaving； mouth dry； pulse thu