Black Market

Raskov spoke informally over the clacking noise of forks and knives. His smile, which was usually tight and superficial, was surprisingly warm. “In addition to the main business of our meeting, I am delighted to report the wood pheasant are back on the north ridge.”

Premier Yori Belov clapped his huge, hamlike hands. A stiffly formal man wearing thick bifocals, he raised his dark, fuzzy eyebrows and smiled for the first time since he'd arrived. Premier Belov was an obsessive hunter and fisherman. One of the things he liked best about General Raskov was that Raskov was a dedicated and intelligent student of human nature-a classic and unabashed manipulator-something he undoubtedly fine-tuned during his frequent stays in America.

Raskov continued in a more serious, sober tone. “On December sixth, as you all know, I spoke with our friend and comrad François Monserrat about the dangerous and now potentially uncontrollable economic situation developing in the United States. At that time he informed me he had been contacted by persons claiming responsibility for the unprecedented Wall Street attack… During the past two days, Monserrat's representatives have actually met with representatives from the so-called Green Band faction. In London…”

Premier Belov turned sharply to Uri Demurin, director of the KGB. “Comrad Director, has your department been successful in discovering anything further about the provocateur group? How, for example, were they able to originally contact François Monserrat?”

“We have been working very closely with General Raskov,” General Demurin lied with unctuous sincerity. A network of veins ran across his sallow face. “Unfortunately, at this time we have been able to come up with nothing definitive about the precise makeup of the terrorist cell.”

General Radomir Raskov clapped his hand harshly, ostensibly for a servant.

Demurin was his only real rival in the highly competitive Soviet police world. Demurin was also a capital shit, a petty bureaucratic turd without a single redeeming characteristic. Whenever Raskov was in a staff meeting with Demurin, his blood would automatically boil; his eyes would bulge out of the broad slab that was his forehead.

A busty blond maid appeared, hovering nervously like a moth. The peasant maid's name was Margarita Kupchuck, and she had served at Zavidavo since the early 1970s. Her quiet, earthy humor had made her a personal favorite with all the important Soviet government members.

“We're ready for more coffee and tea, my dear Margarita. Some preserves or fruit would be nice as well. Would anyone prefer a stronger libation? To thicken the blood against the cold of this miserable morning?”

Premier Belov smiled once again. He had placed a navy blue packet of Austrian cigarettes in front of himself. “Yes, Margarita, please bring us a bottle of spirits. Some Georgian white lightning would be appropriate. In case some of our engines don't start so easily in this arctic cold.”

Belov laughed now, and his various chins shook, giving everyone the impression that his face was about to slip through layers of his neck and vanish into his body.

General Raskov smiled. It was always politic to smile, atleast whenever Premier Belov took it upon himself to laugh. “We now believe we know the reason for the bombing in America,” he said, finally dropping his bombshell on the group.

General Raskov gazed silently around the handsome, rustic breakfast parlor. The important men sitting at the table had stopped lighting cigars, stopped taking sips of Russian coffee.

“This Green Band group has made a somewhat frightening proposal to us. Through François Monserrat's terrorist cell, actually. The offer was made last evening, in London… This is why I've called all of you here so early in the morning.”

General Raskov drummed his fingers on the dining table as he spoke the next words. “Comrades, the Green Band group has requested a payment. A total of one hundred twenty million dollars in gold bullion. This sum is in exchange for securities and bonds stolen during the December fourth bombing on Wall Street.

“The securities were apparently removed during the seven-hour evacuation. How this incredible robbery actually took place, I do not know… Comrades, the net worth of the stolen goods offered to us… is in excess of two billion dollars!”

The men, the elite who ruled Soviet Russia, were uniformly silent; they were obviously reeling at the massive numbers they had just heard. There was no way anyone could have been prepared for such an a

At first, no word at all from Green Band. And now this. Two billion dollars to be ransomed.

“They plan to sell to buyers other than ourselves as well. The total amount would seem to be enough to cripple the Western economic system,” General Raskov went on. “This could easily mean a cataclysmic panic for the American stock market. An opportunity for control such as this has rarely been presented to the leadership of the Soviet Union. Either way, we must act now. We must act quickly, or they will withdraw their offer.”

General Raskov stopped speaking. His very round, widely spaced eyes circled the table, pausing at each perplexed face. He nodded with satisfaction; he had everyone's full attention, and more.

At 5:30 A.M., the highest-ranking Soviet leaders began heatedly to discuss the issues, the unbelievable decisions suddenly at hand.

Less than ten miles away from Zavidavo, a Russian delivery truck marked Muka (flour) fishtailed, then regained moderate control. It was barreling down a narrow country road that seemed little more than an ice-slicked toboggan track.

The truck finally plowed to a stop in front of a dilapidated cottage in the country village of Staritsa. The Russian driver leaped out and began to crunch his way through bright new snow that reached to his knees.

The cottage door opened, and a woman's arm, in a drab gray bathrobe, took an envelope. The driver then high-stepped back to his truck and drove away.

From the village of Staritsa, the contents of the envelope were relayed in telephone code to a young woman working at the GUM Department Store in Moscow. There the clerk used a special telephone and another complex code to make an urgent transatlantic call to the United States, specifically to the city of McLean, Virginia.

The original message had been sent by Margarita Kupchuck, the peasant housekeeper at Zavidavo. For nearly eleven years Margarita had been one of the most important operatives of the Central Intelligence Agency working in Russia.

The message provided the American team with the first substantial break in the Green Band investigation.

It consisted of just sixteen words:

Ritz Hotel, London. Thursday morning. Two billion dollars, stolen securities to be finally exchanged… Green Band.