Casing the Colors © Week 9

Casing the Colors © Week 9 • • • CHAPTER 17 • • The following morning, Kate Gordon met Air Force General Tony Barber, a small energetic man with graying red hair and fair skin, at Andrews Air Field. He was checking flight details and getting the latest weather report. The escort group ordered by General Gordon was waiting on the tarmac in front of the State Department plane to fly as far as the German-Polish border. After that, the diplomatic plane would be on its own, with NATO squadrons on alert and President Katerinov's assurance of safe passage. The State Department 747, big and clumsy in the wake of the fighter jet formation, would be an easy target if anyone really wanted to hit it. But, behind President Katerinov's assurances, unknown to the United States, was his promise to the Republics and Russian parliament that the American diplomat was coming to talk about lifting the embargo and granting additional humanitarian aid. The presence of General Barber was a surprise to be withheld by the Russian president until the 747 was safely on the ground in Moscow. On the plane, Kate and Tony drank coffee and ate Danish pastries and talked about their plans once in Moscow. General Barber expected to meet with the key members of the Russian military general staff for an off the record briefing meant to provide critical information about Russia's capacity to respond to the Republics. "At least you'll be able to get the information you need in one place," Kate complained. "I'm not even sure what President Katerinov has planned for me. I understand we're going to move around and look at Russian daily life." "Maybe I'll get what I want," Tony replied skeptically, "if the briefing doesn't turn into a damned TV commercial. You know, look at our tanks, they're the shiniest in the world." "Katerinov will make sure I get only the answers he wants me to have," Kate answered. "I'll have to rely on instinct and luck to find out if Russian citizens really support him. "Instinct," Tony repeated. "That's why we've got this fighter escort. It's overkill, but General Gordon was adamant. I don't know the Vice President well enough to judge. What do you make of his phone call last night?" "He was undoubtedly fishing for useable information," Kate said, "hoping to trade on whatever I might have said. His campaign isn't going very well and he's already sold a lot of chips just to stay at the top of the ticket." "Has he got any chance of winning the election?" Tony asked. "I doubt it, but the GOP will put a good face on his candidacy and hope for a miracle. Presidential campaigns are unpredictable and Jack Wilson is a shrewd political infighter who's lived in Washington long enough to know every back alley and locked closet. We've got to be ready for anything." General Barber put down his coffee mug and grimaced slightly. "My older son followed me to the Air Force Academy. The younger boy went to Stanford. He has more faith in money than in patriotism. Maybe he's smarter than the rest of us." Tony Barber reached into his briefcase for a file folder. "But I suppose," he said absently, "money won't buy much if we don't get the United States sorted out. Maybe I better go over General Volti's briefing notes one more time." • • In Moscow, President Katerinov was waiting on the tarmac to meet the American plane. The absence of an official greeting party made it clear the arrival was being protected. The official limousines parked at the edge of a carpeted area kept their engines idling to counteract the cold. The Russian president was standing alone in the cold winter darkness, with only his personal staff waiting behind him. It was General Barber who immediately spotted the armed troops watching from critical points around the tarmac and pointed them out to Kate. "Well, here goes," Kate said as the plane port opened. "It feels haunted, doesn't it? All I can see are the TV images of President Tcherenkov falling after he was shot." "Thanks for the encouraging words," Tony said, straightening his jacket nervously for the hundredth time. "You look fine, don't worry," Kate said reassuringly. "We're safer here than anywhere else in the world. Katerinov couldn't take the diplomatic heat of another assassination. More important, neither can the Republics if they hope to get the embargo lifted." The pair walked down the stairs and shook hands with the Russian leader. President Katerinov was tall, well over six feet, with a handsome but impassive face and dark brown hair graying along the temples, providing dignity to his fifty-five years. When he kissed Kate in greeting, Russian style, the scent of his elegant cologne seemed to her to be at odds with his surroundings. So this is the man, she thought, who came from nowhere to take the Russian presidency by forcing the Duma to accept his coalition. As she regarded him carefully, she realized that his good looks and energetic but non-threatening demeanor must be his most important political assets. Once his visitors were safely in the Kremlin, President Katerinov played the visit for all its political value. Kate and Tony were guests of honor at a state reception, deliberately kept modest as a reminder of the embargo. The entire Russian parliament, those hostile as well as friendly to President Katerinov, shook hands with the Americans as butlers circulated with icy vodka and abundant Black Sea Beluga caviar. Russian television, hurriedly joined by European and American networks when they realized what was happening in Moscow, interviewed Kate, asking about the new US commitment to Russia. Every interviewer wanted to know if the embargo would be lifted. "I'm here to talk about humanitarian relief," she insisted. "It is not the intent of the United States government to cause unnecessary civilian suffering. But, the Tcherenkov assassins must be apprehended and sent to the United States for trial before the general embargo can be lifted." General Barber dutifully explained his presence by saying he was the only member of the Joint Chiefs who had never visited Russia and he wanted to correct the oversight by taking advantage of Assistant Secretary Gordon's trip. President Katerinov was never far from the American General, laughing jovially, hugging him around the shoulders and introducing him to everyone. It was a diplomatic dance of considerable magnitude, but after the vodka and caviar were gone and both the guests and hosts had had a good night's sleep, the dance changed. General Barber was closeted with members of the Russian general staff. His job was to get the military evaluation the United States needed, while Kate Gordon provided the public diversion, making a televised tour of Moscow with President Katerinov. She asked to visit the free markets where Muscovites bartered and bought what they needed to survive. The president seemed delighted to oblige. They started at the flea market on Olympiski Avenue, originally provided by the Russian government at the edge of the city so that vendors could operate with at least some semblance of order. "It is called a tolkouchka," the president said. "It means a disorderly crowd in English, I think." He offered the explanation easily, with a gentle laugh playing in his voice. "That's an accurate description," Kate agreed, immersed in the spectacle before her, a jumble of stands, most of them makeshift, others more permanent, many with paisley and flowered oilcloth roofs, giving the tolkouchka the look of a central Asian bazaar that had migrated to the Russian capital to mingle with larger, more utilitarian western flea market stalls. The limousines stopped in a clear space provided by the Russian president's escort. The two politicians got out to walk through a block of stalls. Although from different political worlds, both Kate Gordon and Alexei Katerinov used the occasion to look for the photo opportunities that would be hot items on evening TV news around the world. The street was a mass of people, carrying bundles and baskets full of goods to sell. Kate quickly learned that what was bought in one corner of the tolkouchka at a good price was often sold minutes later in another corner at a better price. The stalls displayed many kinds of winter vegetables, cabbages, potatoes, beets, and an occasional crate of mushrooms. There were few fresh fruits, meat and poultry. People with fresh or tinned meats held them out for inspection. Trading was swift. Russians quickly surrounded the president and his guest, waving into the TV cameras and reaching out to touch the pair. While security was evident, no attempt was made to prevent such contact. "Aren't you concerned for your safety in these crowds?" Kate asked. "Why?" President Katerinov answered, smiling at the cameras. "We are all Russians here. The people support me, and when they are tired of me, they will elect someone else. My job is to make it possible to hold the next election," he laughed, waving at the TV camera. A young man with Mediterranean features approached them. He held out a line of shimmering metallic scarves and belts and spoke heavily-accented staccato English, waving aside the interpreters beside Kate. "Why are you here?" she asked. "I was a university student in Moscow," he told her. "I have a permanent visa and I am using it to help Russia. I love Russia. We are all helping, all of us here. Look at the stalls. Look at the people behind them. We come from many places. I come from Turkey," he said proudly. "But we stay here because it is exciting." "Don't you want to go home?" "No. We all are businessmen here. We are making money by helping. But, Mr. President," he added, "we need water, and," he whispered quietly, "toilets. It is dirty. And, we need more police. Robbers are everywhere and they steal our money." "Robbers?" the president responded, with the appropriate combination of concern and skepticism. "Show me." The young man led the group to another table farther along the row of stalls. President Katerinov took Kate by the arm as they walked. "These are Georgians," the president said, "we will be careful." The leader of the Georgian stall was a short, round woman wearing a red and gold flower print scarf tied around her forehead and neck. She began to talk, gesticulating and smiling broadly. The interpreter took over. "We have very pretty dresses," she said. "My husband bought them in Poland. We have jeans and shirts, too. Look." President Katerinov watched as Kate dutifully examined the fake Levi's and Lacostes. The woman showed leather jackets from Morocco, belts with 'Made in Taiwan' stamped on them, and printed tee-shirts made in Hungary. "The material is good," the woman said. "Very good," Kate replied politely. "What is this I hear about robbers?" the president asked, wanting to end the discussion of the all-too-familiar mafia gangs and move on to more pleasant topics with his American guest. The woman told him that she had been robbed that morning as she was setting up her stall. "I will look into this matter," he said, quickly admiring her merchandise for the TV cameras as he moved the group toward the next stall. "Moscow set up the Olympiski tolkouchka in 1992," the president explained to Kate, "to keep Red Square clear. It has been very successful, but theft and other crimes are inevitable. That is the price we pay for free trading. Another market at Lokomotiv Stadium is newer and better organized. I want you to see it, too," he said, as his motorcade pulled out of the Olympiski Avenue market. The Lokomotiv market, a movable jumble that had been dismantled several times by the government but kept coming back, was almost twelve kilometers away from the center of Moscow. It was now more upscale and was called the Vernisazh Art Market. There was more order in the rows of stalls, but it was order bought at the price of drab government issue pole units with corrugated roofs. This, thought Kate, is not the tolkouchka where Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves mingle with Muscovite housewives under bright homemade tents. Her thoughts were interrupted by the Russian president, pointing out the water fountains, police patrols, modern portable toilets, and the nearby football stadium. As they strolled through the market, they were repeatedly stopped by vendors, some displaying goods for sale, others complaining about being badgered by local residents annoyed at the market's early morning noises. Kate was again struck by President Katerinov's complete ease in the crowds. He was obviously unworried about his personal safety, or hers for that matter, she took mental note. "Take me to Red Square," she requested, as they came to Lokomotiv Stadium. "I'd like to walk around and talk to people there." The president gave instructions to his driver. "Do you think you will find the real Russia in Red Square?" he asked. "It is a very interesting place because our dissidents and poor go there to petition and be noticed. Ask them anything. I want you to be satisfied." There were no stalls in the Square, only tiny carpets and small folding tables, which could be hastily set up and just as hastily dismantled, displaying used clothes and tourist trinkets. It was exactly the view a nineteenth-century traveler would have had of the great Square crammed with peddlers and mendicants of every nationality, a veritable street theater in front of St. Basil's Cathedral, its multiple onion domes rising along the red brick walls of the Kremlin, glistening in the sunlight as they had for centuries. Police patrols regularly chased away the peddlers. When Alexei Katerinov and Kate Gordon approached an old woman wearing a tattered black coat and white head scarf, Kate saw that she was holding several pairs of baby booties, obviously hand-crocheted. Each pair had a tiny slip of paper pinned to it, with a selling price marked in rubles that was the equivalent of a dime. "Why are you here?" Kate asked through the interpreter who had pointed out a Moscow city sign that read, All Sales Forbidden. "One has to eat," the old woman replied. "I need money for food, to stay alive." The look in the woman's eyes told Kate more than her few words. Police, in what was undoubtedly an effort to impress their president, moved in and jostled the woman to push her away from the official party. Kate tried to intervene and buy the booties, but President Katerinov turned her away from the ugly scene. He gave Kate over to his aide and then he hurried back to catch the old woman. Kate turned and watched as he touched the woman's shoulder while fumbling in the pocket of his warm, fur-collared overcoat. He awkwardly handed her several folded bills. Kate had no idea how much they were worth but the self-possessed old woman turned to take the money without humbling herself. As the president strode back toward his group, the woman called to him in Russian. President Katerinov pivoted to look toward her and then quickly returned to Kate while the woman raised her hand to wave, in a motion that was more a blessing than a thank-you. "Sometimes democracy is hard," he said, falling in beside Kate as they continued their walk. Kate remembered the old black woman who had confronted Scott in Atlanta. "Sometimes, indeed," she repeated, "democracy is very hard." The group wandered along the side streets near Red Square, chatting with vendors and passersby. Everyone was glad to talk to them, and many wanted to know what the events in America meant. Kate tried to explain that in a way Americans, like Russians, were searching for a better way to live and govern themselves. Often when she finished, a work-worn, dirty hand would reach out to take hers. One woman, walking with her husband, offered tea to the president and his guest. Kate tried to refuse, but President Katerinov said they would be honored. "We'll be perfectly safe," he said, as they walked up two flights of stairs in a dark hallway. The railings and ceiling plaster were cracked, with layers of old paint peeling away. "This is what we have to eliminate," the president said, waving his hands. "This is disgraceful and demeaning." Inside, the apartment revealed a jumble of furniture, books, dishes, rugs and drapes being used both as floor coverings, bedclothes and tablecloths. It was very clean. The kitchen, with its 1980s refrigerator, provided an unexpected feast. When Kate asked if they ought to eat when food was scarce, President Katerinov said the family would be offended if they refused. The wife took Kate into the kitchen and, through interpreters and the woman's modest English, they talked about children, family life and the terrible difficulties involved in surviving. "Please slice the cake," the woman said, handing Kate a homemade tea cake on a crystal plate. There were also cookies, tiny sugar candies and individual cheese pies with crisp crusts to accompany the tea, made in an old copper samovar. The woman's husband brought out the vodka and everyone toasted Russia and America. "Where do you get all this food?" Kate finally asked, amazed at their largesse after the hardship she had observed in the markets. "We buy it and trade for what we can't get otherwise, things like extra sugar and eggs. My husband's sister lives in the country and brings us vegetables and sometimes a chicken or fresh pork. We manage." "Does everyone do the same?" Kate asked. "Not everyone. We are lucky. I work and so does my husband, not every day, but we have money. So, we can use the markets to buy and sell." "But, it takes so much time," her husband added. "We work hardest at staying alive and keeping our family together. It is humiliating. I want to work, to earn enough to feed us and have a little left over for other things, to have a bit of the comfort you see in the new rich and their boutique tastes." "Mr. President," his wife said, "tell the parliament to do something. Tell them. We listen and watch, and we pray. It seems no one is to blame, so everyone is to blame. Help us. And, tell your leaders, too," she said, turning to Kate. "Help us before we give up," she pleaded. As the president signaled that it was time to leave, Kate handed each of her hosts a silver dollar. She habitually carried them to give away as souvenirs of America. They kissed her cheeks and gave her an embroidered napkin in return. "You made them proud...and rich," President Katerinov said as they descended the stairs. "Did you arrange this?" Kate asked, skeptical about what she had seen. "I promise you, I did not," he answered emphatically. • • • CHAPTER 18 • • President Katerinov returned Kate to the American Embassy late in the afternoon. They would meet again, he said, that evening at the reception the American Ambassador and his wife were giving for their Washington guests and the Russian president and parliamentary leadership. "I hope today was helpful," he said as Kate moved toward the open door of the limousine. "I enjoyed watching you." "It was a lesson in Russian ingenuity and joie de vivre," she responded. "Thank you for spending the day with me. I need to think about what I saw and heard. We could talk about it later, if you can find more time for me." "My dear," the president answered, taking her hand, "I would be delighted." He kissed her fingers lightly as she moved to leave the limousine. The driver helped her out and into the care of the Embassy military guard. Kate had the sense that whatever she chose to do would be turned to President Katerinov's advantage. Even the harmless routine of the Embassy guard played into the scene with a quiet flourish. Deep in thought as she scanned the Embassy message board for news from Washington, she didn't notice when Tony Barber came in. "Do you have time for a drink?" he asked, startling her. She turned and followed him into the executive office reserved for visiting VIPs. The entire room was a slice of old Virginia transported to Moscow. The carpet was federal blue and the pieces of furniture were excellent quality Williamsburg copies, at least those that weren't real antiques. American and State Department flags flanked the desk, framing the official photo of President Harper on the wall behind it. It was as far as one could get from Olympiski Avenue, Kate observed. General Barber found the bar, where books should have been, inside an eighteenth-century colonial secretary desk. "I'm getting the information I need," he said, pouring two scotches. "The general staff is very cooperative. We'll be finished by noon tomorrow. How are you doing with Katerinov?" "Great. We spent the entire day at flea markets." Tony Barber almost choked on his drink. "It's not Saturday morning in Washington, Kate. I thought you were supposed to be evaluating popular support for Katerinov." "The markets were very interesting, Tony, almost as interesting as Katerinov. I could probably buy you an F-16 if I knew who to ask." • • The American reception was a huge success, considering that it had been put together in less than two days. The entire Embassy professional staff, all in formal dress, welcomed their Russian guests at the entrance to the large ball room. The buffet was a mix of American finger foods for the Russians and caviar for the Americans. Everyone drank American champagne and wines, along with Russian vodka, while the small military chamber orchestra played Prokofiev and Gershwin. While everyone mixed and chatted, enjoying an unexpected evening of gaiety in a dangerous world, the Ambassador took Kate by the arm, asking her to follow him without being conspicuous. She eased her way across the ballroom and into his private office. President Katerinov was sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace, where a small warming fire burned against the mid-February Moscow chill. The Ambassador talked about the next day's agenda while Kate studied the president. Then, as a butler brought in a tray of champagne and vodka, the Ambassador moved to the door. "You will have privacy here," he said. "I've posted my personal aide to be sure no one disturbs you." The Ambassador started to say that the room was bug-free, but stopped, realizing that he was speaking to the president of his host country. Recovering from his diplomatic near-miss, he quickly left, closing the door, and Kate was once more alone with President Katerinov. "Now, tell me what you really learned today," he said, opening the champagne. "Is that why we're here, so I can tell you about my visit to Moscow?" she asked, feeling a slight, pleasant tension between them. He handed her a flute of champagne and responded in French. She was more surprised by his use of French than by his handsome ease in evening dress. He shared the trait of self-assurance with all the powerful men she knew. The surprise showed on her face as she returned his toast, in French. "Not all of us are the barbarians you expected," he said quietly. Kate began to talk about the day's tour, as much to regain her composure as to be informative. "I saw people who are in need of almost everything," she said bluntly. "Medicine, clothing, food, housing. I saw a great city ravaged by century of arrogance from officials blind to the truth that people cannot live forever on promises of military conquest and world domination. I saw the same city wanting to believe that your democratic reform will make a difference in their lives, but close to despairing about its success." She finished her champagne, hoping that she hadn't stepped too far beyond diplomatic courtesy. He refilled the glass. "You are right," he said, "and courageous to be frank," speaking quietly to encourage her to continue. "What else did you see?" "I saw many ethnic groups working together, at least on the surface, sharing market stalls and helping each other. Despite the reports of robbers and other usual complaints, it had the feel of free, individual effort until the police arrived in Red Square. But, I also saw a leader who couldn't allow the system to defeat an old woman. Your people must sense that quality in you. They must feel that your heart is with them. Otherwise, we would have been bullied by the crowds. I felt safer here with you today than I usually feel in Washington," she said. "Everyone was friendly and courteous." She tried to capture the day and what it had meant to her, with its conflicting images of a community scarred and suffering, but attempting to cope with shared disaster. "Our fundamental problem," he responded, "is that we have endured many generations of government neglect and coercion. We cannot make refrigerators or washing machines skillfully and we learned to make tanks or planes only when a central authority ordered us to. Yes, we have petroleum and other natural resources and the western consortiums that come to exploit them, but we need practical help on the ground, not economic plans or financial advice. We need people who understand things other than war." "You have them," she replied. "They're out on the streets. Bring them in and use them for more important things." "They won't come in as long as they can get rich where they are," he answered. "They have managed to escape the endless bureaucracy, but they are materialists, primitive, unable to find a spiritual reason to do more than make money. That is the real Soviet legacy." President Katerinov became more and more animated as he paced in front of the fireplace, gesticulating broadly and running his hands through his hair, searching for English and French words to express his distress. "At last, we come to the reason you and I are here tonight," she said. "You need me." "Yes, I do," he admitted easily, sitting again and filling two small glasses with vodka. She refused the vodka and he downed his in one swallow, then the other. "What do you really want?" she asked. "We can end the embargo, but only for Russia, not the Republics. We can provide support for your fight with the Republics. General Barber and the Joint Chiefs will agree. What else can we do?" "I don't know," he sighed. "If too many Americans arrive with western solutions, my parliament will rebel. They don't trust America any more than America trusts them -- and nobody trusts me. They are proud, with a fierceness developed from generations of adversity." "What are you going to do about the Republics?" she asked, wondering if he would tell her anything beyond his press release statements. To her surprise, having warmed to their conversation, he talked openly and at length. "We want to eliminate the Republics as military competitors and threats. If eastern Europe and central Asia are to be free of constant ethnic and religious wars and the likelihood of nuclear retaliation, we must make Russia the leader, as she has been historically. I do not accept that the Republics should again become subservient or be forced into a complete political unity, but they need to learn that their strategic economic and security interests lie with Russia; not the West. If we can push the Russian economy to the point where it is self-generating over a reasonable consumer spectrum, we could help them. If they can abandon their old feuds and hatreds, if they can control their traditional violent reactions to each other, we could even promise them a peaceful and receptive environment for growth without dictators keeping all the benefits. If America can convince OPEC to ease up on its latest petroleum price war." "As my friends occasionally say to me," she responded, impressed by his candid remarks, "that all sounds marvelous, but how are you going to make it happen?" "Will you join Russia?" he replied without hesitation. "We could demand together that the Republics turn over their nuclear arsenals to the United Nations for destruction. In return Russia and the United States would mutually guarantee their political independence inside a tight-knit confederation. If they will give up their Black Sea presence to Russia, we would remove all our remaining nuclear short and medium range missiles from their territories." "I thought your missiles were already gone," she answered, forgetting diplomatic niceties. "We still have several thousand nuclear warheads deployed underground in Ukraine, Georgia, and several other Republics. General Barber has a full accounting." "There doesn't seem to be much in it for the Republics." "What could America offer?" he asked. "How can you help us?" "We've already tried everything from storm trooper free market conversions to western welfare systems. I don't know what's left." "Give the Baltic states back to us. It would repay Ukraine and Belarus for surrendering the Black Sea." "Give back? We don't own them," she blurted out, incredulous. "Then look the other way while Ukraine and Belarus take them. I can arrange it with Ukraine in exchange for walking back our support for the rebels. Belarus is already with me. You didn't help the Baltics when they declared their independence in the early 1990s. Let them go. The West doesn't need Estonia or Latvia or Lithuania, but Ukraine and Belarus do, for access to the Atlantic and as a buffer against Poland and Germany," he said, pausing for her reaction. "Mr. President, I can't promise you anything about the Baltics. I'm rather certain we would not even agree to talk about it." "I don't want you to talk. Just let me know that we can move." She drank her champagne and tried to find a way out of the box she had allowed this charming but cunning man to build around her. "We will try to find something that offers the Republics an incentive to cooperate in nuclear disarmament," she said. "But don't count on the Baltics. That's not the kind of thing my government does." He smiled as if her words were a private joke between them, then he poured himself another glass of vodka. "Will you bring the answer back to Russia...personally?" he asked. "If you want me to," she replied. "Tell Secretary Stevens that you would prefer to negotiate with me." "I don't think you are a woman who needs permission. You have a very important kind of power. You are trusted by powerful leaders who need your connections and skill. You are not obliged to submit to elections or parliaments. That is power, my dear, and you know it. Bring the answer to me." He drank his glass of vodka and stood up. "We had better get back," he said, reaching out for her hand. She gave it to him and he helped her to her feet. As she started toward to the door, he put his arm out to stop her. "I do need you," he whispered, his lips close to her ear. "Do not forget Russia. Come back." She tried to move forward, but he held her shoulders and turned her to face him. She felt the warm fire as he lightly touched her cheek and hair. His voice was neither threatening nor passionate. "Do not forget me," he said softly. He tilted her chin upward and kissed her, as if in introduction, then with tenderness as he sensed her response. She relaxed in his arms for just an instant and then pulled away, realizing how stupidly vulnerable she was. "Please," she said. "Please, Mr. President." "Alexei," he responded. "My name is Alexei. Kiss me once more before we leave. Kiss me, Katharine." She eased her body close to his and felt his warmth flood through her. They kissed, once for all time, she thought.