[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
enough to leave him alone.
Once in the terminal, he opened his fist to check the folded papers they had
surreptitiously slipped him, thinking they were the usual hastily scribbled
phone numbers.
"Why did all three give me AIDS-prevention pamphlets?" Remo wondered aloud,
tossing them into the nearest trash can.
"Perhaps they recognize you for the promiscuous rake that you are."
"I'm the reverse of promiscuous."
"If you fall into the foul habit of dating women, promiscuity will be your
epitaph."
"You sure you didn't put them up to this?"
"Lust kills," sniffed Chiun. "Remember this as you sow your wild goats."
Page 50
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"It's 'wild oats.' And stop trying to get my goat."
"Do not complain to me if your voracious goat consumes all of your wild oats
and you have none left when you are my age."
Chapter 15
Sometimes Radomir Eduardovitch Rushenko forgot himself. It was very easy to
forget. Just as it was very difficult to fully lose the old Red ways.
Rushenko parked his dull black Volga automobile within sight of Iz Tsvetoka's
modest tailor shop on Tverskaya Street, not far from the hideous yellow double
arches of the most popular McDonald's restaurant in the heart of gray Moscow.
It was very gray now, with the heavily overcast skies like lead and the
freshening smell of snow coming out of Siberia.
The bell over the door tinkled as Rushenko stepped down from the sidewalk to
the sunken establishment.
The balding, fuzzy-haired tailor did not look up from pressing a pair of
trousers until Rushenko said, "Good morning, tovaritch."
"I am not your comrade," the tailor said harshly.
"Excuse me. I meant, good morning, sudar. "
The tailor nodded, satisfied.
Rushenko laid his suit on the counter and said, "It requires special
attention."
The tailor gestured to the fitting room. Rushenko stepped inside, drew closed
the red curtain and, just as the surly tailor made his pants presser spurt
steam, Rushenko gave a coat hook a certain twist.
The rear panel of the fitting room pivoted on a middle hinge, and Rushenko
quickly stepped back. The panel finished its revolution, and it was as if he
had stepped off the face of the earth instead of entering the bowels of the
most secret security organization in Russian history.
There had been at one time the Czarist secret police. Then the Cheka. Then
VCheka. After that OGPU, NKVD, NKGB, MVD and KGB. Now there was the FSK, a
toothless organization good for nothing more than wardening the old KGB files
and taking horrific casualties in Chechnya.
The best and brightest of the old KGB, having no stomach for detente,
perestroika, glasnost and the cold consequences of these failed policies, had
banded together to form a clandestine ministry that was responsible to no one
in the sickeningly democratized Kremlin. Until the red-letter day Soviet rule
would be restored, they would operate in secret, overseeing, manipulating and
protecting Mother Russia from its deadliest enemies-which in these days was
itself, and its drunken, incompetent leaders.
His footsteps echoing down the corridor, Rushenko came to a blank nickel-steel
door. There was no name on the door. To place a name there would be to give a
name to the ministry that had no official existence.
In the beginning, it had been called Shchit-Shield-a name suggested by the
sword-and-shield emblem of the old KGB. It was completely paperless, having no
files or public phone number. But after a while, it became clear even a name
was a security risk. So a formal name was dispensed with. A ministry that
enjoyed no official sanction should not enjoy a name, reasoned the architect
of Shield, Colonel Rushenko.
The headquarters of the ministry changed from time to time. At first it was a
Moscow prison. Later it masqueraded as a publishing company specializing in
Russian-language sequels to Gone with the Wind.
The current incarnation had been the brainchild of Rushenko, because it
enabled his people to keep an eye on the American FBI, which in this most
insane of eras had itself established a branch office in the very same part of
Moscow.
Rushenko stood before an ivory panel, his firm mouth addressing a copper
microphone grille. A laser lens emitted a steady crimson glow at eye level.
A voice crackled, "Identify."
"Radomir Eduardovitch. Colonel."
"Place your fingertips to the five lighted spots."
Touching a fan of five points of light that appeared beneath the laser eye,
Page 51
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Rushenko allowed the optical reader to scan his fingerprints. He was then
asked to peer into the red laser lens.
The laser-harmless unless his fingerprints were not found on file-scanned the
unique vein pattern in his retina, and only then did the door hum open. The
alternative was a smoking hole bored from brow to the back of his skull.
Inside was a reception area done in old-style socialist heroic decor, with a
honey blond woman in a simple maroon skirt and red turtleneck jersey seated at
a massive desk. It was a different blond woman each month. A different heroine
of the Motherland who would willingly drink poison in the event of
unauthorized penetration so that the secrets of Shield would go to the grave
with her.
"You are expected, tovaritch."
And Rushenko smiled to hear the old form of address again.
"Thank you, comrade."
Nowadays people were sudar-"sir"-or gospo-din-"Mr." It sounded too elitist for
Rushenko and his socialist ears for he had been educated under the old system.
Only here in the labyrinth of Shield was it acceptable to address others as
"comrade."
In a red-walled conference room without windows but illuminated by
high-intensity floor lamps to defeat the depressive psychological effects lack
of sunlight caused, Rushenko met with the other section chiefs of Shield. They
only convened in case of crisis or intelligence and policy discussion. It was
safer that way. All wore the insignialess black uniforms of the defunct Red
Army, as did Colonel Rushenko, revealed when he removed his greatcoat and
astrakhan hat.
"There has been an event in the United States," he was told by a man whose
name he didn't know, a former KGB operative like himself.
"Interesting," said Colonel Rushenko.
"An installation called the BioBubble was destroyed utterly by a power of
unknown destructiveness."
"A bomb?"
"We think not. We think a ray."
"A laser?"
"No laser is this powerful. To do this, the laser beam would have to possess a
circumference of three acres."
Glances of unease passed among stone-faced men. For security reasons, no one
knew the identity of his comrades. The people's hero who had recruited them
had taken his life once his task was accomplished to ensure their anonymity.
"Star Wars?"
Rushenko shook his head. "Such a laser in orbit would be so large as to reveal
itself. It is not a new weapon of the supposedly cancelled US. Strategic
Defense Initiative."
"Could it be ours?" a shaggy-haired man with suspicious Georgian eyes asked.
"Zhirinovsky talks of the Elipticon," an Estonian remarked.
Colonel Rushenko shook his heavy Kazakh face. "Zhirinovsky talks of
foolishness. But he is useful to us."
"Colonel Rushenko, I have in my possession a file copied from the old KGB
archives. It speaks of a weapon such as this."
"I am listening."
"It is a very dangerous weapon. If deployed, it could render our nuclear
deterrent obsolete."
Colonel Rushenko frowned darkly. "Our nuclear deterrent is all but obsolete.
Half the missiles are inoperative or under repair. We no longer test, so there
is no way to know if they will launch or detonate on impact. For all we know,
the current leadership has its collective finger on the trigger of a water
pistol."
"You mistake my meaning, comrade. This weapon could make the surviving good
missiles useless hulks resting in their silos and launchers like so many
loaves of bread in so many paper sacks." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl fopke.keep.pl
enough to leave him alone.
Once in the terminal, he opened his fist to check the folded papers they had
surreptitiously slipped him, thinking they were the usual hastily scribbled
phone numbers.
"Why did all three give me AIDS-prevention pamphlets?" Remo wondered aloud,
tossing them into the nearest trash can.
"Perhaps they recognize you for the promiscuous rake that you are."
"I'm the reverse of promiscuous."
"If you fall into the foul habit of dating women, promiscuity will be your
epitaph."
"You sure you didn't put them up to this?"
"Lust kills," sniffed Chiun. "Remember this as you sow your wild goats."
Page 50
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"It's 'wild oats.' And stop trying to get my goat."
"Do not complain to me if your voracious goat consumes all of your wild oats
and you have none left when you are my age."
Chapter 15
Sometimes Radomir Eduardovitch Rushenko forgot himself. It was very easy to
forget. Just as it was very difficult to fully lose the old Red ways.
Rushenko parked his dull black Volga automobile within sight of Iz Tsvetoka's
modest tailor shop on Tverskaya Street, not far from the hideous yellow double
arches of the most popular McDonald's restaurant in the heart of gray Moscow.
It was very gray now, with the heavily overcast skies like lead and the
freshening smell of snow coming out of Siberia.
The bell over the door tinkled as Rushenko stepped down from the sidewalk to
the sunken establishment.
The balding, fuzzy-haired tailor did not look up from pressing a pair of
trousers until Rushenko said, "Good morning, tovaritch."
"I am not your comrade," the tailor said harshly.
"Excuse me. I meant, good morning, sudar. "
The tailor nodded, satisfied.
Rushenko laid his suit on the counter and said, "It requires special
attention."
The tailor gestured to the fitting room. Rushenko stepped inside, drew closed
the red curtain and, just as the surly tailor made his pants presser spurt
steam, Rushenko gave a coat hook a certain twist.
The rear panel of the fitting room pivoted on a middle hinge, and Rushenko
quickly stepped back. The panel finished its revolution, and it was as if he
had stepped off the face of the earth instead of entering the bowels of the
most secret security organization in Russian history.
There had been at one time the Czarist secret police. Then the Cheka. Then
VCheka. After that OGPU, NKVD, NKGB, MVD and KGB. Now there was the FSK, a
toothless organization good for nothing more than wardening the old KGB files
and taking horrific casualties in Chechnya.
The best and brightest of the old KGB, having no stomach for detente,
perestroika, glasnost and the cold consequences of these failed policies, had
banded together to form a clandestine ministry that was responsible to no one
in the sickeningly democratized Kremlin. Until the red-letter day Soviet rule
would be restored, they would operate in secret, overseeing, manipulating and
protecting Mother Russia from its deadliest enemies-which in these days was
itself, and its drunken, incompetent leaders.
His footsteps echoing down the corridor, Rushenko came to a blank nickel-steel
door. There was no name on the door. To place a name there would be to give a
name to the ministry that had no official existence.
In the beginning, it had been called Shchit-Shield-a name suggested by the
sword-and-shield emblem of the old KGB. It was completely paperless, having no
files or public phone number. But after a while, it became clear even a name
was a security risk. So a formal name was dispensed with. A ministry that
enjoyed no official sanction should not enjoy a name, reasoned the architect
of Shield, Colonel Rushenko.
The headquarters of the ministry changed from time to time. At first it was a
Moscow prison. Later it masqueraded as a publishing company specializing in
Russian-language sequels to Gone with the Wind.
The current incarnation had been the brainchild of Rushenko, because it
enabled his people to keep an eye on the American FBI, which in this most
insane of eras had itself established a branch office in the very same part of
Moscow.
Rushenko stood before an ivory panel, his firm mouth addressing a copper
microphone grille. A laser lens emitted a steady crimson glow at eye level.
A voice crackled, "Identify."
"Radomir Eduardovitch. Colonel."
"Place your fingertips to the five lighted spots."
Touching a fan of five points of light that appeared beneath the laser eye,
Page 51
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Rushenko allowed the optical reader to scan his fingerprints. He was then
asked to peer into the red laser lens.
The laser-harmless unless his fingerprints were not found on file-scanned the
unique vein pattern in his retina, and only then did the door hum open. The
alternative was a smoking hole bored from brow to the back of his skull.
Inside was a reception area done in old-style socialist heroic decor, with a
honey blond woman in a simple maroon skirt and red turtleneck jersey seated at
a massive desk. It was a different blond woman each month. A different heroine
of the Motherland who would willingly drink poison in the event of
unauthorized penetration so that the secrets of Shield would go to the grave
with her.
"You are expected, tovaritch."
And Rushenko smiled to hear the old form of address again.
"Thank you, comrade."
Nowadays people were sudar-"sir"-or gospo-din-"Mr." It sounded too elitist for
Rushenko and his socialist ears for he had been educated under the old system.
Only here in the labyrinth of Shield was it acceptable to address others as
"comrade."
In a red-walled conference room without windows but illuminated by
high-intensity floor lamps to defeat the depressive psychological effects lack
of sunlight caused, Rushenko met with the other section chiefs of Shield. They
only convened in case of crisis or intelligence and policy discussion. It was
safer that way. All wore the insignialess black uniforms of the defunct Red
Army, as did Colonel Rushenko, revealed when he removed his greatcoat and
astrakhan hat.
"There has been an event in the United States," he was told by a man whose
name he didn't know, a former KGB operative like himself.
"Interesting," said Colonel Rushenko.
"An installation called the BioBubble was destroyed utterly by a power of
unknown destructiveness."
"A bomb?"
"We think not. We think a ray."
"A laser?"
"No laser is this powerful. To do this, the laser beam would have to possess a
circumference of three acres."
Glances of unease passed among stone-faced men. For security reasons, no one
knew the identity of his comrades. The people's hero who had recruited them
had taken his life once his task was accomplished to ensure their anonymity.
"Star Wars?"
Rushenko shook his head. "Such a laser in orbit would be so large as to reveal
itself. It is not a new weapon of the supposedly cancelled US. Strategic
Defense Initiative."
"Could it be ours?" a shaggy-haired man with suspicious Georgian eyes asked.
"Zhirinovsky talks of the Elipticon," an Estonian remarked.
Colonel Rushenko shook his heavy Kazakh face. "Zhirinovsky talks of
foolishness. But he is useful to us."
"Colonel Rushenko, I have in my possession a file copied from the old KGB
archives. It speaks of a weapon such as this."
"I am listening."
"It is a very dangerous weapon. If deployed, it could render our nuclear
deterrent obsolete."
Colonel Rushenko frowned darkly. "Our nuclear deterrent is all but obsolete.
Half the missiles are inoperative or under repair. We no longer test, so there
is no way to know if they will launch or detonate on impact. For all we know,
the current leadership has its collective finger on the trigger of a water
pistol."
"You mistake my meaning, comrade. This weapon could make the surviving good
missiles useless hulks resting in their silos and launchers like so many
loaves of bread in so many paper sacks." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]