camps. Jokers simply disappeared. In many ways it was worse than the Purge, which Polyakov had seen as a teenager. In the Thirties the knock on the door came for Party members ... those with incorrect ambitions. But everyone was at risk during the Wild Card Purge.
Even those in the Kremlin. Even those at the very highest levels.
"I knew someone like you, Molniya. I used to work for him, not far from here as a matter of fact."
For the first time Molniya dropped his guard. He was genuinely curious. "Is the legend true?"
"Which legend? That Comrade Stalin was a joker and died with a stake driven through his heart? Or that it was Lysenko who had been affected?" Polyakov could tell that Molniya knew them all. " I must say I'm shocked to think that such fabrications are circulated by officers of military intelligence!"
"I was thinking of the legend that there was nothing left of Stalin to bury ... that the corpse displayed at the funeral was made up by the same geniuses who maintain Lenin's."
Very close, Polyakov thought. What did Molniya know? "You're a war hero, Molniya. Yet you ran from that building in Berlin like a raw recruit. Why?"
This was another one of the old tricks, the sudden segue back to more immediate business.
As Molniya replied that he didn't honestly remember running, Polyakov went around the table and, sliding a chair closer, sat down right next to him. They were so close that Polyakov could smell the soap and, under that, the sweat... and something that might have been ozone. "Can you tell when someone is an ace?"
Finally Molniya was getting nervous. "Not without some demonstration ... no."
Polyakov lowered his voice and jabbed a finger at the Hero's medal on Molniya's chest. "What do you think now?" Molniya's face flushed and tears formed in his eyes. One gloved hand slapped Polyakov's away. It only lasted an instant. "I was burning up!"
"Within seconds, yes. Burnt meat."
"You're the one." There was as much fascination-after all, they had a lot in common-as fear in Molniya's face. "That was another one of the legends, that there was a second ace. But you were supposed to be in the Party hierarchy, one of Brezhnev's people."
Polyakov shrugged. "The second ace belongs to no one. He's very careful about that. His loyalty is to the Soviet Union. To Soviet ideals and potential, not the pitiful reality." He remained close to Molniya. "And now you know my secret. One ace to another... what do you have to tell me?"
It was good to leave the Aquarium. Years of institutional hatred had imbued the place with an almost physical barrier-like an electrical charge-that repelled all enemies, especially the KGB.
Polyakov should have been feeling elated: he had gotten some very important information out of Molniya. Even Molniya himself did not know how important. No one knew why the Hartmann kidnapping had fallen apart, but what had happened to Molniya could best be explained by the presence of a secret ace, one with the power to control men's actions. Molniya could not know, of course, that something much like this had happened in Syria. But Polyakov had seen that report. Polyakov was afraid he knew the answer.
The man who might very well be the next president of the United States was an ace.
II.
"The chairman will see you now."
To Polyakov's surprise the receptionist was a young woman of striking beauty, a blonde straight out of an American movie. Gone was Seregin, Andropov's old gatekeeper, a man with the physical appearance of a hatchet-appropriately enough-and a personality to match. Seregin was perfectly capable of letting a Politburo member cool his heels for eternity in this outer office, or if necessary, physically ejecting anyone foolish enough to make an unexpected call on the chairman of the Committee for State Security, the chief of the KGB.
Polyakov imagined that this lissome woman was potentially just as lethal as Seregin; nevertheless, the whole idea struck him as ludricrous. An attempt to put a smile on the face of the tiger. Meet your new, caring.Kremlin. Today's friendly KGB!
Seregin was gone. But then, so was Andropov. And Polyakov himself was no longer welcome on the top floor... not without the chairman's invitation.
The chairman rose from his desk to kiss him, interrupting Polyakov's salute. "Georgy Vladimirovich, how nice to see you." He was directed to a couch-another new addition, some kind of conversational nook in the formerly Spartan office. "You're not often seen in these parts." By your choice,