Rio De Janeiro, Brazil The president’ s voice, inflected with the youthful, patrician tones many credited with swinging his last campaign, Candles, their muted light reflected around the room, framed the stairs at the center of the ambassador’ s home. The jazz band to the left of his table was plodding its way through the chorus when the Soviet delegation slid through the gate, two hours past schedule.
lastair Pearson‘ 14
Rio De Janeiro, Brazil The president’ s voice, inflected with the youthful, patrician tones many credited with swinging his last campaign, Candles, their muted light reflected around the room, framed the stairs at the center of the ambassador’ s home. The jazz band to the left of his table was plodding its way through the chorus when the Soviet delegation slid through the gate, two hours past schedule.
As the Russian director, Ilya Federov, stalked past the door guards, Roberts left a last, lingering gaze at the statue nestled under the stairwell. His Texan attaché whispered him luck before slipping a mike under his collar. He strode forward and extended Federov a firm hand, clasping him on the back and inserting a perfunctory wire-tap into the supervisor’ s steel-gray suit. Both men would be checked before sitting down, but he would never bet against carelessness. Straightening himself, he looked the Russian over once more. Time had for so long forgotten Ilya; war had hardened him to the sufferings of normal men, and his mind, lethally sharp, had almost mechanically advanced him through the Politboro. His rise was assisted by a reputation of indisputable success, a reputation that, as of yet, was unblemished.“ Fedorov.”“ Roberts.”
And that was that. The greeting had cost the Soviets three minutes. He made an abrupt, rightangle turn towards his table, and kept an intentionally measured pace on the way back. Federov hadn’ t seemed suspicious, but he couldn’ t trust his judgment, and the window to strike was shrinking. One distraction, and he could seize intel sensitive enough to kill the Soviet military for a decade. His glasses tilted back towards the chandelier, ten feet to the left of the Eastern Bloc seating, and he leaned towards the Texan.“ Alright. Grab them at the stairwell.” The attaché’ s hands drifted under the table, his arms momentarily blurring as he searched for the radio.“ We’ re go, chief.” Roberts, making an excusatory gesture towards the Soviets, sprinted upstairs towards the lone telephone. Russian security was dense- at least two guns to each exit. Even official approval couldn’ t guarantee his success, and he didn’ t have that yet. The ring, right on time, could be heard throughout the house. Roberts cursed himself for not cutting the phone’ s speakers, and picked up just as Fedorov turned towards the balcony.“ Sir, are we clear to proceed?” sounded loud and true.“ God bless, continue with all necessary force.” He set the phone back in its rest and calmly walked to the balcony railing, where he lent over and gave the nod that sent the plan into action. As the Texan relayed the message, Roberts began to descend the stairs. With two steps left, Fedorov arose and began barking orders in Russian. Twenty members of the Eastern delegation unsheathed pistols from jacket pockets and shoe holsters, and Roberts could only watch as the first barrage smashed into his aides. The attaché, hit in the left arm, swung the table upwards and pulled one of the embassy marines behind him before lunging for the radio transistor. One long, whining tune blared from the shortwave, igniting twenty kilograms of plastic explosive tucked inside the statue. A fireball blossomed in the center of the room, the sudden intake of air freezing the gunmen in place before almost impetuously exploding them outwards. Fedorov, thrown backwards by the blast, was groggily reasserting himself when he was hit by a flying tackle. Roberts threw two quick jabs, then started searching the Russian’ s unconscious body for the promised papers. Satisfied, he crouched under a nearby ledge, while security poured in from above to neutralize the last of the Soviet resistance. He scanned Fedorov’ s dossier, and motioned for a phone.“ Mr. President, we’ ve got the roster. Every new addition to the Soviet hierarchy, one month before the changeover is implemented, every address, and no security. If we strike-” Roberts crumpled to the floor, his chest left ablaze by the heat of the bullet’ s exit. Fedorov, his grizzled face marred by matching bruises, clutched a pistol drawn from a Russian corpse. As security converged on them, the pair locked eyes.“ Roberts.”“ Fedorov.”“ Duck...” And, as Roberts stared unthinkingly at the Soviet’ s grin, it clicked. Duck... A grenade pin clattered to the floor. He would never bet against carelessness.
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