Chapter Twenty

New York’s Twin Towers were never included in the Russian military’s invasion plans.

The 110-story skyscrapers had been deemed too big, too unwieldy, too expensive for the military triad to operate. Plus, Moscow wanted the MMZ to be right in the middle of Manhattan, the heart of the city, not down on the southern tip of the island.

The NKVD, however, had had their eye on the World Trade Center buildings. Luxurious as it was, 30 Rock was never meant to be their permanent home. The WTC’s Twin Towers were intended to be the secret police’s eventual world headquarters, bigger than their present facility back in Moscow. It was from here that NKVD intended to rule the planet.

So MOP had gone through the twin buildings and turned on the essentials. But by far, most of the work had been done on Tower Two, getting the 110th floor penthouse ready for Commissar Zmeya.

It was still a work in progress, but its new resident had to move in a little early.

Zmeya and Dominique had said little to each other since they’d evacuated 30 Rock.

She had not been allowed to gather her things at the Ritz, her off-MMZ hideaway; she’d not been allowed out of his sight. Their new penthouse in Tower Two still smelled of recent plastering and the floors were mostly unadorned concrete. It was spacious, and somewhat well appointed, but practically empty.

Zmeya had been on his shortwave radio or his radiophone almost every second since they’d arrived. Even Dominique’s dressing up in the babydoll lingerie he’d told her to put on did nothing to break the ice.

The fire was still raging across Midtown. It was easy to see from Tower Two. The wind continued to blow it eastward at a slow but steady rate, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. The hope was that it would simply burn out when it finally reached the East River. But with any kind of shift in the wind, the catastrophe would probably be prolonged.

To say the Russian military was in disarray was an understatement. Army units could be seen and heard speeding through the streets, but none of them seemed to have any kind of destination. They sure weren’t fighting the fires. Some of the navy ships in the harbor had actually pulled anchor and moved to positions closer to New Jersey, just in case all of Manhattan went up in flames.

But most troubling for Zmeya was the loss of his vast eavesdropping and electronic-interference suite formerly housed inside the big red star. Assuming the secret equipment had melted in the tremendous heat of the firebombing, Zmeya couldn’t listen in on anybody anymore.

The multitude of different voices usually bouncing around his head was down to one. His own. And that was enough to drive him mad.

He finally spoke to her.

He was at his desk looking out the 110th story window at the glowing, burning city beyond. The smoke alone was incredible.

She was lying on the bed in the next room, staring at the ceiling. Sometimes, when the wind would gust, she could feel the great building sway.

“This is all your boyfriend’s fault,” he growled loud enough for her to hear. “From the clown plane all the way to trying to burn down this city. He’s had a hand in all of this.”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” she called back.

Zmeya laughed at her. “We know you don’t believe that anymore, don’t we?”

She swore softly under her breath and then said, “We’re going to start talking about what each of us believes now?”

He was out of his seat, into the bedroom, and up against her in an instant, a switchblade at her throat.

“He was spotted by many people in Football City not long ago,” he hissed at her. “And he was seen flying over Detroit. And at just about the same time, our Asian friends in Nevada swear he was out there in their own backyard, making their lives miserable.”

He pressed the knife just a little harder against her skin.

“So you see, my dear, this is why I can’t trust you completely,” he sneered. “I think you’re hoping he’s still out there. You might even be in cahoots with him—or more. And that’s why you won’t make love with me. Do I finally have it right?”

Dominique said nothing. She remained cool, which made him even more furious.

He held her even tighter, the knife even closer to slicing her throat.

“Is that the truth?” he demanded. “Is that how it is?”

But suddenly, Zmeya felt something sticking into his groin. He looked down to see Dominique holding a dagger the size of a hunting knife. It was three times bigger than his stiletto and the sharp point was just touching his sensitive area. Yet his first thought was: Where the hell has she been hiding that thing?

He looked up into her eyes, momentarily speechless. She was unpredictable.

“I think it’s time for your meds,” she whispered.

Her words came with utter contempt, something he didn’t totally dislike.

“I think you might be right.”

A knock came on their door. It was 0200 hours, but time had lost all meaning in Russkiy-NYC. A crisis was afoot.

Weapons back to their hiding places, Zmeya yelled, “Enter!”

Two Militsiya gunmen walked in followed by the three members of the Sostva.

Summoned here by Zmeya, the trio of bull-doggish officers were in awe of his new, if unfinished, apartment in the sky, especially the view. Their medals clinked as they looked around the place.

There were no greetings. No salutes. Zmeya got right to the point.

“Do you have any idea who bombed us a few hours ago?” he asked them.

The frumpy officers all shook their heads. “We were hoping you’d tell us,” Alexei said weakly.

“It was some American patriot gang,” Zmeya said, eyeing Dominique, who was back in the bedroom. “We have intelligence that one of their premier leaders is alive and well and operating in the area.”

Zmeya led the three high commanders to his desk where a map of New York and New Jersey was spread out.

“Did you happen to see the type of planes that bombed us a few hours ago?” Zmeya asked.

“We did,” Admiral Kartunov replied in a smug tone. It wasn’t a lie; they’d briefly seen the raiders flying over the East Village. “Odd-looking things. I can’t imagine any officer wanting them for an air fleet.”

“That’s because they weren’t military planes, Admiral,” Zmeya told him. “They were small civilian cargo planes, adapted to drop bombs. That tells me they didn’t fly in from very far away.”

Zmeya had circled all the known airfields big and small within a two-hundred-mile radius of New York City. But satellite photos he’d obtained from Moscow showed all of them were in some kind of postwar disrepair and unusable.

“And the bombs they dropped weren’t military-issue, either,” Zmeya went on. “They were barrels full of napalm with impact fuses. That tells me they didn’t have access to an arsenal or stores. They had to improvise.”

He studied the map again.

“So we’re looking for a hidden base,” Zmeya said. “Big enough to support a hundred or so insurgents, along with a short landing strip, maybe fifteen hundred feet. Small enough to keep hidden, but relatively nearby. A place they would never expect us to look.”

The officers scanned the map, looking for someplace that would match the criteria. Surprisingly, it was the sleepy Marshal MOP who saw it first.

He put his finger down on a point about forty miles southwest of the city.

The Pine Barrens.

“Haunted place,” he said. “We’d punish our troops if they were caught in there. In fact, we broadcast the penalties against it daily on intercity radio.”

Zmeya studied the spot on the map for a long time. It was obviously a heavily wooded area, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a road or a small field from which aircraft could operate under camouflage.

Finally, he asked Alexei, “How far can your rocket artillery units fire a typical volley?”

“We have BM-30s,” Alexei replied proudly. “They have a range of fifty-five miles.”

Zmeya tapped his fist softly on the map.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “For reasons I can’t discuss, this situation has to be settled within the next thirty-six hours. Therefore, I strongly recommend the army gear up its rocket artillery units and deploy them to the most advantageous spot in the city to shoot at this Pine Barrens place. I’ll get back to you on the timing.”

General Alexei looked puzzled. “Do you have specific target coordinates in mind?”

Zmeya started folding up the map. “If I can get an infrared satellite image from Moscow in time, then yes,” he replied coldly. “If not, we’ll just keep firing until the whole place is flattened.”

That was it. End of meeting. The Sostva officers saluted and left. Ten seconds later, Militsiya Sublieutenant Boris Borski walked into the room.

Zmeya could barely look at him; both the scar and the man were repulsive. He chose to turn away when talking to the freakish officer.

“I’m going to give you two assignments, Sublieutenant,” he told him. “Both equally important. First, you are to round up two thousand New Yorkers and transport them to Yankee Stadium. Homeless, troublemakers, dissidents, ethnics, the nonproductive types. No one who works for the rackets, but everyone else is fair game.

“On my command, you will execute these people. I don’t have to know how you do it; just don’t waste a lot of ammunition in the process. And make them dig their own graves first, so we don’t squander our manpower. Film it, three-camera shoot, and send the rushes to me.”

Borski was grinning from ear to ear, which just made his scar look even more revolting. Mass executions. This was a dream assignment for him.

Zmeya then handed him a short note he’d just jotted down.

“Your second assignment is contained in here,” Zmeya said. “It is highly classified. Don’t let anyone else see it.”

Borski became so excited he left the room without a salute or an order that he was dismissed. Punishable infractions in normal times.

“Idiot,” Zmeya said under his breath as he watched him go.

Dominique was soon beside him. She was horrified.

“You can’t start exterminating people,” she told him.

Only now was he able to take his medication. He grabbed two pills from his desk drawer and gulped them down with a quick swig of water.

“Did you hear me?” she said. “You can’t just start killing hundreds of people for no reason.”

Close to exasperation, Zmeya finally just looked up at her wearily. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not right,” she replied emphatically. “It’s a crime against humanity.”

He just waved her away. “Everything I do is a crime against humanity. That’s my fucking job description.”

He was a mess. Between what had happened in Russkiy-NYC and his troubles with her, he hadn’t been able to sleep in three nights.

“You truly are a horrible person,” Dominique hissed at him.

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he fired back at her.

“There’s a big difference between horrible and powerful,” she said, her voice dripping with derision.

“Then I suggest you get that knife of yours out again,” he replied, gulping down two more pills, “and use it to stab me in the back, right now. Because Moscow cannot and will not ever make a distinction between those two terms. Not until the planet is theirs. That’s why I’m here. I’m the one who can make it happen.”