Chapter Thirty-Four

May 10

Ivan Samsonov looked out the only window in his new office at the Liberty Court building in Lower Manhattan. It was still raining.

The weather had been wet and gloomy for the past twenty-four hours. Downpours nonstop, giant raindrops, like a million tears, rolling down his windowpane. He wondered how things were back in Petrograd. Was it sunny there?

The rain clouds had a silver lining, though. The fires in Midtown and southern Manhattan were finally going out.

Samsonov had been a hero for exactly one day. He was the guy who shot down the ghost plane. Not entirely accurate, but what did details matter. Praised by the Sostva, idolized on Red Radio, promised the People’s Medal of Courage by the NKVD, his name had been on everyone’s lips.

Until … the little clown plane showed up again the next night, sank the Yak barge and its fuel ship, and was spotted in the sky during the firebombing of the MMZ. After that, Samsonov’s celebrity status went up in smoke quicker than the drug pens on Chelsea Piers. Red Radio stopped talking about him, the Sostva stopped reading his reports, and he never did get that medal. He was still worried that the NKVD was going to knock on his door at any minute and take him for a ride to the Staten Island landfill.

In the middle of it all, the army had transferred what was left of its staff people to the new headquarters down near Battery Park. Samsonov’s office was on the top floor, and it included a tiny studio apartment. But it was nowhere near as luxurious as his old office in the immolated Army Building. It was cramped, and that single window looked out not on panoramic Manhattan, but on the smoky, greasy, trash-strewn communal canteen next door and the dreary navy ships in the harbor beyond.

Just a few days ago, the Russian military in America had commanded four mighty skyscrapers.

Now they had this second-rate twenty-story high rise, while the NKVD was suddenly in the tallest building in the world.

Nothing about his job had changed.

Security was in place around the new headquarters, and Samsonov still made rounds and still had to read and sign mountains of paperwork. The famously glacial Russian bureaucracy hadn’t sped up just because the MMZ was now a smoldering hole in the ground. With the whole system in disarray, if anything, it would probably get worse.

It was 5:00 a.m. and he’d been working in his apartment, which contained a foldout couch, a personal desk, a dresser, and not much more. He’d fallen asleep on his couch, surrounded by piles of things he had to sign, when there was a knock at his door.

His heart immediately went to his throat. He took his LPG-3 pistol from his desk and opened the door. Two unsmiling Militsiya walked in, wearing their signature black hats and coats and dark glasses.

“You are Colonel Ivan Samsonov Mikalovich?” one asked as the other took the pistol from him.

“I am,” Samsonov replied, just about losing it.

The first man reached into his interior coat pocket and pulled out not a gun, but a red-striped pouch.

He handed it to Samsonov, and both men left without another word.

Samsonov’s hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the pouch, let alone open it. But inside there were no pictures of naked women, but a note from the new NKVD HQ at the World Trade Center, signed by Commissar Zmeya himself.

It read: “You have been promoted to Supreme Commander of all Okupatsi forces in Russkiy-NYC. Report to my office immediately.”

Samsonov ran in the rain.

There was no army transport available for him, and it was impossible to find one of the yellow cabs that were supposed to be providing rides for military officers.

But he didn’t care. His head was spinning, his body still trembling. What was this all about? For his own sanity, he had to find out. It was just eight blocks to the WTC, so he’d thrown a trash bag over his head and sprinted down the wet and dirty streets.

He literally ran into a Chekski checkpoint five blocks out from the Twin Towers, which were hard to see in the rain and fog. He hated the Chekskis, hated having anything to do with them. Though they wore policemen’s uniforms, they were always unwashed and unshaven and many of them went barefoot. The guys manning this checkpoint were no different. Madmen with AK-47s who gave everyone a hard time and seemed ready to fly off the handle at any moment.

He showed them the note from Zmeya, basically a writ of free passage anywhere in the city. But still, they delayed letting him through until everyone at the checkpoint—seven gunmen in all—had read the missive, discussed it, checked his personal papers, and then read the note again, all while keeping him waiting in the rain.

Once through, he began running again, only to encounter another Chekski checkpoint not a half block away. Eventually let through, he was stopped at a third checkpoint just a half block away from that. Across from him was Greenwich Street. It went for quite a way in both directions and he saw dozens of Chekski checkpoints and clusters of men and equipment set up practically on top of one another. Thousands of Chekskis had been ordered to security duty in the area.

He had to pass through seven more security checkpoints before reaching the entryway to Tower Two, where it only got worse.

As soon as he walked through the main doors of Tower Two, Samsonov felt really disturbing vibes. Every NKVD person he saw—officers, guards, apparatchiks—was not only busy, but in panic mode, desperately busy.

He could tell something had gone terribly wrong for the NKVD. He’d been in the Russian military for almost fifteen years. He knew what the shit drill looked like. But he could only wonder what it was, beyond the firebombing of Midtown.

He got rid of the trash bag and tried to shake the water out of his uniform and hair. The first interior checkpoint was near the elevators. It was guarded by the Milashkis, Zmeya’s sexy, all-female, inner-sanctum protection squad. The last time Samsonov had seen the Cuties, he’d been smuggling an RPG launcher into 30 Rock. Now he had a letter signed by the commissar himself.

“I am glad to see you and not the Chekskis in here,” he said as they were letting him pass.

“The Chekskis are not allowed within a quarter-mile perimeter of the commissar’s headquarters,” a Cutie replied.

Samsonov was in the building security business; he knew how to guard a skyscraper. A quarter-mile perimeter would be considered very loose and ineffective. If it were up to him, he’d have at least half the Chekskis closer in, if not inside the building itself.

“On whose orders?” he asked.

“The commissar’s,” she replied dryly. “He doesn’t want them any nearer to him than that.”

The next three checkpoints were manned by uniformed male Militsiyas. They had rigged the elevators to stop at three random floors for a security check. Every time the doors opened and a guard read his note, Samsonov could see more and more armed NKVD cops roaming around. Even some apparatchiks were now carrying weapons.

He reached the 110th floor, the site of Zmeya’s new gigantic apartment in the sky, to find a small army of extremely tough-looking gunmen hanging around, special plainclothes Militsiya he assumed. Each was holding an AK-47 and eyeing him suspiciously.

Finally, the NKVD guard at the last checkpoint looked at the letter and told him, “Down the hallway, second door on the right. If it’s open, go in. If it’s closed, knock.”

Samsonov walked down the darkened corridor, suddenly feeling very uneasy. Who knew what really awaited him? After all, this was the NKVD. Plus, he was mess. His uniform was soaking wet, his hair plastered to his head.

He paused before the second door and tried to straighten himself out. Deep breath. Push back the hair. Put on the game face.

Knock twice.

The door opened—and suddenly he was face to face with Dominique.

She was wearing a very short negligee and was smiling sweetly.

“Oh my goodness, you’re all wet,” she said.

Samsonov nearly passed out. The angel herself, standing right in front of him, dressed like …

“I am Colonel Ivan Samsonov, reporting as requested,” he said, having no idea how he got the words out.

She never lost her smile. “Come in,” she said. “He’s on the radiophone, and that usually takes a while. In fact, you would not believe some of the things he’s been missing because of that damn phone.”

She fetched a towel for him and then led him into the huge living area. Zmeya was in the other room, his back to them, viciously berating someone on the other end of the phone.

“It’s a fucking aircraft carrier,” he was saying through gritted teeth. “It’s enormous. You’ve got more than a hundred satellites. Why can’t you find the goddamn thing?”

“Your next meeting is here,” she called to him with mock weariness.

“Sit him down,” Zmeya yelled back over his shoulder. “Give him some mineral water or something.”

She led Samsonov to an alcove off the main living area where a curved couch awaited. They sat down, her right next to him. The view was spectacular.

“Looking out on the world from the top of the world,” she said with a sigh. “It’s like you can see all of Earth from here.”

Samsonov was still in shock that this was happening, his brain’s reaction to the sudden overload of stimuli. But now with her sitting so close to him, he began praying that another part of his body wouldn’t start reacting. It was going to be a tough job.

She was so natural in her short negligee, her legs and feet as perfect as the rest of her. She smelled beautiful. And she was smiling at him, and sitting very close and giving off the aura of someone who was ready to have sex at any moment.

“You know, I know who you are,” she told him.

That was it; he could barely breathe.

“Because I was the army liaison officer to the commissar’s office?” he managed to spit out.

She playfully slapped his leg. “No—silly. You’re the hero. The person who shot the ghost plane.”

Samsonov flashed back to that awful night when he was holding on for dear life at the top of 30 Rock. He was so scared then. But how strange is life? He’d only done it in the hope that Dominique would become aware of his courageous act—and him. Now he was here talking to her. His plan had worked beyond all expectations.

But old-fashioned honor led him to reply, in a whisper, “But the ghost plane came back, my lady. The next night …”

She just touched his hand for a moment and said, “I know.”

Samsonov could no longer sit up properly. He silently began reciting prayers at twice the normal speed.

“How did you survive the firestorm?” she asked. “Wasn’t it horrible?”

“It was the one night I decided to go home,” he told her. “The first time I’d slept in my billet in almost two weeks. It is only by luck that I wasn’t in my office when the bombing happened.”

“I’m glad you were not hurt,” she said.

“I am as well, my lady,” he said with a smile.

They looked out at Manhattan again. It was dizzying at this height.

“Such a great city it is,” she said with another sigh.

“I think that’s why we are here, my lady.”

She laughed at that. She was so easygoing, he felt as if he’d known her for years.

“It would really be a shame if the city were destroyed,” she said wistfully. “We came close with the firebombing. What happens next time?”

“Talking as a security officer,” he replied, “it’s always good to have a contingency plan.”

It was more of a joke than anything else, very dry Russian humor. And she laughed at it as well.

“The way things are going,” she said, “I think the only contingency at this point would be a gigantic submarine. Avoid everything else. Just come up, get us, go back down, and sail away. Who would ever know?”

“It is the navy who has the submarines, my lady,” he said, kidding her again. “I’m no expert, but they have at least a handful. Nuclear-powered, of course. They could go forever.”

“Really?” she asked, leaning even closer to him. “Are they here you mean? Attached to the Okupatsi? Nearby … underwater?”

Samsonov started to answer, but suddenly became aware of someone standing behind them.

It was Commissar Zmeya, looming over him.

“This is … what’s the word? Cozy,” Zmeya sneered.

Samsonov could already see the muzzle flashes of the firing squad in his near future. He’d just been caught talking mush with the commissar’s mistress, who just happened to be the girl of his dreams.

But Zmeya was on another mission entirely. He made Dominique get up so he could sit down with Samsonov.

“Don’t forget what we were in the middle of doing,” she told Zmeya coyly.

Then she wandered away.

Zmeya gave him a perfunctory handshake.

“Congratulations, Samsonov,” he said, not even looking at him. “Please try to do your best for the Motherland, so on and so forth.”

“So, it is true, Commissar? I am the new supreme commander?”

“Of course you are,” Zmeya snapped. “That’s why you’re here.”

“But what about the Sostva? People haven’t seen them in the flesh since the firebombing. They were not hurt I hope.”

Zmeya was already getting exasperated.

“The Sostva officers decided to take some time off to work on their radio-broadcasting skills,” he said, adding ominously, “over on Staten Island. Now, is there anything else you’re curious about, Samsonov?”

Samsonov put his hand to his mouth, indicating he would shut up. Zmeya took out the contents of an envelope he was holding. Plans for the massive bombardment of a section of New Jersey about forty miles south of New York City.

“This is the only ongoing operation that’s important at the moment,” Zmeya told him.

“The Pine Barrens?” Samsonov asked, looking at the map. “The haunted forest?”

“Yes,” Zmeya said. “Under NKVD direction, the army hit it with a series of rocket artillery strikes just hours ago. We’re sending in a battalion of Chekskis to clear it of the guerillas who firebombed us.”

“You found them, sir?”

“Of course we did,” Zmeya snapped again. “And we’ve taken care of the problem, as you can see. But I brought you up here to warn you, Samsonov. The NKVD cannot continue to do things the army should be doing. These are critical times for the Okupatsi. If there are enemies around us, then do your duty, and do something about them, so we can continue our important work. That’s it. You can go.”

Samsonov got to his feet and saluted.

When he didn’t move right away, Zmeya looked up at him. “Is there something else?”

“Yes, sir,” he began, “I am now head of all the military in Russkiy-NYC. Is it because I was a hero? Because I damaged the ghost plane?”

Zmeya just glowered up at him. “Of course not, you fool. That bastard clown was back the next night—and look what that led to.”

“Then why, Commissar? Why me?”

Zmeya stood up and faced him almost nose to nose.

“If you’re a hero,” he said, “it’s only because you got Cadillacs and hookers for my men. Now, we are done here.”

Samsonov saluted again and finally turned to go. But Zmeya caught him by the sleeve and added coldly, “And by the way, Samsonov—you weren’t the first choice for the job.”