Net Force - Tom Clancy [66]
Plekhanov wore his bland smile, revealing nothing about his thoughts. This meeting was merely one of many. By now, the players were known quantities, their fortunes dependent upon him. Today, it was the politicians; tomorrow, it would be the military. In a few days, he would be in another hotel room, in another country, having similar talks with politicians and generals. Covering all his bets.
They finished the scrambled eggs and salmon hash, drank their juice and coffee. Plekhanov enjoyed the sharp and bitter smell of the brew, so dark it looked like espresso. He wouldnt have expected coffee this good in such a place.
You all have your new transfer numbers? Plekhanov asked.
There were three other people in the room, two men and a woman, all duly elected members of the Verkhovna Rada, the local parliament.
Yes, they said simultaneously.
Plekhanov nodded. The electronic money he had given these three access to was inconsequential, a half million or so each in the local currency. Of course, it was a lot to a potato farmer, a part-time university teacher and an ex-Army officer. This particular money was oil for squeaky wheels, to smooth and lubricate rough spots, for bribes, gifts, political contributions, whatever it took. There would be much more later, and power to go with it. These three were to be the new President and his two most influential ministers, come the next election. He had yet to decide who would get which job, but it would be happening soon, so best he start making his choices.
Tomorrow, he would talk to his two tame Ukrainian generals, also about to be promoted in rank and prestige. There were many paths up the mountain, but the two that would give a man the most power when he got to the summit were to be found in the ammunition sacks of the army and the briefcases of the lawmakers. When you had those, you were practically invincible. With but one other, you were untouchable.
Too bad the churches were not as powerful here as once theyd been
Comrade Plekhanov? the woman said.
Yes? This was Ludmilla Khomyakov, whose parents were originally from Moscow, and once very active in Communist Party circles. He had not been called comrade in a long time-not in the way she meant the word.
There has been some difficulty from the trade union movement. Igor Bulavin threatens to have his members call a strike if the new reforms are passed.
Bulavin is a Cossack and a fool. That was from Razin, the ex-Army officer. Hed retired as a major before going into politics.
You are also a Cossack, Yemelyan. Khomyakov said.
That is how I know, Razin said. Do not worry about Bulavin. He can have a fatal accident in that ancient car of which he is so proud. It can be easily arranged.
Plekhanov looked at the woman. Is it your feeling that this Bulavin is enough of a threat to warrant such an accident, Ludmilla?
She shook her head. She was forty, but still a handsome woman. He is a threat, but perhaps killing him is not altogether necessary.
Death is final, Razin said.
Da, it is, but Bulavin is a devil we know. Alive and tethered to a pole in our tent, he could still be useful.
And how do you propose to chain him there? He is too stupid to be afraid of threats, he will not accept a bribe and he has no skeletons in his closet to rattle at him. I say we squash him.
The third man, Demitrius Skotinos, an ethnic Greek who still ran a small potato farm up-country, said nothing.
Perhaps we could put a new skeleton into his closet? Khomyakov said.
Razin snorted.
Plekhanov