However, he said nothing.

Khrushchev went on: “And then, when the weapons are launch-ready, we’ll make an announcement. It will be a fait accompli—the Americans will be helpless to do anything about it.”

It was just the kind of grand dramatic gesture Khrushchev loved, and Dimka realized he would never talk him out of it. He said cautiously: “I wonder how President Kennedy will react to such an announcement.”

Khrushchev made a scornful noise. “He’s a boy—inexperienced, timid, weak.”

“Of course,” said Dimka, though he feared Khrushchev might be underestimating the young president. “But they have midterm elections on November sixth. If we revealed the missiles during the campaign, Kennedy would come under heavy pressure to do something drastic, to avoid humiliation at the polls.”

“Then you have to keep the secret until November sixth.”

Dimka said: “Who does?”

“You do. I’m putting you in charge of this project. You’ll be my liaison with the Defense Ministry, who will have to carry it out. It will be your job to make sure they don’t let the secret leak before we’re ready.”

Dimka was shocked enough to blurt out: “Why me?”

“You hate that prick Filipov. Therefore I can trust you to ride him hard.”

Dimka was too aghast to wonder how Khrushchev knew he hated Filipov. The army was being given a near-impossible task—and Dimka would get the blame if it went wrong. This was a catastrophe.

But he knew better than to say so. “Thank you, Nikita Sergeyevich,” he said formally. “You can rely on me.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The GAZ-13 limousine was called a Seagull because of its streamlined American-style rear wings. It could reach one hundred miles per hour, just, although it was uncomfortable at such speeds on Soviet roads. It was available in two-tone burgundy and cream with whitewall tires, but Dimka’s was black.

He sat in the back as it drove onto the quayside at Sevastopol, Ukraine. The town stood on the tip of the Crimean Peninsula, where it poked out into the Black Sea. Twenty years ago it had been flattened by German bombing and artillery fire. After the war it had been rebuilt as a cheerful seaside resort with Mediterranean balconies and Venetian arches.

Dimka got out and looked at the ship moored at the dock, a timber freighter with oversize hatches designed to take tree trunks. Under the hot summer sun, stevedores were loading skis and clearly labeled cartons of cold-weather clothing, to give the impression that the ship was headed to the frozen north. Dimka had devised the deliberately misleading code name Operation Anadyr, after a town in Siberia.

A second Seagull pulled onto the dock and parked behind Dimka’s. Four men in Red Army Intelligence uniforms got out and stood waiting for his instructions.

A railway line ran alongside the dock, and a massive gantry straddled the line, positioned to shift cargo directly from railcar to ship. Dimka looked at his wristwatch. “The fucking train should be here by now.”

Dimka was wound up tight. He had never been so tense in all his life. He had not even known what stress was until he started this project.