A man in a civilian suit jumped down off a car, and Dimka was irritated to see that it was Yevgeny Filipov, his opposite number at the Defense Ministry. Filipov approached Pankov, as the captain had, but Pankov said: “Comrade Dvorkin is in command here.”

Filipov shrugged. “Just a few minutes late,” he said with a satisfied air. “We were delayed—”

Dimka noticed something. “Oh, no,” he said. “Fuck it.”

Filipov said: “Something wrong?”

Dimka stamped his foot on the concrete quay. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“What is it?”

Dimka looked at him in fury. “Who’s in charge on the train?”

“Colonel Kats is with us.”

“Bring the dumb bastard here to me right away.”

Filipov did not like to do Dimka’s bidding, but he could hardly refuse such a request, and he went away.

Pankov looked an inquiry at Dimka.

Dimka said with weary rage: “Do you see what is stenciled on the side of each crate?”

Pankov nodded. “It’s an army code number.”

“Exactly,” Dimka said bitterly. “It means: ‘R-12 ballistic missile.’”

“Oh, shit,” said Pankov.

Dimka shook his head in impotent fury. “Torture is too good for some people.”

He had feared that sooner or later he would have a showdown with the army, and on balance it suited him to have it now, over the very first shipment. And he was prepared for it.

Filipov returned with a colonel and a major. The senior man said: “Good morning, comrades. I’m Colonel Kats. Slight delay, but otherwise everything is going smoothly—”

“No, it’s not, you dimwitted prick,” said Dimka.

Kats was incredulous. “What did you say?”

Filipov said: “Look here, Dvorkin, you can’t talk to an army officer like that.”

Dimka ignored Filipov and spoke to Kats. “You have endangered the security of this entire operation by your disobedience. Your orders were to paint over the army numbers on the crates. You were provided with new stencils reading ‘Construction-Grade Plastic Pipe.’ You were to paint new markings on all the crates.”

Kats said indignantly: “There wasn’t time.”

Filipov said: “Be reasonable, Dvorkin.”

Dimka suspected Filipov might be happy for the secret to leak, for then Khrushchev would be discredited and might even fall from power.

Dimka pointed south, out to sea. “There is a NATO country just one hundred and fifty miles in that direction, Kats, you fucking idiot. Don’t you know that the Americans have spies? And that they send them to places such as Sevastopol, which is a naval base and a major Soviet port?”

“The markings are in code—”

“In code? What is your brain made of, dog shit? What training do you imagine is given to capitalist-imperialist spies? They are taught to recognize uniform badges—such as the missile regiment flash you are wearing on your collar, also against orders—as well as other military insignia and equipment markings. You stupid turd, every traitor and CIA informant in Europe can read the army code on these crates.”

Kats tried standing on his dignity. “Who do you think you are?” he said. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’ve got children older than you.”