"It's easily proven," Pletnev said, his head turned to one side to avoid Belozersky's fist on his collar. "We must go there—comrades Pritikin and Sinoviev have told us as much as they know. The seventh chamber does not stop. It goes on forever."

Belozersky let him go and backed away slowly, fists clenched. "Deviationist crap. Pritikin and Sinoviev are intellectuals. Why should I believe them?"

Yazykov motioned for the three soldiers to take Pletnev by the arms. "You sold us into defeat for your own miserable skin," he said. "It was your duty to die out there, not come sniveling to the Americans."

"It was finished," Pletnev said. "We had no other choice."

"This rock can be ours!" Yazykov shouted. "Now, where is Mirsky?"

"I've told you. He's in the fourth chamber."

"Shit. He's in his beloved library," Belozersky said.

"Then that's where we'll arrest him," Yazykov said. "Now we should find Garabedian and Annenkovsky—they're Mirsky's men as well. Comrade Pletnev, I will personally execute you against the far wall of the seventh chamber. I will spread your blood and counterrevolutionary brains on solid proof of your gullibility." He threw his hands up in the air in disgust. "Keep him here until we find the others."

Rimskaya walked across the compound with the message from Belozersky in his hand. He climbed the steps to what had once been Lanier's office, and was now Hoffman's, and knocked on the door. Beryl Wallace answered.

"Message from the Soviets," he said tersely. His face was pale and he looked as if he hadn't slept in days.

"Something important?" Beryl asked.

"Beryl, don't play the protective underling with me. Where is Judith?"

"She's downstairs in conference with the medical supervisor. I'm not being officious, Joseph, but she's very busy."

"Yes, well, the Soviets are busy being Soviets, and I think there's going to be trouble." He wiped his eyes and blinked owlishly.

"I'll get her. She'll meet you downstairs by the secretary's desk."

Rimskaya grunted and clumped back down the stairs.

Hoffman emerged from the executive conference room and took the slate from Rimskaya's hand, reading it over quickly. She also looked exhausted, though less so than Rimskaya. Her eyes were rimmed with purple and her cheeks were puffy from lack of sleep.

"What is Belozersky. . . position, rank?"

"A Zampolit—political officer," Rimskaya said. His hands were shaking. "Major. I've talked with him once or twice."

"What did you think of him?"

Rimskaya shook his head grimly. "Hard-liner, ignorant and unimaginative. These other two, Yazykov and Vielgorsky, they worry me. They're smarter, more dangerous. If they say they've deposed Mirsky and we have to deal with them directly, they've probably done it."

"Then arrange a meeting. We can't just stop talking because of their internal squabbles. And find out from—what's his name?—Sinoviev or Pritikin. Find out from one or the other what's going on and how this affects the Russian civilians."