style="font-size:15px;"> Your Excellency,
I bring to your attention the mood of the intelligence officers of the General Staff.
Russia’s defeat in the war with Japan revealed significant shortcomings in the organization of our military intelligence. The war of 1904—1905 demonstrated the necessity of not only continuous reconnaissance during combat operations, but also of permanent surveillance within the territory of the probable opponent and other states, recruitment of agents, bribery of military and state officials, and counterintelligence, which is neglected, according to most intelligence officers. In addition, I offer the latest report from our agents on the case of Mr. Tesla.
According to our information, in the summer of 1914, when Serbia was at the center of events that led to the beginning of World War I, Mr. Tesla remained in America, taking part in soliciting funds for the Serbian army. Several times in the presence of the press, he expressed a very vague idea clearly related to his recent scientific developments. For instance: «The time will come when some scientific genius will invent a machine capable of destroying one or more armies in one action.»
We propose to maximally activate our group’s efforts to retrieve Mr. Tesla’s technical documents before the German intelligence service does so.
Colonel V.V. Sedyakin
CHAPTER 8
70° 4» 36» N
170° 51» 12» E
Chaunsky District, Chukotka, Russian Federation
March 31, 2001
«This damned place! What in the world attracted you here, tell me? We could be sitting right now in a sauna! You won’t even get yourself cleaned properly! Always showers and showers! It’s not humanlike. People tried with their souls, heated it, cut an ice-hole. It’s winter, damn it!»
«In my opinion, it’s spring! And it’s very beautiful here! Look at how the wind walks, and such waves! Maybe we’ll shoot down something? Who roams here now?»
«We can take a fox. But not with this weather – too much damn wind.»
The two men were walking slowly, in measuring steps, along the coast of the Chukchi Sea. One of them, an authoritative figure, listened attentively to what the other was explaining. The «boss» had an expensive-looking shotgun hanging over his shoulder. On the melting snow, rolling through the snow dunes, two vehicles slowly followed the men: a black Toyota Land Cruiser and a Russian-made all-terrain army vehicle, GAZ-34039. Three other men in dark jackets journeyed at a distance along the same course, scanning the desolate, forbidding surroundings.
The discussion turned to setting up a repeater station in this area to ensure continued telephone and internet connection for the few towns and villages. The nearest such station was in Pevek and had a service range of several hundred kilometers. This was clearly not enough for the needs of the villages, geological stations, settlements of reindeer herders and hunters, and for the increasing shipping traffic on the Northern Sea Route. Moscow was keenly interested in developing this area and openly hinted to the private sector that it would be nice to not use state funds, but «other» financial resources instead. As they say, there was little choice.
«Andrei Andreyevich, you have to understand that if we set the station here, people will be sent here as if to the pole for exile. Even animals haven’t walked these lands in years. It’s a dead place!» loudly voiced the elderly man in a fur cap pulled down over his head and hustling and waving his short arms.
«Don’t worry, Nikolai Alekseyevich, everything will be fine.» It was evident that the tall young man with a red week-old beard, a bare head and in dark glasses, and in a short, light and, apparently, very warm jacket, turned to his companion with an elaborate yet condescending politeness. «If necessary, I’ll send a good work force here. Bachelors and experienced explorers. There have to be three people per shift. It’ll be warm under the roof, with constant connection… much better than toiling on a rig or on a rocker. We’ll build a helicopter pad, warehouses, and so on… stock up on vodka. Speaking of which, how about some, Nikolai Alekseyevich? Maybe you’ll sign up for a season or two?» Along with words, white vapor came from his mouth. He walked, wistfully looking at the bleak hills, the unfriendly Chukchi Sea, and thought: What the fuck am I doing here? There wasn’t any need to choose the site myself, or to even fly out here. Everything could be done by experts. Look at me – a communications expert, idiot! Signalman-millionaire! Wherever you want, that’s where you put these damn repeaters. Come to London! No, better you come with us to Kolyma… How I’ve had it with these social responsibilities, fat bitches…
The fresh breeze from the sea touched the young man’s red hair. He was a naturally handsome persona, built like a middle-weight boxer, pale-skinned like Lord Byron and with blue eyes set deep in the shadows of his brows. His name was Andrei Andreyevich Romanov. He was forty-one years old. He was worth three billion dollars and had the broadest of ties «at the top.» These ties allowed him to engage in speculation, securities, state property, the «official» removal of competitors, and other matters, always bringing him a profit. A considerable profit.
This inexplicable pull to come and «enjoy» the beauty of the Arctic Circle came to fruition only a few weeks ago to this Russian nouveau riche, who rose from small business in the early nineties to a billion-dollar empire today. He was driving in Moscow to a Union of Industrialists meeting when he halted in a traffic jam on Tverskaya Street. No emergency or security vehicles and not even signal-flashing state limos could unglue the cars stuck like sprats in a can on both sides of the street. Out of nowhere, a dirty gypsy, some Tajik kid, ran up to the car and began to rub a sticky cloth on the tinted glass on the passenger side of the black Bentley. The boy’s eyes were completely empty and seemed like huge eyeballs. He was furiously trying to push the cloth on the glass directly in Romanov’s face, as if to wipe his nose. Out flew the bodyguards, trying to pull the boy away – however, he grabbed a door handle, so that even two heavies couldn’t do anything. He even managed to free for a few moments, pulling a stub of corn cob out of his inner jacket pocket and forcefully rubbing it onto the window. Yellow kernels scattered on the sides, and the spot of impact on the glass blurred like a sun in children’s drawings. «Ton guha,» cried the boy passionately, «Ton guha!»
Finally, the security tore the boy off the car and kicked him onto the sidewalk, where onlookers were already enjoying the little spectacle. «Ton guha! Ton guha…» the little dark-skinned kid continued screaming until one of the guards feigned a threatening movement, supposedly trying to catch the offender of the peace. The kid disappeared down an alleyway, sticking his tongue out at the heavy.
Romanov smiled and asked the driver, anxiously glancing at the clock, «Kostya, what is this „ton guha?“ Do you know, by chance?»
«Some damn black-speak probably, Andrei Andreyevich. «Give me money,» or something, I guess. I know that in Georgian, «give me money’ goes something like puli mamitschkhara… something like that, though I’m not sure… They’re everywhere!»
Being from Yaroslavl, Kostya was deeply concerned about the changing ethnic composition of the capital’s population. Meanwhile, Romanov’s heart suddenly felt pricked and he sighed with a slight groan, leaning back in his leather seat, and closing his eyes. He became deathly depressed, like once upon a time following the tragic death of his mother in a car accident. Kostya turned and looked worriedly at his boss, who just waved
