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Malinsky nodded. Yes. But it was really an unconcerned gesture. The old man was engrossed in the map again, seeking out advantageous ground and constructing hypothetical situations for a possible clash with the Americans. He had come back from the depths of weariness one more time, rejuvenated by the prospect of another combat challenge, of a new enemy.

Suddenly, Malinsky turned from the map, smiling. He stood up with the sprightliness of a boy. "We'll beat them, Pavel Pavlovitch. They've waited too long. I don't believe they can reach us in time to make a difference." Malinsky set his face into a resolute expression, and Chibisov felt as though he were staring at the personification of the long history of Russian military struggles. "Damn them, let them come, the Americans. We can beat the Americans, too."

Malinsky surprised his chief of staff by taking hold of his upper arm.

Chibisov automatically recoiled from the human touch, then mastered 287

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his reflexes and forced himself to endure the grasp. He felt as though his armor had been penetrated, as though even this friendly grasp might fatally weaken his tenuous control over his lungs, over his fate.

"You realize that we had to fight," Malinsky said passionately, vividly Russian in his tone of confidence. "Do you see that, Pavel Pavlovitch? It wasn't only the political situation. We've been through worse crises. But we had to fight them now. It was the last chance. They were beating us without ever firing a shot. They forced us to fight so long with their weapons—technology, economics, their entire arsenal for destroying us in peacetime. And we could not compete. We were losing, and it became so apparent that even a fool could see it. They were laughing at us, Pavel Pavlovitch. But they aren't laughing now. There is one thing we can still beat them at. Look at that map. We'll beat the Americans, if they come.

We have no choice."

Major General Borchak, special KGB representative to the front's military council, labored over his daily report. Writing official correspon-dence was an art, and Borchak prided himself on his mastery of it. You had to write in such a way that it provided indisputable facts for future use by your superiors, but you had to arrange those facts in such a manner that they did not directly affix biame, so that they could be given an innocent, sober interpretation, should the individual about whom you were reporting ever attain access to his file or gain unexpected power over you. Borchak struggled to communicate his grave doubts about Malinsky and his clique, but to do so without the sort of crude directness that might one day become a liability.

He did not like Malinsky. Overall, he found army generals a bit too puffed up, too convinced of their indispensability. Certainly, the regular military forces had a role to play. But the ultimate guarantor of Soviet power was and always would be the state security apparatus. Military commanders were narrow-minded, greedy, and naive. For the most part, they could be managed. But Malinsky made Borchak uneasy.

Borchak would have much preferred the front commander to have a few obvious vices. The most desirable traits in a high-ranking military officer, from Borchak's point of view, were occasional weaknesses toward alcohol or women—or even a reasonable appetite for material corruption. Officers who had such traits inevitably left a trail that could be exploited should the need arise. A man like Starukhin, for instance, could never be a threat in the long term. He would always say something in his drunken belligerence that was potentially fatal. But Malinsky was too clean. Of course, you could always make a case of sorts out of his 288

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bloodlines. Such a stale approach was not much to Borchak's taste, however. As a matter of professional pride. He would have much preferred something immediate and powerful, with an unmistakable taint of filth, to hold over the man.