Trans-Siberian Express by Warren Adler Page A

it merely nostalgia or did he feel some strange genetic pull, as his grandfather had always claimed he would.
    “There are those in the Politburo,” Secretary Carlyle said, “who might opt for a quick strike now, a massive blow. They do not intend to occupy China. Their gamble is that, after the destruction, the Chinese would turn against the Maoists and turn over the rebuilding of China to Russian-oriented revolutionaries. Then China would become what it was always meant to be in Russia’s eyes—a puppet state, like Outer Mongolia, like Hungary, Czechoslovakia, East Germany.”
    “Now, one would think,” the President said, “that the United States would be happy to stand by while the two great superpowers of the Communist world bludgeon themselves to death. Not at all. Our own scientific people have told us that a huge nuclear strike in either direction would mean immense nuclear fallout, certainly over Alaska and parts of Canada, and very likely over the continental United States. The odd thing is, with the prevailing configuration of winds across the surface of the earth, we would get more fallout than European Russia.”
    They had now crossed into Alex’s own field. He was a member of the “Special Task Force on Evaluation of Nuclear Destruction,” which studied the projected kill potential of radiation fallout from dirty bombs. It would destroy the blood as quickly and ruthlessly as any form of leukemia. But these studies had always been an unemotional exercise in probabilities, a game of bureaucrats. Alex had attended sessions of the Task Force for ten years, evaluating kill-ratios, radiation intensity, the effect on the human machine. But it had only been theoretical, make-work, time away from his basic research. He watched the two men in the quiet room, the family pictures on the piano, the pleasant afternoon light through the tall windows. Faintly, from the distance, he could hear the rumble of cars and the occasional honk of a horn.
    “So you see,” Secretary Carlyle said. Alex seemed to have missed something. Had his attention strayed? “It all boils down to time. In time the Chinese will develop a nuclear capability to reach into the cities of European Russia, complicating Soviet strategy. And Mao’s death, of course, has a great deal of impact on the situation. He was one of the most implacable opponents of Stalin, and of the Russian brand of Communism. Now that he’s dead, some experts think the Chinese might come back into the fold, good little Communists under Russian control.
    “Now we are faced with a new question of time,” the President said. “It is no secret that Dimitrov is committed to détente with us. He is also committed, apparently, to a more moderate stance toward the Chinese. Considering all the dangers and possibilities, his is the approach we favor. Dimitrov, Dr. Cousins, is our man in the Kremlin and he will be meeting in approximately seven weeks with the Politburo”—The President cleared his throat—“to recommend immediate negotiation with the Chinese to resolve all differences.”
    “Is that what we want?” Alex said thoughtfully. He had always assumed the opposite.
    “Considering the alternatives”—the Secretary of State paused—“yes.” He hesitated for a moment. Alex would remember that pause later, in the light of his own knowledge of events. “He has assured me that he will act at the next Politburo meeting, that he will put the stamp of consensus on it.”
    “He is the man,” the President said. “He controls. They may intrigue against him. They may rant and rave, but he is the dominating force. Dimitrov gets what he wants.” The President shook his head and stood up, then pointed to the envelope.
    “The problem is in there. His time is running out.”
    “I see.” Alex nodded.
    “What I saw,” Secretary Carlyle said, “was an exhausted man, weakened to the point of total collapse. I was driven to his dacha, where he lives literally in a