Trans-Siberian Express by Warren Adler Page B

state of self-imposed siege, both mentally and physically. Add that to the traditional paranoia of Soviet rulers and you can imagine his mental state. The dacha has been fitted with a complete medical facility and all tests have been conducted with elaborate subterfuge. Luckily I speak Russian and he was able to convey his fears.”
    “I don’t understand,” Alex said, eying the envelope.
    “He trusts us more than his own people. That’s not so strange. Many Russians are the first to admit that they don’t trust each other,” Secretary Carlyle said. “Oh, Dimitrov was quite frank about it. He said they were waiting like vultures to pick his carcass and he has warned us that his death will bring down the whole structure of our mutual policy.
    “At this point he trusts no one,” the Secretary continued. “He claims that there is a faction in the KGB working against him, but he has managed so far to keep them at bay. He also assures us that he still has the other members of the Politburo and the Army under his control. The only thing he has not been able to keep at bay is this.” He pointed to the envelope. “Although he has maintained massive security about his illness, his secret enemies in the Politburo, the KGB and elsewhere suspect he is suffering from some form of terminal disease. He distrusts Soviet doctors in the political sense. He also distrusts the state of the medical art in his own country.”
    “He should,” Alex said. “It is definitely well behind us.”
    “He knows this,” Secretary Carlyle repeated. “And he asked me to convey his medical records to the President, in the hope that we could prolong his life. We have, of course, a vested interest in it. At least until the Politburo meeting.”
    “And then?” Alex asked.
    Secretary Carlyle shrugged, obviously sidestepping the question.
    “I told him that we would submit his records to the foremost leukemia specialist in the country. I also told him that I would get word back to him within seventy-two hours. He is quite realistic about his condition, a most interesting man. Even he points out that it is a question of time. ‘You must find a way to buy me time,’ he pleaded, the implication being that time would allow him to cleanse the oligarchy of adventurers and handpick his successor.”
    Alex could feel both men looking at him, waiting. He felt inadequate to the sudden barrage of information. As he struggled to assess the incoming details, the quick lesson in geopolitical realities, the Machiavellian scheming, so foreign to his experience, he still felt reluctant to become involved.
    “I do admit some expertise in the field of leukemia,” Alex said. “But the study of this disease is still in its infancy. We have made progress. We have managed to achieve some remission with chemotherapy. But we can never promise recovery. In science, gentlemen, you are never an authority. You are always in a state of transition. There are others surely that are equally qualified for this job.”
    “You’re being modest,” the Secretary said. “Besides, we need someone who speaks Russian. We couldn’t have manufactured a better candidate.”
    “So I’ve popped up on the computer,” Alex said.
    “You put it quaintly, Dr. Cousins,” the President said, detecting his annoyance. “When it comes to Russian ancestry the CIA is ridiculously efficient. We know your grandfather was a Czarist exile, who just beat the Bolsheviks out of Siberia. We know your father was with Graves. We were looking for you, Dr. Cousins.”
    “May I?” Alex asked, pointing to the envelope.
    The President nodded. Alex broke the seal as they watched him. He pulled out the pile of papers, forms, X rays. All of the notations were written in Russian.
    I must stay detached, he told himself, concentrating on the reports and documents, as his mind clicked into the Russian language. Russian had been his first language. His mother had barely learned English by the time he was