Read Someone Else's War: A Novel of Russia and America Page 79
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CC Cooper went to his distinguished visiting professor’s flat at the Academy’s officers’ hostel, a two-room affair that would have been called a “deluxe efficiency” back in America. He considered it neither deluxe nor efficient. He got a yellow pad from his desk, scrawled on it, Bar Closed until Further Notice. Sorry, and taped it to his outer door. He then poured himself a stiff bourbon over ice, rummaged in the refrigerator for a bit of cheese and salami, chewed thoughtfully, and calmly analyzed the possibilities. If he tried to help Olivia, he could not expect his role not to become known. It would be traced. In any event, he wasn’t going to make a single phone call, then sit back and hope for the best. In for a kopek, in for a buck. He was going to get involved, deliberately and open-endedly, in a Russian mess and perhaps an international mess as well. He didn’t have diplomatic immunity, but neither was he just another tourist or businessman. He could very easily wind up in jail himself, at least for a few hours or days or weeks. He wasn’t too worried about what the Russians might do to him. He did have friends at Voroshilov, who had friends elsewhere, and Uncle Sammy wouldn’t take too kindly to a man of his years and distinction getting worked over or worse. Kicking him out of their country was far more likely. They certainly wouldn’t shave his head and send him back to Vietnam. Or to Chechnya.
But should he help Olivia?
What Olivia had done appalled him. True enough, all that verbiage about common enemies and the like. But to go to Russia as a private person who had worked on American classified projects, to develop vital technologies for them and then to participate in their wars herself…the Constitution might not call it treason but in his mind, in the mind of any average American, it came pretty damn close to treason. Or to insanity. And yet Cooper knew that from her perspective, her decision had been eminently rational. Her career was stalled, her life going nowhere. Her country refused, over and over, when she offered her best. Somebody made her an offer she liked. She accepted.
Perfectly rational. But not for that reason, right. Never would he call it right. But she was. Right to do it, right to hope that more might someday come of it.
Damn, my head’s startin’ to hurt from all this. OK. Just because it’s right don’t mean I have to say it is. But I sure don’t like the idea of Americans ending up in Russian dungeons, locked up by the people they been helpin’. Ain’t exactly hospitable. But most of all. Come on, Coop, face facts. Most of all…
I’ve always wanted to visit the Moscow Bureau of the Washington Post. I just betcha it’s a fascinatin’ place. All them smart people. And hell, if I end up in the Lubby-Yanky for a couple days, it’ll give me some stories I can improve for the rest of my life. Who’s gonna dispute them? Some Russkie, probably, who shows up teachin’ at Carlisle. Just my luck.
CC Cooper poured himself another bourbon, then called a contact at the American embassy and asked for the address and phone number of the Washington Post Moscow Bureau. Five minutes later, a phone rang.
“Taylor.”
The voice that drilled into her was imperious, stern, unmistakably American, the faint Southern accent only giving emphasis to the precise enunciation. “Ms. Taylor, my name is CC Cooper. I’m a retired US Army colonel, currently on the faculty of the Army War College back in the States. I’m here for a year as a visiting professor at the Voroshilov General Staff College.”
“What can I do for you, Colonel?”
“We have a friend in common. She’s in trouble.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Not until we meet. A very close friend of hers told me to get in touch with you. He said that you’d know what this is about and what to do. How soon can you see me?”