Chapter eight: 'The Color of Socialism'

Moscow

"Comrade Bedny, this plan sounds very ... how can I say? Unachievable?"

"Comrade Karmal, our analysts have studied the plan and it's consequences very attentively. It is very much achievable," Bedny objected without turning from his task of diligently slicing his meat.

The man in the sand-colored uniform put down his fork and knife. His accent in Russian was thick but understandable.

"It may lead to mutual assured destruction! Don't you agree, comrade Castillo?"

Another man across the table answered with a slight Spanish accent. "Not necessarily." His olive green uniform was of an uncertain rank and definitely not Soviet. He had a consent smile underneath a salient straight nose.

"But comrade, you yourself have suffered a humiliation by the Americans during the missile crisis seventeen years ago. Don't you feel this might lead to the same result?"

"The Americans suffered a letdown during their attempt to storm the Bay of Pigs. It resulted in a disaster for them. So will this. I trust comrade Bedny's judgment."

"Thank you for agreeing with me, Castillo. Having allies so close to the Americans is very reassuring. Now, my friend Karmal. About your part of the plan. Hafizullah Amin is not able to gain the control over Afghanistan. From our intelligence reports we gather that the rebels are already controlling three quarters of the 28 provinces. It is time for Russia to step in. My comrades in the Kremlin and I agree: Amin is offending us both by his maverick Communism and by the insurrection." As Bedny spoke he elegantly placing his set of cutlery on his now empty plate.

Babrak Karmal shook his head. "You know that communism is very difficult to exercise in a country where most people are ardent Muslims. How could I do any better?"

"Religion is the opium of the people. They will have to adjust. My troops will help. Once this is gained I trust that progress will take place. Is it not so, comrade Castillo?" Bedny smiled his diplomat smile at the Cuban representative.

Castillo nodded. "In Cuba we had a similar problem. But we are successfully fighting them."

"The belief in a god is just absurd. Once the people understand that, we will advance. Communism will take over this capitalist world. With both Afghanistan and Cuba as allies other nations will follow. Desert anyone? We have watermelons imported from Cuba." Bedny gestured and reached for the fresh fruit. With a large knife he split the watermelon into two halves, revealing the red interior demonstratively.

"Every nation is by heart socialistic. Capitalism stresses competition and profit, socialism calls for cooperation and social service. Now what nation does not want that? But because of America pushing and tugging the world into capitalism there are so much troubles nowadays."

"Afghanistan is not soviet ground, never has been." Castillo stated.

"Not yet," Bedny said as he bit cheerfully into the neatly sliced watermelon. The red juice rushed down his cheeks and onto the plate.

A door opened and closed silently. One of Bedny's aides hurried into the room, whispered into Bedny's left ear and turned as fast and inconspicuous as he had come.

"Excuse me comrades, but I have just received an urgent call. I will take it in my office. It will not take long." He excused himself and turned towards the door.

Conscientiously Bedny closed the door and walked down a short hallway. He passed a great mirror and stopped a moment to admire himself.

You are one good diplomat my friend, he smiled with a commiserating tilt of his fleshy head. The world is at your feet. You are the one appointed to guide it!

Again, as so many times, he assumed the position he wished his statue to take. One hand gallantly embracing a young child, with the other reaching out towards the people. A man of power, a man of understanding. The true father of communism.

The phone was waiting. It was his secure line.

"Yes?"

"Comrade, there have been some ... complications," the voice confessed.

"What sort of complications, Soloviev?"

"The American and the girl. I had personally escorted them to the plane, but ..."

"Go on."

"Radar control Moscow tells me it headed into a wrong direction. It was vectored for Berlin for the two to change to a plane to Washington, but now it is heading towards the ice pack."

"The north? Why in God's name? Who are the pilots?" Bedny inquired.

"I do not know. The ones I had chosen are still here. Two different ones are piloting the Antonow."

Bedny flopped into his leather seat. This was a setback. The plan had been for the girl to reach Washington and help misinform the Americans. Yet she was on her way to the North Pole.

"Can the plane still be intercepted?"

"I have ordered for two Mig's to intercept, but I believe the plane is by now out of range. And we have no forces out there because they are all -- as the plan demands -- on their positions. And that is not all..."

"More?"

"Checheyev has also disappeared."

"Pasha Checheyev? Your friend? You are disappointing me, Soloviev."

"I am sorry, comrade."

"See if you can still intercept," Bedny concluded and slammed the phone back on the cradle.

A setback, Bedny repeated to himself. A minor setback in a perfectly devised plan.

As he returned to his guests he passed the mirror again. But what he saw now was merely the shadow of what he had seen earlier. A fraction of the father.

"Bad news, comrade?" Castillo asked as Bedny took his seat again. "No, not at all. Let us now enjoy a good glass of vodka." Bedny smiled. It was his diplomats smile. It was acting.