Last Call for Blackford Oakes by William F.; Buckley Page A

Afghanistan.”
    Dmitriev took notes. Good man, Konstantin Ustinovich , he thought. But would he go on to advise the Politburo to name Dmitriev as his successor?

CHAPTER 19
    Vice Chairman Dmitriev hadn’t visited privately with his old friend General Leonid Baranov for several months. On a cold day in January, Dmitriev decided to give Baranov a tour of Kuntsevo. They got about first in an army jeep, the vice chairman at the wheel. The acreage was small, by czarist, or for that matter post-czarist, standards, not much spacier than an eighteen-hole golf course. “When he was here,” Dmitriev explained, “the security was like that of a penitentiary, with electrical grids and guards posted at regular intervals. All traces of such, you will notice, Leonya, have been removed. I make do with just the two men at the gatehouse. To be sure, we have ample electronic communication.”
    â€œIf you had been named general secretary, would you have used this as your official dacha?”
    â€œI don’t mind telling you I gave that some thought. And decided—I would not, I would move to another dacha. In that sense, the ghost of Stalin does not sleep. If, on my ascendancy, the world had turned its attention to Kuntsevo and gone on and on on the subject of him , I would not have welcomed that.”
    â€œUnderstood. And of course you know that I myself would have welcomed your election.”
    The jeep pulled into the big shed alongside the main building. Dmitriev, springing from the jeep, signaled to the general, who moved more sedately, to follow him. “We’ll perhaps talk about some of the implications of my having been passed by for general secretary. At dinner. Meanwhile, a quick tour. Here,” he opened the door into a heavy room, a squat felt-lined table, heavy bookcases, a projector and screen, eight chairs, one of them especially prominent, with traces of gilt at the crest rail. “That is where he sat … He drank a lot, but when he met here with his people—were you ever before in this room, Leonya?”
    The general shook his head. “I knew that there was an inner sanctum, but never got this far.”
    â€œI was saying, he customarily convened his visitors at two in the morning. I was talking about his drinking. He drank a lot but never at such meetings as he held here. He encouraged his court to drink. Some of them went to the bathroom down the hall needing actually to throw up, but they mostly had to return, drink more. Molotov was a special target when detected going regularly out to vomit. When Stalin wanted to stay sober, he was served a flavored sparkling water.
    â€œWith a tip of the hat to history, I have arranged for our own dinner to be served here, after you bathe. Shall we meet in the salon, just outside, at—”
    â€œTwo A.M. ?” Baranov laughed.
    Dmitriev managed a smile. “At eight P.M. ”
    Several hours later, with coffee, cigars, and liqueur on the table, Dmitriev, well along in nostalgia, reaffirmed the special relationship he felt with his guest. “You, Leonya, were commander of the Frunze Academy when I received my commission as a second lieutenant. And in the thirty-five years that have gone by, I have always relied on you for important strategic advice.”
    â€œIs strategic advice what we need to explore this weekend?” Leonid Baranov asked.
    Dmitriev replied warily. “Yes. Advice on the strategic challenges faced by our motherland. But not—I prefer not—about contingent measures to be taken if things do not go right. The army remains securely in your hands.
    â€œBut let us recapitulate. The general secretary is finally showing some sense on Afghanistan. He has permitted the president we set up there to declare that all Soviet troops will withdraw from Afghanistan in twelve months. At last there is an end in sight to this lesion on our country’s morale.
    â€œBut Comrade Gorbachev’s