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

domestic policies! Perestroika and glasnost are doing to morale in Soviet society what Afghanistan is doing to the military. If he continues on this road, it is impossible to foresee the consequences.
    â€œQuickly, then, my illustrious general and friend: The enemy is, always, the United States. Our leader has proposed a treaty that would prohibit nuclear testing. It is obvious what Comrade Gorbachev has in mind, and here we back him wholeheartedly: Any diplomatic contrivance whatever that succeeds in discouraging active U.S. work on an antimissile system is welcome.”
    â€œBut what is by no means plain,” the old warrior broke in, “is what to do if the United States refuses to derail its antimissile program.”
    â€œYes,” Dmitriev agreed, “by no means plain. There is no way we can spend more on the scientific-military enterprise. We have ten thousand Russian scientists working on antimissile development already.
    â€œThe general secretary understands that, too. But he has now met for the third time with the United States president. He seems to be altogether too close to this bourgeois warmonger. Who knows what agreement he will sign with him next?
    â€œLeonya,” Dmitriev paused, and stared down into his brandy. “There is one central problem. And it is a human problem.”
    Dmitriev had not seated himself in the principal chair at the dining table. It was there, opposite. Stalin’s chair. Empty.
    Looking over at it, Vice Chairman Nikolai Dmitriev said, “ He would have known what to do.”
    Dmitriev and his guest left the table.
    Major Uliev, his earphones on, waited a minute in the hidden trailer. Then he signaled to the technician at his side. “That’s enough. We have what we want.” He would have known what to do! Indeed. But Comrade Gorbachev, when he hears this tape, will also know what to do.

CHAPTER 20
    Ursina was delighted but not surprised when Rufina told her that not only was she expected at the wedding celebration, “but also your beloved American publisher.”
    It was cold that Sunday afternoon, but brilliantly sunny, and Ursina proposed to Blackford that en route to the apartment house on Uspensky Street they should walk through Pushkin Square, which she admired in part because of its beauty, in part because it celebrated “the greatest Russian ever. Pushkin,” she said, “discovered the Russian soul.”
    As they approached the stout apartment building with the ornate entrance, Blackford asked, “Who else is invited? Or do you know?”
    â€œRufina didn’t give me a list. There would not, in that apartment, be more than eight or ten, I should think. She knows we’re going on to the ballet later, so she won’t expect us to stay long. The last time I was there they invited two students of Andrei’s, the Gromovs, Maksim and Irina. Two very large middle-aged Russians. I don’t know what Andrei teaches them. He speaks not at all— ever —about anything to do with his own life. Oh—” she stopped to correct herself. Blackford admired the sunshine on the fur around the blue hat she wore, concealing most of her hair. “Oh, yes, he did reveal that night I was there that, however perfunctorily, he had crossed paths with three British authors. Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, and Malcolm Muggeridge.”
    â€œThat would be good to talk about at the reception, right?”
    â€œNo, I don’t think so. I remember asking for some details of his friendship, or exchanges, with those people, and getting nowhere.”
    â€œWell, I’ll give it a try.”
    They climbed the two sets of stairs. Rufina was at the door. Ursina hugged her and handed her the little package, wrapped and tied with yellow ribbon. It was a half kilo of the caviar she knew Rufina especially liked, but could seldom afford to buy.
    â€œWell, darling, this does make it a celebration,” said Rufina in a