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ist Party； not the Supreme Soviet； certainly not the people of their nation。 These men had not walked on the streets of Moscow for years； but been whisked by chauffeured； handmade cars to and from their luxury apartments within Moscow； or to their ceremonial dachas outside the city。 They shopped； if at all； in guarded stores restricted to the elite； were served by doctors in clinics established only for the elite。 Because of all this； these men regarded themselves as masters of their destiny。
It was only now beginning to strike them that like all men； they too were subject to a fate which their immense personal power merely made all the more intractable。
Around them was a country whose citizens were poorly fed and poorly housed； whose only abundant modities were the painted signs and slogans praising Soviet Progress and Solidarity。 Some of the men at this table actually believed those slogans； Sergetov knew。 Sometimes he still did； mainly in homage to his idealistic youth。 But Soviet Progress had not fed their nation； and how long would Soviet Solidarity endure in the hearts of people hungry； cold； in the dark？ Would they be proud of the missiles in the Siberian forests then？ Of the thousands of tanks and guns produced every year？ Would they then look to the sky that held a Salyut space station and feel inspired…or would they wonder what kind of food was being eaten by that elite？ Less than a year before； Sergetov had been a regional Party chieftain； and in Leningrad he had been careful to listen to his own staff people's description of the jokes and grumblings in the lines which people endured for two loaves of bread； or toothpaste； or shoes。 Detached even then from the harsher realities of life in the Soviet Union； he had often wondered if one day the burden of the ordinary worker would bee too heavy to endure。 How would he have known then？ How would he know now？ Would the older men here ever know？
Narod； they called it； a masculine noun that was nonetheless raped in every sense： the masses； the faceless collection of men and women who toiled every day in Moscow and throughout the nation in factories and on collective farms； their thoughts hidden behind unsmiling masks。 The members of the Politburo told themselves that these workers and peasants did not grudge their leaders the luxuries that acpanied responsibility。 After all； life in the country had improved in measurable terms。 That was the pact。 But the pact was about to be broken。 What might happen then？ Nicholas II had not known。 These men did。
The Defense Minister broke the silence。 〃We must obtain more oil。 It is as simple as that。 The alternative is a crippled economy； hungry citizens； and reduced defense capacity。 The consequences of which are not acceptable。〃
〃We cannot purchase oil；〃 a candidate member pointed out。
〃Then we must take it。〃
FORT MEADE； MARYLAND
Bob Toland frowned at his spice cake。 I shouldn't be eating dessert； the intelligence analyst reminded himself。 But the National Security Agency missary served this only once a week； and spice cake was his favorite； and it was only about two hundred calories。 That was all。 An extra five minutes on the exercise bike when he got home。
〃What did you think of that article in the paper； Bob？〃 a co…worker asked。
〃The oil…field thing？〃 Toland rechecked the man's security badge。 He wasn't cleared for satellite intelligence。 〃Sounds like they had themselves quite a fire。〃
〃You didn't see anything official on it？〃
〃Let's just say that the leak in the papers came from a higher security clearance than I have。〃
〃Top Secret…Press？〃 Both men laughed。
〃Something like that。 The story had information that I haven't seen；〃 Toland said； speaking the truth； mostly。 The fire was out； and people in his department had been speculating on how Ivan had put it out so fast。 〃Shouldn't hurt them too bad。 I mean； they don't have millions of people taking to the road on summer vacations； do they〃
〃Not hardly。 How's the cake？〃
〃Not bad。〃 Toland smiled； already wondering if he needed the extra time on the bike。
MOSCOW； R。S。F。S。R。
The Politburo reconvened at nine…thirty the next morning。 The sky outside the double…paned windows was gray and curtained with the heavy snow that was beginning to fall again； adding to the half…meter already on the ground。 There would be sledding tonight on the hills of Gorkiy Park； Sergetov thought。 The snow would be cleared off the two frozen lakes for skating under the lights to the music of Tschaikovskiy and Prokofiev。 Moscovites would laugh and drink their vodka and savor the cold； blissfully ignorant of what was about to be said here； of the turns that all of their lives would take。
The main body of the Politburo had adjourned at four the previous afternoon； and then the five men who made up the Defense Council had met alone。 Not even all of the full Politburo members were privy to that decision…making body。
Overseeing them at the far end of the room was a full…length portrait of Vladimir Ilych Ulyanov…Lenin； the revolutionary saint of Soviet munism； his domed forehead thrown back as though in a fresh breeze； his piercing eyes looking off toward the glorious future which his stern face confidently proclaimed； which the 〃science〃 of Marxism…Leninism called an historic inevitability。 A glorious future。 Which future？ Sergetov asked himself。 What has bee of our Revolution？ What has bee of our Party？ Did rade Ilych really mean it to be like this？
Sergetov looked at the General Secretary； the 〃young〃 man supposed by the West to be fully in charge； the man who was even now changing things。 His accession to the highest post in the Party had been a surprise to some； Sergetov among them。 The West still looked to him as hopefully as we once had； Sergetov thought。 His own arrival in Moscow had changed that rapidly enough。 Yet another broken dream。 The man who had put a happy face on years of agricultural failure now applied his superficial charm to a larger arena。 He was laboring mightily…anyone at this table would admit that…but his task was an impossible one。 To get here he had been forced to make too many promises； too many deals with the old guard。 Even the 〃young〃 men of fifty and sixty he'd added to the Politburo had their own ties to former regimes。 Nothing had really changed。
The West never seemed to absorb the idea。 Not since Khrushchev had one man held sway。 One…man rule held dangers vividly remembered by the older generation of the Party。 The younger men had heard the tales of the great purges under Stalin often enough to take the lesson to heart； and the Army had its own institutional memory of what Khrushchev had done to its hierarchy。 In the Politburo； as in the jungle； the only rule was survival； and for all collective safety lay in collective rule。 Because of this the men selected for the titular post of General Secretary were not elected so much for their personal dynamism as for their experience in the Party …an organization that did not reward people for standing out too distinctly from the crowd。 Like Brezhnev； and Andropov； and Chemenko； the current chief of the Party lacked the power of personality to dominate this room with his will alone。 He'd had to promise to be in his chair； and he would have to promise to remain there。 The real power blocs were amorphous things； relationships among men； loyalties that changed with circumstance and knew only expediency。 The real power lay within the Party itself。
The Party ruled all； but the Party was no longer the expression of one man。 It had bee a collection of interests represented here by twelve other men。 Defense had its interest； the KGB； and Heavy Industry； and even Agriculture。 Each interest held its own brand of power； and the chief of each allied himself with others in order to secure his own place。 The General Secretary would try to change this； would gradually appoint men loyal to himself to the posts that death made vacant。 Would he then learn； as his predecessors had； that loyalty so easily died around this table？ For now； he still carried the burden of his own promises。 With his own men not yet fully in place； the General Secretary was only the foremost member of a group that could unseat him as easily as it had unseated Khrushchev。 What would the West say if it learned that the 〃dynamic〃 General Secretary mainly served as executor for the decisions of others？ Even now； he did not speak first。
〃rades；〃 began the Defense Minister。 〃The Soviet Union must have oil； at least two hundred million tons more than we can produce。 Such oil exists； only a few hundred kilometers from our border in the Persian Gulf…more oil than we will ever need。 We have the ability to take it； of course。 Inside of two weeks； we could assemble enough aircraft and airborne troops to swoop down on those oil fields and gobble them up。
〃Unfortunately； there could not fail to be a violent Western response。 Those same oil fields supply Western Europe； Japan； and to a lesser extent； America。 The NATO countries do not have the ability to defend those fields with conventional means。 The Americans have their Rapid Deployment Force； a hollow shell of headquarters and a few light troops。 Even with their pre…positioned equipment at Diego Garcia； they could not hope to s