Chapter 61

December Twenty-fifth 12:00 p.m. EST 8:00 p.m local time

Anton Polovinkin, President of the Russian Federation, stood staring out of his office window at the lightly wooded park that surrounded the Kremlin. Only the twitching of a muscle in his cheek betrayed his impatience and irritation. He had sent a summons to the Prime Minister, the Minister of Defense, and a number of influential deputies of the State Duma, the more powerful house of the Federal Assembly, at noon, eight hours before. Yet still they made him wait without so much as a single courtesy call giving a reason for the delay, let alone an apology.

For an instant he fantasized about holding the kind of power that past heads of state had commanded. The thought of having those who annoyed him dragged into his presence in chains and forced to kneel at his feet brought a small smile to his angular face before he dismissed the daydream. That sort of power had ultimately led to ruin, and he had no wish to have the nation of which he was so proud be diminished any further.

Seating himself at his desk, he again paged through the fragmented and unbelievable report that the chief of the Foreign Intelligence Service, successor to the First Chief Directorate of the KGB, had delivered to him in person. If he hadn't seen the normally unshakable man's trembling hands and fearful, worried eyes for himself, he would have thought the report to be nothing but ridiculous fiction.

In a span of a single night, most of North America and the city of Rome had devolved into anarchy, and war had erupted in the middle east. The last was not a major concern. In fact, he might have to stir the pot a little to keep it burning hot. Higher oil prices would mean more money flowing into the Russian Federation, a major exporter of the substance that drove the world. The economic difficulties caused by reduced supply in the west and in China would also help level the playing field and give Russian businesses an opportunity to expand their markets.

The strife in the United States and Canada, however, was worrisome to say the least. He spread a number of satellite images across his desk. While the pictures were likely not as crisp and clear as those taken by the eyes in the sky of many western intelligence agencies, they were more than sufficient to show fires raging in darkened cities.

The next set of photos he pulled from the file were stills taken from security camera footage shot at the embassy in Washington, D.C. and consulate offices in Toronto and Ottawa. Twisted and bestial, the faces of the mobs of people running through the streets in a murderous rampage were barely recognizable as human. At all three locations, contact with the offices had been lost shortly after the satellite transmissions containing the footage and panicked requests for instructions had been received.

It was clear that whatever insanity had gripped such a significant part of the populations of the two nations was contagious. His necessary course of action was equally clear. One of the legacies that the Soviet Union had left its successor was one of the largest stockpiles of nuclear weapons in existence. He knew that the governments of Europe would never summon the strength of will to do what was needed to burn away this plague before it consumed the world. Thus, the responsibility fell to him. He found it ironic that weapons built to destroy large portions of the planet were now its only potential source of salvation.

Rome ... The Eternal City ... was a different story, at least for now. The sterilization of most of North America could be forgiven as a necessary evil to stop the widespread outbreaks. The destruction of one of the original sources of western culture, however, would require substantial justification; justification that could not be provided unless the illness started to spread beyond a single city. He would watch and wait. If the powers in the region failed to contain the madness ... well, he would do what he must.

He started at the knock on his office door. Tucking his hands in his lap to conceal how badly they were shaking, he brusquely invited entry. The colonel who served as his secretary had sweat beaded on his brow, and his expression was nervous and confused.

"Mister President, some of the men you asked for have arrived," the colonel reported tremulously. He suddenly looked down, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Possibly."

"Possibly? You have passed those men through to my office many times. You know them."

"They have the proper identification, Mr. President, and they bear a passing resemblance, but ... I can't explain it properly. You need to see them for yourself." He swallowed. "They were most insistent on seeing you immediately."

They were insistent? Although he might not inspire - or have the power to impose - the fear that Stalin had, such audacity was still unheard of. Nevertheless, there was urgent business to attend to, and even if those waiting outside were not the one's he needed to ratify and pass the essential commands, they would be able to provide answers. "Show them in, but summon security in case it is needed."

The colonel gave a few quick bobs of his head and turned to leave. After a single step, he hesitantly turned back around. "Mr. President, they ... uh ... brought a guest."

Anton's eyes narrowed with anger. The requests he had sent hours ago for their immediate presence had specifically stated the highly confidential nature of the matter to be discussed, and they had invited another? "Send them in," he said crisply, "but make certain that the security detachment comes with all haste."

The colonel saluted and left, returning a minute later leading eleven young men and a beautiful blond woman. After he followed the protocol of announcing the visitors, albeit in a voice that was far more uncertain and doubtful than ever before, he again turned on his heel to depart.

As fast as a striking snake, the woman seized the colonel by the chin and the back of his head. After a sharp twist and a loud snap, he slumped to the floor, his lifeless face still frozen in an expression of surprise.

Anton jumped to his feet, his hand stretching out toward the button that would alert all military forces in the massive building and bring them running. One of the men darted forward, covering the five yards that separated them far more quickly than Anton's arm could extend the few feet to the alarm.

With his hands held in the surprisingly gentle, iron grip of a man he did not recognize, Anton gazed over the others. His stare held only anger at what he now suspected was a coup attempt. Those who had more than a passing acquaintance with fear were winnowed out long before they could reach his position.

He staggered as if from a physical blow when his eyes reached one of the men. Yuri Vasiliev had been his friend since they served together as political officers in the Red Army nearly fifty years earlier. The man before him was like a photo from that time come to life. But it couldn't be him: there was no surgical procedure or any other treatment that could turn back the years so completely.

"Yuri? Is that you?" he asked in a wavering whisper.

His old friend, if indeed that was who it was, looked down sadly but made no reply.

The woman let out a husky laugh. "He is your ami, and the others are those who remain of the ones you invited here. Don't bother addressing them. They now answer only to me and will not speak unless I give leave." Her voice made even the guttural Russian tongue sound melodious.

She stepped - no, that wasn't right word to describe her sensuous stride - she flowed forward and ran the fingers of one hand lightly along the line of his jaw. Her touch was cool, soft and gentle. Along with the smoky gaze she fixed upon him with her warm, green eyes, that caress stirred fires within him that he had believed to be long banked.

Her knowing smile made it clear that she knew of the effect she had on him. "My name is Amalie, and I have come to make you an offer, Anton."

She glanced down at the photographs that were still scattered across his desk. Turning one toward her that depicted a group of Canadians tearing into a screaming woman with their teeth while multiple rapes and dismemberments took place in the background, she said, "Let me first assure you that, regardless of whether you accept my proposal, this will not happen here. Nor will you or your country take any sort of military action to interfere in events outside your borders."

"You sound certain of that."

"I am," she replied smoothly. "I control all of my kind in this nation with the sort of absolute power that Stalin and Krushev could only dream of, and neither I nor the one I serve wants the destruction of Russia. As for the second part, my servants and I have taken more than a third of the members of both houses of your parliament, and an even greater number are dead. That, of course, gives me a majority on any vote taken in the near future. Which leaves only you, and, by the time we leave here, you will either be with us or you will be dead. In either event, a launch order will never go out."

"If you kill me, my Prime Minister will assume the presidency, and he will know what must be done every bit as well as I do."

Her lips pursed in a pretty pout. "I regret to inform you that he is among the recently deceased. Which I believe leaves your old friend Yuri next in line. And Yuri is mine."

Anton's eyes flicked to the boy who so closely resembled his life-long friend. Now that the shock of seeing him for the first time had passed, he could see the absurdity of the claim. "While I admit that you found a very good likeness, neither I nor anyone else will ever accept this boy as Yuri Vasiliev."

"Convince him, Yuri," Amalie commanded.

Anton's eyes widened as the boy began to speak in a flat monotone, recounting confidences shared over bottles of vodka, the names and physical attributes of past lovers, and the details of complicated political intrigues in which they had been co-conspirators.

Anton kept staring at the man who must be Yuri well after the litany came to an end. Licking lips that suddenly seemed so dry, he asked hoarsely, "How can this be possible?"

Instead of answering with words, Amalie pursed her lips in a suggestive oval that revealed perfect white teeth. Anton watched in fascination as her fangs extended.

"Zlaya upir!" Anton hissed the words like a curse.

Amalie laughed cheerfully. "Right on both counts. I am a vampire, and I am also quite wicked. But I assure you that I am wicked in only the most delightful of ways."

"I don't believe in fairy tales and vampires," he said automatically, realizing immediately how absurd the words sounded with the proof of his error standing in front of him.

She traced a finger down the center of his chest to a belly that had gotten soft in recent years. "I admit that it is hard to believe at first. I was one for days before I truly accepted the reality of what I had become. But now I would never want to be anything else."

She stepped behind him and pressed her body against his. Her hands slid slowly and sensuously around him to clasp him lightly. He struggled briefly against the man who still held his wrists in an iron grip, but quickly abandoned the futile effort. Obviously overpowered, he resolved to face his fate with dignity.

"What do you want with me, witch?" he hissed, struggling to keep the effect she was having on him from showing in his voice.

He felt her cool breath on the back of his neck when she spoke. "I told you before, I have come to make you an offer. While you have never been stronger politically, your body grows frail. Your skin is stretched like dry parchment over brittle bones. Once powerful limbs now strain and shake after taking you up a single flight of stairs. You can hear your heart fluttering in your chest like a caged and frightened bird after the slightest exertion. Your death approaches, Anton, and not even your vast financial and political resources can extend that appointed hour by so much as a single second." She stood on her tiptoes and leaned forward to trace the tip of her tongue slowly over the lobe of his ear. "But I can. I can give you eternity."

"And all you ask in return is that I become your pawn. Or, more correctly, based on your statement that you serve another, I would be the pawn of a pawn," he said bitterly.

Her chuckle was low and throaty. "More like a pawn of a pawn of a pawn of a pawn. But your servitude won't be nearly as onerous as you seem to think. We have no interest in your internal affairs. You can continue to govern your people however you see fit. All that we require is that you keep your rockets and bombers on the ground and your troops within your own borders. Oh, and maybe a rare public statement concerning foreign events. Isn't that a small price to pay to be young and strong again?" Her tone shifted an octave lower. "To sweeten the deal, I think you'll discover that I treat my pets ever so well."