Matlock stood anxiously in a conference room inside the Kremlin, waiting for Yanaev's arrival. This was one of the rare occasions he had ever set foot in this place—deemed a forbidden zone and heretical by his liberal homeland. According to Soviet protocol, he wasn't entitled to meet Yanaev in person. But due to the urgency of the matter and with the authorization of the U.S. President, he had bypassed those so-called rules to secure a direct meeting.
As for the rumored tyrant himself—was he really as ruthless and quick-tempered as Stalin? Matlock admitted he knew almost nothing. Two months had passed since the failed August 19 coup, yet he hadn't exchanged a single word face-to-face with Yanaev.
Nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed since the request was submitted, and Yanaev was still nowhere to be seen. With nothing else to do, Matlock sat down and tapped his fingers on the table, mentally preparing how he would negotiate with the Soviet leader.
Being the U.S. Ambassador in the Soviet Union was, in short, a thankless job—acting as the cleanup crew when the CIA's covert actions got messy and serving as the diplomatic messenger. Whether to intervene, how to intervene, and under what conditions were all predetermined by Washington. His role was simply to stick to the script and haggle with the Soviets.
"I apologize for keeping you waiting, Ambassador Matlock," a deep, resonant Russian voice said from behind him.
Matlock turned to see Yanaev enter the room with a friendly smile. He instructed the guards to stand three steps back, so as not to disturb Matlock.
Standing before him was a middle-aged man with a kindly smile, exuding none of the cruelty or brutality Matlock had imagined. Looking at photos of Yanaev before, he'd expected someone more severe—someone perhaps mild-mannered but certainly not the feared tyrant who had authorized the execution of 400 political prisoners. Could this really be the Luciferian political leader so demonized by the West?
Seeing Matlock frozen in place, Yanaev raised his voice slightly and repeated, "Ambassador Matlock, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."
"Oh, I apologize—I was momentarily distracted, President Yanaev," Matlock said quickly, bowing slightly and stealing a glance at Yanaev's face. The expression was unreadable—neither angry nor pleased—and Matlock let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Yanaev waved his hand casually. "No matter, haha. Many Western journalists react just like you when they first meet me—they think I'm an unreasonable, overbearing man. I hear there's a news anchor named Mike Wallace at CBS who's long wanted to interview me, to understand the real ruler of the Soviet Union. If the opportunity arises, I'd like to invite him to Moscow for an exclusive. Haha, it should be quite the debate on democracy and freedom."
Matlock wasn't sure how to respond, but Yanaev didn't seem to mind the brief silence. He went on, "I understand you came to discuss the case of an American citizen detained by the KGB?"
"Yes," Matlock nodded, eager to get to the point. "This must be a misunderstanding. The American traveler has a spotless record. He's neither a suspect nor a CIA agent. The U.S. does not abandon any citizen in danger abroad."
"Oh? That's quite interesting," Yanaev drawled, emphasizing the words. "Yet the KGB hasn't provided any concrete information about who was arrested or even the nationality. How do you Americans already know?"
Faced with Yanaev's sarcasm, Matlock repeated his usual diplomatic lines without shame. "There must be some misunderstanding. Before his arrest, this American called our consulate, saying he was being followed by KGB agents. Before he could finish, he disappeared. Hence our concern that he is in your government's custody."
Yanaev sneered inwardly. Couldn't they come up with a better excuse? Since when did the U.S. meddle in Soviet internal security? At its core, this was interference in domestic affairs.
He shifted in his seat and continued, "That's curious. When I received your request, I called the KGB director personally. He said he would monitor the situation. Please wait a few days—we will give you a detailed response then."
Matlock realized he'd been snared by this fabricated excuse. But Bush had warned him: no delay was acceptable. They had to get Leo Vanta out of Soviet hands by any means necessary. After all, Vanta held the keys to Bush's secret treasury.
In other words, Vanta was the gatekeeper. If he cracked, their funds would be fully exposed. Though known accounts could be frozen, Bush knew no gatekeeper stayed loyal forever. There were always independent secret funds—extra pockets of profit that helped the president win.
The KGB couldn't access frozen accounts, but those anonymous small accounts? Those were the juicy targets—amounting to tens of millions, if not close to a hundred million.
If Vanta cracked, it would be a nightmare for Bush.
"Let's be direct, President Yanaev," Matlock said, frowning. He decided to be frank with the still-smiling Yanaev. "What we want is Leo Vanta, currently detained by you. If you refuse to return him, don't say we didn't warn you about what will happen next."
"I see. Is that a threat, Ambassador Matlock?" Yanaev asked with crossed hands propping his chin, feigning indifference. "An economic fraudster from America colluding with corrupt forces within the Soviet Union to crush our recovering economy. If such a man escapes Soviet justice, do you want him back to continue fleecing the world's people for you financiers?"
Matlock opened his mouth to reply, but Yanaev cut him off. Speaking in a tone as if reminiscing with an old friend, he recounted American sins.
"True, our planned economy can't match the elites on Wall Street. But that doesn't mean we don't see through your attempts to use the dollar as a tool of hegemony, to build the evil London–Wall Street axis, to control the world through debt, to use the wealth created by 99% of workers for the benefit of the 1%. You want humanity, freed from the slave owners, to become slaves of capitalists again. Socialist countries like ours are your biggest obstacle."
"But hear this: as long as the Soviet Union stands, your Wall Street vampires won't sleep a single peaceful night. Our communism's goal is to destroy the bourgeoisie and free the proletariat from your capitalist chains once and for all!"
Every word struck Matlock's heart with icy force. Though Yanaev smiled, the murderous resolve beneath made the usually composed ambassador break out in a cold sweat.
"Go back and tell Bush to try whatever tricks he wants. The Soviet Union has never feared you, doesn't fear you now, and never will. Oh, and one more thing—if Leo Vanta is to return unharmed, I expect a sincere and substantial ransom from the U.S. government. Otherwise, haha, in a few days, the whole world will know what the U.S. is doing in the Soviet Union. The scandal could rival Watergate."
When Yanaev finished, Matlock exhaled deeply. His mission—to deliver the message—was done. Now, it was up to Washington elites to wrestle with it.
Before leaving the Kremlin, Matlock whispered to Yanaev, "President Yanaev, your words just now reminded me of a certain patriarch with a peculiar nickname—the Merciful Butcher. You, sir, embody that perfectly."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Yanaev replied politely.
As Matlock climbed into his black car, he glanced uneasily at Yanaev once more. The Soviet leader's gaze wasn't on him, and for the first time that day, Matlock felt a flicker of relief.
Yanaev watched until the car disappeared from view, then turned back inside, thinking about the White House thousands of miles away—and how much livelier it would be than he had imagined.