Everyone had to present their work badges—and open their briefcases for inspection. No one was allowed past security until it was confirmed there were no traces of radioactive materials inside. Some White House staff complained that the new security measures were overkill. But once they caught sight of the guards' cold, watchful eyes—and the MP5 submachine guns in their hands—they wisely chose silence.
No one liked being treated like a potential Soviet spy just to get to work. But no one wanted to find out what 9mm bullets felt like, either.
It wasn't just Washington. Across the United States—at airports, train stations, and subway terminals—security was tightening like a vice. It was as if Soviet agents were already embedded in every major American city, waiting to detonate red mercury bombs. The entire federal government was on edge. And for immigrants who spoke with thick Russian accents, life became a nightmare. They were now targets of constant surveillance—flagged by both the FBI and Immigration Services, detained for questioning without warning.
For the first time since the Cuban Missile Crisis, America teetered on the edge of full-scale war readiness.
In contrast to the tension gripping the U.S., President Bush's televised announcement of a friendly coexistence pact with the Soviet Union brought a sigh of relief to much of the Third World. World leaders praised the accord as a victory for peace.
But no one stopped to ask why the U.S. would suddenly sign a peace agreement with its bitterest enemy—unless they had no choice. Only a handful of high-level insiders knew the real reason. And none of them were talking.
All eyes were once again on the two superpowers. After their meeting in Munich, Bush and Yanayev were now face-to-face at the Kremlin negotiating table. Just like Kennedy and Khrushchev decades before, they sat together to talk peace—with their hands clenched tightly just out of sight, inches from their nuclear options.
This was Bush's first visit to Soviet soil in 1991, and Moscow went all-in with the reception. Fighter jets escorted Air Force One, and armored units were visibly deployed around Moscow International Airport. Officially, it was to "protect" the U.S. President. Unofficially, it was a not-so-subtle show of Soviet muscle.
The sight of an armored division waiting on the tarmac would make anyone feel like they'd just been taken prisoner by a hostile military. Brent, the President's national security advisor, went pale as he stepped off the plane into the "steel forest."
Bush, who had long dealt with the red polar bear—an empire fueled by missiles, war, and dreams of global liberation—could only shrug. He was used to Soviet theatrics by now.
Yanaev greeted Bush with a firm handshake and a PR-perfect smile, posing for photos as the two men—leaders of nations that had stared each other down for over seventy years—symbolically buried the hatchet. Peace, for the cameras.
Camouflaged BMP infantry vehicles flanked the motorcade and rumbled into motion, heading toward the Kremlin. Hind helicopters swept low above the convoy, surrounding Bush's vehicle like satellites orbiting a star—as though he were the Soviet president.
To the Americans inside, it felt more like a prisoner transfer.
Brent looked out at the armored escort with barely concealed contempt. To him, the black smoke-belching IFVs were relics—symbols of backwardness. With a few well-placed commands, he thought, America's high-tech weapons could reduce these crude metal beasts to scrap.
The thought filled him with quiet satisfaction. Let the Soviets parade their outdated toys.
What Brent didn't know was that behind some of those expressionless Soviet faces were soldiers filled with quiet rage. If not for their loyalty to the Supreme Command, those four 30mm autocannons might already have been trained on the limousine—ready to paint the interior red.
But these were communist warriors. They obeyed the Party's orders with unshakable faith.
The presidential car pulled into the Kremlin. Bush and Yanayev stepped out simultaneously, walking side by side through the gates under the watchful eye of layer upon layer of armed security.
Bush turned slightly and asked, dryly, "Is this the usual Soviet welcome for foreign guests?"
"Not always," Yanayev replied, pausing to look him in the eye. "But decades of hostility… indoctrination… hatred—they've bred extremists. For all I know, one of these guards might be ready to assassinate the President of the United States, even as I shake his hand. So yes, Mr. President, this level of security is very much for your safety."
There was a menace behind the smile that made several of Bush's aides visibly stiffen. One of them shot a sharp glare at Yanayev, but with dozens of Kalashnikovs within arm's reach, he wisely bit his tongue.
"So today," Yanayev continued smoothly, "let's put our hatred to rest—and begin a new order. Take your hand off the briefcase that controls your nukes… and place it on the peace agreement we're about to sign."
Bush's eyes twitched at the word briefcase. A chill crept up his spine.
He wanted to ask Yanayev directly—has the Soviet Union really built a red mercury bomb?But asking would be admitting weakness. And weakness had no place at the negotiation table.
Inside the Kremlin, both delegations sat down. Talks began, centered on the Vantaa affair.
Bush couldn't help noticing two of Yanayev's aides standing behind him—each holding a sleek black briefcase, standing ramrod straight, as if awaiting a command.
He couldn't stop looking at them.What was in those cases?Was it real?Or was this all a bluff?
Yanayev noticed. And he smiled. The red mercury deception had worked—Bush was rattled. Now all that remained was to push a little harder… just enough to make the Americans fold at the table.
Yanayev cleared his throat. "President Bush, I trust Ambassador Matlock has already conveyed our terms. Mr. Vantaa—known internationally for financial fraud—was, curiously, a senior CIA official. That hardly inspires confidence in the American government."
He let the jab hang in the air, then continued.
"But that's no longer our concern. What I want to know is—how much is your government willing to pay… to save a man who knows secrets you don't want the world to hear?"
Yanayev turned slightly and glanced at Brent, catching the contempt in his eyes. He answered it with a faint, unreadable smile.
"Or…" he added softly, "perhaps you never intended to negotiate at all?"