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mess. Okay, Dick, what’s next?”
    Moving on again, Mason thought Martin was loath to make executive decisions. Fence riding, when skillfully done, was safer. From here, Angola would be dumped on Bousikaris, who would in turn dump it on either the National Security Council or the President’s Foreign Advisory Council. Meanwhile, the situation in Angola would deteriorate and the death count would mount until Martin had to move lest he lose face. You don’t have to like the man, Mason reminded himself.
    â€œThe elections in the Russian Federation. The issues are no different: the economy, agriculture, oblast autonomy—but it looks like the current president might have a real race on his hands.”
    â€œYou’re kidding,” said Martin. “From this Bulganin fellow?”
    â€œHe’s gaining ground fast.”
    â€œWhat do we know about him?” asked Bousikaris.
    â€œNot as much as we would like,” said Mason. Not nearly enough, in fact.
    Vladimir Bulganin, a former factory foreman and local politician from Omsk, had founded the Russian Pride Party six years before and had been gnawing at the flanks of the major parties ever since.
    On the surface, the RPP’s platform seemed based on moderate nationalism, infrastructure improvement, a more centralized government, and, paradoxically, an emphasis on the democratic power of the people. That Bulganin had been able to dodge this apparent inconsistency was largely due, Mason felt, to his chief advisor, Ivan Nochenko.
    A former colonel in the KGB, Nochenko was an expert at propaganda and disinformation. Before the fall of the Soviet Union, the First Directorate had toppled governments, swayed world opinion, and covered up disasters that would have been front-page news in the West.
    Since his retirement in 1993, Nochenko had worked as a freelance PR consultant in Russia’s always uncertain and often dangerous free market. Though no one on Madison Avenue would dare admit it, there was little appreciable difference between public relations and propaganda.
    Lack of solid evidence notwithstanding, Mason suspected Nochenko was not only the driving force behind Bulganin’s success, but also the reason why no one seemed to know much about this dark horse of the Russian political scene.
    Mason said, “We don’t think he’s got enough backing to take the election, but a solid showing will give him clout in Moscow.”
    Martin nodded. “Leverage for the next go-around.”
    â€œYes, sir. Maybe even some policy influence. Problem is, nobody’s been able to nail down Bulganin’s agenda. So far he’s done little but echo the frustrations of the average Russian citizen.”
    â€œDick, it’s called politics. The man’s building a constituency.”
    â€œIn a country as volatile as Russia, sir, political ambiguity is dangerous.”
    â€œFor who?”
    â€œThe world. The fact that Bulganin has gained so much support without tipping his hand is worrisome. There can be only two explanations: Either he’s avoiding substance because he doesn’t have any, or he’s got an agenda he doesn’t want to lay out until he’s got the influence to make it stick.”
    Martin leaned toward Bousikaris and mock-whispered, “Dick sees a conspiracy in every bush.”
    Mason spread his hands. “It’s what I’m paid to do, Mr. President.”
    As astute a politician as Martin was, he was naive when it came to the world scene. Though the concept of the “global village” was finally taking hold in the public consciousness, it was nothing new to the intelligence community. Nothing happens in a vacuum, Mason knew. With six billion people and hundreds of individual governments on the planet, there existed lines of interconnectedness that only God could fathom.
    Some events—say, a farm county in Minnesota hit by flooding—take longer to exert influence.