Nikita Khrushchev waited patiently as copies of the American communiqué were distributed to the eighteen members of the Politburo and read. He'd already read it to himself six or seven times and he still didn't understand it.

They were all sitting in an opulent room devoid of natural light. Several large wooden tables were pushed together into a hollow square in the centre of the room and it was around the edge of this square that they all sat. The rest of the room was empty. Every turn of the doorknob or scrape of a chair leg on the hardwood floor echoed sharply around the room. But usually, there was silence.

Khrushchev might have been Premier of the largest nation on the planet, but there was no head of the table under communism. He sat amongst his subordinates, watching them each, in turn, finish the communiqué and frown.

For a moment, none of them spoke up.

"Well," said one eventually, having cleared his throat. "I think the obvious first question is: did we actually attack their cruiser?"

There were several adjutants standing behind those sitting at the table. They didn't actually have a voice on the committee, but they usually knew far more about what was happening than those who did.

"No," said one of them.

Khrushchev eyed Marshal Gharkov out of the corner of his eye. Gharkov was his military counsel, and unlike the rest of the bureaucrats standing around the room, actually had some influence. He was in charge of the KGB.

"So what the hell are they talking about?"

Gharkov paused. "There appears to be some dispute over what actually happened. Our submarine commander claims the American cruiser was abandoned and drifting when he found it, and thus he had a right to board it."

There were some mutterings around the room.

"Have we corroborated this?"

"The Americans claim the cruiser can't possibly have been abandoned because the crew didn't send a distress signal," Gharkov continued.

"Is that a plausible claim?"

"Entirely."

"What do we know about the submarine captain?" asked someone else. "Have we ruled out a rogue element?"

"Captain Rikhalin has an exemplary service record," said Gharkov. "The very picture of unquestioning - and unquestionable - loyalty."

The mutterings rose. Committee members turned to each other, pointing out different parts of the communiqué. Khrushchev could only see one man who was not making any fuss: the squint-eyed Leonid Brezhnev.

God, how he hated that man.

"What response have we given the Americans?" asked a small, bespectacled man who always reminded Khrushchev of Trotsky.

"We haven't," Khrushchev himself grunted.

The mutterings stopped for a moment.

"Not yet," Gharkov added. "This is an unprecedented development. We have to decide which would be the best way to respond to that."

The mutterings returned, louder than before.

Just then, there was a sharp rap at the door. Without delay, it opened, and a young clerk-type with thick eyebrows stepped into the room.

"What is it?" Khrushchev snapped at him.

"Vladimir Metzkin has arrived, sir."

All the muttering stopped in an instant.

Everyone looked up at Khrushchev expectantly.

He turned to Gharkov and cocked two fingers. Gharkov leant in close.

"What's he doing here?" Khrushchev hissed.

"I don't know, sir," Gharkov whispered back.

"Some of us think it's high time you gave the man an audience, Nikita," a thick, pompous voice called across the table.

Khrushchev glared around the committee and found Brezhnev looking rather smug. He quickly turned back to Gharkov.

"I think you should listen to Metzkin, sir," Gharkov said quietly. "It will weaken your position if you don't at least appear open to his ideas now."

Khrushchev waved him away irritably.

"Bring him in," he told the clerk.

Now Brezhnev looked even smugger.

Vladimir Metzkin was a tall, gangly man with a shock of dark hair, a closely trimmed beard and a well-fitting suit. Khrushchev thought he looked like a member of the Gestapo. He came in carrying a thick folder.

"Mr Chairman," he said boldly.

The two committee members immediately opposite Khrushchev moved to the sides so that Metzkin could address him directly.

"I presume you're aware of today's developments, Metzkin," Khrushchev said cautiously.

"Yes, Mr Chairman, I am," said Metzkin, unbuttoning his jacket. "And, if I may say so, I'm not in the least surprised."

The committee began to mutter again.

Khrushchev sighed. "What have you got, Metzkin?"

"Evidence, Mr Chairman," said Metzkin, though he was beginning to address the entire committee now. "Of America's hostile intentions."

The committee reacted predictably.

And Metzkin fed off every gasp.

Khrushchev had been putting this off for months. He had first heard of Metzkin after the Bay of Pigs affair. Metzkin was a former KGB agent and now a senior member of the Communist Party. A staunch and unrepentant Stalinist, he had been compiling a dossier against America for years.

"What I have here," Metzkin continued, between dabbing his thumb on his tongue to turn over pages. "Is a catalogue of aggressive American actions against communist nations and groups around the world. Taken individually, none of these appear anything more than capitalist imperialism."

He closed the folder and put his hands on top of it.

"But as a whole," he said gravely. "What this amounts to is the co-ordinated, systematic destruction of the communist idyll."

The mutterings returned louder than ever, but, Khrushchev swiftly realised, not many were convinced. Metzkin clearly detected that too.

"A couple of dates, if I may," he said, speaking over them as he found a sheet of paper near the front of his folder. "November 14th last year. President Kennedy sends military advisors to Vietnam. And with them, aerial bombers, fighter aircraft, helicopters. A new airfield built outside Saigon. Plus radar stations." He paused. "All thanks to the generosity of the United States of America?"

He didn't give them time to answer.

"Another date. May 10th this year. President Kennedy sends American troops to Siam, supposedly to prevent a communist expansion from Laos. This was a year after he sent both military and financial aid to Laos itself to fund rebels fighting against the communist administration of the country. How noble? How generous? No, how mistaken of Siam to imagine America cares about them."

Khrushchev yawned quite deliberately.

"So what do we have?" Metzkin went on unabated. "Well, it's like a game of chess. America is positioning its pieces. Its forces are waiting on the Indo-China subcontinent. Why? Because Vietnam and Laos are communist? No, that's just a handy excuse. Look at where these countries are. Look at who Vietnam and Laos and Siam all border to the north. This is a launch pad to invade China!"

"Actually, Metzkin," Khrushchev said patronisingly. "Before you came in we were talking about this communiqué from America."

About half the committee laughed.

Metzkin glanced at Brezhnev, glared at Khrushchev.

"Then here's one final date for you all," he said. "September 24th, not even a month ago. The American Congress gives President Kennedy the power to call up one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand reservists... without having to declare a national emergency first. Secret mobilisation, and it's happening now."

"For the invasion of China?" went Khrushchev, playing dumb.

"Not just China, Mr Chairman. Us too. In July you pledged to defend China against any aggressors. The Americans know this as well as I. An attack on China would inevitably lead to war with the Soviet Union too."

They both stared across the table at each other.

Brezhnev cleared his throat, but still sounded gruff. "Metzkin, what's your interpretation of this communiqué from America?"

Metzkin paused. "I believe it a ploy, sir."

"A ploy? What kind of ploy?"

"A Trojan Horse, sir," Metzkin said slowly. "I can't prove it yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if the Americans scuttled their own cruiser. What was it doing so close to our waters anyway? An abandoned cruiser, adrift, open to anyone's claim as salvage? They knew we wouldn't be able to resist that prospect. And why should we? Now they're trying to make us appear the aggressors for it."

Brezhnev nodded very enthusiastically. Much to Khrushchev's chagrin, he wasn't alone amongst the committee members.

"You can go now, Metzkin," Khrushchev said.

But it was to Brezhnev that Metzkin looked, and only when Brezhnev nodded that he buttoned up his jacket and picked up his folder.

"Thank you, Mr Chairman," he said.

When he was gone, Khrushchev clapped his hands together. "All right," he said. "In light of all that, what response should we give this?"

Brezhnev got in first. "Mobilise immediately."

"No, that'd be the worst thing to do," somebody spoke up. "That'll play right into their hands, and we really will be the aggressors."

"Nonsense!" cried someone else. "Mobilisation is no less than what the Americans are already doing themselves. I'm with Leonid on this."

"Metzkin's dossier is just interpretation, though," another chimed in. "He doesn't know that they're mobilising, he just knows that they can."

"This is all just semantics," came a louder voice. "We know we didn't attack their cruiser. The Americans send this provocative letter, effectively daring us not to respond in kind. I say we call their bluff and mobilise!"

Someone slammed their fist on the table.

"Mr Chairman, do tell this rabble to stop over-reacting!"

After that outburst, the committee members stopped taking turns to speak and took to shouting over the top of each other instead. When they realised they weren't getting heard that way, they just started bickering with their neighbours.

Khrushchev looked across the table and found Brezhnev equally detached from the debate. His younger opponent nodded graciously.

Khrushchev snorted angrily, but nobody heard. He turned to Gharkov and summoned him back again. Gharkov bent down.

"This situation will only escalate in the paws of these jackals, Gharkov. I need a way to satisfy them, but at the same time, it has to be something that won't be taken the same way by the Americans. Do you have any ideas?"

Gharkov nodded. "The only thing I can think of is if you increase troop deployments in East Germany, sir. It'll look suspicious to the Americans, yes, but not as suspicious as if we mobilised anywhere else."

"Yes, yes!" Khrushchev nodded. He could see Brezhnev looking more than a little peeved that he couldn't hear what they were saying.

"I'll see to it immediately, sir."

"Good, good," said Khrushchev. "Oh, and Gharkov, if we are in the wrong over that cruiser, I need to know about it. Send someone from your agency to investigate that submarine, and its captain."

"Sir, I already have."

Anton Malakov arrived in Vladivostok shortly before dusk. His work for the KGB had taken him all over the Soviet Union, but he had never been on the Pacific coast after nightfall before. He took a car from the station but before he got to the harbour it was dark, and the temperature had dropped significantly.

A gnawing October wind blew through the docks; a threat of a harsh winter that was just around the corner. Cranes abandoned for the night groaned, and their chains rattled like leaves in the boughs of metal trees. Awnings flapped desperately on the decks of anchored boats, which rocked and creaked in their berths.

The dockers that Malakov saw as he walked through the harbour all looked identical in their long, waxed coats. They were dressed far more suitably for this kind of weather than he was, Malakov thought. He decided to light himself a warming cigarette as he looked for a sign to the harbour master's office.

Most of the buildings were shut for the night. Warehouses were locked up and quiet, but a few windows still had light coming out of them. Malakov followed the smell of the sea and walked against the wind. His cigarette went out twice, but the harbour master's office would be nearer the quayside, he imagined.

It turned out to be a small, two-storey, weather-beaten brick building by the water's edge. The door had a lock but no handle, so Malakov knocked on it. A young man with a round and unattractive face answered it.

"I'm looking for the harbour master," Malakov said.

"He's not here," the young man replied. He had a thick local accent. "He's out on business. But he'll be back shortly if you want to wait."

Malakov nodded and put a foot forward.

"You can't smoke in here, sir."

Malakov looked at his cigarette. There was only a butt left. He took one long final drag, then stamped it out underfoot.

As he went into the warm, he unfurled his coat lapels. He took a narrow brown envelope from his inside pocket and handed it to the young man in passing. The puzzled young man opened it up and read the contents slowly.

Malakov went and sat behind the harbour master's desk and promptly lit another cigarette. The young man said nothing.

Malakov waited about ten minutes before the harbour master returned. His name was Andreas Gustach, 51, Ukrainian by birth, spent ten years in the Soviet navy, widowed, no children. Malakov knew everything about him.

He stood to shake hands with the man.

"We spoke on the telephone," said Gustach.

"Yes," Malakov replied. "Did you do what I asked?"

Gustach nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes, sir. They're in a warehouse down by the wharf. Come on. I'll take you there. It's not far."

Malakov put his coat back on.

If anything it was even colder outside now. It seemed like a mounting gale was whistling and wailing between the buildings. Malakov shivered.

"Is there a storm coming in?" he cried.

"You're not from around here, are you?" Gustach shouted back. "This is almost beach weather in Vladivostok, sir!"

Gustach laughed as he led Malakov toward the wharf. Malakov could just about see the submarine waiting at the far end.

The air felt wet, but it wasn't raining. Not far beyond the wharf the rough sea was churning droplets of water into the air. Malakov heard waves smash into the side of the dock with such intensity it sounded like smashing glass.

"The submarine docked just under an hour ago," Gustach explained as he led Malakov round the back of the warehouse, where it was quieter. "I haven't told the crew anything yet, sir. They're being quite aggressive."

"Good work, Gustach," Malakov said.

"It's this door. I'll unlock it for you."

They stopped beside a narrow door that had a padlock on it. Gustach fumbled in his pockets but eventually found the key and took the padlock off.

He was just about to open the door when Malakov held his arm across the frame. "I'll wait out here, then," Gustach said.

"Thank you," said Malakov.

Then he went in and closed the door behind him.

The warehouse wasn't very well insulated, so it wasn't much warmer inside than out. The forty members of the submarine's crew were scattered around the warehouse, looking very cold. As Malakov entered, they all went quiet.

The younger crewmembers were sitting cross-legged on the floor. Others were perched on tarpaulin-covered junk. A few were standing up. One of these had his back to Malakov. A man sitting on a giant tyre said something to him.

Captain Rikhalin turned to look at Malakov.

"Who the fuck are you?" he spat.

Malakov recognised him from his profile.

"I'm Malakov," he said. "I'm with internal security."

This was met by heckles and jeers from the crew.

"Why the fuck have we been imprisoned?" said Rikhalin.

"Not imprisoned," Malakov corrected. "Just detained."

"Call it whatever you like, mister," Rikhalin sneered. "We want, no, we fucking deserve an explanation. So what have you got?"

The crew murmured their support.

"Fair enough," said Malakov calmly. "You're all being held in the interests of national security. Earlier today you intercepted an abandoned American cruiser. That ship is currently under investigation, and therefore so are you."

"I already relayed everything that happened," said Rikhalin.

"Then you won't be detained long."

The crew jeered one final time, then scattered, disinterested.

Rikhalin rubbed a day's worth of beard growth and looked around his men sheepishly. Then he gestured to Malakov to follow him to an empty corner.

"Actually, that wasn't entirely true," he said quietly.

"I'm listening," Malakov told him.

"We took a prisoner," Rikhalin said. Then he launched into an incoherent and inconsistent account of numerous confessions acquired under torture.

Malakov listened carefully as Rikhalin told him about the Hitori, the USS Roosevelt, its drowned crew, and what was supposedly in its hold.

At the end, Malakov shook his head with incredulity.

"Let me get this straight," he said slowly. "Invisible beings from outer space, and there's one hiding somewhere on your submarine."

"That's his theory," said Rikhalin.

It was the place of a KGB agent to remain cold, calculated, logical and emotionless, but Malakov couldn't help but smile at Rikhalin's seriousness.

He sighed. "How did you get to be captain?"

"What do you mean?" said Rikhalin.

"You're a fool."

"Hey, fuck you, mister!" Rikhalin growled. "That corpse got on my submarine somehow and all I know is that none of my crew did it."

"No, what you mean is, none of your crew admitted to it. But obviously one of them is lying. Because whilst you were off looking for something you couldn't even see, you were missing the real threat right beneath your nose."

Rikhalin was already shaking his head.

"Your prisoner has an accomplice on the crew."

Rikhalin glanced back at his men. They were starting to look angry with him now. "Still doesn't explain why they took a body aboard," he muttered.

No, it didn't, Malakov admitted to himself. "When I interrogate them, I'll be sure to ask." He looked around the submarine's crew.

"We're not going anywhere, then?" Rikhalin grumbled.

Malakov ignored him. "Where's the prisoner?"

Rikhalin sighed. "They wouldn't let us bring him ashore."

"He's still on board the submarine? Take me to him."

Rikhalin swept his hand toward the door, a flippant invitation. "Probably dead by now," he muttered, as Malakov led the way out.

The weather wasn't any calmer outside. Malakov had Gustach put the padlock back on the warehouse door, then take them back to the wharf. Water was spraying over the dockside by now. Gustach warned them off going along the jetty.

Malakov ignored him. Shepherding Rikhalin in front of him, they slowly made their way to the submarine. Malakov was soaked to the skin by the time they reached the hatch. Rikhalin struggled to open it, then they climbed inside.

Deep in the warm enclave of the submarine's engine room, the hunter sensed he was no longer confined, and lifted his masked head.

His technologically enhanced hearing picked up two voices, but he didn't understand the language, just that they were still far away.

He lifted a claw and swiped it across a panel on his arm. All of a sudden, he was visible to the naked eye again. As were all his accoutrements. He had an array of weapons and tools. He also had a net containing his trophies.

He had two skulls, freshly polished to a fantastic white sheen. One had been taken from the pink-skin and one from the olive-skin. But he had been disappointed to find, beneath their skins, the two humans were very much alike.

He picked up the net, his pistol and his spear.

The hunter was ready to hunt again.

NOTES:
I'm happier with this than I was the last chapter, but I still think it suffers from too much talk. The problem with trying to get something done in a single draft is that the temptation is to throw everything up there on the page, to get it right the first time. But sometimes, the best way doesn't involve everything, it just involves a few good ideas milked for their full potential. The lesson, then, is the benefit of rewriting - it's just not something I've got the inclination to do for mere fan fiction.

All the dates and events in this chapter are real. America did get a foothold in Siam (now Thailand) and Vietnam under Kennedy. It was Kennedy, after all, that effectively committed America to the Vietnam War. And whilst Khrushchev is now infamous for destroying Soviet links to China, it was actually his failure to stand by Cuba during the Missile Crisis that pissed off Mao. He did indeed pledge in July 1962 to go to war with anyone who attacked China. Metzkin and Gharkov, meanwhile, are fictional creations. Leonid Brezhnev, however, is the guy who a few years later toppled Khrushchev and became Premier. I don't know if he was on the Politburo, but I couldn't find out anybody who was (indeed, I don't even think it was named the Politburo back then; it was something like the Praesidium).

This chapter was originally going to end later, with Malakov taking Shelby off Rikhalin's hands and leaving Vladivostok before the Predator tried to leave the submarine. I just felt I needed to bring the alien back to the fore. This is a "Predator" story after all. The last line feels very much to me like this is the end of the beginning, with things about to take off.