"President Yanaev, you have to believe that we are here with sincerity. In order to resolve and deal with the Vantaa incident, after full consideration, we unanimously agree that the two countries should put aside the conflict and coexist peacefully."
Yanaev barely reacted to Bush's olive branch. After all, the world was well aware of Uncle Sam's shamelessness. But there was something about Bush's tight, insincere smile that rubbed him the wrong way. Still, he chose to excuse it—likely a result of the American president's frayed nerves after days of stress over the red mercury bomb.
"So," Yanaev said coolly, "what price is your country prepared to pay to get your man back? We've made it clear before—if someone like Vanta, a known financial criminal, can hold a senior post in the CIA, there must be consequences."
Yanaev wasn't about to play his hand first. He intended to sit back and let Bush make the opening move.
Bush tapped his thumb and forefinger lightly on the table, eyeing Yanaev's unhurried posture. After a moment, he finally offered, "We're willing to pay four hundred million dollars for the release of Leo Wanta from KGB custody. What's your position on that?"
Yanaev frowned. Based on the official exchange rate—1 U.S. dollar to 1.66 rubles—this offer translated to over 660 million rubles. A handsome amount for a Soviet economy struggling to stay afloat. Not a bad deal at all.
But Yanaev remained silent. That silence made Bush uneasy.
The American bottom line was six hundred million. He didn't want to show his full hand too early, so he leaned forward and added, "President Yanaev, four hundred million is the most we can reasonably offer. If your government feels that isn't sufficient, I regret to say we may have no agreement."
Yanaev blinked. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Bush repeated himself, more clearly this time. "Four hundred million. U.S. dollars."
Yanaev leaned back, pretending to be caught off guard. He had expected the Americans to settle in rubles—not cold, hard dollars. In effect, Bush was offering the equivalent of nearly seven hundred million rubles, a godsend for a nation on the brink of economic collapse.
He couldn't help recalling how just this month, Gorbachev had attended a Western summit so broke he couldn't even afford his hotel bill. And yet here was Yanaev, somehow pulling real money out of the Americans.
"No," Yanaev said after a pause, feigning hesitation, "I'd say the offer falls just slightly below what this situation warrants. But considering the long journey you made from Washington to Moscow, President Bush… we'll accept it. Reluctantly."
Bush narrowed his eyes for just a moment—then understood. The Soviets hadn't expected such a generous offer. The number had already exceeded their expectations. But what was said couldn't be taken back.
Still, Bush wasn't finished. If he couldn't pull the money back, he could still raise the stakes.
"Of course, there's one condition," he said. "In exchange for the funds, we expect the Soviet Union to either sign a non-proliferation treaty regarding nuclear miniaturization—or agree to share its research on miniaturized nuclear weapons."
Yanaev tilted his head and responded with mock confusion. "Non-proliferation? Miniaturization? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. As far as I'm aware, the Soviet Union has no models beyond conventional nuclear artillery. How could we sign a treaty about something that doesn't exist?"
Bush leaned in slightly. His voice was low, rough from days of tension—but every syllable was deliberate.
"Red mercury nuclear bombs," he said. "We want to limit the spread of red mercury technology."
For the first time, even Yanaev was caught slightly off-guard. He hadn't expected Bush to say it aloud. Clearly, the red mercury hoax had worked—America was truly shaken.
But Yanaev still refused to tip his hand.
"Red mercury?" he said innocently. "Isn't that the phantom weapon your Pentagon invented to secure more funding? Now you believe your own stories and accuse us of having it? Are you developing a persecution complex, Mr. President?"
Brent, standing nearby, could no longer stay silent. He leaned forward and broke the chess match wide open.
"President Yanaev," he said sternly, "I'm Brent—national security advisor to the President. We now have solid intelligence confirming that your country possesses a red mercury bomb. You can deny it, or call this alarmist. But we will not—cannot—allow such a world-ending device to exist in any nation's laboratory. Not in the Soviet Union. Not in the United States. Not anywhere."
He paused, letting the words hang heavy.
"If any country chooses to pursue this nightmare weapon—to use it as leverage over the world—then America will rally the nations of the free world to oppose that regime. Completely."
Yanaev chuckled softly and clapped his hands once in mock applause.
"Well said, Mr. Brent. Stirring words. Very cinematic."
He smiled to himself. The Americans were following Marshal Ogarkov's carefully crafted script to the letter. Even Yanaev had almost believed it himself when he first read it. Every fabricated detail had been accounted for—plausible, terrifying, impossible to disprove. No wonder Bush and his team were so rattled.
"Apologies," Yanaev said, straightening his jacket. "I propose we take a short recess. Gather our thoughts. What do you say, Mr. Bush?"
Bush nodded immediately. "Of course, President Yanaev."
And yet, inside, he exhaled with quiet relief. The Soviets hadn't simply played dumb. They had paused the talks. That meant they were talking internally—discussing something real. If they truly had nothing, there'd be no need for the break.
Which meant… they did have something.And their position might not be as strong as they wanted him to believe.