Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (2 page)

The ship herself remained quiet. Red October gave no sign of welcome for the water. Perhaps she knew the fate that awaited her, Ryan said to himself. It was a foolish thought— but he also knew that for millennia sailors had imputed personalities to the ships they served.

Finally she started to move. The water buoyed the hull off the wooden blocks. There was a muted series of thuds, more felt than heard as she rose off them ever so slowly, rocking back and forth a few inches at a time.

A few minutes later the ship's diesel engine rumbled to life, and the line handlers on the ship and the drydock began to take in the lines. At the same time, the canvas that covered the seaward end of the drydock was taken down, and all could see the fog that hung on the water outside. Conditions were perfect for the operation. Conditions had to be perfect; the Navy had waited six weeks for them, a moonless night and the thick seasonal fog that plagued the
Chesapeake Bay
region this time of year. When the last line was slipped, an officer atop the submarine's sail raised a hand-held air horn and blew a single blast.

“Under way!” his voice called, and the sailors at the bow struck the jack and put down the staff. For the first time, Ryan noticed that it was the Soviet jack. He smiled. It was a nice touch. On the sail's aft end, another seaman ran up the Soviet naval ensign, its bright red star emblazoned with the shield of the Red Banner Northern Fleet. The Navy, ever mindful of traditions, was saluting the man who stood at his side.

Ryan and Ramius watched the submarine start to move under her own power, her twin bronze propellers turning gently in reverse as she backed out into the river. One of the tugs helped her turn to face north. Within another minute she was gone from sight. Only the lingering rumble of her diesel came across the oily water of the navy yard.

Marko blew his nose once and blinked a half-dozen times. When he turned away from the water, his voice was firm.

“So, Ryan, they fly you home from
England
for this?”

“No, I came back a few weeks ago. New job.”

“Can you say what job is?” Marko asked.

“Arms control. They want me to coordinate the intelligence side for the negotiations team. We have to fly over in January.”

“
Moscow
?”          

“Yes, it's a preliminary session—setting the agenda and doing some technical stuff, that sort of thing. How about you?”

“I work at AUTEC in
Bahamas
. Much sun and sand. You see my tan?” Ramius grinned. “I come to
Washington
every two-three months. I fly back in five hours. We work on new quieting project.” Another smile. “Is classified.”

“Great! I want you to come over to my house then. I still owe you a dinner.” Jack handed over a card. “Here's my number. Call me a few days before you fly in, and I'll set things up with the Agency.” Ramius and his officers were under a very strict protection regime from CIA security officers. The really amazing thing, Jack thought, was that the story hadn't leaked. None of the news media had gotten word, and if security really was that tight, probably the Russians also didn't know the fate of their missile submarine Krazny
Oktyabr. She'd be turning east about now, Jack thought, to pass over the Hampton Roads tunnel. Roughly an hour after that she'd dive and head southeast. He shook his head.

Ryan's sadness at the submarine's fate was tempered by the thought of what she'd been built for. He remembered his own reaction, in the sub's missile room a year before, the first time he'd been so close to the ghastly things. Jack accepted the fact that nuclear weapons kept the peace—if you could really call the world's condition peace—but like most of the people who thought about the subject, he wished for a better way. Well, this was one less submarine, twenty-six less missiles, and one hundred eighty-two less warheads. Statistically, Ryan told himself, it didn't count for much.

But it was something.

Ten thousand miles away and eight thousand feet above sea level the problem was unseasonable weather. The place was in the Tadzhik Soviet Socialist Republic, and the wind came from the south, still bearing moisture from the
Indian Ocean
that fell as miserably cold drizzle. Soon it would be the real winter that always came early here, usually on the heels of the blazing, airless summer, and all that fell would be cold and white.

The workers were mostly young, eager members of the Komsomol. They had been brought in to help finish a construction project that had been begun in 1983. One of them, a masters candidate at
Moscow
State
University
's school of physics, rubbed the rain from his eyes and straightened to ease a crick in his back. This was no way to utilize a promising young engineer, Morozov thought. Instead of playing with this surveyor's instrument, he could be building lasers in his laboratory, but he wanted full membership in the Communist Party of the
Soviet Union
, and wanted even more to avoid military service. The combination of his school deferment and his Komsomol work had helped mightily to this end.

“Well?” Morozov turned to see one of the site engineers. A civil engineer, he was, who described himself as a man who knew concrete.

“I read the position as correct, Comrade Engineer.”

The older man stooped down to look through the sighting scope. “I agree,” the man said. “And that's the last one, the gods be praised.” Both men jumped with the sound of a distant explosion. Engineers from the Red Army obliterating yet another rocky outcropping outside of the fenced perimeter. You didn't need to be a soldier to understand what that was all about, Morozov thought to himself.

“You have a fine touch with optical instruments. Perhaps you will become a civil engineer, too, eh? Build useful things for the State?”

“No, Comrade. I study high-energy physics—mainly lasers.” These, too, are useful things.

The man grunted and shook his head. “Then you might come back here, God help you.”

“Is this—”

“You didn't hear anything from me,” the engineer said, just a touch of firmness in his voice.

“I understand,” Morozov replied quietly. “I suspected as much.”

“I would be careful voicing that suspicion,” the other said conversationally as he turned to look at something.

“This must be a fine place to watch the stars,” Morozov observed, hoping for the right response.

“I wouldn't know,” the civil engineer replied with an insider's smile. “I've never met an astronomer.”

Morozov smiled to himself. He'd guessed right after all. They had just plotted the position of the six points on which mirrors would be set. These were equidistant from a central point located in a building guarded by men with rifles. Such precision, he knew, had only two applications. One was astronomy, which collected light coming down. The other application involved light going up. The young engineer told himself that here was where he wanted to come. This place would change the world.

The Reception of

the Party

B
USINESS
was being conducted. All kinds of business. Everyone there knew it. Everyone there was part of it. Everyone there needed it. And yet everyone there was in one way or another dedicated to stopping it. For every person there in the St. George Hall of the
Great
Kremlin
Palace
, the dualism was a normal part of life.

The participants were mainly Russian and American, and were divided into four groups.

First, the diplomats and politicians. One could discern these easily enough from their better-than-average clothing and erect posture, the ready, robotic smiles, and careful diction that endured even after the many alcoholic toasts. They were the masters, knew it, and their demeanor proclaimed it.

Second, the soldiers. One could not have arms negotiations without the men who controlled the arms, maintained them, tested them, pampered them, all the while telling themselves that the politicians who controlled the men would never give the order to launch. The soldiers in their uniforms stood mainly in little knots of homogeneous nationality and service branch, each clutching a half-f glass and napkin while blank, emotionless eyes swept the room as though searching for a threat on an unfamiliar battlefield. For that was precisely what it was to them, a bloodless battlefield that would define the real ones if their political masters ever lost control, lost temper, lost perspective, lost whatever it is in man that tries to avoid the profligate waste of young life. To a man the soldiers trusted none but one another, and in some cases trusted their enemies in different-colored uniforms more than their own soft-clothed masters. At least you knew where another soldier stood. You couldn't always say the same of politicians, even your own. They talked with one another quietly, always watching to see who listened, stopping occasionally for a quick gulp from the glass, accompanied by another look about the room. They were the victims, but also the predators—the dogs, perhaps, kept on leashes by those who deemed themselves the masters of events.

The soldiers had trouble believing that, too.

Third, the reporters. These could also be picked out by their clothing, which was always wrinkled by too many packings and unpackings in airline suitcases too small for all they carried. They lacked the polish of the politicians, and the fixed smiles, substituting for it the inquisitive looks of children, mixed with the cynicism of the dissolute. Mainly they held their glasses in their left hands, sometimes with a small pad instead of the paper napkin, while a pen was half-hidden in the right. They circulated like birds of prey. One would find someone who would talk. Others would notice and corm over to drink in the information. The casual observer could tell how interesting the information was by how quickly the reporters moved off to another source. In this sense the American and other Western reporters were different from their Soviet counterparts, who for the most part hung close to their masters like favored earls of another time, both to show their loyalty to the Party and to act as buffers against their colleagues from elsewhere. But together, they were the audience in this performance of theater in the round.

Fourth came the final group, the invisible one, those whom no one could identify in any easy way. These were the spies and the counterespionage agents who hunted them. They could be distinguished from the security officers, who watched everyone with suspicion, but from the room's perimeter, as invisible as the waiters who circulated about with heavy silver trays of champagne and vodka in crystal glasses that had been commissioned by the House of Romanov. Some of the waiters were counterespionage agents, of course. Those had to circulate through the room, their ears perked for a snippet of conversation, perhaps a voice too low or a word that didn't fit the mood of the evening. It was no easy task. A quartet of strings in a corner played chamber music to which no one appeared to listen, but this too is a feature of diplomatic receptions and doing without it would be noticed. Then there was the volume of human noise. There were well over a hundred people here, and every one of them was talking at least half the time. Those close to the quartet had to speak loudly to be heard over the music. All the resulting noise was contained in a ballroom two hundred feet long and sixty-five wide, with a parquet floor and hard stucco walls that reflected and reverberated the sound until it reached an ambient level that would have hurt the ears of a small child. The spies used their invisibility and the noise to make themselves the ghosts of the feast.

But the spies were here. Everyone knew it. Anyone in
Moscow
could tell you about spies. If you met with a Westerner on anything approaching a regular basis, it was the prudent thing to report it. If you did so only once, and a passing police officer of the Moscow Militia—or an Army officer strolling around with his briefcase—passed by, a head would turn, and note would be taken. Perhaps cursory, perhaps not. Times had changed since Stalin, of course, but
Russia
was still
Russia
, and distrust of foreigners and their ideas was far older than any ideology.

Most of the people in the room thought about it without really thinking about it—except those who actually played this particular game. The diplomats and politicians had practice guarding their words, and were not overly concerned at the moment. To the reporters it was merely amusing, a fabulous game that didn't really concern them—though each Western reporter knew that he or she was ipso facto thought an agent of espionage by the Soviet government. The soldiers thought about it most of all. They knew the importance of intelligence, craved it, valued it—and despised those who gathered it for the slinking things they were.

Which ones are the spies?

Of course there was a handful of people who fitted into no easily identified category—or fitted into more than one.

“And how did you find
Moscow
, Dr. Ryan?” a Russian asked. Jack turned from his inspection of the beautiful St. George clock.

“Cold and dark, I'm afraid,” Ryan answered after a sip of his champagne. “It's not as though we have had much chance to see anything.” Nor would they. The American team had been in the
Soviet Union
only for a little over four days, and would fly home the next day after concluding the technical session that preceded the plenary one.

“That is too bad,” Sergey Golovko observed.

“Yes,” Jack agreed. “If all of your architecture is this good, I'd love to take a few days to admire it. Whoever built this house had style.” He nodded approvingly at the gleaming white walls, the domed ceiling, and the gold leaf. In fact he thought it overdone, but he knew that the Russians had a national tendency to overdo a lot of things. To Russians, who rarely had enough of anything, “having enough” meant having more than anyone else—preferably more than everyone else. Ryan thought it evidence of a national inferiority complex, and reminded himself that people who feel themselves inferior have a pathological desire to disprove their own perceptions. That one factor dominated all aspects of the arms-control process, displacing mere logic as the basis for reaching an agreement.

“The decadent Romanovs,” Golovko noted. “All this came from the sweat of the peasants.” Ryan turned and laughed.

“Well, at least some of their tax money went for something beautiful, harmless—and immortal. If you ask me, it beats buying ugly weapons that are obsolete ten years later. There's an idea, Sergey Nikolay'ch. We will redirect our political-military competition to beauty instead of nuclear weapons.”

“You are satisfied with the progress, then?”

Business.
Ryan shrugged and continued to inspect the room. “I suppose we've settled on the agenda. Next, those characters over by the fireplace have to work out the details.” He stared at one of the enormous crystal chandeliers. He wondered how many man-years of effort had gone into making it, and how much fun it must have been to hang something that weighed as much as a small car.

“And you are satisfied on the issue of verifiability?”

That confirms it
, Ryan thought with a thin smile. Golovko is GRU. “National Technical Means,” a term that denote spy satellites and other methods of keeping an eye on foreign countries, were mainly the province of CIA in America, but in the Soviet Union they belonged to the GRU, the Soviet military intelligence agency. Despite the tentative agreement in principle for on-site inspection, the main effort of verifying compliance on an agreement would lie with the spy satellites. That would be Golovko's turf.

It was no particular secret that Jack worked for CIA. It didn't have to be; he wasn't a field officer. His attachment to the arms-negotiation team was a logical matter. His current assignment had to do with monitoring certain strategic weapons systems within the
Soviet Union
. For any arms treaty to be signed, both sides first had to satisfy their own institutional paranoia that no serious tricks could be played on them by the other. Jack advised the chief negotiator along these lines; when, Jack reminded himself, the negotiator troubled himself to listen.

“Verifiability,” he replied after another moment, “is a very technical and difficult question. I'm afraid I'm not really that conversant on it. What do your people think about our proposal to limit land-based systems?”

“We depend on our land-based missiles more than you,” Golovko said. His voice became more guarded as they discussed the meat of the Soviet position.

“I don't understand why you don't place as much emphasis on submarines as we do.”

“Reliability, as you well know.”

“Aw, hell. Submarines are reliable,” Jack baited him as he re-examined the clock. It was magnificent. Some peasant-looking fellow was handing a sword to another chap, and waving him off to battle. Not exactly a new idea, Jack thought. Some old fart tells a young kid to go off and get killed.

“We have had some incidents, I regret to say.”

“Yeah, that Yankee that went down off
Bermuda
.”

“And the other.”

“Hmph?” Ryan turned back. It took a serious effort not to smile.

“Please, Dr. Ryan, do not insult my intelligence. You know the story of Krazny
Oktyabr as well as I.”

“What was that name? Oh, yeah, the Typhoon you guys lost off the
Carolinas
. I was in
London
then. I never did get briefed on it.”

“I think the two incidents illustrate the problem we Soviets face. We cannot trust our missile submarines as completely as you trust yours.”

“Hmm.” Not to mention the drivers, Ryan thought, careful lot to let his face show a thing.

Golovko persisted. “But may I ask a substantive question?”

“Sure, so long as you don't expect a substantive answer.” Ryan chuckled.

“Will your intelligence community object to the draft treat proposal?”

“Now, how am I supposed to know the answer to that?” Jack paused. “What about yours?”

“Our organs of State security do what they are told,” Golovko assured him.

Right
, Ryan told himself. “In our country, if the President decides that he likes an arms treaty, and he thinks he can get it through the Senate, it doesn't matter what the CIA and Pentagon think—”

“But your military-industrial complex—” Golovko cut Jack off.

“God, you guys really love to beat on that horse, don' you? Sergey Nikolayevich, you should know better.”

But Golovko was a military intelligence officer, and might not, Ryan remembered too late. The degree to which America and the Soviet Union misunderstood each other was a one and the same time amusing and supremely dangerous Jack wondered if the intelligence community over here tried to get the truth out, as CIA usually did now, or merely told its masters what they wanted to hear, as CIA had done a too often in the past. Probably the latter, he thought. The Russian intel agencies were undoubtedly politicized, just a CIA used to be. One good thing about Judge Moore was that he'd worked damned hard to put an end to that. But the Judge had no particular wish to be President; that made him different from his Soviet counterparts. One director of the KGB had made it to the top over here, and at least one other tried to. That made KGB a political creature, and that affected its objectivity. Jack sighed into his drink. The problem between the two countries wouldn't end if all the false perceptions were laid to rest, but at least things could be more manageable.

Maybe.
Ryan admitted to himself that this might be as false a panacea as all the others; it had never been tried, after all.

“May I make a suggestion to you?”

“Certainly,” Golovko answered.

“Let's drop the shop talk, and you tell me about this room while I enjoy the champagne.” It'll save us both a lot of time when we write up our contact reports tomorrow.

“Perhaps I could get you some vodka?”

“No, thanks, this bubbly stuff is great. Local?”

“Yes, from
Georgia
,” Golovko said proudly. “I think it is better than the French.”

“I wouldn't mind taking a few bottles home,” Ryan allowed.

Golovko laughed, a short bark of amusement and power. “I will see to it. So. The palace was finished in 1849, at the cost of eleven million rubles, quite a sum at the time. It's the last grand palace ever built, and, I think, the best . . .”

Ryan wasn't the only one touring the room, of course. Most of the American delegation had never seen it. Russians bored with the reception led them around, explaining as they went. Several people from the embassy tagged along, keeping a casual eye on things.

“So, Misha, what do you think of American women?” Defense Minister Yazov asked his aide.

“Those coming this way are not unattractive, Comrade Minister,” the Colonel observed.

“But so skinny—ah, yes, I keep forgetting, your beautiful Elena was also thin. A fine woman she was, Misha.”

“Thank you for remembering, Dmitri Timofeyevich.”

“Hello, Colonel!” one of the American ladies said in Russian.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. . . .”

“Foley. We met at the hockey game last November.”

“You know this lady?” the Minister asked his aide.