Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (43 page)

The Baltic came next. You could tell where East and West met. To the south, the West German cities were all gaily lit, each surrounded by a warm glow of light. Not so on the eastern side of the wire-minefield barrier. Everyone aboard noticed the difference, and conversations grew quieter still.

The aircraft was following air route G-24; the navigator in front had the Jeppesen chart partially unfolded on his table. Another difference between East and West was the dearth of flight routes in the former. Well, he told himself, not many Pipers and Cessnas here—of course, there was that one Cessna . . .

“Coming up on a turn. We'll be coming to new heading zero-seven-eight, and entering Soviet control.”

“Right,” the pilot—“aircraft commander”—responded after a moment. He was tired. It had been a long day's flying. They were already at Flight Level 381—38,100 feet, or 11,600 meters as the Soviets preferred to call it. The pilot didn't like meters, even though his instruments were calibrated both ways. After executing the turn, they flew for another sixty miles before crossing the Soviet border at Ventspils.

“We're heeere,” somebody said a few feet from Ryan. From the air, at night, Soviet territory made
East Germany
look like
New Orleans
at Mardi Gras. He remembered night satellite shots. It was so easy to pick out the camps of the GULAG. They were the only lighted squares in the whole country . . . what a dreary place that only the prisons are well lighted . . .

The pilot marked the entry only as another benchmark. Eighty-five more minutes, given the wind conditions. The Soviet air-traffic-control system along this routing—called G-3 now—was the only one in the country that spoke English. They didn't really need the Soviet officer to complete the mission—he was an air-force intelligence officer, of course— but if something went wrong, things might be different. The Russians liked the idea of positive control. The orders he got now for course and altitude were far more exact than those given in American air space, as though he didn't know what to do unless some jerk-off on the ground told him. Of course there was an element of humor to it. The pilot was Colonel Paul von Eich. His family had come to America from Prussia a hundred years before, but none of them had been able to part with the “von” that had once been so important to family status. Some of his ancestors had fought down there, he reflected, on the flat, snow-covered Russian ground. Certainly a few more recent relatives had. Probably a few lay buried there while he whizzed overhead at six hundred miles per hour. He wondered vaguely what they'd think of his job while his pale blue eyes scanned the sky for the lights of other aircraft.

Like most passengers, Ryan judged his height above the ground by what he could see, but the dark Soviet countryside denied him that. He knew they were close when the aircraft commenced a wide turn to the left. He heard the mechanical whine as the flaps went down and noted the reduced engine noise. Soon he could just pick out individual trees, racing by. The pilot's voice came on, telling smokers to put them out, and that it was time for seat belts again. Five minutes later they returned to ground level again at
Sheremetyevo
Airport
. Despite the fact that airports all over the world look exactly alike, Ryan could be sure of this one—the taxiways were the bumpiest anywhere.

The cabin talk was more lively now. The excitement was beginning as the airplane's crew started moving about. What followed went in a blur. Ernie Allen was met by a welcoming committee of the appropriate level and whisked off in an embassy limousine. Everyone else was relegated to a bus. Ryan sat by himself, still watching the countryside outside the German-made vehicle.

Will Gerasimov bite—really bite?

What if he doesn't?

What if he
does? Ryan asked himself with a smile.

It had all seemed pretty straightforward in
Washington
, but here, five thousand miles away . . . well. First he'd get some sleep, aided by a single government-issue red capsule. Then he'd talk to a few people at the embassy. The rest would have to take care of itself.

The Key of Destiny

I
T
was bitterly cold when Ryan awoke to the beeping sound of his watch alarm. There was frost on the windows even at ten in the morning, and he realized that he hadn't made sure the heat in his room was operating. His first considered action of the day was to pull on some socks. His seventh-floor room—it was called an “efficiency apartment”—overlooked the compound. Clouds had moved in, and the day was leaden gray with the threat of snow.

“Perfect,” Jack observed to himself on the way to the bathroom. He knew that it could have been worse. The only reason he had this room was that the officer who ordinarily lived here was on honeymoon leave. At least the plumbing worked, but he found a note taped to the medicine cabinet mirror admonishing him not to mess the place up the way the last transient had. Next he checked the small refrigerator. Nothing: Welcome to
Moscow
. Back in the bathroom, he washed and shaved. One other oddity of the embassy was that to get down from the seventh floor, you first had to take an elevator up to the ninth floor and another one down from there to the lobby. Jack was still shaking his head over that one when he got into the canteen.

“Don't you just love jet lag?” a member of the delegation greeted him. “Coffee's over there.”

“I call it travel shock.” Ryan got himself a mug and came back. “Well, the coffee's decent. Where's everybody else?”

"Probably still sacked out, even Uncle Ernie. I caught a few hours on the flight, and thank God for the pill they gave us.

Ryan laughed. “Yeah, me too. Might even feel human in time for dinner tonight.”

“Feel like exploring? I'd like to take a walk, but—”

“Travel in pairs.” Ryan nodded. The rule applied only to the arms negotiators. This phase of negotiations would be sensitive, and the rules for the team were much tighter than usual. “Maybe later. I have some work to do.”

“Today and tomorrow's our only chance,” the diplomat pointed out.

“I know,” Ryan assured him. He checked his watch and decided that he'd wait to eat until lunchtime. His sleep cycle was almost in synch with
Moscow
, but his stomach wasn't quite sure yet. Jack walked back to the chancery.

The corridors were mainly empty. Marines patrolled them, looking very serious indeed after the problems that had occurred earlier, but there was little evidence of activity on this Saturday morning. Jack walked to the proper door and knocked. He knew it was locked.

“You're Ryan?”

“That's right.” The door opened to admit him, then was closed and relocked.

“Grab a seat.” His name was Tony Candela. “What gives?”

“We have an op laid on.”

“News to me—you're not operations, you're intelligence,” Candela objected.

“Yeah, well, Ivan knows that, too. This one's going to be a little strange.” Ryan explained for five minutes.

“ 'A little strange,' you say?” Candela rolled his eyes.

“I need a keeper for part of it. I need some phone numbers I can call, and I may need wheels that'll be there when required.”

“This could cost me some assets.”

“We know that.”

“Of course, if it works . . .”

“Right. We can put some real muscle on this one.”

“The Foleys know about this?”

“ 'Fraid not.”

“Too bad, Mary Pat would have loved it. She's the cowboy. Ed's more the button-down-collar type. So, you expect him to bite Monday or Tuesday night?”

“That's the plan.”

“Let me tell you something about plans,” Candela said.

They were letting him sleep. The doctors had warned him again, Vatutin growled. How was he supposed to accomplish anything when they kept—

“There's that name again,” the man with the headphones said tiredly. “Romanov. If he must talk in his sleep, why can't he confess . . . ?”

“Perhaps he's talking with the Czar's ghost,” another officer joked. Vatutin's head came up.

“Or perhaps someone else's.” The Colonel shook his head. He'd been at the point of dozing himself. Romanov, though the name of the defunct royal family of the Russian Empire, was not an uncommon one—even a Politburo member had had it. “Where's his file?”

“Here.” The joker pulled open a drawer and handed it over. The file weighed six kilograms, and came in several different sections. Vatutin had committed most of it to memory, but had concentrated on the last two parts. This time he opened the first section.

“Romanov,” he breathed to himself. “Where have I seen that . . . ?” It took him fifteen minutes, flipping through the frayed pages as speedily as he dared.

“I have it!” It was a citation, scrawled in pencil. “Corporal A. I. Romanov, killed in action
6 October 1941
, '. . . defiantly placed his tank between the enemy and his disabled troop commander's, allowing the commander to withdraw his wounded crew . . .' Yes! This one's in a book I read as a child. Misha got his crew on the back deck of a different tank, jumped inside, and personally killed the tank that got Romanov's. He'd saved Misha's life and was posthumously awarded the Red Banner—” Vatutin stopped. He was calling the subject Misha, he realized.

“Almost fifty years ago?”

“They were comrades. This Romanov fellow had been part f Filitov's own tank crew through the first few months. Well, e was a hero. He died for the Motherland, saving the life of his officer,” Vatutin observed. And Misha still talks to him . . .

I have you now, Filitov.

“Shall we wake him up and—”

“Where's the doctor?” Vatutin asked.

It turned out that he was about to leave for home and was not overly pleased to be recalled. But he didn't have the rank to play power games with Colonel Vatutin.

“How should we handle it?” Vatutin asked after outlining

his thoughts.

“He should be weary but wide awake. That is easily done.”

“So we should wake him up now and—”

“No.” The doctor shook his head. “Not in REM sleep—”

“What?”

“Rapid Eye Movement sleep—that's what it's called when the patient is dreaming. You can always tell if the subject is in a dream by the eye movement, whether he talks or not.”

“But we can't see that from here,” another officer objected.

“Yes, perhaps we should redesign the observation system,” the doctor mused. “But that doesn't matter too much. During REM sleep the body is effectively paralyzed. You'll notice that he's not moving now, correct? The mind does that to prevent injury to the body. When he starts moving again, the dream is over.”

“How long?” Vatutin asked. “We don't want him to get too rested.”

“Depends on the subject, but I would not be overly concerned. Have the turnkey get a breakfast ready for him, and as soon as he starts moving, wake him up and feed him.”

“Of course.” Vatutin smiled.

“Then we just keep him awake . . . oh, eight hours or so more. Yes, that should do it. Is it enough time for you?”

“Easily,” Vatutin said with more confidence than he should have. He stood and checked his watch. The Colonel of “Two” called the Center and gave a few orders. His system, too, cried out for sleep. But for him there was a comfortable bed. He wanted to have all of his cleverness when the time came. The Colonel undressed fastidiously, calling for an orderly to polish his boots and press his uniform while he slept. He was tired enough that he didn't even feel the need for a drink. “I have you now,” he murmured as he faded into sleep.

“G'night, Bea,” Candi called from the door as her friend opened up her car. Taussig turned one last time and waved before getting in. Candi and the Geek couldn't have seen the way she stabbed the key into the ignition. She drove only half a block, turning a corner before pulling to the curb and staring at the night.

They're doing it already
, she thought. All the way through dinner, the way he looked at her—the way she looked at him! Already those wimpy little hands are fumbling with the buttons on her blouse . . .

She lit a cigarette and leaned back, picturing it while her stomach tightened into a rigid, acid-filled ball. Zit-face and Candi. She'd endured three hours of it. Candi's usual beautifully prepared dinner. For twenty minutes while the finishing touches had been under way, she'd been stuck in the living room with him, listening to his idiot jokes, having to smile back at him. It was clear enough that Alan didn't like her either, but because she was Candi's friend he'd felt obligated to be nice to her, nice to poor Bea, who was heading toward old-maidhood, or whatever they called it now—she'd seen it in his stupid eyes. To be patronized by him was bad enough, but to be pitied . . .

And now he was touching her, kissing her, listening to her murmurs, whispering his stupid, disgusting endearments— and Candi liked it! How was that possible?

Candace was more than just pretty, Taussig knew. She was a free spirit. She had a discoverer's mind mated to a warm, sensitive soul. She had real feelings. She was so wonderfully feminine, with the kind of beauty that begins at the heart and radiates out through a perfect smile.

But now she's giving herself to that thing! He's probably doing it already. That geek doesn't have the first idea of taking his time and showing real love and sensitivity. I bet he just
does it, drooling and giggling like some punk fifteen-year-old football jock. How can she!

“Oh, Candace.” Bea's voice broke. She was swept with nausea, and had to fight to control herself. She succeeded, and sat alone in her car for twenty minutes of silent tears before she managed to drive on.

“What do you make of that?”

“I think she's a lesbian,” Agent Jennings said after a moment.

“Nothing like that in her file, Peggy,” Will Perkins observed.

“The way she looks at Dr. Long, the way she acts around Gregory . . . that's my gut feeling.”

“But—”

“Yeah, but what the hell can we do about that?” Margaret Jennings noted as she drove away. She toyed briefly with the idea of going after Taussig, but the day had been long enough already. “No evidence, and if we got it, and acted on it, there'd be hell to pay.”

“You suppose the three of them . . . ?”

“Will, you've been reading those magazines again.”
Jennings
laughed, breaking the spell for a moment. Perkins was a Mormon, and had never been seen to touch pornographic material. “Those two are so much in love they don't have the first idea of what's going on around them—except work. I bet their pillow talk is classified. What's happening, Will, is that Taussig is being cut out of her friend's life and she's unhappy about it. Tough.”

“So how do we write this one up?”

“Zip. A whole lot of nothing.” Their assignment for the evening had been to follow up a report that strange cars were occasionally seen at the Gregory-Long residence. It had probably originated, Agent Jennings thought, from a local prude who didn't like the idea of the two young people living together without the appropriate paperwork. She was a little old-fashioned about that herself, but it didn't make either one of them a security risk. On the other hand—

“I think we ought to check out Taussig next.”

“She lives alone.”

“I'm sure.” It would take time to look at every senior staffer at Tea Clipper, but you couldn't rush this kind of investigation.

“You shouldn't have come here,” Tania observed at once. Bisyarina's face didn't show her rage. She took Taussig's hand and brought her inside.

“Ann, it's just so awful!”

“Come sit down. Were you followed?” Idiot! Pervert! She'd just gotten out of the shower, and was dressed in a bathrobe, with a towel over her hair.

“No, I watched all the way.”

Sure
, Bisyarina thought. She would have been surprised to learn that it was true. Despite the lax security at Tea Clipper—it allowed someone like this inside!—her agent had broken every rule there was in coming here.

“You cannot stay long.”

“I know.” She blew her nose. “They've about finished the first draft of the new program. The Geek has cut it down by eighty thousand lines of code—taking out all that AI stuff really made a difference. You know, I think he has the new stuff memorized—I know, I know, that's impossible, even for that.”

“When will you be able—”

“I don't know.” Taussig smiled for a second. “You ought to have him working for you. I think he's the only one who really understands the whole program—I mean, the whole project.”

Unfortunately all we have is you
, Bisyarina didn't say. What she did was very hard. She reached out and took Taussig's hand.

The tears started again. Beatrice nearly leaped into Tania's arms. The Russian officer held her close, trying to feel sympathy for her agent. There had been many lessons at the KGB school, all of them intended to help her in handling agents. You had to have a mixture of sympathy and discipline. You had to treat them like spoiled children, mixing favors and scoldings to make them perform. And Agent Livia was more important than most.

It was still hard to turn her face toward the head on her shoulder and kiss the cheek that was salty with tears both old and new. Bisyarina breathed easier at the realization that she needed go no further than this. She'd never yet needed to go further, but lived in fear that “Livia” would one day demand it of her—certainly it would happen if she ever realized that her intended lover had not the slightest interest in her advances. Bisyarina marveled at that. Beatrice Taussig was brilliant in her way, certainly brighter than the KGB officer who “ran” her, but she knew so little about people. The crowning irony was that she was very much like that Alan Gregory man she so detested. Prettier, more sophisticated though Taussig was, she lacked the capacity to reach out when she needed to. Gregory had probably done it only once in his life, and that was the difference between him and her. He had gotten there first because Beatrice had lacked the courage. It was just as well, Bisyarina knew. The rejection would have destroyed her.

Bisyarina wondered what Gregory was really like. Probably another academic—what was it the English called them? Boffins. A brilliant boffin—well, everyone attached to Tea Clipper was brilliant in one way or another. That frightened her. In her way, Beatrice was proud of the program, though she deemed it a threat to world peace, a point on which Bisyarina agreed. Gregory was a boffin who wanted to change the world. Bisyarina understood the motivation. She wanted to change it, too. Just in a different way. Gregory and Tea Clipper were a threat to that. She didn't hate the man. If anything, she thought, she'd probably like him. But personal likes and dislikes had absolutely nothing to do with the business of intelligence.