Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (51 page)

“The orders came from very high,” Leonid replied.

“How high?” she demanded, and got only a raised eyebrow that spoke volumes. “You're joking.”

“The nature of the order, the 'immediate action' prefix— what do you think?”

“I think all of our careers are ruined, and that assumes that we—well, we will. But I will not agree to the murder of my agent. We have as yet not killed anyone, and I do not think that our orders contemplated—”

“That is correct,” Bob said aloud, while his head shook emphatically from side to side. Bisyarina's mouth dropped open.

“This could start a war,” she said quietly, in Russian. She didn't mean a real war, but rather something almost as bad, open conflict between KGB and CIA officers, something that almost never happened, even in third-world countries, where it usually involved surrogates killing other surrogates, and for the most part never knowing why—and even that was rare enough. The business of intelligence services was to gather information. Violence, both sides tacitly agreed, got in the way of the real mission. But if both sides began killing the strategic assets of their opponents . . .

“You should have refused the order,” she said after a moment.

“Certainly,” Bob observed. “I understand that the
Kolyma
camps are lovely this time of year, all glistening white with their blanket of snow.” The odd thing—at least it would seem so to a Westerner—was that neither officer bothered considering surrendering with a request of political asylum. Though it would have ended their personal dangers, it would mean betraying their country.

“What you do here is your account, but I will not kill my agent,” “Ann” said, ending discussion of the issue. “I'll get you out.”

“How?”

“I don't know yet. By car, I think, but I will have to come up with something new. Perhaps not a car. Perhaps a truck,” she mused. There were lots of trucks out here, and it was not the least unusual for a woman to drive one. Take a van across the border, perhaps? A van with boxes in it . . . Gregory in a box, drugged or gagged . . . perhaps all of them . . . what are customs procedures like for such things? She'd never had to worry about that before. With a week's warning, as she would have had for a proper operation, she'd have had time to answer a lot of questions.

Take your time
, she told herself. We've had enough of hurrying, haven't we?

“Two days, perhaps three.”

“That's a long time,” Leonid observed.

“I may need that long to evaluate the countermeasures that we are likely to face. For the moment, don't bother shaving.”

Bob nodded after a moment. “It is your territory.”

“When you get back, you can write this up as a case study in why operations need proper preparation,” Bisyarina said. “Anything else you need?”

“No.”

“Very well. I will see you again tomorrow afternoon.”

“No,” Beatrice Taussig told the agents. “I saw Al this afternoon. I”—she glanced uneasily at Candi—“I wanted him to help me with—well, with picking up a birthday present for Candace tomorrow. I saw him in the parking lot, too, but that was it. You really think—I mean, the Russians . . . ?”

“That's what it looks like,”
Jennings
said.

“My God.”

“Does Major Gregory know enough that—”
Jennings
was surprised that Taussig answered instead of Dr. Long.

“Yes, he does. He's the only one who really understands the whole project. Al's a very bright guy. And a friend,” she added. That earned her a warm smile from Candi. There were real tears in Bea's eyes now. It hurt her to see her friend in pain, even though she knew that it was all for the best.

“Ryan, you're going to love this.” Jack had just gotten back from the latest round of negotiations at the Foreign Ministry building, twenty stories of Stalinesque wedding cake on Smolenskiy
Bul'var. Candela handed over the dispatch.

“That son of a bitch,” Ryan breathed.

“You didn't expect him to cooperate, did you?” the officer asked sardonically, then changed his mind. “I beg your pardon, doc. I wouldn't have expected this either,”

“I know this kid. I've driven him around
Washington
myself, when he came east to brief us . . .” It's your fault, Jack. It was your move that caused this to happen . . . wasn't it? He asked a few questions.

“Yeah, that's a virtual certainty,” Candela said. “They screwed things up, looks like. That sounds like an overnighter. Hey, the KGB officers aren't supermen either, pal, but they follow their orders, just like we do.”

“You have some ideas?”

“Not much we can do from this end but hope the local cops can straighten things out.”

“But if it goes public—”

“Show me some evidence. You don't accuse a foreign government of something like this without evidence. Hell, there's half a dozen engineers in
Europe
who've been murdered by left-wing terrorist gangs in the last two years, all working on the fringes of the SDI program, not to mention a few 'suicides.' We haven't made a public issue of that, either.”

“But this breaks the rules, damn it!”

“When you get down to it, there's only one rule, doc: Win.”

“Does USIA still have that global TV operation going?”

“Worldnet, you mean? Sure. It's a hell of a program.”

“If we don't get him back, I will personally break the Red October story world-wide, and fuck the consequences!” Ryan swore. “If it costs my career, I'll do it.”

“Red October?” Candela had no idea what he was talking about.

“Trust me, it's a good one.”

“Tell your KGB friends—hell, it might even work.”

“Even if it doesn't,” Ryan said, more in control now. It's your fault, Jack, he told himself again. Candela agreed; Jack could see it.

The funny part, the state police thought, was that the press wasn't given the real meat of the case. As soon as the FBI team arrived, the rules were established. For the moment, this was a simple case of a police shooting. The federal involvement was to be kept secret, and if it broke, the word would be that an international drug-trafficker was on the loose and that federal assistance had been requested. The
Oklahoma
authorities were told to tell any inquiring journalist that they'd merely provided identification help to a fellow police force. Meanwhile, the FBI took over the case, and federal assets began to flood the area. Citizens were told that nearby military bases were conducting routine exercises—special search-and-rescue drills—which explained the abnormal helicopter activity. People at Project Tea Clipper were briefed on what had happened and told to keep this secret as close as all of the others.

Gregory's car was located in a matter of hours. No fingerprints were found—Bisyarina had worn gloves, of course— nor was any other useful evidence, though the placement of his car and the location of the shooting merely confirmed the professionalism of the event.

Gregory had been the
Washington
guest of men more important than Ryan. The President's first appointment of the morning was with General Bill Parks, FBI Director Emil Jacobs, and Judge Moore.

“Well?” the President asked Jacobs.

“These things take time. I've got some of our best investigative minds out there, Mr. President, but looking over their shoulder only slows things down.”

“Bill,” the President asked next, “how important is the boy?”

“He's priceless,” Parks answered simply. “He's one of my top three men, sir. People like that cannot be replaced very easily.”

The President took this information seriously. Next he turned to Judge Moore. “We caused this, didn't we?”

“Yes, Mr. President, in a manner of speaking. Obviously, we hit Gerasimov in a very tender spot. My estimate agrees with the General's. They want what Gregory knows. Gerasimov probably thinks that if he can get information of this magnitude, he can overcome the political consequences of the Red October disclosure. That's a hard call to make from this side of the ocean, but certainly there's a good chance that his evaluation is correct.”

“I knew we shouldn't have done this . . .” the President said quietly, then shook his head. “Well, that's my responsibility. I authorized it. If the press . . .”

“Sir, if the press gets wind of this, it sure as hell won't be from CIA. Second, we can always say that this was a desperate—I'd prefer to say 'vigorous*—attempt to save the life of our agent. It doesn't have to go any further than that, and such action is expected of intelligence services. They go to great lengths to protect their agents. So do we. That's one of the rules of the game.”

“Where does Gregory fit into the rules?” Parks asked. “What if they think we might have a chance of rescuing him?”

“I don't know,”
Moore
admitted. “If Gerasimov succeeds in saving himself, he'll probably get word to us that we forced him into it, he's sorry, and it won't happen again. He'd expect us to retaliate once or twice, but it would probably stop at that, because neither KGB nor CIA wants to start a war. To answer your question directly, General, my opinion is that they may have orders to eliminate the asset entirely.”

“You mean murder him?” the President asked.

“That is a possibility. Gerasimov must have ordered this mission very quickly. Desperate men make for desperate orders. It would be incautious of us to assume otherwise.”

The President considered that for a minute. He leaned back in his chair and sipped at his coffee. “Emil, if we can find where he is . . . ?”

“The Hostage Rescue Team is standing by. I have the men in place. Their vehicles are being flown out by the Air Force, but for the moment all they can do is sit and wait.”

"If they move in, what are the chances that they'll save

him?"

“Pretty good, Mr. President,” Jacobs replied.

“ 'Pretty good' doesn't cut it,” Parks said. “If the Russians have orders to take him out—”

“My people are as well trained as anyone in the world,” the FBI Director said.

“What are their rules of engagement?” Parks demanded.

“They are trained to use deadly force in the protection of themselves or any innocent person. If any subject appears to be threatening a hostage, he's a dead man.”

“That's not good enough,” Parks said next.

“What do you mean?” the President asked.

“How long does it take to turn around and blow somebody's head off? What if they're willing to die to accomplish their mission? We expect our people to be, don't we?”

“Arthur?” Heads turned to Judge Moore.

The DCI shrugged. “I can't predict the dedication of Soviets. Is it possible? Yes, I suppose it is. Is it certain? I don't know that. Nobody does.”

“I used to drive fighter planes for a living. I know what human reaction times are,” Parks said. “If a guy does decide to turn and shoot, even if your man has a gun on him, he might not be fast enough to keep Al alive.”

“What do you want me to do, tell my people just to kill everybody in sight?” Jacobs asked quietly. “We don't do that. We can't do that.”

Parks turned to the President next. “Sir, even if the Russians don't get Gregory, if we lose him, they win. It might be years before we can replace him. I submit, sir, that Mr. Jacobs' people are trained to deal with criminals, not folks like this, and not for this situation. Mr. President, I recommend that you call in the Delta Force from
Fort
Bragg
.”

“They don't have jurisdiction,” Jacobs noted at once.

“They have the right kind of training,” the General said.

The President was quiet for another minute. “Emil, how good are your people at following orders?”

“They will do what you say, sir. But it will have to be your order, in writing.”

“Can you get me in touch with them?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Jacobs picked up the phone and routed a call through his own office in the
Hoover
Building
. Along the way it was scrambled.

“Agent Werner, please . . . Agent Werner, this is Director Jacobs. I have a special message for you. Stand by.” He handed the phone over. “This is Gus Werner. He's been the team leader for five years. Gus passed on a promotion to stay with the HRT.”

“Mr. Werner, this is the President. Do you recognize my voice? Good. Please listen closely. In the event that you are able to attempt the rescue of Major Gregory, your only mission is to get him out. All other considerations are secondary to that objective. The arrest of the criminals in question is not, I repeat, not a matter of concern. Is that clear? Yes, even the possibility of a threat to the hostage is sufficient grounds for the use of deadly force. Major Gregory is an irreplaceable national asset. His survival is your only mission. I will put that in writing and hand it to the Director. Thank you. Good luck.” The President replaced the phone. “He says that they've considered this possibility.”

“He would.” Jacobs nodded. “Gus has a good imagination. Now the note, sir.”

The President took a small sheet of writing paper from his desk and made the order official. It wasn't until he was finished that he realized what he'd done. This was not an intellectual exercise. He'd just handwritten a death warrant. It turned out to be a depressingly easy thing to do.

“General, are you satisfied?”

“I hope these people are as good as the Director says,” was all Parks was willing to say.

“Judge, any repercussions from the other side?”

“No, Mr. President. Our Soviet colleagues understand this sort of thing.”

“Then that's it.” And may God have mercy on my soul.

No one had slept. Candi hadn't gone to work, of course. With the arrival of the investigative team from
Washington
,
Jennings
and Perkins were baby-sitting her. There was the remote possibility that Gregory would escape, and in this event, it was deemed that he'd call here first. There was another reason, of course, but that wasn't official yet.

Bea Taussig was a veritable tornado of energy. She'd spent the night straightening the house and brewing coffee for everyone. Odd as it seemed, it gave her something to do besides sitting with her friend. She did a lot of that, too, which no one thought especially odd. It was one of the things friends do.