Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (58 page)

“If the machine-gunners in those towers see us coming, half of our men will be dead before the guards wake up,” the Major pointed out.

The Archer grunted. His comrade was right. Two of the towers were sited in a way that would allow the men in them to sweep the steep slope that they'd have to climb before getting to the mountain's flat summit. He could counter that with his own machine guns . . . but duels of that sort were usually won by the defender. The wind gusted at them, and both men knew that they'd have to find shelter soon or risk frostbite.

“Damn this cold!” the Major swore.

“Do you think the towers are cold also?” the Archer asked after a moment.

“Even worse. They are more exposed than we.”

“How will the Russian soldiers be dressed?”

The Major chuckled. “The same as we—after all, we're all wearing their clothing, are we not?”

The Archer nodded, searching for the thought that hovered at the edge of his consciousness. It came to him through his cold-numbed brain, and he left his perch, telling the Major to remain. He came back carrying a Stinger missile launcher. The metal tube was cold to the touch as he assembled it. The acquisition units were all carried inside his men's clothing, to protect the batteries from the cold. He expertly assembled and activated the weapon, then rested his cheek on the metal conductance bar and trained it on the nearest guard tower ...

“Listen,” he said, and handed the weapon over. The officer took it and did as he was directed.

“Ah.” His teeth formed a Cheshire-cat grin in the black night.

Clark
was busy, too. Obviously a careful man, Mancuso noted as he watched, he was laying out and checking all of his equipment. The man's clothing looked ordinary, though shabby and not well made.

“Bought in
Kiev
,”
Clark
explained. “You can't exactly wear Hart, Schaffner, and Marx and expect to look like a local.” He also had a coverall to put over it, with camouflage stripes. There was a complete set of identity papers—in Russian, which Mancuso couldn't read—and a pistol. It was a small one, barely larger than the silencer that sat next to it.

“Never seen one of these before,” the Captain said.

“Well, that's a Qual-A-Tec baffle-type silencer with no wipes and a slide-lock internal to the can,”
Clark
said.

“What—”

Mr. Clark chuckled. “You guys have been hitting me with subspeak ever since I got aboard, skipper. Now it's my turn.”

Mancuso lifted the pistol. “This is only a twenty-two.”

“It's damned near impossible to silence a big round unless you want a silencer as long as your forearm, like the FBI guys have on their toys. I have to have something that'll fit in a pocket. This is the best Mickey can do, and he's the best around.”

“Who?”

“Mickey Finn. That's his real name. He does the design work for Qual-A-Tec, and I wouldn't use anybody else's silencer. It isn't like TV, Cap'n. For a silencer to work right, it has to be a small caliber, you have to use a subsonic round, and you have to have a sealed breech. And it helps if you're out in the open. In here, you'd hear it 'cause of the steel walls. Outside, you'd hear something out to thirty feet or so, but you wouldn't know what it was. The silencer goes on the pistol like this, and you twist it”—he demonstrated—“and now the gun's a single shot. The silencer locks the action. To get off another round, you have to twist it back and cycle the action manually.”

“You mean you're going in there with a twenty-two single-shot?”

“That's how it's done, Captain.”

“Have you ever—”

“You really don't want to know. Besides, I can't talk about it.”
Clark
grinned. “I'm not cleared for that myself. If it makes you feel any better, yeah, I'm scared, too, but this is what they pay me for.”

“But if—”

“You get the hell out of here. I have the authority to give you that order, Captain, remember? It hasn't happened yet. Don't worry about it. I do enough worrying for the both of us.”

Convergence

M
ARIA
and Katryn Gerasimov always got the sort of VIP treatment that they deserved as the immediate family of a Politburo member. A KGB car took them from their guarded eight-room apartment on Kutuzovskiy Prospekt to
Vnukovo
Airport
, which was used mainly for domestic flights, where they waited in the lounge reserved for the vlasti. It was staffed by more people than ever seemed to use the facility at any one time, and this morning the only others present kept to themselves. An attendant took their hats and coats while another walked them to a couch, where a third asked if they wanted anything to eat or drink. Both ordered coffee and nothing more. The lounge staff eyed their clothing with envy. The cloak-room attendant ran her hands over the silky texture of their furs, and it struck her that her ancestors might have looked upon the czarist nobility with the same degree of envy that she felt toward these two. They sat in regal isolation, with only the distant company of their bodyguards as they sipped at their coffee and gazed out the plate-glass windows at the parked airliners.

Maria Ivanovna
Gerasimova was not actually an Estonian, though she'd been born there fifty years before. Her family was composed entirely of ethnic Russians, since the small Baltic state had been part of the Russian Empire under the czars, only to experience a brief “liberation”—as the troublemakers called it—between the world wars, during which the Estonian nationalists had not made life overly easy for ethnic Russians. Her earliest childhood memories of Talinn were not all that pleasant, but like all children she had made friends who would be friends forever. They'd even survived her marriage to a young Party man who had, to everyone's surprise—most especially hers—risen to command the most hated organ of the Soviet government. Worse, he'd made his career on repressing dissident elements. That her childhood friendships had withstood this fact was testimony to her intelligence. Half a dozen people had been spared sentences in labor camps, or been transferred from one of strict regime to a milder place due to her intercession. The children of her friends had attended universities because of her influence. Those who had taunted her Russian name as a child did less well, though she'd helped one of them a little, enough to appear merciful. Such behavior was enough to keep her part of the small Talinn suburb despite her long-past move to
Moscow
. It also helped that her husband had only once accompanied her to her childhood home. She was not an evil person, merely one who used her vicarious power as a princess of an earlier age might have done, arbitrarily but seldom maliciously. Her face had the sort of regal composure that fitted the image. A beautiful catch twenty-five years ago, she was still a handsome woman, if somewhat more serious now. As an ancillary part of her husband's official identity, she had to play her part in the game—not as much as the wife of a Western politician, of course, but her behavior had to be proper. The practice stood her in good stead now. Those who watched her could never have guessed her thoughts.

She wondered what was wrong, knowing only that it was gravely serious. Her husband had told her to be at a specific place at a specific time, to ask no questions of him, only to promise that she would do exactly as she was told, regardless of consequences. The order, delivered in a quiet, emotionless monotone while the water was running in their kitchen, was the most frightening thing she had heard since the German tanks had rumbled into Talinn in 1941. But one legacy of the German occupation was that she knew just how important survival was.

Her daughter knew nothing of what they were doing. Her reactions could not be trusted. Katryn had never known danger in her life as her mother had, only the rare inconvenience. Their only child was in her first year at
Moscow
State
University
, where she majored in economics and traveled with a crowd of similarly important children of similarly important people, all of ministerial rank at least. Already a Party member—eighteen is the earliest age permitted—she played her role, too. The previous fall she'd traveled with some of her classmates and helped harvest wheat, mainly for a photograph that had been displayed on the second page of Komsomolskaya Pravda, the paper of the Young Communist League. Not that she'd liked it, but the new rules in
Moscow
“encouraged” the children of the powerful at least to appear to be doing their fair share. It could have been worse. She'd returned from the ordeal with a new boyfriend, and her mother wondered if they'd been intimate, or had the young man been frightened off by the bodyguards and the knowledge of who her father was? Or did he see her as a chance to enter the KGB? Or was he one of the new generation that simply didn't care? Her daughter was one of these. The Party was something you joined to secure your position, and her father's post put her on the inside track for a comfortable job. She sat beside her mother in silence, reading a West German fashion magazine that was now sold in the
Soviet Union
and deciding what new Western fashions she would like to wear to classes. She would have to learn, her mother thought, remembering that at eighteen the world is a place with horizons both near and far, depending on one's mood.

About the time they finished their coffee, the flight was called. They waited. The plane wouldn't leave without them. Finally, when the last call came, the attendant brought their coats and hats, and another led them and their guards down the stairs to their car. The other passengers had already ridden out to the aircraft on a bus—the Russians haven't quite discovered jetways yet—and when their car arrived, they were able to walk right up the stairs. The stewardess guided them solicitously to their first-class seats in the forward cabin. They weren't called first class, of course, but they were wider, they had greater leg room, and they were reserved. The airliner lifted off at
ten o'clock
,
Moscow
time, stopped first at
Leningrad
, then proceeded to Talinn, where it landed just after one.

“So, Colonel, you have your summary of the subject's activity?” Gerasimov asked casually. He seemed preoccupied, Vatutin noted at once. He should have been more interested, particularly with a Politburo meeting only an hour away.

“Books will be written about this one, Comrade Chairman. Filitov had access to virtually all of our defense secrets. He even helped make defense policy. I needed thirty pages merely to summarize what he's done. The full interrogation will require several months.”

“Speed is less important than thoroughness,” Gerasimov said offhandedly.

Vatutin did not react. “As you wish, Comrade Chairman.”

“If you will excuse me, the Politburo is meeting this morning.”

Colonel Vatutin came to attention, pivoted on his heels, and left. He found Golovko in the anteroom. The two knew each other casually. They'd been a year apart at the
KGB
Academy
, and their careers had advanced at roughly the same rate.

“Colonel Golovko,” the Chairman's secretary said. “The Chairman must leave now, and suggests that you return tomorrow morning at ten.”

“But—”

“He's leaving now,” the secretary said.

“Very well,” Golovko replied and stood. He and Vatutin left the room together.

“The Chairman is busy,” Vatutin observed on the way out.

“Aren't we all?” the other man replied after the door closed. “I thought he wanted this. I arrived here at four to write this goddamned report! Well, I think I'll have some breakfast. How go things in 'Two,' Klementi Vladimirovich?”

“Also busy—the people do not pay us to sit on our backsides.” He'd also arrived early to complete his paperwork, and his stomach was growling audibly.

“You must be hungry, too. Care to join me?”

Vatutin nodded, and both men made for the canteen. Senior officers—colonel and above—had a separate dining room and were served by white-coated waiters. The room was never empty. The KGB worked round the clock, and odd schedules made for irregular meals. Besides, the food was good, especially for senior officers. The room was a quiet place. When people talked here, even if they were discussing sports, they did so almost in whispers.

“Aren't you attached to the arms negotiations now?” Vatutin asked as he sipped his tea.

“Yes—nursemaiding diplomats. You know, the Americans think I'm GRU.” Golovko arched his eyebrows, partly in amusement, at the Americans, partly to show his not-quite classmate how important his cover was.

“Really?” Vatutin was surprised. “I would have thought that they were better informed—at least . . . well . . .” He shrugged to indicate that he couldn't go any further. I, too, have things that I cannot discuss, Sergey Nikolayevich.

“I suppose the Chairman is preoccupied by the Politburo meeting. The rumors—”

“He's not ready yet,” Vatutin said with the quiet confidence of an insider.

“You're sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Where do you stand?” Golovko asked.

“Where do you stand?” Vatutin replied. Both traded a look of amusement, but then Golovko turned serious.

“Narmonov needs a chance. The arms agreement—if the diplomats ever get their thumbs out and execute it—will be a good thing for us.”

“You really think so?” Vatutin didn't know one way or the other.

“Yes, I do. I've had to become an expert on the arms of both camps. I know what we have, and I know what they have. Enough is enough. Once a man is dead, you do not need to shoot him again and again. There are better ways to spend the money. There are things that need changing.”

“You should be careful saying that,” Vatutin cautioned. Golovko had traveled too much. He had seen the West, and many RGB officers came back with tales of wonder—if only the
Soviet Union
could do this, or that, or the other thing . . . Vatutin sensed the truth of that, but was inherently a more cautious man. He was a “Two” man, who looked for dangers, while Golovko, of the First Chief Directorate, looked for opportunities.

“Are we not the guardians? If we cannot speak, who can?” Golovko said, then backed off. “Carefully, of course, with the guidance of the Party at all times—but even the Party sees the need for change.” They had to agree on that. Every Soviet newspaper proclaimed the need for a new approach, and every such article had to be approved by someone important, and of political purity. The Party was never wrong, both men knew, but it certainly did change its kollektiv mind a lot.

“A pity that the Party does not see the importance of rest for its guardians. Tired men make mistakes, Sergey Nikolayevich.”

Golovko contemplated his eggs for a moment, then lowered his voice even further. “Klementi . . . let us assume for a moment I know that a senior KGB officer is meeting with a senior CIA officer.”

“How senior?”

“Higher than directorate head,” Golovko replied, telling Vatutin exactly who it was without using a name or a title. “Let us assume that I arrange the meetings, and that he tells me I do not need to know what the meetings are about. Finally, let us assume that this senior officer is acting . . . strangely. What am I to do?” he asked, and was rewarded with an answer right from the book:

“You should write up a report for the Second Directorate, of course.”

Golovko nearly choked on his breakfast. “A fine idea. Immediately afterward I can slash my throat with a razor and save everyone the time and trouble of an interrogation. Some people are above suspicion—or have enough power that no one dares to suspect them.”

“Sergey, if there is anything I have learned in the past few weeks, it is that there is no such thing as 'above suspicion.' We've been working a case so high in the Defense Ministry . . . you would not believe it. I scarcely do.” Vatutin waved for a waiter to bring a fresh pot of tea. The pause gave the other man a chance to think. Golovko had intimate knowledge of that ministry because of his work on strategic arms. Who could it be? There were not many men whom the KGB was unable to suspect—that was hardly a condition the agency encouraged—and fewer still high in the Ministry of Defense, which the KGB is supposed to regard with the utmost suspicion. But . . . “Filitov?”

Vatutin blanched, and made a mistake: “Who told you?”

“My God, he briefed me last year on intermediate arms. I heard he was sick. You're not joking, are you?”

“There is nothing the least bit amusing about this. I cannot say much, and it may not go beyond this table, but—yes, Filitov was working for . . . for someone outside our borders. He's confessed, and the first phase of the interrogation is complete.”

“But he knows everything! The arms-negotiation team should know of this. It alters the whole basis for the talks,” Golovko said.

Vatutin hadn't considered that, but it wasn't his place to make policy decisions. He was, after all, nothing more than a policeman with a very special beat. Golovko might have been right in his assessment, but rules were rules.

“The information is being closely held for the moment, Sergey Nikolayevich. Remember that.”

“Compartmentalization of information can work both for and against us, Klementi,” Golovko warned, wondering if he should warn the negotiators.

“That's true enough,” Vatutin agreed.

“When did you arrest your subject?” Golovko asked, and got his reply. The timing . . . He took a breath, and forgot about the negotiations. “The Chairman has met at least twice with a senior CIA officer—”

“Who, and when?”

“Sunday night and yesterday morning. His name is Ryan. He's my counterpart on the American team, but he's an intelligence type, not a field officer as I once was. What do you make of that?”

“You're sure he's not an operations man?”

“Positive. I can even tell you the room he works in. This is not a matter of uncertainty. He's an analyst, a senior one, but only a desk man. Special assistant to their Deputy Director for Intelligence, before that he was part of a high-level liaison team in
London
. He's never been in the field.”

Vatutin finished his tea and poured another cup. Next he buttered a piece of bread. He took his time thinking about this. There was ample opportunity to delay a response, but—