Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (61 page)

The harbor buoys told him the distance from the coast. He cut his speed to ten knots, then to five, and finally to three. The electric motor made a barely audible hum. Clark turned the handle and steered the boat to a ramshackle pier. It had to have been an old one; its piles had been splintered and abraded by the harbor ice of many winters. Ever so slowly, he pulled out a low-light 'scope and examined the area. There was no movement he could see. He could hear things now, mainly traffic sounds that carried across the water to him, along with some music. It was Friday night, after all, and even in the Soviet Union there were parties going on at restaurants. People were dancing. In fact his plan depended on the presence of nightlife here—
Estonia
is livelier than most of the country—but the pier was derelict, as his briefers said it would be. He moved in, tying the boat off to a piling with considerable care—if it drifted away, he'd have real problems. Next to the pile was a ladder. Clark slipped out of his coverall and climbed up, pistol in hand. For the first time he noted the harbor smell. It was little different from its American equivalent, heavy with bilge oil and decorated with rotting wood from the piers. To the north, a dozen or so fishing boats were tied to another pier. To the south was yet another, that one piled up with lumber. So the harbor was being rebuilt. That explained the condition of this one, Clark thought. He checked his watch—it was a battered Russian “Pilot”—and looked around for a place to wait. Forty minutes until he had to move. He'd allowed for choppier seas for his trip in, and all the calm had really done for him was to give him the additional time to meditate on how much a lunatic he was for taking on another of these extraction jobs.

Boris Filipovich Morozov walked outside the barracks where he still lived, staring upward. The lights at Bright Star made the sky into a feathery dome of descending flakes. He loved moments like this.

“Who's there?” a voice asked. It had authority in it.  

“Morozov,” the young engineer answered as the figure came into the light. He saw the wide-brimmed hat of a senior Army officer.

“Good evening, Comrade Engineer. You're on the mirror-control team, aren't you?” Bondarenko asked.

“Have we met?”

“No.” The Colonel shook his head. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

Bondarenko gestured at the sky. “Beautiful, isn't it? I suppose that's one consolation for being at the far end of nothing.”

“No, Comrade Colonel, we are at the leading edge of something very important,” Morozov pointed out.

“That is good for me to hear! Do all of your team feel that way?”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel. I asked to come here.”

“Oh? And how did you know of this place?” the Colonel wondered.

“I was here last fall with the Komsomol. We assisted the civil engineers in the blasting, and siting the mirror-pillars. I was a graduate student in lasers, and I guessed what Bright Star was. I did not tell anyone, of course,” Morozov added, “But I knew this was the place for me.”

Bondarenko regarded the youngster with visible approval. “How goes the work?”

“I had hoped to join the laser team, but my section chief press-ganged me into joining his group.” Morozov laughed.

“You are unhappy with this?”

“No—no, please excuse me. You misunderstand. I didn't know how important the mirror group was. I've learned. Now we're trying to adapt the mirror systems to more precise computer control—I may soon be an assistant section leader,” Morozov said proudly. “I am also familiar with computer systems, you see.”

“Who's your section chief—Govorov, isn't it?”

“Correct. A brilliant field engineer, if I may say so. May I ask a question?”

“Certainly.”

“It is said that you—you're the new Army colonel they've been talking about, correct? They say that you may be the new deputy project officer.”

“There may be some substance to those rumors,” Bondarenko allowed.

“Then may I make a suggestion, Comrade?” Morozov asked.

“Certainly.”

“There are many single men here . . .”

“And not enough single women?”

“There is a need for laboratory assistants.”

“Your observation is noted, Comrade Engineer,” Bondarenko replied with a chuckle.  “We also plan a new apartment block to relieve the crowding. How are the barracks?”

“The atmosphere is comradely. The astronomy and chess clubs are very active.”

“Ah. It has been time since I played chess seriously. How tough is the competition?” the Colonel asked.

The younger man laughed. “Murderous—even savage.”

Five thousand meters away, the Archer blessed his God's name. Snow was falling, and the flakes gave the air the magical quality so beloved by poets . . . and soldiers. You could hear—you could feel the hushed silence as the snow absorbed all sound. All around them, as far up and down as they could see, was the curtain of white that cut visibility to under two hundred meters. He assembled his subunit commanders and began organizing the assault. They moved out in a few minutes. They were in tactical formation. The Archer was with the lead section of the first company, while his second-in-command stayed with the other.

The footing was surprisingly good. The Russians had dumped the spoil from their blasting all over the area, and even though coated with snow, the rock chips were not slippery. This was well, since their path took them perilously close to a sheer wall at least a hundred meters high. Navigating was difficult. The Archer was going from memory, but he'd spent hours examining the objective and knew every curve of the mountain—or so he'd thought. The doubts came now, as they always did, and it took all his concentration to keep his mind on the mission. He had mapped out a dozen checkpoints in his memory before setting out. A boulder here, a dip there, this the place where the path turned to the left, and that one where it went to the right. At first progress seemed maddeningly slow, but the closer they came to the objective, the more rapid became the pace. They were guided at all times by the glow of the lights. How confident the Russians were, to have lights here, he thought. There was even a moving vehicle, a bus, by the sound of it, with its headlights lit. The small, moving points of light shone through the enveloping white cloud. Within the larger bubble of light, those on guard duty would be at a disadvantage now. Ordinarily the outwardly aimed spotlights would serve to dazzle and blind an intruder, but now the reverse was true. Little of their glow penetrated the snow, and much was reflected back, ruining the night vision of the armed troops. Finally the lead party reached the last checkpoint. The Archer deployed his men and waited for the rest to catch up, It took half an hour. His men were grouped in knots of three or four, and the mudjaheddin took the time to drink some water and commit their souls to Allah, preparing both for the battle and for its possible aftermath. Theirs was the warrior's creed. Their enemy was also the enemy of their God. Whatever they did to the people who had offended Allah would be forgiven them, and every one of the Archer's men reminded himself of friends and family who had died at Russian hands.

“This is amazing,” the Major whispered as he arrived.

“Allah is with us, my friend,” the Archer replied.

“He must be.” They were now only five hundred meters from the site, and still unseen. We might actually survive . . .

“How much closer can we—”

“One hundred meters. The low-light equipment they have will penetrate snow to about four hundred. The nearest tower is six hundred meters that way.” He pointed unnecessarily. The Archer knew exactly where it was, and the next one, two hundred meters farther down.

The Major checked his watch and thought for a moment.

“The guard will change in another hour if they follow the same pattern here as in
Kabul
. Those on duty will be tired and cold, and the relief troops aren't yet awake. This is the time.”

“Good luck,” the Archer said simply. Both men embraced,

“ ' ”Why should we refuse to fight for the cause of Allah, when we and our children have been driven from our dwellings?“ ' ”

“ 'When they met Goliath and his warriors they cried; ”Lord fill our hearts with steadfastness. Make us firm of foot and help us against the unbelievers.“ ' ”

The quote was from the Koran, and neither man thought it strange that the passage actually referred to the Israelites' battle against the Philistines. David and Saul were known to the Muslims, too, as was their cause. The Major smiled one last time before running off to join his men.

The Archer turned and waved to his missile team. Two of them shouldered their Stingers and followed the leader as he continued his way across the mountain. One more knoll and they were looking down at the guard towers. He was surprised that he could actually see three of them from here, and a third missile was brought out. The Archer gave his instructions and left them to rejoin the main body. On the knoll the target-acquisition units sang their deadly song to each missileer. The guard towers were heated—and the Stinger searches only for heat.

Next the Archer ordered his mortar team in close—closer than he would have preferred, but the miserable visibility was not entirely on the side of the mudjaheddin. He watched the Major's company slide down to the left, disappearing into the snow. They would assault the laser test facility itself, while he and his eighty men went for the place where most of the people lived. Now it was their turn. The Archer led them forward as far as he dared, just to the edge of where the floodlights penetrated the snow. He was rewarded with the sight of a sentry, bundled up for the cold, his breath left behind in a series of small white clouds that drifted in the wind. Ten more minutes. The Archer pulled out his radio. They had only four of them, and hadn't dared to use them until now for fear of being detected by the Russians.

We should never have gotten rid of the dogs
, Bondarenko told himself. First thing I do when I get settled here, get the dogs back. He was walking around the camp, enjoying the cold and the snow and using the quiet atmosphere to order his thoughts. There were things that needed changing here. They needed a real soldier. General Pokryshkin was too confident in the security scheme, and the KGB troops were too lazy. For example, they did not have night patrols out. Too dangerous on this terrain, their commander said, our day patrols will detect anyone who tries to get close, the guard towers have low-light scanners, and the 'rest of the site is floodlit. But low-light devices had their effectiveness cut eighty percent by this sort of weather. What if there was a group of Afghans out there right now? he wondered. First thing, Bondarenko told himself, I'll call Colonel Nikolayev at Spetznaz headquarters, and I'll lead a practice assault on this place to show those KGB idiots how vulnerable they are. He looked up the hill. There was a KGB sentry, flapping his arms to keep warm, rifle slung over his shoulder—it would take him four seconds to get it unslung, aimed, and taken off safety. Four seconds, for the last three of which he'd be dead if there were anyone competent out there right now . . . Well, he told himself, the assistant commander of any post is supposed to be a ruthless son of a bitch, and if those chekisti want to play at soldiers they'll damned well have to act like soldiers. The Colonel turned to walk back to the apartment block.

Gerasimov's
car pulled up to Lefortovo Prison's administrative entrance. His driver stayed with the car while the bodyguard followed him in. The KGB Chairman showed his ID card to the guard and walked by without breaking stride. The KGB was careful with security, but all its members knew the face of the Chairman and knew even better the power that it represented. Gerasimov turned left and headed for the administration offices. The prison superintendent wasn't there, of course, but one of his deputies was. Gerasimov found him filling out some forms.

“Good evening.” The man's eyes were saved from bugging out by the glasses he wore. “Comrade Chairman! I was not—”

“You weren't supposed to be.”

“How may I—”

“The prisoner Filitov. I need him immediately,” Gerasimov said gruffly. “Immediately,” he repeated for effect.

“At once!” The second deputy prison superintendent leaped to his feet and ran to another room. He was back in under a minute. “It will take five minutes.”

“He must be properly dressed,” Gerasimov said.

“His uniform?” the man asked.

“Not that, you idiot!” the Chairman snarled. “Civilian clothes. He must be presentable. You have all his personal effects here, don't you?”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman, but—”

“I do not have all night,” he said quietly. There was nothing more dangerous than a quiet KGB Chairman. The second deputy superintendent fairly flew from the room. Gerasimov turned to his bodyguard, who smiled in amusement. Nobody liked jailers. “How long do you think?”

“Less than ten minutes, Comrade Chairman, even though they have to find his clothes. After all, that pipsqueak knows what a wonderful place this is to live in. I know him.”

“Oh?”

“He was originally a 'One' man, but he performed poorly on his first assignment and has been a jailer ever since.” The bodyguard checked his watch.

It took eight minutes. Filitov appeared with his suit most of the way on, though his shirt was not buttoned, and his tie merely draped around his neck. The second deputy superintendent was holding a threadbare topcoat. Filitov never had been one to buy a lot of civilian clothes. He was a Colonel of the Red Army, and was never comfortable out of his uniform. The old man's eyes were confused at first, then he saw Gerasimov.

“What is this?” he asked.

“You are coming with me, Filitov. Button your shirt. At least try to look like a man!”

Misha nearly said something, but bit it off. The look he gave the Chairman was enough to make the bodyguard move his hand a centimeter. He buttoned his shirt and tied his tie. It ended up crooked in his collar because he didn't have a mirror.

“Now, Comrade Chairman, if you will sign this—”

“You give me custody of a criminal like this?” “What—”