Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (67 page)

“Return to base. Out.”

“You will pay for this!” the KGB General promised the ground-intercept officer. He was wrong.

“Thank God,” von Eich said as they passed over the coastline. He called up the chief cabin steward next. “How are the folks in back?”

“Mainly asleep. They must have had a big party tonight. When are we getting the electricity back?”

“Flight engineer,” the pilot said, “they want to know about the electrical problems.”

“Looks like it was a bad breaker, sir. I think . . . Yeah, I fixed it.”

The pilot looked out his window. The wingtip lights were back on, as were the cabin lights, except in back. Passing Ventspils, they turned left to a new heading two-five-nine. He let out a long breath. Two and a half hours to
Shannon
. “Some coffee would be nice,” he thought aloud.

Golovko hung up the phone and spat out a few words that Jack didn't understand exactly, though their message seemed rather clear.

“Sergey, could I clean my knee up?”

“What exactly have you done, Ryan?” the KGB officer asked.

“I fell out of the airplane and the bastards left without me I want to be taken to my embassy, but first, my knee hurts.”

Golovko and Vatutin stared at each other and both wondered several things. What had actually happened? What would happen to them? What to do with Ryan?

“Who do we even call?” Golovko asked.

Under Wraps

Y
ATUTIN
decided to call his directorate chief, who called the KGB's First Deputy Chairman, who called someone else, and then called back to the airport office where they were all waiting. Vatutin noted the instructions, took everyone to Gerasimov's car, and gave directions that Jack didn't understand. The car headed straight through
Moscow
's empty early-morning streets—it was just after
midnight
, and those who had been out to the movies or the opera or the ballet were now at home. Jack was nestled between the two KGB colonels, and hoped that they'd be taking him to the embassy, but they kept going, crossing the city at a high rate of speed, then up into the Lenin Hills and beyond to the forests that surround the city. Now he was frightened. Diplomatic immunity seemed a surer thing at the airport than it did in the woods.

The car slowed after an hour, turning off the paved main road onto a gravel path that meandered through trees. There were uniforms about, he saw through the windows. Men with rifles. That sight made him forget the pain from his ankle and knee. Exactly where was he? Why was he being brought here? Why the people with guns . . . ? The phrase that came to him was a simple, ominous one: Take him for a ride . . .

No! They can't be doing that
, reason told him. I have a diplomatic passport. I was seen alive by too many people. Probably the Ambassador is already—But he wouldn't be. He wasn't cleared for what had happened, and unless they got word off the plane . . . Regardless, they couldn't possibly . . . But in the
Soviet Union
, the saying went, things happened that simply didn't happen. The car's door flew open. Golovko got out and pulled Ryan with him. The only thing Jack was sure of now was that there was no point in resistance.

It was a house, a quite ordinary frame house in the woods. The windows glowed yellow from lights behind the curtains. Ryan saw a dozen or so people standing around, all with uniforms, all with rifles, all staring at him with the same degree of interest given a paper target. One, an officer, came over and frisked Ryan with considerable thoroughness, eliciting a grunt of pain when he got to the bloody knee and torn trousers. He surprised Ryan with what might have been a perfunctory apology. The officer nodded to Golovko and Vatutin, who handed over their automatics and led Ryan into the house.

Inside the door, a man took their coats. Two more men in civilian clothes were obvious police or KGB types. They wore unzipped jackets, and they had to be packing pistols from the way they stood, Jack knew. He nodded politely to them, and got no response other than another frisking from one while the other watched from a safe shooting distance. Ryan was astonished when the two KGB officers were frisked as well. When this was complete, the other one motioned them through a doorway.

General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union Andrey Il'ych Narmonov was sitting in an overstuffed chair in front of a newly built fire. He rose when the four men entered the room, and gestured for them to sit on the sofa opposite his place. The bodyguard took position standing behind the head of the Soviet government. Narmonov spoke in Russian. Golovko translated.

“You are?”

“John Ryan, sir,” Jack said. The General Secretary pointed him to a chair opposite his own, and noted that Ryan favored his leg.

“Anatoliy,” he said to the bodyguard, who took Ryan's arm and walked him to a first-floor bathroom. The man dampened a washcloth with warm water and handed it over. Back in the sitting room, he could hear people talking, but Ryan's knowledge of Russian was too thin to catch any of it. It was good to wash off the leg, but it looked as though the pants were finished, and the nearest change of clothes—he checked his watch—was probably near
Denmark
by now. Anatoliy watched him the whole time. The bodyguard pulled a gauze bandage from the medicine cabinet and helped Jack tape it in place, then walked him back as gracefully as Ryan's aches and pains allowed.

Golovko was still there, though Vatutin had left, and the empty chair was still waiting. Anatoliy took his former place behind Narmonov.

“The fire feels good,” Jack said. “Thank you for letting me wash the knee off.”

“Golovko tells me that we did not do that to you. Is this correct?”

It seemed an odd question to Jack, since Golovko was handling the translating. So Audrey Ily'ch speaks a little English, does he?

“No, sir, I did it to myself. I have not been mistreated in any way.” Just had the piss scared out of me, Ryan thought to himself. But that's my own damned fault. Narmonov looked at him with silent interest for perhaps half a minute before speaking again.

“I did not need your help.”

“I do not know what you mean, sir,” Ryan lied.

“Did you really think that Gerasimov could remove me?”

“Sir, I don't know what you are talking about. My mission was to save the life of one of our agents. To do this meant compromising Chairman Gerasimov. It was just a matter of fishing with the proper bait.”

“And fishing for the proper fish,” Narmonov commented. The amusement in his voice did not show on his face. “And your agent was Colonel Filitov?”

“Yes, sir. You know that.”

“I just learned it.”

Then you know that Yazov was compromised also. Just how close might they have come, Comrade General Secretary?
Ryan did not say. Probably Narmonov didn't know either.

“Do you know why he turned traitor?”

“No, I don't. I was briefed only on what I needed to know.”

“And therefore you do not know about the attack on our Project Bright Star?”

“What?” Jack was very surprised, and showed it.

“Don't insult me, Ryan. You do know the name.”

“It's southeast of
Dushanbe
. I know it. Attacked?” he asked.

“As I thought. You know that was an act of war,” Narmonov observed.

“Sir, KGB officers kidnapped an American SDI scientist several days ago. That was ordered by Gerasimov himself. His name is Alan Gregory. He's a major in the U.S. Army, and he was rescued.”

“I don't believe it,” Golovko said before translating. Narmonov was annoyed by the interruption, but shocked by the substance of Ryan's statement.

“One of your officers was captured. He's alive. It is true, sir,” Jack assured him.

Narmonov shook his head and rose to toss another log on the fire. He maneuvered it into place with a poker. “It's madness, you know,” he said at the hearth. “We have a perfectly satisfactory situation now.”

“Excuse me? I don't understand,” Ryan asked.

“The world is stable, is it not? Yet your country wishes to change this, and forces us to pursue the same goal.” That the ABM test site at Sary Shagan had been operating for over thirty years was, for the moment, beside the point.

“Mr. Secretary, if you think the ability to turn every city, every home in my country into a fire like the one you have right there—”

“My country, too, Ryan,” Narmonov said.

“Yes, sir, your country, too, and a bunch of others. You can kill most every civilian in my country, and we can murder almost every person in your country, in sixty minutes or less from the time you pick up the phone—or my President does. And what do we call that? We call it 'stability.' ”

“It is stability, Ryan,” Narmonov said.

“No, sir, the technical name we use is MAD: Mutual Assured Destruction, which isn't even good grammar, but it's accurate enough. The situation we have now is mad, all right, and the fact that supposedly intelligent people have thought it up doesn't make it any more sensible.”

“It works, doesn't it?”

“Sir, why is it stabilizing to have several hundred million people less than an hour away from death? Why do we view weapons that might protect those people to be dangerous? Isn't that backwards?”

“But if we never use them . . . Do you think that I could live with such a crime on my conscience?”

“No, I don't think that any man could, but someone-might screw up. He'd probably blow his brains out a week after the fact, but that might be a little late for the rest of us. The damned things are just too easy to use. You push a button, and they go, and they'll work, probably, because there's nothing to stop them. Unless something stands in their way, there's no reason to think that they won't work. And as long as somebody thinks they might work, it's too easy to use them.”

“Be realistic, Ryan. Do you think that we'll ever rid ourselves of atomic arms?” Narmonov asked.

“No, we'll never get rid of all the weapons. I know that. We'll both always have the ability to hurt each other badly, but we can make that process more complicated than it is now. We can give everybody one more reason not to push the button. That's not destabilizing, sir. That's just good sense. That's just something more to protect your conscience.”

“You sound like your President.” This was delivered with a smile.

“He's right.” Ryan returned it.

“It is bad enough that I must argue with one American. I will not do so with another. What will you do with Gerasimov?” the General Secretary asked.

“It will be handled very quietly, for the obvious reason,” Jack said, hoping that he was right.

“It would be very damaging to my government if his defection became public. I suggest that he died in a plane crash ...”

“I will convey that to my government if I am permitted to do so. We can also keep Filitov's name out of the news. We have nothing to gain by publicity. That would just complicate things for your country and mine. We both want the arms treaty to go forward—all that money to save, for both of us.”

“Not so much,” Narmonov said. “A few percentage points of the defense budgets on both sides.”

“There is a saying in our government, sir. A billion here and a billion there, pretty soon you're talking about some real money.” That earned Jack a laugh. “May I ask a question, sir?”

“Go on.”

“What will you do with the money on your side? I'm supposed to figure that one out.”

“Then perhaps you can offer me suggestions. What makes you think that I know?” Narmonov asked. He rose, and Ryan did the same. “Back to your embassy. Tell your people that it is better for both sides if this never becomes public.”

Half an hour later Ryan was dropped off at the front door of the embassy. The first one to see him was a Marine sergeant. The second was Candela.

The VC-137 landed at
Shannon
ten minutes late, due to headwinds over the
North Sea
. The crew chief and another sergeant herded the passengers out the front way, and when all had left the aircraft, came back to open the rear door. While cameras flashed in the main terminal, steps were rolled to the Boeing's tail and four men left wearing the uniform parkas of U.S. Air Force sergeants. They entered a car and were driven to a far end of the terminal, where they boarded another plane of the 89th Military Airlift Wing, a VC-20A, the military version of the Gulfstream-III executive jet.

“Hello, Misha.” Mary Pat Foley met him at the door and took him forward. She hadn't kissed him before. She made up for it now. “We have food and drink, and another plane ride home. Come, Misha.” She took his arm and led him to his seat.

A few feet away, Robert Ritter greeted Gerasimov.

“My family?” the latter asked.

“Safe. We'll have them in
Washington
in two days. At this moment they are aboard a U.S. Navy ship in international waters.”

“I am supposed to thank you?”

“We expect you to cooperate.”

“You were very lucky,” Gerasimov observed.

“Yes,” Ritter agreed. “We were.”

The embassy car drove Ryan to Sheremetyevo the following day to catch the regular Pan Am 727 flight to
Frankfurt
. The ticket they provided him was tourist, but Ryan upgraded it to first class. Three hours later he connected with a 747 for Dulles, also Pan Am. He slept most of the way.

Bondarenko surveyed the carnage. The Afghans had left forty-seven bodies behind, with evidence of plenty more. Only two of the site's laser assemblies had survived. All of the machine shops were wrecked, along with the theater and bachelor quarters. The hospital was largely intact, and full of wounded people. The good news was that he'd saved three-quarters of the scientific and engineering personnel and nearly all of their dependents. Four general officers were there already to tell him what a hero he was, promising medals and promotion, but he'd already gotten the only reward that mattered. As soon as the relief force had arrived, he'd seen that the people were safe. Now, he just looked from the roof of the apartment block.

“There is much work to do,” a voice noted. The Colonel, soon to be a General, turned.

“Morozov. We still have two of the lasers. We can rebuild the shops and laboratories. A year, perhaps eighteen months.”

“That's about right,” the young engineer said. “The new mirrors and their computer control equipment will take at least that long. Comrade Colonel, the people have asked me to—”

“That is my job, Comrade Engineer, and I had my own ass to save, remember? This will never happen again. We'll have a battalion of motorized infantry here from now on, from a guards regiment. I've already seen to that. By summer this installation will be as safe as any place in the
Soviet Union
.”

“Safe? What does that mean, Colonel?”

“That is my new job. And yours,” Bondarenko said. “Remember?”

Epilogue:

Common Ground

I
T
didn't surprise Ortiz when the Major came in alone. The report of the battle took an hour, and again the CIA officer was given a few rucksacks of equipment. The Archer's band had fought its way out, and of the nearly two hundred who had left the refugee camp, fewer than fifty returned on this first day of spring. The Major went immediately to work making contact with other bands, and the prestige of the mission which his group had carried out enabled him to deal with older and more powerful chieftains as a near equal. Within a week he had made good his losses with eager new warriors, and the arrangement the Archer had made with Ortiz remained in force.