Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (68 page)

“You're going back already?” the CIA officer asked the new leader.

“Of course. We're winning now,” the Major said with a degree of confidence that even he did not understand.

Ortiz watched them leave at nightfall, a single file of small, ferocious warriors, led now by a trained soldier. He hoped it would make a difference.

Gerasimov and Filitov never saw each other again. The debriefings lasted for weeks, and were conducted at separate locations. Filitov was taken to
Camp Peary
,
Virginia
, where he met a spectacled U.S. Army major and told what he remembered of the Russian breakthrough in laser power. It seemed curious to the old man that this boy could be so excited about things that he'd memorized but never fully understood.

After that came the routine explanations of the second career that had joined and paralleled his first. A whole generation of field officers visited him for meals and walks, and drinking sessions that worried the doctors but which no one could deny the Cardinal. His living quarters were closely guarded, and even bugged. Those who listened to him were surprised that he occasionally spoke in his sleep.

One CIA officer who was six months from his retirement paused from reading the local paper when it happened again. He smiled at the noise in his headphones and set down the article he was reading about the President's visit to
Moscow
. That sad, lonely old man, he thought as he listened. Most of his friends dead, and he only sees them in his sleep. Was that why he went to work for us? The murmuring stopped, and in the quarters next door, the Cardinal's baby-sitter went back to his paper.

“Comrade Captain,” Romanov said. “Yes, Corporal?” It seemed more real than most of his dreams, Misha noted. A moment later he knew why.

They were spending their honeymoon under the protection of security officers, all four days of it—which was as long as Al and Candi were willing to stay away from work. Major Gregory got the phone when it rang.

“Yeah—I mean, yes, sir,” Candi heard him say. A sigh. A shake of the head in the darkness. “Not even anyplace to send flowers, is there? Can Candi and I— Oh . . . I understand. Thanks for calling, General.” She heard him replace the phone and let out another breath.

“Candi, you awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Our first kid, his name's going to be Mike.”

Major General Grigoriy
Dalmatov's post of Defense Attaché at the Soviet Embassy in
Washington
carried a number of ceremonial duties that conflicted with his primary mission, intelligence gathering. He was slightly annoyed when the telephone call from the Pentagon had come, asking him to drive over to the American military headquarters—and to his great surprise, to do so in full uniform. His car dropped him off at the River entrance, and a young paratroop captain had escorted him inside, then to the office of General Ben Crofter,
Chief of Staff
,
United States
Army.

“May I ask what is going on?”

“Something that we thought you should see, Grigoriy,” Crofter answered cryptically. They walked across the building to the Pentagon's own helicopter pad, where to Dalmatov's astonishment they boarded a Marine helicopter of the Presidential Fleet. The Sikorsky lifted off at once, heading northwest into the
Maryland
hills. Twenty minutes later they were descending. Dalmatov's mind registered yet another surprise. The helicopter was landing at
Camp David
. A member of the Marine guard force in dress blues saluted at the foot of the stairs as they left the aircraft and escorted them into the trees. Several minutes later they came to a clearing. Dalmatov hadn't known there were birch trees here, perhaps half an acre of them, and the clearing was near a hilltop that offered a fine view of the surrounding country.

And there was a rectangular hole in the ground, exactly six feet deep. It seemed strange that there was no headstone, and that the sod had been carefully cut and set aside for replacement.

Around the scene, Dalmatov could make out more Marines in the treeline. These wore camouflage fatigues and pistol belts. Well, it was no particular surprise that there was heavy security here, and the General found it rather comforting that in the past hour one unsurprising thing had taken place.

A jeep appeared first. Two Marines—in dress blues again—got out and erected a prefabricated stand around the hole. They must have practiced, the General thought, since it took them only three minutes by his watch. Then a three-quarter-ton truck came through the trees, followed by some more jeeps. Cradled in the back of the truck was a polished oak coffin. The truck pulled to within a few meters of the hole and stopped. An honor guard assembled.

“May I ask why I am here?” Dalmatov asked when he couldn't stand it any longer.

“You came up in tanks, right?”

“Yes, General Crofter, as did you.”

“That's why.”

The six men of the honor guard set the coffin on the stand.

The gunnery sergeant in command of the detail removed the lid. Crofter walked toward it. Dalmatov gasped when he saw who was inside.

“Misha.”

“I thought you knew him,” a new voice said. Dalmatov spun around.

“You are Ryan.” Others were there, Ritter of CIA,
General
Parks
, and a young couple, in their thirties, Dalmatov thought. The wife seemed to be pregnant, though rather early along. She was weeping silently in the gentle spring breeze.

“Yes, sir.”

The Russian gestured to the coffin. “Where—how did you—”

“I just flew back from
Moscow
. The General Secretary was kind enough to give me the Colonel's uniform and decorations. He said that—he said that in the case of this man, he prefers to remember the reason he got those three gold stars. We hope that you will tell your people that Colonel Mikhail Semyonovich Filitov, three times Hero of the
Soviet Union
, died peacefully in his sleep.”

Dalmatov went red. “He was a traitor to his country—I will not stand here and—”

“General,” Ryan said harshly, “it should be clear that your General Secretary does not agree with that sentiment. That man may be a greater hero than you know, for your country and for mine. Tell me, General, how many battles have you fought? How many wounds have you received for your country? Can you really look at that man and call him traitor? In any case . . .” Ryan gestured to the sergeant, who closed the coffin. When he'd finished, another Marine draped a Soviet flag over it. A team of riflemen appeared and formed at the head of the grave. Ryan took a paper from his pocket and read off Misha's citations for bravery. The riflemen brought up their weapons and fired off their volleys. A trumpeter played Taps.

Dalmatov came to rigid attention and saluted. It seemed a pity to Ryan that the ceremony had to be secret, but its simplicity made for dignity, and that at least was fitting enough.

“Why here?” Dalmatov asked when it was finished.

“I would have preferred
Arlington
, but then someone might notice. Right over those hills is the
Antietam
battlefield. On the bloodiest day in our Civil War, the Union forces repelled Lee's first invasion of the North after a desperate battle. It just seemed like the right place,” Ryan said “If a hero must have an unmarked grave, it should at least be close to where his comrades fell.”

“Comrades?”

“One way or an0ther we all fight for the things we believe in. Doesn't that give us some c0mmon ground?” Jack asked. He walked off to his car, leaving Dalmatov with the thought.

THE END