The Cardinal of the Kremlin

by Tom Clancy

  Everything Russians hated about America flooded back into Bob’s consciousness. Too many roads, too many cars—some damned fool of an American had run a stop sign and—I hope he’s dead! the driver raged at the parked cars on the residential street. I hope he died screaming in agony. It felt better to get that thought out from the back of his mind.

  Now what?

  He continued on a different route, taking the road over the crest of the hill, where he was able to look down and see another highway. Perhaps if he went south on this one, it might connect with the road he’d been on ... It was worth a try, he thought. To his right, Bill gave him a questioning look, but Lenny in the back was too busy with the prisoner to know that anything was badly wrong. As they picked up speed, at least the air through the windows allowed his eyes to clear. There was a traffic light at the bottom of the hill—but there was also a sign that said NO LEFT TURN.

  Govno! Bob thought to himself as he turned right. This four-lane road was divided by a concrete barrier.

  You should have spent more time studying the map. You should have taken a few hours to drive around the area. But it was too late for that now, and he knew that he hadn’t had the time. That left them heading back north. Bob checked his watch, forgetting that there was a clock on the dashboard. He’d already lost fifteen minutes. He was out in the open and vulnerable, on enemy ground. What if someone had seen them in the.parking lot? What if the policeman at the wreck had taken down their number?

  Bob didn’t panic. He was too well trained for that. He commanded himself to take a deep breath and mentally examined all the maps he’d seen of the area. He was west of the interstate highway. If he could find that, he still remembered the exit he’d used earlier in the day—was it still the same day?—and get to the safe house blindfolded. If he were west of the interstate, all he had to do was find a road that went east. Which way was east—right. Another deep breath. He’d head north until he saw what looked like a major east-west road, and he’d turn right. Okay.

  It took nearly five minutes, but he found an east-west highway—he didn’t bother to look for the name. Five minutes after that he was grateful to see the red, white, and blue shield that informed him the interstate was half a mile ahead. Now he breathed easier.

  “What’s the trouble?’ Lenny finally asked from the back. Bob replied in Russian.

  “Had to change routes,” he said in a tone far more relaxed than he’d felt only a few minutes earlier. In turning to reply, he missed a sign.

  There was the overpass. The green signs announced that he could go north or south. He wanted to go south, and the exit ramp would be—

  In the wrong place. He was in the right lane, but the exit went to the left, and was only fifty meters ahead. He swerved across the highway without looking. Immediately behind him, an Audi driver stood on his brakes and jammed his hand on the horn. Bob ignored the irrelevancy as he took the left turn onto the ramp. He was on the upward, sweeping curve and was looking at the traffic on the interstate when he saw lights flashing in the grille of the black car behind him. The headlights blinked at him, and he knew what would come next.

  Don’t panic, he told himself. He didn’t have to say anything to his comrades. Bob didn’t even consider making a run for it. They’d been briefed on this, too. American police are courteous and professional. They didn’t demand payment on the spot, as the Moscow traffic police did. He also knew that American cops were armed with Magnum revolvers.

  Bob pulled his Plymouth over just beyond the overpass and waited. As he watched his mirror, the police car stopped behind his, slightly more to the left. He could see the officer getting out, carrying a clipboard in his left hand. That left the right one free, Bob knew, and that was the gun hand. In the back, Lenny told the prisoner what would happen if he made a noise.

  “Good evening, sir,” the police officer said. “I don’t know what the rules are in Oklahoma, but here we prefer that you don’t change lanes like that. Could I have your driver’s license and registration, please?” His black uniform and silver trim made Leonid think of the SS, but this wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Just be polite, he told himself calmly, take the ticket and move on. He handed over the proper cards and waited as the police officer started filling out the ticket blank. Perhaps an apology was due now ... ?

  “Sorry, officer, I thought the exit was on the right side, and—”

  “That’s why we spend all that money on signs, Mr. Taylor. Is this your correct address?”

  “Yes, sir. Like I said, I’m sorry. If you have to give me a ticket, I guess I deserve it.”

  “I wish everybody was that cooperative,” the officer observed. Not everyone was, and he decided to see what this polite fellow looked like. He looked at the photograph on the license and bent down to make sure it was the right person. He shined the light in Bob’s face. It was the same face, but ... “What the hell is that smell?”

  Mace, the officer knew an instant later. The light swiveled. The people in the car looked normal enough, two in the front, two in the back, and ... one of the people in the back was wearing what looked like a uniform jacket ...

  Gregory wondered if his life was really on the line. He decided that he’d find out, and prayed the policeman was alert.

  In back, the one on the left side—the one in the jacket—mouthed a single word: Help. That merely made the policeman more curious, but the one in the right-front seat saw him do it and stirred. The cop’s instincts all lit off at once. His right hand slid down to his service revolver, flipping the safety strap off the hammer.

  “Out of the car, one at a time, and right now!”

  He was horrified to see a gun. It appeared as though by magic from the guy in the right-rear, and before he could get his own revolver out—

  Gregory’s right hand didn’t get there in time, but his elbow did, spoiling Lenny’s aim.

  The officer was surprised that he didn’t hear anything except a shout in a language he couldn’t understand, but by the time that occurred to him, his jaw had already exploded in a puff of white more heard than felt. He fell backward, his gun out now and shooting of its own accord.

  Bob cringed and dropped the car into gear. The front wheels spun on the loose gravel, but caught, hauling the Plymouth all too slowly away from the noise of the gun. In the back, Lenny, who’d gotten off the one shot, slammed the butt of his automatic on Gregory’s head. His perfectly aimed shot should have gone straight through the policeman’s heart, but he’d gotten the face instead, and he didn’t know how good the shot had been. He shouted something that Bob didn’t bother listening to.

  Three minutes later the Plymouth went off the interstate. Below the accident that still blocked the highway, the road was nearly clear. Bob took the dirt road off it, lights out, and was at the trailer before the prisoner regained consciousness.

  Behind them, a passing motorist saw the policeman on the shoulder and pulled over to assist him. The man was in agony, with a bloody wound to his face and nine missing teeth. The motorist ran to the police car and put out a radio call. It took a minute before the dispatcher got things straight, but three minutes after that a second radio car was there, then five more in as many minutes. The wounded officer was unable to speak, but handed up his clipboard, which had the car’s description and tag number written down. He also still had “Bob Taylor’s” driver’s license. That was message enough for the other officers. An immediate call was put out over all local police frequencies. Someone had shot a police officer. The actual crime that had been committed was far more serious than that, but the police did not know, nor would they have cared.

  Candi was surprised to see that Al wasn’t home. Her jaw was still numb from the Xylocaine shots, and she decided on soup. But where’s Al? Maybe he had to stay late for something. She knew that she could call, but it wasn’t that big a deal, and with the way her mouth felt, there wasn’t much in the way of talking she could have done anyway.

  At police headquarte
rs on Cerrillos Road, the computers were already humming. A telex was dispatched at once to Oklahoma, where brother police officers took immediate note of the magnitude of the crime and punched up their own computer records. They learned at once that there was no license for Robert J. Taylor of 1353 N.W. 108th Street, Oklahoma City, OK 73210, nor was there a Plymouth Reliant with tag number XSW-498. The tag number, in fact, did not exist. The sergeant who ran the computer section was more than surprised. To be told that there was no record of a tag wasn’t all that unusual, but to get a no-hit on a tag and a license, and in a case with an officer-involved shooting was pushing the laws of probability too hard. He lifted the phone for the senior watch officer.

  “Captain, we have something really crazy here on the Mendez shooting.”

  The state of New Mexico is filled with areas belonging to the federal government, and has a long history of highly sensitive activities. The Captain didn’t know what had happened, but he knew at once that this wasn’t a traffic incident. One minute after that, he was on the phone to the local FBI office.

  Jennings and Perkins were there before Officer Mendez came out of surgery. The waiting room was so crowded with policemen that it was fortunate the hospital had no other surgical patients at the moment. The Captain running the investigation was there, as were the state police chaplain and half a dozen other officers who worked the same watch as Mendez, plus Mrs. Mendez, who was seven months pregnant. Presently the doctor came out and announced that he’d be fine. The only major blood vessel damaged had been easily repaired. The officer’s jaw and teeth had taken most of the damage, and a maxillary surgeon would start repairing that damage in a day or two. The officer’s wife cried a bit, then was taken to see her husband before two of his fellows drove her home. Then it was time for everyone to get to work.

  “He must have had the gun in the poor bastard’s back,” Mendez said slowly, his words distorted by the wires holding his jaw together. He’d already refused a pain medication. He wanted to get the information out quickly, and was willing to suffer a little to do it. The state police officer was a very angry man. “Only way he coulda got it out so fast.”

  “The photo on the license, is it accurate?” Agent Jennings asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Pete Mendez was a young officer, and managed to make Jennings feel her age with that remark. He next got out rough descriptions of the other two. Then came the victim: “Maybe thirty, skinny, glasses. He was wearing a jacket—like a uniform jacket. I didn’t see any insignia, but I didn’t get much of a look. He had his hair cut like he was in the service, too. Don’t know the eye color, either, but there was something funny ... his eyes were shiny, like—oh, the Mace smell. Maybe that was it. Maybe they Maced him. He didn’t say anything, but, like, he mouthed the words, you know? I thought that was funny, but the guy in the right-front reacted real strong to that. I was slow. I shoulda reacted faster. Too damned slow.”

  “You said that one of them said something?” Perkins asked.

  “The bastard who shot me. I don’t know what it was. Not English, not Spanish. I just remember the last word ... maht, something like that.”

  “Yob’ tvoyu mat’!” Jennings said at once.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Mendez nodded. “What’s it mean?”

  “It means ‘fuck your mother.’ Excuse me,” Perkins said, his Mormon face fairly glowing scarlet. Mendez went rigid on his bed. One doesn’t say such things to an angry man with a Hispanic name.

  “What?” the state police Captain asked.

  “It’s Russian, one of their favorite curses.” Perkins looked at Jennings.

  “Oh, boy,” she breathed, scarcely able to believe it. “We’re calling Washington right now.”

  “We have to identify the—wait a minute!—Gregory?” Perkins said. “God almighty. You call Washington. I’ll call the project office.”

  It turned out that the state police could move the fastest. Candi answered a knock on the door and was surprised to see a policeman standing there. He asked politely if he could see Major Al Gregory, and was told that he wasn’t home by a young woman whose numbed jaw was coming back to normal as the world around her began to shatter. She’d scarcely gotten the news when Tea Clipper’s security chief pulled up. She was a mere spectator as a radio call was sent out to look for Al’s car, too shocked even to cry.

  The license photo of “Bob Taylor” was already in Washington, being examined by members of the FBI’s counterintelligence branch, but it wasn’t in their file of identified Soviet officers. The Assistant Director who ran counterintel ops was called in from his Alexandria home by the senior watch officer. The AD in turn called FBI Director Emil Jacobs, who arrived at the Hoover Building at two in the morning. They could scarcely believe it, but the wounded police officer positively identified the photograph of Major Alan T. Gregory. The Soviets had never committed a violent crime in the United States. This rule was so well established that the most senior Soviet defectors, if they wished, were able to live openly and without protection. But this was even worse than the elimination of a person who was, under Soviet law, a condemned traitor. An American citizen had been kidnapped; to the FBI, kidnapping is a crime hardly different from murder.

  There was, of course, a plan. Even though it had never happened, the operations experts whose job it was to think about unthinkable happenings had a pre-set protocol of things that had to be done. Before dawn thirty senior agents were taking off from Andrews Air Force Base, among them members of the elite Hostage Rescue Team. Agents from field offices throughout the Southwest briefed Border Patrol officers on the case.

  Bob/Leonid sat by himself, drinking tepid coffee. Why didn’t I just keep going and make a U-turn down the street? he asked himself. Why was I in a hurry? Why was I excited when I didn’t have to be?

  It was time to be excited now. His car had three bullet holes in it, two on the left side and one in the trunk lid. His driver’s license was in the hands of the police, and that carried his photograph.

  You won’t get a teaching post at the academy this way, Tovarishch. He smiled to himself grimly.

  He was in a safe house. He had that much consolation. It might even be safe for a day or two. This was clearly Captain Bisyarina’s bolt-hole, never intended to be any more than a place where the officer could hide out if forced to run. Because of that, it had no telephone, and he had no way of communicating with the local resident officer. What if she doesn’t come back? That was clear enough. He’d have to risk driving a car with known license tags—and bullet holes!—far enough to steal another. He had visions of thousands of police officers patrolling the roads with a single thought: find the maniacs who shot their comrade. How could he have let things go so bad, so fast!

  He heard a car approach. Lenny was still guarding their prisoner. Bob and Bill picked up their pistols and peered around the edge of the single window that faced on the dirt road to the trailer. Both breathed easier when they saw it was Bisyarina’s Volvo. She got out and made the proper all-clear gesture, then came toward the trailer, holding a large bag.

  “Congratulations: you’ve made the television news,” she said on entering. Idiot. That part didn’t need to be said. It hung in the air like a thundercloud.

  “It’s a long story,” he said, knowing it to be a lie.

  “I’m sure.” She set the bag on the table. “Tomorrow I’ll rent you a new car. It’s too dangerous to move yours. Where did you—”

  “Two hundred meters up the road, in the thickest trees we could squeeze it into, covered with branches. It will be hard to spot, even from the air.”

  “Yes, keep that in mind. The police here have some helicopters. Here.” She tossed Bob a black wig. Next came some glasses, one pair set with clear lenses, and the other, a pair of mirror-type sunglasses. “Are you allergic to makeup?”

  “What?”

  “Makeup, you fool—”

  “Captain ...” Bob began with some heat. Bisyarina cut him off with a look.

/>   “Your skin is pale. In case you haven’t noticed, a large number of the people in this area are Spanish. This is my territory and you will now do exactly as I say.” She paused for a beat. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  “The American woman, she knows you by sight—”

  “Obviously. I suppose you want her eliminated? After all, we’ve broken one rule, why not another? What fucking madman ordered this operation?”

  “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.