by Tom Clancy
He left his apartment a few minutes later and walked downstairs. There was the usual number of cabs circulating about. He didn’t gesture, but waited for one to come to him. They didn’t start talking until it pulled into the traffic on Virginia Avenue.
The cab took him to the General Accounting Office headquarters on G Street, Northwest. Inside the building, he handed the tape recorder over to another FBI agent. Henderson suspected that it was a radio as well, though actually it was not. The recorder went to the Hoover Building. Loomis was waiting when it got there. The tape was rewound and played.
“CIA got it right for once,” she observed to her supervisor. Someone even more senior was here. This was more important than she’d thought, Loomis knew at once.
“It figures. A source like Ryan doesn’t come along real often. Henderson got his lines down pretty good.”
“I told him that this may be his ticket out.” Her voice said more than that.
“You don’t approve?” the Assistant Director asked. He ran all of the FBI’s counterintel operations.
“He hasn’t paid enough, not for what he did.”
“Miss Loomis, after this is all over, I’ll explain to you why you’re wrong. Put that aside, okay? You’ve done a beautiful job handling this case. Don’t blow it now.”
“What’ll happen to him?” she asked.
“The usual, into the witness-protection program. He may end up running the Wendy’s in Billings, Montana, for all I know.” The AD shrugged. “You’re getting promoted and sent to the New York Field Office. We have another one we think you’re ready for. There’s a diplomat attached to the UN who needs a good handler.”
“Okay.” The smile this time was not forced.
“They bit. They bit hard,” Ritter told Ryan. “I just hope you’re up to it, sonny boy.”
“No danger involved.” Jack spread his hands. “This ought to be real civilized.”
Only the parts you know about. “Ryan, you are still an amateur so far as field ops are concerned. Remember that.”
“I have to be for this to work,” Jack pointed out.
“Those whom the gods would destroy, they first make proud,” the DDO said.
“That’s not the way Sophocles said it.” Jack grinned.
“My way’s better. I even had a sign put up at the Farm that quotes me.”
Ryan’s idea for the mission had been a simple one—too simple, and Ritter’s people had refined it over a period of ten hours into a real operation. Simple in concept, it would have its complications. They all did, but Ritter didn’t like that fact.
Bart Mancuso had long since gotten used to the idea that sleeping wasn’t included in the list of things that submarine skippers were expected to do, but what he especially hated was a knock on the door fifteen minutes after he was able to lie down.
“Come!” And die! he didn’t say.
“FLASH traffic, eyes-only-captain,” the Lieutenant said apologetically.
“It better be good!” Mancuso snarled, snapping the covers off the bunk. He walked aft in his skivvies to the communications room, to port and just aft of the attack center. Ten minutes later he emerged and handed a slip of paper to the navigator.
“I want to be there in ten hours.”
“No sweat, Cap’n.”
“The next person who bothers me, it better be a grave national emergency!” He walked forward, barefoot on the tile deck.
“Message delivered,” Henderson told Loomis over dinner.
“Anything else?” Candlelight and all, she thought.
“Just wanted to confirm. They didn’t want new info, just to back up what they already had from some different sources. At least, that’s the way I read it. I have another delivery for them.”
“Which one’s that?”
“The new battlefield air-defense report. I never could understand why they bother. They can read it in Aviation Week before the end of the month anyway.”
“Let’s not blow the routine now, Mr. Henderson.”
This time the message could be handled as routine intelligence traffic. It would be flagged to the Chairman’s attention because it was “personal” information on a senior enemy intelligence official. Gerasimov was known in the higher echelons of KGB to be a man interested as much in Western gossip as Russian.
It was waiting when he arrived the next morning. The KGB Chairman hated the eight-hour time differential between Moscow and Washington—it made things so damned inconvenient! For Moscow Center to order any immediate action automatically risked having his field officers cue the Americans as to who they were. As a result, few real “immediate-action” signals were ever sent out, and it offended the KGB Chairman that his personal power could be undone by something as prosaic as longitudinal lines.
“Subject P,” the dispatch began, the English “R” being a “P” in the Cyrillic alphabet, “is now the target of a secret criminal investigation as part of a nonintelligence matter. It is suspected, however, that interest in P is politically based, probably an effort on the part of progressive congressional elements to damage CIA because of an unknown operational failure—possibly involving Central Europe, but this is not RPT not confirmed. P’s criminal disgrace will be damaging to higher CIA officials due to his placement. This station grades the intelligence reliability of the case as A. Three independent sources now confirm the allegations dispatched in my 88(B)531-C/EOC. Full details to follow via pouch. Station recommends pursuing. Rezident Washington. Ends.”
Gerasimov tucked the report away in his desk.
“Well,” the Chairman murmured to himself. He checked his watch. He had to be at the regular Thursday-morning Politburo meeting in two hours. How would it go? One thing he knew: it would be an interesting one. He planned to introduce a new variant on his game—the Power Game.
His daily operational briefing was always a little longer on Thursdays. It never hurt to drop a few harmless tidbits at the meetings. His fellow Politburo members were all men to whom conspiracy came as easily as breathing, and there hadn’t been a government anywhere in the last century whose senior members did not enjoy hearing about covert operations. Gerasimov made a few notes, careful to choose only things that he could discuss without compromising important cases. His car came around at the appointed time, as always accompanied by a lead car of bodyguards, and sped off to the Kremlin.
Gerasimov was never the first to arrive, and never the last. This time he walked in just behind the Defense Minister.
“Good morning, Dmitri Timofeyevich,” the Chairman said without a smile, but cordially enough for all that.
“And to you, Comrade Chairman,” Yazov said warily. Both men took their seats. Yazov had more than one reason to be wary. In addition to the fact that Filitov was hanging over his head like a sword out of myth, he was not a full voting member of the supreme Soviet council. Gerasimov was. That gave KGB more political power than Defense, but the only times in recent history that the Defense Minister had had a vote in this room, he’d been a Party man first—like Ustinov had been. Yazov was a soldier first. A loyal Party member for all that, his uniform was not the costume it had been for Ustinov. Yazov would never have a vote at this table.
Andrey Il’ych Narmonov came into the room with his usual vigor. Of all the Politburo members, only the KGB Chairman was younger than he, and Narmonov felt the need to show bustling energy whenever he appeared before the older men who were arrayed around “his” conference table. The strain and stress of his job were telling on him. Everyone could see it. The black bush of hair was beginning to gray rapidly, and it also seemed that his hairline was receding. But that was hardly unusual for a man in his fifties. He gestured for everyone to sit.
“Good morning, Comrades,” Narmonov said in a businesslike voice. “The initial discussion will concern the arrival of the American arms-negotiations team.”
“I have good news to report,” Gerasimov said at once.
“Indeed?” Alexandrov asked before th
e General Secretary could, staking out his own position.
“We have information that suggests that the Americans are willing in principle to place their strategic-defense program on the table,” the KGB Chairman reported. “We do not know what concessions they will demand for this, nor the extent of the concessions in their program that they are willing to make, but this is nevertheless a change in the American posture.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” Yazov spoke up. “Their program is well along—as you yourself told me last week, Nikolay Borissovich.”
“There are some political dissenters within the American government, and possibly a power struggle under way within CIA itself at the moment, we have just learned. In any case, that is our information, and we regard it to be fairly reliable.”
“That is quite a surprise.” Heads turned to where the Foreign Minister was sitting. He looked skeptical. “The Americans have been totally adamant on this point. You say ‘fairly reliable,’ but not totally so?”
“The source is highly placed, but the information has not been adequately confirmed as yet. We will know more by the weekend.”
Heads nodded around the table. The American delegation would arrive noon Saturday, and negotiations would not begin until Monday. The Americans would be given thirty-six hours to overcome their jet lag, during which there would be a welcoming dinner at the Academy of Sciences Hotel, and little else.
“Such information is obviously a matter of great interest to my negotiating team, but I find it most surprising, particularly in view of the briefings we’ve been given here on our Bright Star Program, and their counterpart to it.”
“There is reason to believe that the Americans have learned of Bright Star,” Gerasimov replied smoothly. “Perhaps they have found our progress sobering.”
“Bright Star penetrated?” another member asked. “How?”
“We’re not sure. We’re working on it,” Gerasimov replied, careful not to look in Yazov’s direction. Your move, Comrade Defense Minister.
“So the Americans might really be more interested in shutting our program down than in curtailing theirs,” Alexandrov observed.
“And they think that our efforts have been the reverse of that.” The Foreign Minister grunted. “It would be nice for me to be able to tell my people what the real issues are!”
“Marshal Yazov?” Narmonov said. He didn’t know that he was putting his own man on the spot.
Until now, Gerasimov hadn’t been sure about Yazov, about whether he might not feel safe taking his political vulnerability over the Filitov matter to his master. This would give him the answer. Yazov was afraid of the possibility—CERTAINTY, he corrected himself, Yazov has to know that by now—that we can disgrace him. He’s also afraid that Narmonov won’t risk his own position to save him. So have I co-opted both Yazov and Vaneyev? If so, I wonder if it might be worth keeping Yazov on after I replace the General Secretary... Your decision, Yazov ...
“We have overcome the problem of laser power output. The remaining problem is in computer control. Here we are far behind American techniques due to the superiority of their computer industry. Only last week, Comrade Gerasimov furnished us with some of the American control program, but we had not even begun to examine it when we learned that the program was itself overtaken by events.
“I do not mean this to be criticism of the KGB, of course—”
Yes! In that moment Gerasimov was sure. He’s making his own overture to me. And the best part—no other man in the room, not even Alexandrov, understands what just happened.
“—actually, it illustrates the technical problem rather clearly. But it is only a technical problem, Comrades. This one, too, can be overcome. My opinion is that we are ahead of the Americans. If they know this, they will be fearful of it. Our negotiating position to this point has been to object to space-based programs only, never ground-based, since we have known all along that our ground-based systems have greater promise than their American counterparts. Possibly the change in the American position confirms this. If so, I would recommend against trading Bright Star for anything.”
“That is a defensible opinion,” Gerasimov commented after a moment. “Dmitri Timofeyevich has raised a thoughtful issue here.” Heads nodded around the table—knowingly, they all thought, but more wrongly than any would dare guess—as the Chairman of the Committee for State Security and the Minister of Defense consummated their bargain with nothing more than a glance and a raised eyebrow.
Gerasimov turned back to the head of the table as the discussion went on around him. General Secretary Narmonov watched the debate with interest, making a few notes, not noticing the gaze of his KGB Chairman.
I wonder if that chair is more comfortable than mine.
19.
Travelers
Even the 89th Military Airlift Wing worried about security, Ryan was glad to see. The sentries who guarded the “President’s Wing” at Andrews Air Force Base carried loaded rifles and wore serious looks to impress the “Distinguished Visitors”—the U.S. Air Force eschews the term Very Important Persons. The combination of armed troops and the usual airport rigamarole made it certain that no one would hijack the airplane and take it to ... Moscow. They had a flight crew to accomplish that.
Ryan always had the same thought before flying. As he waited to pass through the doorway-shaped magnetometer, he imagined that someone had engraved on the lintel: ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE. He’d just about overcome his terror of flying; his anxiety now was of something else entirely, he told himself. It didn’t work. Fears are additive, not parallel, he discovered as he walked out of the building.
They were taking the same plane as the last time. The tail number was 86971. It was a 707 that had rolled out of Boeing’s Seattle plant in 1958 and had been converted to the VC-137 configuration. More comfortable than the VC-135, it also had windows. If there was anything Ryan hated, it was being aboard a windowless aircraft. There was no level jetway to traverse into the bird. Everyone climbed up an old-fashioned wheeled stairway. Once inside, the plane was a curious mix of the commonplace and the unique. The forward washroom was in the usual place, just across from the front door, but aft of that was the communications console that gave the plane instantaneous, secure satellite-radio links with anyplace in the world. Next came the relatively comfortable crew accommodations, and then the galley. Food aboard the airplane was pretty good. Ryan’s seat was in the almost-DV area, on one of two couches set on either side of the fuselage, just forward of the six-seat space for the really important folks. Aft of that was the five-across seating for reporters, Secret Service, and other people considered less distinguished by whoever made such decisions. It was mainly empty for this trip, though some junior members of the delegation would be back there, able to stretch out a bit for a change.
The only really bad thing about the VC-137 was its limited range. It couldn’t one-hop all the way to Moscow, and usually stopped off for refueling at Shannon before making the final leg. The President’s aircraft—actually there were two Air Force Ones—were based on the longer-range 707-320, and would soon be replaced with ultramodern 747s. The Air Force was looking forward to having a presidential aircraft that was younger than most of its flight crew. So was Ryan. This one had rolled out of the factory door when he’d been in second grade, and it struck him as odd that it should be so. But what should have happened? he wondered. Should his father have taken him to Seattle, pointed to the airplane and said, See, you’ll fly to Russia on that one someday ... ?
I wonder how you predict fate? I wonder how you predict the future ... At first playful, in a moment the thought chilled him.
Your business is predicting the future, but what makes you think that you can really do it? What have you guessed wrong on this time, Jack?
Goddamn it! he raged at himself. Every time I get on a fucking airplane ... He strapped himself in, facing across the airplane some State Department technical expert who loved to fly.
<
br /> The engines started a minute later, and presently the airplane started to roll. The announcements over the intercom weren’t very different from that on an airliner, just enough to let you know that the ownership of the plane was not corporate. Jack had already deduced that. The stewardess had a mustache. It was something to chuckle about as the aircraft taxied to the end of runway One-Left.
The winds were northerly, and the VC-137 took off into them, turning right a minute after it lifted off. Jack turned, too, looking down at U.S. Route 50. It was the road that led to his home in Annapolis. He lost sight of it as the aircraft entered the clouds. The impersonal white veil had often seemed a beautiful curtain, but now ... but now it just meant that he couldn’t see the way home. Well, there wasn’t much he could do about that. Ryan had the couch to himself, and decided to take advantage of the fact. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out for a nap. One thing he’d need would be rest. He was sure of that.
Dallas had surfaced at the appointed time and place, then been told of a hitch in the plans. Now she surfaced again. Mancuso was the first one up the ladder to the control station atop the sail, followed by a junior officer and a pair of lookouts. Already the periscope was up, scanning the surface for traffic, of course. The night was calm and clear, the sort of sky you get only at sea, ablaze with stars, like gemstones on a velvet sheet.
“Bridge, conn.”
Mancuso pressed the button. “Bridge, aye.”
“ESM reports an airborne radar transmitter bearing one-four-zero, bearing appears steady.”
“Very well.” The Captain turned. “You can flip on the running lights.”
