by Tom Clancy
And what was it they called foreigners here? Barbarians. Yeah, Nomuri thought, sure, Wilbur. The myth of central position was as alive here as it had been on the Ku-Damm of Adolf Hitler’s Berlin. Racism was the same all over the world. Dumb. That was one lesson his country had taught the world, Chester Nomuri thought, though America still had to absorb the lesson herself.
She was a whore, and a very expensive one, Mike Reilly thought from his seat behind the glass. Her hair had been unnaturally blonded by some expensive shop in Moscow-she needed another treatment, since there was a hint of dark brown at the roots-but it went well with her cheekbones and eyes, which were not quite any shade of blue he’d ever seen in a woman’s eyes. That was probably a hook for her repeat customers, the color, he thought, but not the expression. Her body could have been sculpted by Phidias of Athens to be a goddess fit for public worship, ample curves everywhere, the legs thinner than normal for Russian tastes, but ones that would have gotten along well at the comer of Hollywood and Vine, if that were still a nice neighborhood in which to be spotted …
… but the expression in her lovely eyes could have stopped the heart of a marathon runner. What was it about prostitution that did this to women? Reilly shook his head. He hadn’t worked that particular class of crime very often-it was mainly a violation for local cops-and not enough, he supposed, to understand its practitioners. The look in her eyes was frightening. Only men were supposed to be predators, so he and most men thought. But this woman belied that belief to a fare-thee-well.
Her name was Tanya Bogdanova. She was, she said, twenty-three years of age. She had the face of an angel, and the body of a movie star. It was her heart and soul the FBI agent was unsure of. Maybe she was just wired differently from normal people, as so many career criminals seemed to be. Maybe she’d been sexually abused in her youth. But even at twenty-three, her youth was a very distant thing, judging from the way her eyes looked at her interrogator. Reilly looked down at her dossier-folder from Militia headquarters. There was only one shot of her in it, a distant black-and-white of her with a john-well, probably an ivan, Reilly thought with a grunt-and in this photo her face was animated, youthful, and as alluring as the young Ingrid Bergman had been to Bogie in Casablanca. Tanya could act, Reilly thought. If this were the real Tanya in front of him, as it probably was, then the one in the photo was a construct, a role to be played, an illusion-a wonderful one, to be sure, but potentially a highly dangerous lie to anyone taken in by it. The girl on the other side of the one-way mirror could have dug a man’s eyeballs out with her nail file, and then eaten them raw before going to her next appointment at the new Moscow Four Seasons Hotel and Convention Center.
“Who were his enemies, Tanya?” the militiaman asked in the interrogation room.
“Who were his friends?” she asked in bored reply. “He had none. Of enemies he had many.” Her spoken language was literate and almost refined. Her English was supposed to be excellent as well. Well, she doubtless needed that for her customers … it was probably worth a few extra bucks, D-marks, pounds, or euros, a nice hard currency for whose printed notes she’d give a discount, doubtless smiling in a coquettish way when she told her john, jean, johannes, or ivan about it. Before or after? Reilly wondered. He’d never paid for it, though looking at Tanya, he understood why some men might …
“What’s she charge?” he whispered to Provalov.
“More than I can afford,” the detective lieutenant grunted. “Something like six hundred euros, perhaps more for an entire evening. She is medically clean, remarkably enough. A goodly collection of condoms in her purse, American, French, and Japanese brands.”
“What’s her background? Ballet, something like that?” the FBI agent asked, commenting implicitly on her grace.
Provalov grunted in amusement. “No, her tits are too big for that, and she’s too tall. She weighs about, oh, fifty-five kilos or so, I would imagine. Too much for one of those little fairies in the Bolshoi to pick up and throw about. She could become a model for our growing fashion industry, but, no, on what you ask, her background is quite ordinary. Her father, deceased, was a factory worker, and her mother, also deceased, worked in a consumer-goods store. They both died of conditions consistent with alcohol abuse. Our Tanya drinks only in moderation. State education, undistinguished grades in that. No siblings, our Tanya is quite alone in the world-and has been so for some time. She’s been working for Rasputin for almost four years. I doubt the Sparrow School ever turned out so polished a whore as this one. Gregoriy Filipovich himself used her many times, whether for sex or just for his public escort, we’re not sure, and she is a fine adornment, is she not? But whatever affection he may have had for her, as you see, was not reciprocated.”
“Anyone close to her?”
Provalov shook his head. “None known to us, not even a woman friend of note.”
The interview was pure vanilla, Reilly saw, like fishing for bass in a well-stocked lake, one of twenty-seven interrogations to this point concerning the death of G. F. Avseyenko-everyone seemed to forget the fact that there had been two additional human beings in the car, but they probably hadn’t been the targets. It wasn’t getting any easier. What they really needed was the truck, something with physical evidence. Like most FBI agents, Reilly believed in tangibles, something you could hold in your hand, then pass off to a judge or jury, and have them know it was both evidence of a crime and proof of who had done it. Eyewitnesses, on the other hand, were often liars; at best they were easy for defense lawyers to confuse, and therefore they were rarely trusted by cops or juries. The truck might have blast residue from the RPG launch, maybe fingerprints on the greasy wrapping paper the Russians used for their weapons, maybe anything-best of all would be a cigarette smoked by the driver or the shooter, since the FBI could DNA-match the residual saliva on that to anyone, which was one of the Bureau’s best new tricks (six-hundred-million-to-one odds were hard for people to argue with, even highly paid defense attorneys). One of Reilly’s pet projects was to bring over the DNA technology for the Russian police to use, but for that the Russians would have to front the cash for the lab gear, which would be a problem-the Russians didn’t seem to have the cash for anything important. All they had now was the remainder of the RPG warhead-it was amazing how much of the things actually did survive launch and detonation-which had a serial number that was being run down, though it was doubtful that this bit of information would lead anywhere. But you ran them all down because you never knew what was valuable and what was not until you got to the finish line, which was usually in front of a judge’s bench with twelve people in a box off to your right. Things were a little different here in Russia, procedurally speaking, but the one thing he was trying to get through to the Russian cops he counseled was that the aim of every investigation was a conviction. They were getting it, slowly for most, quickly for a few, and also getting the fact that kicking a suspect’s balls into his throat was not an effective interrogation technique. They had a constitution in Russia, but public respect for it still needed growing, and it would take time. The idea of the rule of law in this country was as foreign as a man from Mars.
The problem, Reilly thought, was that neither he nor anyone else knew how much time there was for Russians to catch up with the rest of the world. There was much here to admire, especially in the arts. Because of his diplomatic status, Reilly and his wife often got complimentary tickets to concerts (which he liked) and the ballet (which his wife loved), and that was still the class of the world … but the rest of the country had never kept up. Some at the embassy, some of the older CIA people who’d been here before the fall of the USSR, said that the improvements were incredible. But if that were true, Reilly told himself, then what had been here before must have been truly dreadful to behold, though the Bolshoi had probably still been the Bolshoi, even then.
“That is all?” Tanya Bogdanova asked in the interrogation room.
“Yes, thank you for coming in. We may call you again
.”
“Use this number,” she said, handing over her business card. “It’s for my cellular phone.” That was one more Western convenience in Moscow for those with the hard currency, and Tanya obviously did.
The interrogator was a young militia sergeant. He stood politely and moved to get the door for her, showing Bogdanova the courtesy she’d come to expect from men. In the case of Westerners, it was for her physical attributes. In the case of her countrymen, it was her clothing that told them of her newfound worth. Reilly watched her eyes as she left the room. The expression was like that of a child who’d expected to be caught doing something naughty, but hadn’t. How stupid father was, that sort of smile proclaimed. It seemed so misplaced on the angel-face, but there it was, on the other side of the mirror.
“Oleg?”
“Yes, Mishka?” Provalov turned.
“She’s dirty, man. She’s a player,” Reilly said in English. Provalov knew the cop-Americanisms.
“I agree, Mishka, but I have nothing to hold her on, do I?”
“I suppose not. Might be interesting to keep an eye on her, though.”
“If I could afford her, I would keep more than my eye on her, Mikhail Ivan’ch.”
Reilly grunted amusement. “Yeah, I hear that.”
“But she has a heart of ice.”
“That’s a fact,” the FBI agent agreed. And the game in which she was a player was at best nasty, and at its worst, lethal.
So, what do we have?” Ed Foley asked, some hours later across the river from Washington.
“Gornischt so far,” Mary Pat replied to her husband’s question.
“Jack wants to be kept up to speed on this one.”
“Well, tell the President that we’re running as fast as we can, and all we have so far is from the Legal Attaché. He’s in tight with the local cops, but they don’t seem to know shit either. Maybe somebody tried to kill Sergey Nikolay’ch, but the Legat says he thinks Rasputin was the real target.”
“I suppose he had his share of enemies,” the Director of Central Intelligence conceded.
Thank you,” the Vice President concluded to the packed house at the Ole Miss field house. The purpose of the speech was to announce that eight new destroyers would be built in the big Litton shipyard on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, which meant jobs and money for the state, always items of concern for the governor, who was now standing and applauding as though the Ole Miss football team had just knocked off Texas at the Cotton Bowl. They took their sports seriously down here. And their politics, Robby reminded himself, stifling a curse for this tawdry profession that was so much like medieval bargaining in a village square, three good pigs for a cow or something, toss in a mug of bitter ale. Was this how one governed a country? He grinned as he shook his head. Well, there had been politics in the Navy, too, and he’d scaled those heights, but he’d done it by being one hell of a good naval officer and the best fucking fighter pilot ever to catapult off a flattop. On the last score, of course he knew that every fighter pilot sitting and waiting for the cat shot felt exactly the same way … it was just that he was totally correct in his self-assessment.
There were the usual hands to shake coming off the platform, guided by his Secret Service detail in their dark, forbidding shades, then down the steps and out the back door to his car, where another squad of armed men waited, their vigilant eyes looking ever outward, like the gunners on a B-17 over Schweinfurt must have done, the Vice President thought. One of them held open the car door, and Robby slid in.
“TOMCAT is rolling,” the chief of the VP detail told his microphone as the car headed off.
Robby picked up his briefing folder as the car got onto the highway for the airport. “Anything important happening in D.C.?”
“Not that they’ve told me about,” the Secret Service agent answered.
Jackson nodded. These were good people looking after him. The detail chief, he figured, was a medium-to-senior captain, and the rest of his troops j.g.’s to lieutenant commanders, which was how Robby treated them. They were underlings, but good ones, well-trained pros who merited the smile and the nod when they did things right, which they nearly always did. They would have made good aviators, most of them-and the rest probably good Marines. The car finally pulled up to the VC-20B jet in an isolated corner of the general-aviation part of the airport, surrounded by yet more security troops. The driver stopped the car just twenty feet from the foot of the self-extending stairs.
“You going to drive us home, sir?” the detail chief asked, suspecting the answer.
“Bet your ass, Sam” was the smiling reply.
That didn’t please the USAF captain detailed to be co-pilot on the aircraft, and it wasn’t all that great for the lieutenant colonel supposed to be the pilot-in-command of the modified Gulfstream III. The Vice President liked to have the stick-in his case the yoke-in his hands at all times, while the colonel worked the radio and monitored the instruments. The aircraft spent most of its time on autopilot, of course, but Jackson, right seat or not, was determined to be the command pilot on the flight, and you couldn’t very well say no to him. As a result, the captain would sit in the back and the colonel would be in the left seat, but jerking off. What the hell, the latter thought, the Vice President told good stories, and was a fairly competent stick for a Navy puke.
“Clear right,” Jackson said, a few minutes later.
“Clear left,” the pilot replied, confirming the fact from the plane-walker in front of the Gulfstream.
“Starting One,” Jackson said next, followed thirty seconds later by “Starting Two.”
The ribbon gauges came up nicely. “Looking good, sir,” the USAF lieutenant colonel reported. The G had Rolls-Royce Spey engines, the same that had once been used on the U.K. versions of the F-4 Phantom fighter, but somewhat more reliable.
“Tower, this is Air Force Two, ready to taxi.”
“Air Force Two, Tower, cleared to taxiway three.”
“Roger, Tower AF-Two taxiing via three.” Jackson slipped the brakes and let the aircraft move, its fighter engines barely above idle, but guzzling a huge quantity of fuel for all that. On a carrier, Jackson thought, you had plane handlers in yellow shirts to point you around. Here you had to go according to the map/diagram-clipped to the center of the yoke-to the proper place, all the while looking around to make sure some idiot in a Cessna 172 didn’t stray into your path like a stray car in the supermarket parking lot. Finally, they reached the end of the runway, and turned to face down it.
“Tower, this is Spade requesting permission to take off.” It just sort of came out on its own.
A laughing reply: “This ain’t the Enterprise, Air Force Two, and we don’t have cat shots here, but you are cleared to depart, sir.”
You could hear the grin in the reply: “Roger, Tower, AF-TWO is rolling.”
“Your call sign was really ‘Spade’?” the assigned command pilot asked as the VC-20B started rolling.
“Got hung on by my first CO, back when I was a new nugget. And it kinda stuck.” The Vice President shook his head. “Jesus, that seems like a long time ago.”
“V-One, sir,” the Air Force officer said next, followed by “V-R.”
At velocity-rotation, Jackson eased back on the yoke, bringing the aircraft off the ground and into the air. The colonel retracted the landing gear on command, while Jackson flipped the wheel half an inch left and right, rocking the wings a little as he always did to make sure the aircraft was willing to do what he told it. It was, and inside of three minutes, the G was on autopilot, programmed to turn, climb, and level out at thirty-nine thousand feet.
“Boring, isn’t it?”
“Just another word for safe, sir,” the USAF officer replied.
Fucking trash-hauler, Jackson thought. No fighter pilot would say something like that out loud. Since when was flying supposed to be … well, Robby had to admit to himself, he always buckled his seat belt before starting his car, and never did anything reckle
ss, even with a fighter plane. But it offended him that this aircraft, like almost all of the new ones, did so much of the work that he’d been trained to do himself. It would even land itself … well, the Navy had such systems aboard its carrier aircraft, but no proper naval aviator ever used it unless ordered to, something Robert Jefferson Jackson had always managed to avoid. This trip would go into his logbook as time in command, but it really wasn’t. Instead it was a microchip in command, and his real function was to be there to take proper action in case something broke. But nothing ever did. Even the damned engines. Once turbojets had lasted a mere nine or ten hours before having to be replaced. Now there were Spey engines on the G fleet that had twelve thousand hours. There was one out there with over thirty thousand that Rolls-Royce wanted back, offering a free brand-new replacement because its engineers wanted to tear that one apart to learn what they’d done so right, but the owner, perversely and predictably, refused to part with it. The rest of the Gulfstream airframe was about that reliable, and the electronics were utterly state-of-the-art, Jackson knew, looking down at the color display from the weather-radar. It was a clear and friendly black at the moment, showing what was probably smooth air all the way to Andrews. There was as yet no instrument that detected turbulence, but up here at flight level three-niner-zero, that was a pretty rare occurrence, and Jackson wasn’t often susceptible to airsickness, and his hand was inches from the yoke in case something unexpected happened. Jackson occasionally hoped that something would happen, since it would allow him to show just how good an aviator he was … but it never did. Flying had become too routine since his childhood in the F-4N Phantom and his emerging manhood in the F-14A Tomcat. And maybe it was better that way. Yeah, he thought, sure.
