The Bear and the Dragon jrao-11

by Tom Clancy

  “How solid is that information?”

  “About as reliable as one of your T-bills, George. My head field guy is Ernie Beach. He’s as good at finding oil as you used to be playing up on The Street.” Maybe even better, Sam Sherman didn’t add. Winston was known to have something of an ego on the subject of his own worth. The addendum got through anyway.

  “So, summarize that for me,” the Secretary of the Treasury commanded.

  “So, when this field comes on line, the Russians will be in a position to purchase Saudi Arabia outright, plus Kuwait and maybe half of Iran. It makes east Texas look like a fart in a tornado. It’s huge, George.”

  “Hard to get out?”

  “It won’t be easy, and it won’t be inexpensive, but from an engineering point of view it’s pretty straightforward. If you want to buy a hot stock, pick a Russian company that makes cold-weather gear. They’re going to be real busy for the next ten years or so,” Sherman advised.

  “Okay, and what can you tell me of the implications for Russia in economic terms?”

  “Hard to say. It will take eight to twelve years to bring this field fully on line, and the amount of crude this will dump on the market will distort market conditions quite a bit. We haven’t modeled all that out-but it’s going to be huge, like in the neighborhood of one hundred billion dollars per year, current-year dollars, that is.”

  “For how long?” Winston could almost hear the shrug that followed.

  “Twenty years, maybe more. Our friends in Moscow still want us to sit on this, but word’s perking out in our company, like trying to hide a sunrise, y’know? I give it a month before it breaks out into the news media. Maybe a little longer’n that, but not much.”

  “What about the gold strike?”

  “Hell, George, they’re not telling me anything about that, but my guy in Moscow says the cat’s gobbled down some kind of canary, or that’s how it appears to him. That will probably depress the world price of gold about five, maybe ten percent, but our models say it’ll rebound before Ivan starts selling the stuff he pulls out of the ground. Our Russian friends-well, their rich uncle just bit the big one and left them the whole estate, y’know?”

  “And no adverse effects on us,” Winston thought aloud.

  “Hell, no. They’ll have to buy all sorts of hardware from our people, and they’ll need a lot of expertise that only we have, and after that’s over, the world price of oil goes down, and that won’t hurt us either. You know, George, I like the Russians. They’ve been unlucky sonsabitches for a long time, but maybe this’ll change that for’em.”

  “No objections here or next door, Sam,” TRADER assured his friend. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Well, you guys still collect my taxes.” You bastards, he didn’t add, but Winston heard it anyway, including the chuckle. “See you around, George.”

  “Right, have a good one, Sam, and thanks.” Winston killed one button on his phone, selected another line, and hit his number nine speed-dial line.

  “Yeah?” a familiar voice responded. Only ten people had access to this number.

  “Jack, it’s George, just had a call from Sam Sherman, Atlantic Richfield.”

  “Russia?”

  “Yeah. The field is fifty percent bigger than they initially thought. That makes it pretty damned big, biggest oil strike ever, as a matter of fact, bigger than the whole Persian Gulf combined. Getting the oil out will be a little expensive, but Sam says it’s all cookbook stuff-hard, but they know how it’s done, no new technology to invent, just a matter of spending the money-and not even all that much, ’cause labor is a lot cheaper there than it is here. The Russians are going to get rich.”

  “How rich?” the President asked.

  “On the order of a hundred billion dollars per year once the field is fully on line, and that’s good for twenty years, maybe more.”

  Jack had to whistle at that. “Two trillion dollars. That’s real money, George.”

  “That’s what we call it on The Street, Mr. President,” Winston agreed. “Sure as hell, that’s real money.”

  “And what effect will it have on the Russian economy?”

  “It won’t hurt them very much,” SecTreas assured him. “It gets them a ton of hard currency. With that money they can buy the things they’d like to have, and buy the tools to build the things they can make on their own. This will re-industrialize their country, Jack, jump-start them into the new century, assuming they have the brains to make proper use of it and not let it all bug out to Switzerland and Liechtenstein.”

  “How can we help them?” POTUS asked.

  “Best answer to that, you and I and two or three others sit down with our Russian counterparts and ask them what they need. If we can get a few of our industrialists to build some plants over there, it won’t hurt, and it’ll damned sure look good on TV.”

  “Noted, George. Get me a paper on that by the beginning of next week, and then we’ll see if we can figure out a way to let the Russians know what we know.”

  It was the end of another overlong day for Sergey Golovko. Running the SVR was job enough for any man, but he also had to back up Eduard Petrovich Grushavoy, President of the Russian Republic. President Grushavoy had his own collection of ministers, some of them competent, the others selected for their political capital, or merely to deny them to the political opposition. They could still do damage on the inside of Grushavoy’s administration, but less than on the outside. On the inside they had to use small-caliber weapons, lest they be killed by their own shots.

  The good news was that the Economics Minister, Vasily Konstantinovich Solomentsev, was intelligent and seemingly honest as well, as rare a combination in the Russian political spectrum as anywhere else in the known world. He had his ambitions-it was a rare minister who did not-but mainly, it seemed, he wanted his nation to prosper, and didn’t want to profit himself all that much. A little self-enrichment was all right with Golovko, just so that a man wasn’t a pig about it. The line, for Sergey Nikolay’ch, was about twenty million euros. More than that was hoggish, but less was understandable. After all, if a minister was successful at helping his country, he or she was entitled to get a proper reward for doing so. The ordinary working people out there wouldn’t mind, if the result was a better life for them, would they? Probably not, the spymaster thought. This wasn’t America, overrun with pointless and counterproductive “ethics” laws. The American President, whom Golovko knew well, had an aphorism that the Russian admired: If you have to write your ethics rules down, you’ve already lost. No fool, that Ryan, once a deadly enemy, and now a good friend, or seemingly so. Golovko had cultivated that friendship by providing help to America in two serious international crises. He’d done it because it had, first of all, been in his nation’s interest, and secondly, because Ryan was a man of honor, and unlikely to forget such favors. It had also amused Golovko, who’d spent most of his adult-hood in an agency devoted to the destruction of the West.

  But what about himself? Was someone intent on his own destruction? Had someone desired to end his life in a loud and spectacular manner on the paving stones of Dzerzhinskiy Square? The more his mind dwelt on that question, the more frightening it became. Few healthy men could contemplate the end of their lives with equanimity, and Golovko wasn’t one of them. His hands never shook, but he didn’t argue at all with Major Shelepin’s increasingly invasive measures to keep him alive. The car changed every day in color, and sometimes in make, and the routes to his office shared only the starting place-the SVR building was sufficiently large that the daily journey to work had a total of five possible end points. The clever part, which Golovko admired, was that he himself occasionally rode in the front seat of the lead vehicle, while some functionary sat in the back seat of the putative guarded car. Anatoliy was no fool, and even showed the occasional spark of creativity.

  But none of that now. Golovko shook his head and opened his last folder of the day, scanning first of all the executive s
ummary-and his mind skidded to an almost instant halt, his hand reaching for a phone and dialing a number.

  “This is Golovko,” he told the male voice who answered. He didn’t have to say anything else.

  “Sergey Nikolay’ch,” the minister’s voice greeted him pleasantly five seconds later. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, Vasily Konstantinovich, you can confirm these numbers to me. Are they possible?”

  “They are more than possible, Sergey. They are as real as the sunset,” Solomentsev told the intelligence chief cum chief minister and advisor to President Grushavoy.

  “Solkin syn,” the intelligence chief muttered. Son of a bitch! “And this wealth has been there for how long?” he asked incredulously.

  “The oil, perhaps five hundred thousand years; the gold, rather longer, Sergey.”

  “And we never knew,” Golovko breathed.

  “No one really looked, Comrade Minister. Actually, I find the gold report the more interesting. I must see one of these gold-encrusted wolf pelts. Something for Prokofiev, eh? Peter and the Golden Wolf.”

  “An entertaining thought,” Golovko said, dismissing it immediately. “What will it mean to our country?”

  “Sergey Nikolay’ch, I would have to be a fortune-teller to answer that substantively, but it could be the salvation of our country in the long term. Now we have something that all nations want-two somethings, as a matter of fact-and it belongs to us, and for it those foreigners will pay vast sums of money, and do so with a smile. Japan, for example. We will answer their energy needs for the next fifty years, and along the way we will save them vast sums in transportation costs-ship the oil a few hundred kilometers instead of ten thousand. And perhaps America, too, though they’ve made their own big strike on the Alaskan-Canadian border. The question becomes how we move the oil to market. We’ll build a pipeline from the field to Vladivostok, of course, but maybe another one to St. Petersburg so that we can sell oil more easily to Europe as well. In fact, we can probably have the Europeans, especially the Germans, build the pipeline for us, just to get a discount on the oil. Serge, if we’d found this oil twenty years ago, we-”

  “Perhaps.” It wasn’t hard to imagine what would come next: The Soviet Union would not have fallen but grown strong instead. Golovko had no such illusions. The Soviet government would have managed to fuck up these new treasures as it had fucked up everything else. The Soviet government had owned Siberia for seventy years but had never even gone looking for what might have been there. The country had lacked the proper experts to do the looking, but was too proud to let anyone else do it, lest they think less of the Motherland. If any one thing had killed the USSR, it wasn’t communism, or even totalitarianism. It was that perverse amour propre that was the most dangerous and destructive aspect of the Russian character, created by a sense of inferiority that went back to the House of Romanov and beyond. The Soviet Union’s death had been as self-inflicted as any suicide’s, just slower and therefore far deadlier in coming. Golovko endured the next ninety seconds of historical speculation from a man who had little sense of history, then spoke: “All this is good, Vasily Konstantinovich, but what of the future? That is the time in which we will all live, after all.”

  “It will do us little harm. Sergey, this is the salvation of our country. It will take ten years to get the full benefit from the outfields, but then we shall have a steady and regular income for at least one whole generation, and perhaps more besides.”

  “What help will we need?”

  “The Americans and the British have expertise which we need, from their own exploitation of the Alaskan fields. They have knowledge. We shall learn it and make use of it. We are in negotiations now with Atlantic Richfield, the American oil company, for technical support. They are being greedy, but that’s to be expected. They know that only they have what we need, and paying them for it is cheaper than having to replicate it ourselves. So, they will get most of what they now demand. Perhaps we will pay them in gold bricks,” Solomentsev suggested lightly.

  Golovko had to resist the temptation to inquire too deeply into the gold strike. The oil field was far more lucrative, but gold was prettier. He, too, wanted to see one of those pelts that this Gogol fellow had used to collect the dust. And this lonely forest-dweller would have to be properly taken care of-no major problem, as he lived alone and was childless. Whatever he got, the state would soon get back, old as he was. And there’d be a TV show, maybe even a feature film, about this hunter. He’d once hunted Germans, after all, and the Russians still made heroes of such men. That would make Pavel Petrovich Gogol happy enough, wouldn’t it?

  “What does Eduard Petrovich know?”

  “I’ve been saving the information until I had a full and reliable reading on it. I have that now. I think he will be pleased at the next cabinet meeting, Sergey Nikolay’ch.”

  As well he should, Golovko thought. President Grushavoy had been as busy as a one-armed, one-legged paperhanger for three years. No, more like a stage magician or conjurer, forced to produce real things from nothing, and his success in keeping the nation moving often seemed nothing short of miraculous. Perhaps this was God’s own way of rewarding the man for his efforts, though it would not be an entirely unmixed blessing. Every government agency would want its piece of the gold-and-oil pie, each with its needs, all of them presented by its own minister as vital to the security of the state, in white papers of brilliant logic and compelling reasoning. Who knew, maybe some of them would even be telling the truth, though truth was so often a rare commodity in the cabinet room. Each minister had an empire to build, and the better he built it, the closer he would come to the seat at the head of the table that was occupied, for now, by Eduard Petrovich Grushavoy. Golovko wondered if it had been this way under the czars. Probably, he decided at once. Human nature didn’t change very much. The way people had acted in Babylon or Byzantium was probably little different from the way they’d act at the next cabinet meeting, three days hence. He wondered how President Grushavoy would handle the news.

  “How much has leaked out?” the spymaster asked.

  “There are doubtless some rumors,” Minister Solomentsev answered, “but the current estimates are less than twenty-four hours old, and it usually takes longer than that to leak. I will have these documents messengered to you-tomorrow morning?”

  “That will be fine, Vasily. I’ll have some of my own analysts go over the data, so that I can present my own independent estimate of the situation.”

  “I have no objection to that,” the economics minister responded, surprising Golovko more than a little. But then this wasn’t the USSR anymore. The current cabinet might be the modern counterpart to the old Politburo, but nobody there told lies … well, at least not big lies. And that was a measure of progress for his country, wasn’t it?

  CHAPTER 11 Faith of the Fathers

  His name was Yu Fa An, and he said he was a Christian. That was rare enough that Monsignor Schepke invited him in at once. What he saw was a Chinese national of fifty-plus years and stooped frame, with hair a curious mix of black and gray that one saw only rarely in this part of the world.

  “Welcome to our embassy. I am Monsignor Schepke.” He bowed quickly and then shook the man’s hand.

  “Thank you. I am the Reverend Yu Fa An,” the man replied with the dignity of truth, one cleric to another.

  “Indeed. Of what denomination?”

  “I am a Baptist.”

  “Ordained? Is that possible?” Schepke motioned the visitor to follow him, and in a moment they stood before the Nuncio. “Eminence, this is the Reverend Yu Fa An-of Beijing?” Schepke asked belatedly.

  “Yes, that is so. My congregation is mainly northwest of here.”

  “Welcome.” Cardinal DiMilo rose from his chair for a warm handshake, and guided the man to the comfortable visitor’s chair. Monsignor Schepke went to fetch tea. “It is a pleasure to meet a fellow Christian in this city.”

  “There are not e
nough of us, and that is a fact, Eminence,” Yu confirmed.

  Monsignor Schepke swiftly arrived with a tray of tea things, which he set on the low coffee table.

  “Thank you, Franz.”

  “I thought that some local citizens should welcome you. I expect you’ve had the formal welcome from the Foreign Ministry, and that it was correct … and rather cold?” Yu asked.

  The Cardinal smiled as he handed a cup to his guest. “It was correct, as you say, but it could have been warmer.”

  “You will find that the government here has ample manners and good attention to protocol, but little in the way of sincerity,” Yu said, in English, with a very strange accent.

  “You are originally from …?”

  “I was born in Taipei. As a youth, I traveled to America for my education. I first attended the University of Oklahoma, but the call came, and I transferred to Oral Roberts University in the same state. There I got my first degree-in electrical engineering-and went on for my doctor of divinity and my ordination,” he explained.

  “Indeed, and how did you come to be in the People’s Republic?”

  “Back in the 1970s, the government of Chairman Mao was ever so pleased to have Taiwanese come here to live-rejecting capitalism and coming to Marxism, you see,” he added with a twinkling eye. “It was hard on my parents, but they came to understand. I started my congregation soon after I arrived. That was troublesome for the Ministry of State Security, but I also worked as an engineer, and at the time the state needed that particular skill. It is remarkable what the State will accept if you have something it needs, and back then their need for people with my degree was quite desperate. But now I am a minister on a full-time basis.” With the announcement of his triumph, Yu lifted his own teacup for a sip.

  “So, what can you tell us about the local environment?” Renato asked.

  “The government is truly communist. It trusts and tolerates no loyalty to anything except itself. Even the Falun Gong, which was not truly a religion-that is, not really a belief system as you or I would understand the term-has been brutally suppressed, and my own congregation has been persecuted. It is a rare Sunday on which more than a quarter of my congregation comes to attend services. I must spend much of my time traveling from home to home to bring the gospel to my flock.”