by Tom Clancy
Ryan considered that one, and looked around the room. “Thoughts?”
“It’s something,” Winston thought.
“But what about the other NATO countries? Will they buy into this? The whole purpose of NATO,” Goodley reminded them, “was to protect them from the Russians.”
“The Soviets,” Adler corrected. “Not the same thing anymore, remember?”
“The same people, the same language, sir,” Goodley persisted. He felt pretty secure on this one. “What you propose is an elegant possible solution to the present problem, but to make it happen we’d have to share SORGE with other countries, wouldn’t we?” The suggestion made the Foleys both wince. There were few things on the planet as talkative as a chief of government.
“What the hell, we’ve been watching their military with overheads for a long time. We can say that we’re catching stuff there that makes us nervous. Good enough for the unwashed,” the DCI offered.
“Next, how do we persuade the Russians?” Jack wondered aloud. “This could be seen in Moscow as a huge loss of face.”
“We have to explain the problem to them. The danger is to their country, after all,” Adler pronounced.
“But they’re not unwashed. They’ll want to know chapter and verse, and it is their national security we’re talking about here,” Goodley added.
“You know who’s in Moscow now?” Foley asked POTUS.
“John?”
“RAINBOW SIX. John and Ding both know Golovko, and he’s Grushavoy’s number one boy. It’s a nice, convenient back channel. Note that this also confirms that the Moscow rocket was aimed at him. Might not make Sergey Nikolay’ch feel better, but he’d rather know than guess.”
“Why can’t those stupid fucking people just say they’re sorry they shot those two people?” Ryan wondered crossly.
“Why do you think pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins?” the DCI asked in reply.
Clark’s portable phone was a satellite type with a built-in encryption system, really just a quarter-inch-thick plastic pad that actually made the phone easier to cradle against his shoulder. Like most such phones, it took time to synchronize with its companion on the other end, the task made harder by the delay inherent in the use of satellites.
“Line is secure,” the synthetic female voice said finally.
“Who’s this?”
“Ed Foley, John. How’s Moscow?”
“Pleasant. What gives, Ed?” John asked. The DCI didn’t call from D.C. on a secure line to exchange pleasantries.
“Get over to the embassy. We have a message we want you to deliver.”
“What sort?”
“Get to the embassy. It’ll be waiting. Okay?”
“Roger. Out.” John killed the phone and walked back inside.
“Anything important?” Chavez asked.
“We have to go to the embassy to see somebody,” Clark replied, simulating anger at the interruption of his quiet time of the day.
“See you tomorrow then, Ivan and Domingo,” Kirillin saluted them with his glass.
“What gives?” Chavez asked from thirty feet away.
“Not sure, but it was Ed Foley who paged me.”
“Something important?”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Who drives?”
“Me.” John knew Moscow fairly well, having learned it first on missions in the 1970s that he was just as happy to forget about, when his daughters had been the age of his new grandson.
The drive took twenty minutes, and the hard part turned out to be persuading the Marine guard that they really were entitled to come inside after normal business hours. To this end, the man waiting for them, Tom Barlow, proved useful. The Marines knew him, and he knew them, and that made everything okay, sort of.
“What’s the big deal?” Jack asked, when they got to Barlow’s office.
“This.” He handed the fax across, a copy to each. “Might want to take a seat, guys.”
“Madre de Dios,” Chavez gasped thirty seconds later.
“Roger that, Domingo,” his boss agreed. They were reading a hastily laundered copy of the latest SORGE dispatch.
“We got us a source in Beijing, ’mano.”
“Hang a big roger on that one, Domingo. And we’re supposed to share the take with Sergey Nikolay’ch. Somebody back home is feeling real ecumenical.”
“Fuck!” Chavez observed. Then he read on a little. “Oh, yeah, I see. This does make some sense.”
“Barlow, we have a phone number for our friend?”
“Right here.” The CIA officer handed over a Post-it note and pointed to a phone. “He’ll be out at his dacha, out in the Lenin Hills. They haven’t changed the name yet. Since he found out he was the target, he’s gotten a little more security-conscious.”
“Yeah, we’ve met his baby-sitter, Shelepin,” Chavez told Barlow. “Looks pretty serious.”
“He’d better be. If I read this right, he might be called up to bat again, or maybe Grushavoy’s detail.”
“Is this for real?” Chavez had to wonder. “I mean, this is casus belli stuff.”
“Well, Ding, you keep saying that international relations is two countries fucking each other.” Then he dialed the phone. “Tovarisch Golovko,” he told the voice that answered it, adding in Russian, “It’s Klerk, Ivan Sergeyevich. That’ll get his attention,” John told the other two.
“Greetings, Vanya,” a familiar voice said in English. “I will not ask how you got this number. What can I do for you?”
“Sergey, we need to see you at once on an important matter.”
“What sort of matter?”
“I am the mailman, Sergey. I have a message to deliver to you. It is worthy of your attention. Can Domingo and I see you this evening?”
“Do you know how to get here?”
Clark figured he’d find his way out to the woods. “Just tell the people at the gate to expect two capitalist friends of Russia. Say about an hour from now?”
“I will be waiting.”
“Thank you, Sergey.” Clark replaced the phone. “Where’s the piss-parlor, Barlow?”
“Down the hall on the right.”
The senior field intelligence officer folded the fax and tucked it into his coat pocket. Before having a talk about something like this, he needed a bathroom.
CHAPTER 42
Birch Trees
They drove into the sunset, west from the Russian capital. Traffic had picked up in Moscow since his last real adventure here, and you could use the center lane in the wide avenues. Ding handled navigation with a map, and soon they were beyond the ring roads around the Russian capital and entering the hills that surrounded the city. They passed a memorial which neither had ever seen before, three huge—
“What the hell is that?” Ding asked.
“This is as close as the Germans got in 1941,” John explained. “This is where they stopped ’em.”
“What do you call those things?” “Those things” were immense steel I-beams, three of them welded at ninety-degree angles to look like enormous jacks.
“Hedgehogs, but in the SEALs we called ’em horned scullies. Hard to drive a tank over one,” Clark told his younger partner.
“They take their history serious here, don’t they?”
“You would, too, if you stopped somebody who wanted to erase your country right off the map, sonny. The Germans were pretty serious back then, too. It was a very nasty war, that one.”
“Guess so. Take the next right, Mr. C.”
Ten minutes later, they were in a forest of birch trees, as much a part of the Russian soul as vodka and borscht. Soon thereafter they came to a guard shack. The uniformed guard held an AK-47 and looked surprisingly grim. Probably briefed on the threat to Golovko and others, John imagined. But he’d also been briefed on who was authorized to pass, and they only had to show their passports to get cleared, the guard also giving them directions about which country lane to take.
“The houses don’t look too bad,” Chavez observed.
“Built by German POWs,” John told him. “Ivan doesn’t exactly like the Germans very much, but he does respect their workmanship. These were built for the Politburo members, mainly after the war, probably. There’s our place.”
It was a wood-frame house, painted brown and looking like a cross between a German country house and something from an Indiana farm, Clark thought. There were guards here, too, armed and walking around. They’d been called from the first shack, John figured. One of them waved. The other two stood back, ready to cover the first one if something untoward happened.
“You are Klerk, Ivan Sergeyevich?”
“Da,” John answered. “This is Chavez, Domingo Stepanovich.”
“Pass, you are expected,” the guard told them.
It was a pleasant evening. The sun was down now, and the stars were making their appearance in the sky. There was also a gentle westerly breeze, but Clark thought he could hear the ghosts of war here. Hans von Kluge’s panzer grenadiers, men wearing the feldgrau of the Wehrmacht. World War II on this front had been a strange conflict, like modern TV wrestling. No choice between good and bad, but only between bad and worse, and on that score it had been six-five and pick ’em. But their host probably wouldn’t see history that way, and Clark had no intention of bringing up the subject.
Golovko was there, standing on the sheltered porch by the furniture, dressed casually. Decent shirt, but no tie. He wasn’t a tall man, about halfway between Chavez and himself in height, but the eyes always showed intelligence, and now they also showed interest. He was curious about the purpose of this meeting, as well he might be.
“Ivan Sergeyevich,” Golovko said in greeting. Handshakes were exchanged, and the guests conducted inside. Mrs. Golovko, a physician, was nowhere in evidence. Golovko first of all served vodka, and directed them to seats.
“You said you had a message for me.” The language for this meeting was to be English, John saw.
“Here it is.” Clark handed the pages across.
“Spasiba.” Sergey Nikolay’ch sat back in his chair and started to read.
He would have been a fine poker player, John thought. His face changed not at all through the first two pages. Then he looked up.
“Who decided that I needed to see this?” he asked.
“The President,” Clark answered.
“Your Ryan is a good comrade, Vanya, and an honorable man.” Golovko paused. “I see you have improved your human-intelligence capabilities at Langley.”
“That’s probably a good supposition, but I know nothing of the source here, Chairman Golovko,” Clark answered.
“This is, as you say, hot.”
“It is all of that,” John agreed, watching him turn another page.
“Son of a bitch!” Golovko observed, finally showing some emotion.
“Yeah, that’s about what I said,” Chavez entered the conversation.
“They are well-informed. This does not surprise me. I am sure they have ample espionage assets in Russia,” Golovko observed, with anger creeping into his voice. “But this is—this is naked aggression they discuss.”
Clark nodded. “Yep, that’s what it appears to be.”
“This is genuine information?” Golovko asked.
“I’m just the mailman, Chairman,” Clark replied. “I vouch for nothing here.”
“Ryan is too good a comrade to play agent provocateur. This is madness.” And Golovko was telling his guests that he had no good intelligence assets in the Chinese Politburo, which actually surprised John. It wasn’t often that CIA caught the Russians short at anything. Golovko looked up. “We once had a source for such information, but no longer.”
“I’ve never worked in that part of the world, Chairman, except long ago when I was in the Navy.” And the Chinese part of that, he didn’t explain, was mainly getting drunk and laid in Taipei.
“I’ve traveled to Beijing several times in a diplomatic capacity, not recently. I cannot say that I’ve ever really understood those people.” Golovko finished reading the document and set it down. “I can keep this?”
“Yes, sir,” Clark replied.
“Why does Ryan give us this?”
“I’m just the delivery boy, Sergey Nikolay’ch, but I should think the motive is in the message. America does not wish to see Russia hurt.”
“Decent of you. What concessions will you require?”
“None that I am aware of.”
“You know,” Chavez observed, “sometimes you just want to be a good neighbor.”
“At this level of statecraft?” Golovko asked skeptically.
“Why not? It does not serve American interests to see Russia crippled and robbed. How big are these mineral finds, anyway?” John asked.
“Immense,” Golovko replied. “I’m not surprised you’ve learned of them. Our efforts at secrecy were not serious. The oil field is one to rival the Saudi reserves, and the gold mine is very rich indeed. Potentially, these finds could save our economy, could make us a truly wealthy nation and a fit partner for America.”
“Then you know why Jack sent this over. It’s a better world for both of us if Russia prospers.”
“Truly?” Golovko was a bright man, but he’d grown up in a world in which both America and Russia had often wished each other dead. Such thoughts died hard, even in so agile a mind as his.
“Truly,” John confirmed. “Russia is a great nation, and you are great people. You are fit partners for us.” He didn’t add that, this way, America wouldn’t have to worry about bailing them out. Now they’d have the wherewithal to see to their own enrichment, and America needed only offer expertise and advice about how to enter the capitalist world with both feet, and open eyes.
“This from the man who helped arrange the defection of the KGB chairman?” Golovko asked.
“Sergey, as we say at home, that was business, not personal. I don’t have a hard-on for Russians, and you wouldn’t kill an American just for entertainment purposes, would you?”
Indignation: “Of course not. That would be nekulturniy.”
“It is the same with us, Chairman.”
“Hey, man,” Chavez added. “From when I was a teenager, I was trained to kill your people, back when I was an Eleven-Bravo carrying a rifle, but, guess what, we’re not enemies anymore, are we? And if we’re not enemies, then we can be friends. You helped us out with Japan and Iran, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but we saw that we were the ultimate target of both conflicts, and it was in our national interest.”
“And perhaps the Chinese have us as their ultimate target. Then this is in our interest. They probably don’t like us any more than they like you.”
Golovko nodded. “Yes, one thing I do know about them is their sense of racial superiority.”
“Dangerous way for people to think, man. Racism means your enemies are just insects to be swatted,” Chavez concluded, impressing Clark with the mixture of East LA accent and master‘s-degree analysis of the situation at hand. “Even Karl Marx didn’t say that he was better than anybody else ’cuz of his skin color, did he?”
“But Mao did,” Golovko added.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Ding went on. “I read his Little Red Book in graduate school. He didn’t want to be just a political leader. Hell, he wanted to be God. Let his ego get in the way of his brain—not an uncommon affliction for people who take countries over, is it?”
“Lenin was not such a man, but Stalin was,” Golovko observed. “So, then Ivan Emmetovich is a friend of Russia. What shall I do with this?”
“That’s up to you, pal,” Clark told him.
“I must speak to my president. Yours comes to Poland tomorrow, doesn’t he?”
“I think so.”
“I must make some phone calls. Thank you for coming, my friends. Perhaps another time I will be able to entertain you properly.”
“Fair enough.” Clark stood and tos
sed off the end of his drink. More handshakes, and they left the way they’d come.
“Christ, John, what happens now?” Ding asked, as they drove back out.
“I suppose everybody tries to beat some sense into the Chinese.”
“Will it work?”
A shrug and arched eyebrows: “News at eleven, Domingo.”
Packing for a trip isn’t easy, even with a staff to do it all for you. This was particularly true for SURGEON, who was not only concerned about what she wore in public while abroad, but was also the Supreme Authority on her husband’s clothes, a status which her husband tolerated rather than entirely approved. Jack Ryan was still in the Oval Office trying to do business that couldn’t wait—actually it mostly could, but there were fictions in government that had to be honored—and also waiting for the phone to ring.
“Arnie?”
“Yeah, Jack?”
“Tell the Air Force to have another G go over to Warsaw in case Scott has to fly to Moscow on the sly.”
“Not a bad idea. They’ll probably park it at some air force base or something.” Van Damm went off to make the phone call.
“Anything else, Ellen?” Ryan asked his secretary.
“Need one?”
“Yeah, before Cathy and I wing off into the sunset.” Actually, they were heading east, but Mrs. Sumter understood. She handed Ryan his last cigarette of the day.
“Damn,” Ryan breathed with his first puff. He’d be getting a call from Moscow sure as hell—wouldn’t he? That depended on how quickly they digested the information, or maybe Sergey would wait for the morning to show it to President Grushavoy. Would he? In Washington, something that hot would be graded CRITIC and shoved under the President’s nose inside twenty minutes, but different countries had different rules, and he didn’t know what the Russians did. For damned sure he’d be hearing from one of them before he stepped off the plane at Warsaw. But for now ... He stubbed the smoke out, reached inside his desk for the breath spray, and zapped his mouth with the acidic stuff before leaving the office and heading outside—the West Wing and the White House proper are not connected by an indoor corridor, due to some architectural oversight. In any case, inside six minutes he was on the residential level, watching the ushers organize his bags. Cathy was there, trying to supervise, under the eyes of the Secret Service as well, who acted as though they worried about having a bomb slipped in. But paranoia was their job. Ryan walked over to his wife. “You need to talk to Andrea.”
