Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (10 page)

“I should be back Tuesday morning. Anything I can get you, Mr. Foley?”

“I hear there's a new Far Side book out . . .” That got a laugh.

“Okay, I'll check. You can pay me when I get back.”

“Safe trip, Augie.”

One of the embassy's drivers took Augie Giannini to
Sheremetyevo
Airport
, nineteen miles outside of
Moscow
, where the courier's diplomatic passport enabled him to walk past the security checkpoints and right onto the British Airways plane bound for
Heathrow
Airport
. He rode in the coach section, on the right side of the aircraft. The diplomatic pouch had the window seat, with Giannini in the middle. Flights out of
Moscow
were rarely crowded, and the seat on his left was also vacant. The Boeing started rolling on schedule. The Captain announced the time of flight and destination, and the airliner started moving down the runway. The moment it lifted off Soviet soil, as often happened, the hundred and fifty passengers applauded. It was something that always amused the courier. Giannini pulled a paperback from his pocket and started reading. He couldn't drink on the flight, of course, nor sleep, and he decided to wait for dinner until his next flight. The stewardess did manage to get a cup of coffee into him, however.

Three hours later, the 747 thumped down at Heathrow. Again he was able to clear customs perfunctorily. A man who spent more time in the air than most commercial pilots, he had access to the first-class waiting rooms still allowed in most of the world's airports. Here he waited an hour for a 747 bound for
Washington
's Dulles International.

Over the
Atlantic
, the courier enjoyed a Pan Am dinner, and a movie that he hadn't seen before, which happened rarely enough. By the time he'd finished his book, the plane was swooping into Dulles. The courier ran his hand over his face and tried to remember what time it was supposed to be in
Washington
. Fifteen minutes later he climbed into a nondescript government Ford that headed southeast. He got into the front seat because he wanted the extra leg room.

“How was the flight?” the driver asked.

“Same as always: borrr-inggg.” On the other hand, it beat flying medivac missions in the Central Highlands. The government was paying him twenty grand a year to sit on airplanes and read books, which, combined with his retirement pay from the Army, gave him a fairly comfortable life. He never bothered himself wondering what he carried in the diplomatic bag, or in this metal case in his coat. He figured it was all a waste of time anyway. The world didn't change very much.

“Got the case?” the man in the back asked.

“Yeah.” Giannini took it from his inside pocket and handed it back, with both hands. The CIA officer in the back took it, using both hands, and tucked it inside a foam-lined box. The officer was an instructor in the CIA's Office of Technical Services, part of the Directorate of Science and Technology. It was an office that covered a lot of bureaucratic ground. This particular officer was an expert on booby traps and explosive devices in general. At
Langley
, he took the elevator to Ritter's office and opened the cigarette case on the latter's desk, then returned to his own office without looking at the contents.

Ritter walked to his personal Xerox machine and made several copies of the flash-paper pages, which were then burned. It was not so much a security measure as a simple safety precaution. Ritter didn't want a sheaf of highly flammable material in his personal office. He started reading the pages even before all the copies were done. As usual, his head started moving left and right by the end of the first paragraph. The Deputy Director for Operations walked to his desk and punched the line to the Director's office. “You busy? The bird landed.”

“Come on over,” Judge Arthur Moore replied at once. Nothing was more important than data from C
ARDINAL
.

Ritter collected Admiral Greer on the way, and the two of them joined the Director of Central Intelligence in his spacious office.

“You gotta love this guy,” Ritter said as he handed the papers out. “He's conned Yazov into sending a colonel into Bach to do a 'reliability assessment' of the whole system. This Colonel Bondarenko is supposed to report back on how everything works, in layman's terms, so that the Minister can understand it all and report to the Politburo. Naturally, he detailed Misha to play gofer, so the report goes across his desk first.”

“That kid Ryan met—Gregory, I think—wanted us to get a man into
Dushanbe
,” Greer noted with a chuckle. “Ryan told him it was impossible.”

“Good,” Ritter observed. “Everybody knows what screw-ups the Operations Directorate is.” The entire CIA took perverse pride in the fact that only its failure made the news. The Directorate of Operations in particular craved the public assessment that the press constantly awarded them. The foul-ups of the KGB never got the attention that CIA's did, and the public image, so often reinforced, was widely believed even in the Russian intelligence community. It rarely occurred to anyone that the leaks were purposeful.

“I wish,” Judge Moore observed soberly, “that somebody would explain to Misha that there are old spies and bold spies, but very few old and bold ones.”

“He's a very careful man, boss,” Ritter pointed out.

“Yeah, I know.” The DCI looked down at the pages.

Since the death of Dmitri Fedorovich, it is not the same at the Defense Ministry
, the DCI read. Sometimes I wonder if Marshal Yazov takes these new technological developments seriously enough, but to whom can I report my misgivings? Would KGB believe me? I must order my thoughts. Yes, I must organize my thoughts before I make any accusations. But can I break security rules . . .

But what choice do I have? If I cannot document my misgivings, who will take me seriously? It is a hard thing to have to break an important rule of security, but the safety of the State supersedes such rules. It must.

As the epic poems of Homer began with the invocation of the Muse, so C
ARDINAL
's messages invariably began like this. The idea had developed in the late 1960s. C
ARDINAL
's messages began as photographs of his personal diary. Russians are inveterate diarists. Each time he began one, it would be as a Slavic cri de coeur, his personal worries about the policy decisions made in the Defense Ministry, Sometimes he would express concern with the security on a specific project or the performance of a new tank or aircraft. In each case, the technical merits of a piece of hardware or a policy decision would be examined at length, but always the focus of the document would be a supposed bureaucratic problem within the Ministry. If Filitov's apartment were ever searched, his diary would be easily found, certainly not hidden away as a spy was expected to do, and while he was definitely breaking rules of security, and would certainly be admonished for it, there would at least be a chance that Misha could successfully defend himself. Or, that was the idea.

When I have Bondarenko's report, in another week or two, perhaps I can persuade the Minister that this project is one of truly vital importance to the Motherland
, it ended.

“So, it looks like they made a breakthrough on laser power output,” Ritter said.

“ 'Throughput' is the current term,” Greer corrected. “At least that's what Jack tells me. This is not very good news, gentlemen.”

“Your usual keen eye for detail, James,” Ritter said. “God, what if they get there first?”

“It's not the end of the world. Remember that it'll take ten years to deploy the system even after the concept is validated, and they haven't come close to doing that yet,” the DCI pointed out. “The sky is not falling. This could even work to our benefit, couldn't it, James?”

“If Misha can get us a usable description of their breakthrough, yes. In most areas we're further along than they are,” the DDI replied. “Ryan will need this for his report.”

“He's not cleared for this!” Ritter objected.

“He had a look at Delta information before,” Greer noted.

“Once. Only once, and there was a good reason for it—and, yes, he did damned well for an amateur. James, there's nothing here he can use except that we have reason to suspect Ivan has made a power—throughput?—breakthrough, and that Gregory kid already suspects it. Tell Ryan we've confirmed the suspicion through other assets. Judge, you can tell the President yourself that something's up, but it'll have to wait a few weeks. It shouldn't go any farther than that for a while.”

“Makes sense to me.” The Judge nodded. Greer conceded the point without argument.

There was the temptation to voice the opinion that this was C
ARDINAL
's most important mission, but that would have been too dramatic for any of the three senior executives, and besides, C
ARDINAL
had provided CIA with a good deal of important data over the years. Judge Moore reread the report after the others had left. Foley had tagged onto the end that Ryan had literally bumped into C
ARDINAL
after Mary Pat had given him the new assignment—and right in front of Marshal Yazov. Judge Moore shook his head. What a pair, the Foleys. And how remarkable that Ryan had, after a fashion, made contact with Colonel Filitov.
Moore
shook his head. It was a crazy world.

Bright Stars and

Fast Ships

J
ACK
didn't bother asking which “asset” had confirmed Major Gregory's suspicions. Field operations were something that he struggled—successfully for the most part—to keep at arm's length. What mattered was that the information was graded as Class-1 for reliability—CIA's newly adopted grading system used numbers 1-5 instead of letters A-E, surely the result of six months' hard work by some deputy-assistant-to educated at Harvard Business School.

“What about specific technical information?”

“I'll let you know when it comes in,” Greer replied.

“I got two weeks to deliver, boss,” Ryan pointed out. Deadlines were never fun. This was especially true when the document being prepared was for the President's eyes.

“I do seem to recall reading that somewhere or other, Jack,” the Admiral noted dryly. “The people at ACDA are calling me every day for the damned thing, too. I think what we'll do is have you run over to brief them in person.”

Ryan winced. The whole point of his Special National Intelligence Estimate was to help set the stage for the next session of arms negotiations. The Arms Control and Disarmament Agency needed it also, of course, so that they'd know what to demand and how much they could safely concede. That was quite a bit of additional weight on his shoulders, but as Greer liked to tell him, Ryan did his best work under pressure. Jack wondered if maybe he should screw one up sometime, just to disprove that idea.

“When will I have to go over?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“Can I have a couple of days' warning?”

“We'll see.”

Major Gregory was actually at home. This was fairly unusual; even more so, he was taking the day off. But that wasn't his doing. His General had decided that all work and no play were beginning to take their toll on the young man. It hadn't occurred to him that Gregory could work at home as well.

“Don't you ever stop?” Candi asked.

“Well, what are we supposed to do in between?” He smiled up from the keyboard.

The housing development was called
Mountain View
. It wasn't a rousing bit of originality. In that part of the country the only way not to see mountains was to close your eyes. Gregory had his own personal computer—a very powerful Hewlett-Packard provided by the Project—and occasionally wrote some of his “code” there. He had to be careful about the security classification of his work, of course, though he often joked that he himself wasn't cleared for what he was doing. That was not an unknown situation inside government.

Dr. Candace Long was taller than her fiancé at nearly five-ten, willowy, with short, dark hair. Her teeth were a little crooked because she'd never wanted to suffer through braces, and her glasses were even thicker than Alan's.

She was thin because like many academics she was so enthralled with her work that she often forgot to eat. They'd first met at a seminar for doctoral candidates at
Columbia
University
. She was an expert in optical physics, specifically in adaptive-optics mirrors, a field she'd selected to complement her life-long hobby, astronomy. Living in the New Mexico highlands, she was able to do her own observations on a $5,000 Meade telescope, and, on occasion, to use the instruments at the Project to probe the heavens—because, she pointed out, it was the only effective way to calibrate them. She had little real interest in Alan's obsession with ballistic-missile defense, but she was certain that the instruments they were developing had all kinds of “real” applications in her field of interest.

Neither of them was wearing very much at the moment. Both young people cheerfully characterized themselves as nerds, and as is often the case, they had awakened feelings in one another—feelings that their more attractive college fellows would have not thought possible.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“It's the misses we had. I think the problem's in the mirror-control code.”

“Oh?” It was her mirror. “You're sure it's software?”

“Yeah.” Alan nodded. “I have the readouts from the Flying Cloud at the office. It was focusing just fine, but it was focusing on the wrong place.”

“How long to find it?”

“Couple of weeks.” He frowned at the screen, then shut it down. “The hell with it. If the General finds out that I'm doing this, he might never let me back in the door.”

“I keep telling you.” She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck. He leaned back, resting his head between her breasts. They were rather nice ones, he thought. For Alan Gregory it had been a remarkable discovery, how nice girls were. He'd dated occasionally in high school, but for the most part his life at
West Point
, then at Stony Brook, had been a monastic existence, devoted to studies and models and laboratories. When he'd met Candi, his initial interest had been in her ideas for configuring mirrors, but over coffee at the Student Union, he'd noticed in a rather clinical way that she was, well, attractive—in addition to being pretty swift with optical physics. The fact that the things they frequently discussed in bed could be understood by less than one percent of the country's population was irrelevant. They found it as interesting as the things that they did in bed—or almost so. There was a lot of experimentation to do there, too, and like good scientists, they'd purchased textbooks—that's how they thought of them—to explore all the possibilities. Like any new field of study, they found it exciting.

Gregory reached up to grasp Dr. Long's head, and pulled her face down to his.

“I don't feel like working anymore for a while.”

“Isn't it nice to have a day off?”

“Maybe I can arrange one for next week . . .”

Boris Filipovich Morozov got off the bus an hour after sunset. He and fourteen other young engineers and technicians recently assigned to Bright Star—though he didn't even know the project name yet—had been met at the
Dushanbe
airport by KGB personnel who'd scrupulously checked their identity papers and photographs, and on the bus ride a KGB captain had given them a security lecture serious enough to get anyone's attention. They could not discuss their work with anyone outside their station; they could not write about what they did, and could not tell anyone where they were. Their mailing address was a post-office box in Novosibiirsk—over a thousand miles away. The Captain didn't have to say that their mail would be read by the base security officers. Morozov made a mental note not to seal his envelopes. His family might be worried if they saw that his letters were being opened and resealed. Besides, he had nothing to hide. His security clearance for this posting had taken a mere four months. The KGB officers in
Moscow
who'd done the background check had found his background beyond reproach, and even the six interviews that he'd gone through had ended on a friendly note.

The KGB Captain finished his lecture on a lighter note as well, describing the social and sport activities at the base, and the time and place for the biweekly Party meetings, which Morozov had every intention of attending as regularly as his work allowed. Housing, the Captain went on, was still a problem. Morozov and the other new arrivals would be placed in the dormitory—the original barracks put up by the construction gangs who'd blasted the installation into the living rock. They would not be crowded, he said, and the barracks had a game room, library, and even a telescope on the roof for astronomical observation; a small astronomy club had just formed. There was hourly bus service to the main residential facility, where there was a cinema, coffee shop, and a beer bar. There were exactly thirty-one unmarried females on the base, the Captain concluded, but one of them was engaged to him, “and any one of you who trifles with her will be shot!” That drew laughter. It wasn't very often that you met a KGB officer with a sense of humor.

It was dark when the bus pulled through the gate into the facility, and everyone aboard was tired. Morozov was not terribly disappointed at the housing. All the beds were two-level bunks. He was assigned the top berth in a corner. Signs on the wall demanded silence in the sleeping area, since the workers here worked three shifts around the clock. The young engineer was perfectly content to change his clothes and go to sleep. He was assigned to the Directional Applications Section for a month of project orientation, after which he'd receive a permanent job assignment. He was wondering what “directional applications” meant when he drifted off to sleep.

The nice thing about vans was that lots of people owned them, and the casual observer couldn't see who was inside, Jack thought as the white one pulled into his carport. The driver was CIA, of course, as was the security man in the right seat. He dismounted and surveyed the area for a moment before pulling the side door open. It revealed a familiar face.

“Hello, Marko,” Ryan said.

“So, this is house of spy!” Captain First Rank Marko Aleksandrovich Ramius, Soviet Navy (retired), said boisterously. His English was better, but like many Russian émigrés he often forgot to use articles in his speech. “No, house of helmsman!”

Jack smiled and shook his head. “Marko, we can't talk about that.”

“Your family does not know?”

“Nobody knows. But you can relax. My family's away.”

“Understand.” Marko Ramius followed Jack into the house. On his passport, Social Security card, and
Virginia
driver's license he was now known as Mark Ramsey. Yet another piece of CIA originality, though it made perfect sense; you wanted people to remember their names. He was, Jack saw, a little thinner now that he was eating a less starchy diet. And tan. When they'd first met, at the forward escape trunk of the missile submarine Red October, Marko—Mark!—had worn the pasty-white skin of a submarine officer. Now he looked like an ad for Club Med.

“You seem tired,” “Mark Ramsey” observed.

“They fly me around a lot. How do you like the
Bahamas
?”

“You see my tan, yes? White sand, sun, warm every day. Like
Cuba
when I went there, but nicer people.”

“AUTEC, right?” Jack asked.

“Yes, but I cannot discuss this,” Marko replied. Both men shared a look. AUTEC—Atlantic Underwater Test and
Evaluation
Center
—was the Navy's submarine test range, where men and ships engaged in exercises called miniwars. What happened there was classified, of course. The Navy was very protective of its submarine operations. So Marko was at work developing tactics for the Navy, doubtless playing the role of a Soviet commander in the war games, lecturing, teaching. Ramius had been known as “the Schoolmaster” in the Soviet Navy. The important things never change.

“How do you like it?”

“Tell this to nobody, but they let me be captain of American submarine for a week—the real Captain he let me do everything, yes? I kill carrier! Yes! I kill Forrestal. They would be proud of me at Red Banner Northern Fleet, yes?”

Jack laughed. “How'd the Navy like that?”

“Captain of submarine and me get very drunk. Forrestal Captain angry, but—good sport, yes? He join us next week and we discuss exercise. He learn something, so good for all of us.” Ramius paused. “Where is family?”

“Cathy's visiting her father. Joe and I don't get along very well.”

“Because you are spy?” Mark/Marko asked.

“Personal reasons. Can I get you a drink?”

“Beer is good,” he replied. Ramius looked around while Jack went into the kitchen. The house's cathedral ceiling towered fifteen feet—five meters, he thought—above the lush carpeting. Everything about the house testified to the money spent to make it so. He was frowning when .Ryan returned.

“Ryan, I am not fool,” he said sternly. “CIA does not pay so good as this.”

“Do you know about the stock market?” Ryan asked with a chuckle.

“Yes, some of my money is invested there.” All of the officers from Red October had enough money salted away that they'd never need to work again.

“Well, I made a lot of money there, and then I decided to quit and do something else.”

That was a new thought for Captain Ramius. “You are not—what is word? Greed. You have no more greed?”

“How much money does one man need?” Ryan asked rhetorically. The Captain nodded thoughtfully. “So, I have some questions for you.”

“Ah, business.” Marko laughed. “This you have not forgotten!”

“In your debriefing, you mentioned that you ran an exercise in which you fired a missile, and then a missile was fired at you.”

“Yes, years ago—was 1981 . . . April, yes, it was twenty April. I command Delta-class missile submarine, and we fire two rockets from
White Sea
, one into
Okhotsk
Sea
, other at Sary Shagan. We test submarine rockets, of course, but also the missile defense radar and counterbattery system—they simulated firing a missile at my submarine.”

“You said it failed.”

Marko nodded. “Submarine rockets fly perfectly. The Sary Shagan radar work, but too slow to intercept—was computer problem, they say. They say get new computer, last thing I hear. Third part of test almost work.”

“The counterfire part. That's the first we heard of it,” Ryan noted. “How did they actually run the test?”

“They not fire land rocket, of course,” Marko said. He held up a finger. “They do this, and you understand nature of test, yes? Soviets are not so stupid as you think. Of course you know that entire Soviet border covered with radar fence. These see rocket launch and compute where submarine is— very easy thing to do. Next they call Strategic Rocket Force Headquarters. Strategic Rocket Force have regiment of old rockets on alert for this. They were ready to shoot back three minutes after detecting my missile on radar.” He stopped for a moment. “You not have this in
America
?”

“No, not that I know of. But our new missiles fire from much farther away.”

“Is true, but still good thing for Soviets, you see.”

“How reliable is the system?”

That drew a shrug. “Not very. Problem is how alert the people are. In time of—how you say?—time of crisis, yes? In time of crisis, everyone is alert, and system may work some of time. But every time system works, many, many bombs do not explode in
Soviet Union
. Even one could save hundred thousand citizens. This is important to Soviet leadership. Hundred thousand more slaves to have after war end,” he added to show his distaste for the government of his former homeland. “You have nothing like this in
America
?”