Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (31 page)

Working in Moscow, working against that same government, was the greatest thrill of her life. She liked it even more than her husband, whom she'd met while a student at Columbia. Ed had joined CIA because she had decided very early in life to join CIA. Her husband was good at it, Mary Pat knew, with brilliant instincts and administrative skills—but he lacked the passion she gave to the job. He also lacked the genes. She had learned the Russian language at her grandfather's knee—the richer, more elegant Russian that the Soviets had debased into the current patois—but more importantly she understood the people in a way that no number of books could relate. She understood the racial sadness that permeates the Russian character, and the oxymoronic private openness, the total exposure of self and soul displayed only to the closest friends and denied by a Moscovite's public demeanor. As a result of this talent, Mary Pat had recruited five well-placed agents, only one shy of the all-time record. In the CIA's Directorate of Operations, she was occasionally known as Supergirl, a term she didn't care for. After all, Mary Pat was the mother of two, with the stretchmarks to prove it. She smiled at herself in the mirror. You've done it all, kid. Her grandfather would be proud.

And the best part of all: nobody had the least suspicion of what she really was. She made a final adjustment in her clothing. Western women in Moscow were supposed to be more conscious of their dress than Western men. Hers were always just a touch overdone. The image she projected to the public was carefully conceived and exquisitely executed. Educated but shallow, pretty but superficial, a good mother but little more, quick with her Western display of emotions but not to be taken very seriously. Scurrying about as she did, substitute-teaching occasionally at the kids' school, attending various social functions, and endlessly wandering about like a perpetual tourist, she fitted perfectly the preconceived Soviet notion of an American female bubblehead. One more smile in the mirror: If the bastards only knew.

Eddie was already waiting impatiently, his hockey stick jerking up and down at the drab carpet in the living room. Ed had the TV on. He kissed his wife goodbye, and told Eddie to kick ass—the senior Foley had been a Rangers fan before he learned to read.

It was a little sad, Mary Pat thought on the elevator. Eddie had made some real friends here, but it was a mistake to get too friendly with people in
Moscow
. You might forget that they were the enemy. She worried that Eddie was getting the same sort of indoctrination that she'd gotten, but from the wrong direction. Well, that was easily remedied, she told herself. In storage at home she had a photograph of the Czarevich Aleksey, autographed to his favorite teacher. All she really had to do was explain how he'd died.

The drive to the arena was the routine one, with Eddie getting ever more hyper as game time approached. He was tied as the league's third leading scorer, only six points behind the lead center for the team they were playing tonight, and Eddie wanted to show Ivan Whoeverhewas that Americans could beat Russians at their own game.

It was surprising how crowded the parking lot was, but then it wasn't a very large parking lot and ice hockey is the closest thing to religion permitted in the
Soviet Union
. This game would decide the playoff standings for the league championship, and quite a few people had come to see it. That was fine with Mary Pat. She'd barely set the parking brake when Eddie tore open the door, lifted his dufflebag, and waited impatiently for his mother to lock the car. He managed to walk slowly enough for his mother to keep up, then raced into the locker room as she went up to the rink.

Her place was predetermined, of course. Though reluctant to be overly close to foreigners in public, at a hockey game the rules were different. A few parents greeted her, and she waved back, her smile just a little too broad. She checked her watch.

“I haven't seen a junior-league game in two years,” Yazov said as they got out of the staff car.

“I don't go much either, but my sister-in-law said that this one is important, and little Misha demanded my presence.” Filitov grinned. “They think I am good luck—perhaps you will be too, Comrade Marshal.”

“It is good to do something a little different,” Yazov conceded with mock gravity. “The damned office will still be there tomorrow. I played this game as a boy, you know.”

“No, I didn't. Were you any good?”

“I was a defenseman, and the other children complained that I checked too hard.” The Defense Minister chuckled, then waved for his security people to go ahead.

“We never had a rink out where I grew up—and the truth is I was too clumsy as a child. Tanks were perfect for me—you're expected to destroy things with them.” Misha laughed.

“So how good is this team?”

“I like the junior league better than the real ones,” Colonel Filitov answered. “More—more exuberant. I suppose I just like to see children having a good time.”

“Indeed.”

There weren't many seats around the rink—and besides, what real hockey fan wanted to sit? Colonel Filitov and Marshal Yazov found a convenient place near some of the parents. Their Soviet Army greatcoats and glistening shoulder boards guaranteed them both a good view and breathing space. The four security people hovered about, trying not to look too obviously at the game. They were not terribly concerned, since the trip to the game had been a spur-of-the-moment decision on the Minister's part.

The game was an exciting one from the first moment. The center for the other team's first line moved like a weasel, handling the puck with skillful passes and adroit skating. The home team—the one with the American and Misha's grand-nephew—was pressed back into its own zone for most of the first period, but little Misha was an aggressive defenseman, and the American boy stole a pass, taking it the length of the rink only to be foiled by a dazzling save that evoked cheers of admiration from supporters of both sides. Though as contentious a people as any on earth, the Russians have always been imbued with generous sportsmanship. The first period ended zero-zero.

“Too bad,” Misha observed while people hustled off to the rest rooms.

“That was a beautiful breakaway, but the save was marvelous,” Yazov said. “I'll have to get them this child's name for Central Army. Misha, thanks for inviting me to this. I'd forgotten how exciting a school game could be.”

“What do you suppose they're talking about?” the senior KGB officer asked. He and two other men were up in the rafters, hidden by the lights that illuminated the rink.

“Maybe they're just hockey fans,” the man with the camera replied. “Shit, it sounds like quite a game we're missing. Look at those security guards—fucking idiots are watching the ice. If I wanted to kill Yazov . . .”

“Not a terribly bad idea, I hear,” observed the third man. “The Chairman—”

“That is not our concern,” the senior man snapped, ending the conversation.

“Come on, Eddieeee!” Mary Pat screamed as the second period began. Her son looked up in embarrassment. His mom always got too excited at these things, he thought.

“Who was that?” Misha asked, five meters away.

“Over there, the skinny one—we met her, remember?” Yazov said.

“Well, she's a fan,” Filitov noted as he watched the action swing to the other end. Please, Comrade Minister, you do it . . . He got his wish.

“Let's go over and say hello.” The crowd parted before them, and Yazov sidled up on her left.

“Mrs. Foley, I believe?”

He got a quick turn and a quicker smile before she turned back to the action. “Hello, General—”

“Actually, my rank is Marshal, Your son is number twelve?”

“Yes, and did you see how the goalie robbed him!”

"It was a fine save,” Yazov said.

“Then let him do it to somebody else!” she said as the other team started moving into Eddie's end.

“Are all American fans like you?” Misha asked.

She turned again, and her voice showed a little embarrassment. “It's terrible, isn't it? Parents are supposed to act—”

“Like parents?” Yazov laughed.

“I'm turning into a little-league mom,” Mary Pat admitted. Then she had to explain what that was.

“It is enough that we've taught your son to be a proper hockey wingman.”

“Yes, perhaps he'll be on the Olympic team in a few years,” she replied with a wicked, though playful smile. Yazov laughed. That surprised her. Yazov was supposed to be a tight, serious son of a bitch.

“Who's the woman?”

“American. Her husband's the press attaché. Her son's on this team. We have a file on both of them. Nothing special.”

“Pretty enough. I didn't know Yazov was a lady's man.”

“Do you suppose he wants to recruit her?” the photographer suggested, snapping away.

“I wouldn't mind.”

The game had unexpectedly settled down into a defense struggle that hovered around center ice. The children lacked the finesse necessary for the precise passing that marked Soviet hockey, and both teams were coached not to play an overly physical game. Even with their protective equipment, they were still children whose growing bones didn't need abuse. That was a lesson the Russians could teach Americans, Mary Pat thought. Russians had always been highly protective of their young. Life for adults was difficult enough that they always tried to shield their children from it.

Finally, in the third period, things broke loose. A shot on goal was stopped, and the puck rebounded out from the goalie. The center took it and turned, racing directly for the opposite goal, with Eddie twenty feet to his right. The center passed an instant before being poke-checked, and Eddie swept around to the corner, unable to take a shot at the goal and blocked from approaching it himself by a charging defenseman.

“Center it!” his mother screamed. He didn't hear her, but didn't need to. The center was now in place, and Eddie fired the puck to him. The youthful center stopped it with his skate, stepped back, and sent a blazing shot between the legs of the opposing goalie. The light behind the cage flashed, and sticks went soaring into the air.

“Fine centering pass,” Yazov noted with genuine admiration. He continued on in a chiding tone. “You realize that your son now possesses State secrets, and we cannot allow him to leave the country.”

Mary Pat's eyes widened in momentary alarm, persuading Yazov that she was indeed a typical bubbleheaded Western female, though she was probably quite a handful in bed. Too bad that I'll never find out.

“You're joking?” she asked quietly. Both the soldiers broke out into laughter.

“The Comrade Minister is most certainly joking,” Misha said after a moment.

“I thought so!” she said rather unconvincingly before she turned back to the game. “Okay, let's get another one!”

Heads turned briefly, mainly in amusement. Having this American at the game was always good for a laugh. Russians find the1 exuberance of Americans immensely entertaining.

“Well, if she's a spy, I'll eat this camera.”

“Think on what you just said, Comrade,” the officer in charge whispered. The amusement in his voice died in an instant. Think on what he just said, the man told himself. Her husband, Edward Foley, is regarded by the American press as a dolt, not smart enough to be a proper reporter, certainly not good enough to be on the staff of the New York Times. The problem was, while that was the sort of cover that every real intelligence officer dreamed of, it was one naturally shared by all the government-service dolts serving every nation in the world. He himself knew that his cousin was a cretin, and he worked for the Foreign Ministry. “Are you sure you have enough film?”

Eddie got his chance with forty seconds left. A defenseman fanned on a shot from the point, and the puck skittered back to center ice. The center flipped it to the right as the flow of the game changed. The other team had been on the verge of pulling its goalie, and the youngster was out of position when Eddie took the pass and streaked in from his left, Edward Foley II turned sharply and fired behind the goalie's back. The puck clanged on the post, but fell right on the goal line and dribbled across.

“Score!” Mary Pat howled, jumping up and down like a cheerleader. She threw her arms around Yazov, much to the consternation of his security guards. The Defense Minister's amusement was tempered by the realization that he'd have to write up a contact report on this tomorrow. Well, he had Misha as a witness that they'd discussed nothing untoward. She grabbed Filitov next.

“I told you you were good luck!”

“My God, are all American hockey fans like this?” Misha asked, disengaging himself. Her hand had touched his for a half-imaginary fraction of a second, and the three film cassettes were inside the glove. He felt them there and was amazed that it had been done so skillfully. Was she a professional magician?

“Why are you Russians so grim all the time—don't you know how to have a good time?”

“Maybe we should have more Americans around,” Yazov conceded. Hell, I wish my wife were as lively as this one! “You have a fine son, and if he plays against us in the Olympics, I will forgive him,” He was rewarded with a beaming smile.

“That's such a nice thing to say.” I hope he kicks your commie asses all the way back to Moskva. If there was anything she couldn't stand, it was being patronized. “Eddie got two more points tonight, and that Ivan Somebody didn't get any!”

“Are you really that competitive, even with children's games?” Yazov asked.

Mary Pat slipped, just a little, so fast that her brain couldn't keep up with the automatic reply; “Show me a good loser, and I'll show you a loser.” She paused, then covered the mistake. “Vince Lombardi, a famous American coach, said that. Excuse me, you must think me nekulturny. You're right, this is just a game for children.” She smiled broadly. In your face!

“Did you see anything?”

“A foolish woman who gets overly excited,” the photographer replied.

“How quickly will you have the film developed?”

“Two hours.”

“Get moving,” the senior man said.