Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (37 page)

“What if we can what?” Ritter demanded.

Conspiracy

“A
NN
" came back to Eve's Leaves earlier than expected, the owner noted. With her usual smile, she selected a dress off the rack and took it to the dressing room. She was out by the full-length mirrors only a minute later, and accepted the customary compliments on how it looked rather more perfunctorily than usual. Again she paid cash, leaving with yet another engaging smile.

Out in the parking lot, things were a little different. Captain Bisyarina broke tradecraft by opening the capsule and reading the contents. That evoked a brief but nasty curse. The message was but a single sheet of notepaper. Bisyarina lit a cigarette with a butane lighter, then burned the paper in her car's ashtray.

All that work wasted! And it was already in
Moscow
, was already being analyzed. She felt like a fool. It was doubly annoying that her agent had been completely honest, had forwarded what she'd thought was highly classified material, and on learning that it had been rendered invalid, had gotten that word out quickly. She would not even have the satisfaction of forwarding a small portion of the reprimand that she would surely get for wasting
Moscow
Center
's time.

Well, they warned me about this. It may be the first time, but it will not be the last.
She drove home and dashed off her message.

The Ryans weren't known for their attendance on the
Washington
cocktail circuit, but there were a few that they couldn't avoid. The reception was intended to raise money for D.C. Children's Hospital, and Jack's wife was a friend of the chief of surgery. The evening's entertainment was the big draw. A prominent jazz musician owed his granddaughter's life to the hospital, and he was paying off that debt with a major benefit performance at the
Kennedy
Center
. The reception was intended to give the D.C. elite a chance to meet him “up close and personal” and hear his sax in greater privacy. Actually, as with most “power” parties, it was really for the elite to see and be seen by one another, confirming their importance. As was true in most parts of the world, the elite felt the need to pay for the privilege. Jack understood the phenomenon, but felt that it made little sense. By
eleven o'clock
the elite of
Washington
had proved that they could talk just as inanely about just as little, and get just as drunk, as anyone else in the world. Cathy had held herself to one glass of white wine, however; Jack had won the toss tonight: he could drink and she had to drive. He'd indulged himself tonight, despite a few warning looks from his wife, and was basking in a mellow, philosophical glow that made him think he'd overdone the act a little bit—but then it wasn't supposed to look like an act. He just hoped to God everything went as planned tonight.

The amusing part was the way in which Ryan was treated. His position at the Agency had always been a sketchy one. The opening comments went something like, “How are things at Langley?” usually in an affected conspiratorial tone, and Jack's reply that CIA was just another government bureaucracy, a large building that contained lots of moving paper, surprised most questioners. The CIA was thought to have thousands of active field spooks. The actual figure was classified, of course, but far lower.

“We work normal business hours,” Jack explained to a well-dressed woman whose eyes were slightly dilated. “I even have tomorrow off.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I killed a Chinese agent on Tuesday and you always get a day off with pay for that sort of thing,” he said seriously, then grinned.

“You're kidding!”

“That's right, I'm kidding. Please forget that I ever said it.” Who is this averaged bimbo? he wondered.

“What about the reports that you're under investigation?” another person asked.

Jack turned in surprise. “And who might you be?”

“Scott Browning, Chicago Tribune.” He didn't offer to shake hands. The game had just begun. The reporter didn't know that he was a player, but Ryan did.

“Could you run that one by me again?” Jack said politely.

“My sources tell me that you're being investigated for illegal stock transactions.”

“It's news to me,” Jack replied.

“I know that you've met with investigators from the SEC,” the reporter announced.

“If you know that, then you also know that I gave them the information they wanted, and they left happy.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Of course I am. I didn't do anything wrong and I have the records to prove it,” Ryan insisted, perhaps a little too forcefully, the reporter thought. He loved it when people drank too much. In vino
veritas.

“That's not what my sources tell me,” Browning persisted.

“Well, I can't help that!” Ryan said. There was emotion in his voice now, and a few heads turned.

“Maybe if it wasn't for people like you, we might have an intelligence agency that worked,” observed a newcomer.

“And who the fuck are you!” Ryan said before he turned. Act I, Scene 2.

“Congressman Trent,” the reporter said. Trent was on the House Select Committee.

“I think an apology is owed,” Trent said. He looked drunk.

“What for?” Ryan asked.

“How about for all the screw-ups across the river?”

“As opposed to the ones on this side?” Jack inquired. People were drifting over. Entertainment is where you find it.

“I know what you people just tried to pull off, and you fell right on your ass. You didn't let us know, as the law requires. You went ahead anyway, and I'm telling you, you're going to pay, you're going to pay big.”

“If we have to pay your bar bill, we'll have to pay big.” Ryan turned, dismissing the man.

“Big man,” Trent said behind his back. “You're heading for a fall, too.”

Perhaps twenty people were watching and listening now. They saw Jack take a glass of wine off a passing tray. They saw a look that could kill, and a few people remembered that Jack Ryan was a man who had killed. It was a fact and a reputation that gave him a sort of mystery. He took a measured sip of the chablis before turning back around.

“What sort of fall might that be, Mr. Trent?”

“You might be surprised.”

“Nothing you do would surprise me, pal.”

“That may be, but you've surprised us. Dr. Ryan. We didn't think you were a crook, and we didn't think you were dumb enough to be involved in that disaster, I guess we were wrong.”

“You're wrong about a lot of things,” Jack hissed.

“You know something, Ryan? For the life of me I can't figure just what the hell kind of a man you are.”

“That's no surprise.”

“So, what kind of man are you, Ryan?”
Trent
inquired.

“You know, Congressman, this is a unique experience for me,” Jack observed lightheartedly.

“How's that?”

Ryan's manner changed abruptly. His voice boomed across the room. “I've never had my manhood questioned by a queer before!” Sorry, pal . . .

The room went very quiet.
Trent
made no secret of his orientation, had gone public six years before. That didn't prevent him from turning pale. The glass in his hand shook enough to spill some of its contents onto the marble floor, but the Congressman regained his control and spoke almost gently.

“I'll break you for that.”

“Take your best shot, sweetie.” Ryan turned and walked out of the room, the eyes heavy on his back. He kept going until he stared at the traffic on
Massachusetts Avenue
. He knew that he'd drunk too much, but the cold air started to clear his head.

“Jack?” His wife's voice.

“Yeah, babe?”

“What was that all about?”

“Can't say.”

“I think it's time for you to go home.” 

“I think you're right. I’ll get the coats.” Ryan walked back inside and handed over the claim check. He heard the silence happen when he returned. He could feel the looks at his back. Jack shrugged into his overcoat and slung his wife's fur over his arm, before turning to see the eyes on him. Only one pair held any interest for him. They were there.

Misha was not an easy man to surprise, but the KGB succeeded. He'd steeled himself for torture, for the worst sort of abuse, only to be . . . disappointed? he asked himself. That certainly wasn't the right word.

He was kept in the same cell, and so far as he could determine he was alone on this cellblock. That was probably wrong, he thought, but there was no evidence that anyone else was near him, no sounds at all, not even taps on the concrete walls. Perhaps they were too thick for that. The only “company” he had was the occasional metallic rasp of the spy hole in his cell's door. He thought that the solitude was supposed to do something to him. Filitov smiled at that. They think I'm alone. They don't know about my comrades.

There was only one possible answer: this Vatutin fellow was afraid that he might actually be innocent—but that wasn't possible, Misha told himself. That chekist bastard had taken the film from his hand.

He was still trying to figure that one out, staring at the blank concrete wall. None of it made any sense.

But if they expected him to be afraid, they would have to live with their disappointment. Filitov had cheated death too many times. Part of him even yearned for it. Perhaps he would be reunited with his comrades. He talked to them, didn't he? Might they still be . . . well, not exactly alive, but not exactly gone either? What was death? He'd reached the point in life where the question was an intellectual one. Sooner or later he'd find out, of course. The answer to that question had brushed past him many times, but his grasp—and its—had never quite been firm enough . . .

The key rattled in the door, and the hinges creaked.

“You should oil that. Machinery lasts longer if you maintain it properly,” he said as he stood.

The jailer didn't reply, merely waving him out of the cell. Two young guards stood with the turnkey, beardless boys of twenty or so, Misha thought, their heads tilted up with the arrogance common to the KGB. Forty years earlier and he might have done something about that, Filitov told himself. They were unarmed, after all, and he was a combat soldier for whom the taking of life was as natural as breathing. They were not effective soldiers. One look confirmed it. It was fine to be proud, but a soldier should also be wary . . .

Was that it?
he thought suddenly. Vatutin treats me with wariness despite the fact that he knows . . .

But why?

“What does this mean?” Mancuso asked.

“Kinda hard for me to tell,” Clark answered. “Probably some candyass in D.C. can't make up his mind. Happens all the time.”

The two signals had arrived within twelve hours of one another. The first had aborted the mission and ordered the submarine back to open waters, but the second told
Dallas
to remain in the western Baltic and await further orders.

“I don't like being put on hold.”

“Nobody does. Captain.”

“How does it affect you?” Mancuso asked.

Clark
shrugged eloquently. “A lot of this is mental. Like you work up to play a ball game. Don't sweat it, Cap'n. I teach this sort of thing—when I'm not actually doing it.”

“How many?”

“Can't say, but most of them went pretty well.”

“Most—not all? But when they don't—”

“It gets real exciting for everybody.” Clark smiled. “Especially me. I have some great stories, but I can't tell 'em. Well, I expect you do, too.”

“One or two. Does take some of the fun out of life, doesn't it?” The two men traded an insider's look.

Ryan was shopping alone. His wife's birthday was coming up—it would happen during his next
Moscow
trip—and he had to get everything out of the way early. The jewelry stores were always a good place to start. Cathy still wore the heavy gold necklace he'd given her a few years before, and he was looking for earrings that would go with it. The problem was that he had trouble remembering the exact pattern . . . His hangover didn't help, nor did his nervousness. What if they didn't bite?

“Hello, Dr. Ryan,” a familiar voice said. Jack turned with some surprise.

“I didn't know they let you guys come out this far.” Act II, Scene 1. Jack didn't let his relief show. In that respect the hangover helped.

“The travel radius cuts right through Garfinckels, if you examine the map carefully,” Sergey Platonov pointed out. “Shopping for your wife?”

“I'm sure my file gave you all the necessary clues.”

“Yes, her birthday.” He looked down at the display case. “A pity that I cannot afford such things for mine . . .”

“If you were to make the appropriate overtures, the Agency could probably arrange something, Sergey Nikolay'ch.”

“But the Rodina might not understand,” Platonov said. “A problem with which you are becoming familiar, are you not?”

“You're remarkably well informed,” Jack muttered.

“That is my function. I am also hungry. Perhaps you might use some of your fortune to buy me a sandwich?”

Ryan looked up and down the mall with professional interest.

“Not today.” Platonov chuckled. “A few of my fellow . . . a few of my comrades are busy today, more than usual, and I fear your FBI is undermanned for its surveillance task.”

“A problem the KGB does not have,” Jack observed as they moved away from the store.

“You might be surprised. Why do Americans assume that our intelligence organs are any different from yours?”

“If by that you mean screwed up, I suppose it's a comforting thought. How does a hot dog grab you?”

“If it's kosher,” Platonov answered, then explained. “I'm not Jewish, as you know, but I prefer the taste.”

“You've been here too long,” Jack said with a grin.

“But the
Washington
area is such a nice place.”

Jack walked into a fast-food shop that specialized in bagels and corned beef, but also served other fare. Service was quick, and the men took a white plastic table that sat by itself in the center of the mall's corridor. Cleverly done, Jack thought. People could walk past and not hear more than a few random words. But he knew Platonov was a pro.

“I have heard that you face some rather unfortunate legal difficulties.” With every word, Platonov smiled. It was supposed to appear that they were discussing ordinary pleasantries. Jack supposed, with the added dimension that his Russian colleague was enjoying himself.