Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (55 page)

“Drop the gun!” Werner screamed. “Don't—”

Leonid saw where Gregory was and remembered his orders. The pistol started coming around.

Werner did what he'd always told his people not to do, but would never remember why. He loosed half a dozen rounds at the man's arm, going for the gun—and miraculously enough, it worked. The gun hand jerked like a puppet's and the pistol fell free in a cloud of spraying blood. Werner leaped forward, knocking the subject down and placing the muzzle of his silenced gun right on his forehead.

“Number three is down! Hostage safe! Team: check in!”

“Outside, number one down and dead.”

“Trailer, number two down and dead! One agent hit in the arm, not serious.”

“Female down and dead,” Werner called. “One subject wounded and in custody. Secure the area! Ambulances, now!” From the time of the sniper shots, it had taken a total of twenty-nine seconds.

Three agents appeared at the window through which Werner and the other two had arrived. One of the agents inside pulled out his combat knife and cut through the ropes that held Gregory, then practically threw him out the window, where he was caught and carried off like a rag doll. Al was put in the back of the HRT truck and rushed off. On the highway, an Air Force helicopter landed. As soon as Gregory was tossed inside, it lifted off.

All HRT members have medical training, and two on the assault team had trained with firemen-paramedics. One of them was wounded in the arm, and directed the bandaging done by the man who'd shot Oleg. The other trained paramedic came back and started working on Leonid.

“He'll make it. The arm's gonna need some surgery, though. Radius, ulna, and humerus all fractured, boss.”

“You should have dropped the gun,” Werner told him. “You didn't have much of a chance.”

“Jesus.” It was Paulson. He stood at the window and looked to see what his single bullet had done. An agent was searching the body, looking for a weapon. He stood up, shaking his head. That told the rifleman something he would have preferred not to know. In that moment, he knew that he'd never hunt again. The bullet had entered just below the left eye. Most of the rest of her head was on the wall opposite the window. Paulson told himself that he should never have looked. The rifleman turned away after five long seconds and unloaded his weapon.

The helicopter took Gregory directly to the project. Six armed security people were waiting when it landed, and hustled him inside. He was surprised when someone snapped some pictures. Someone else tossed Al a can of Coke, and he anointed himself with carbonated spray when he worked the pop-top. After taking a drink, he spoke: “What the hell was all that?”

“We're not even sure ourselves,” the chief of project security replied. It took a few more seconds for Gregory's mind to catch up with what had happened. That's when he started shaking.

Werner and his people were outside the trailer while the evidence team took over. A dozen New Mexico State Police officers were there also. The wounded agent and the wounded KGB officer were loaded into the same ambulance, though the latter was handcuffed to his stretcher and doing his best not to scream with the pain of three shattered bones in his arm.

“Where you taking him?” a state police captain asked.

“The base hospital at Kirtland—both of them,” Werner replied.

“Long ways.”

“Orders are to keep this one under wraps. For what it's worth, the guy who popped your officer is that one over there—from the description he gave us, it's him anyway.”

“I'm surprised you took one alive.” That earned the Captain a curious look. “I mean, they were all armed, right?”

“Yeah,” Werner agreed. He smiled in an odd sort of way. “I'm surprised, too.”

The Rules of

the Game

T
HE
amazing thing was that it didn't make the news. Only a handful of unmuffled shots had been fired, and gunfire is not all that unusual a thing in the American West. An inquiry to the New Mexico State Police had gotten the reply that the investigation into the shooting of Officer Mendez was still continuing, with a break expected at any time, but that the helicopter activity was merely part of a routine search-and-rescue exercise conducted jointly by the state police and Air Force personnel. It wasn't all that good a story, but good enough to keep reporters off everyone's back for a day or two.

The evidence team sifted through the trailer and not surprisingly found little of note, A police photographer took the requisite pictures of all the victims—he called himself a professional ghoul—and handed over the film to the senior FBI agent on the scene. The bodies were bagged and driven to Kirtland, from which they were flown to Dover Air Force Base, where there was a special receiving center staffed by forensic pathologists. The developed photos of the dead KGB officers were sent electronically to
Washington
. The local police and FBI began talking about how the case against the surviving KGB agent would be handled. It was determined that he'd broken at least a dozen statutes, evenly divided between federal and state jurisdiction, and various attorneys would have to sort that mess out, even though they knew that the real decision would be made in Washington. They were wrong in that assessment, however. Part of it would be decided elsewhere.

It was four in the morning when Ryan felt a hand on his shoulder. He rolled over and looked in time to see Candela flip on the bedstand light.

“What?” Ryan asked as coherently as he could manage.

“The Bureau pulled it off. They have Gregory and he's fine,” Candela said. He handed over some photos. Ryan's eyes blinked a few times before going very wide.

“That's a hell of a thing to wake up to,” Jack said, even before seeing what had happened to Tania Bisyarina. “Holy shit!” He dropped the photos on the bed and walked into the bathroom. Candela heard the sound of running water, then Ryan emerged and walked to the refrigerator. He pulled out a can of soda and popped it open.

“Excuse me. You want one?” Jack gestured at the refrigerator.

“It's a little early for me. You made the pass to Golovko yesterday?”

“Yeah. The session starts this afternoon. I want to see our friend about eight. I was planning to get up about five-thirty.”

“I thought you'd want to see these right away,” Candela said. That elicited a grunt.

“Sure. It beats the morning paper . . . We got his ass,” Ryan noted, staring at the carpet. “Unless . . .”

“Unless he wants to die real bad,” the CIA officer agreed.

“What about his wife and daughter?” Jack asked. “If you got opinions, I sure as hell want to hear them.”

“The meet's where I suggested?”

“Yep.”

“Push him as hard as you can.” Candela lifted the pictures off the bed and tucked them in an envelope. “Make sure you show him these. I don't think it'll trouble his conscience much, but it'll damned well show him we're serious. If you want an opinion, I thought you were crazy before. Now”—he grinned—“I think you're just about crazy enough. I'll be back when you're all woke up.”

Ryan nodded and watched him leave before heading into the shower. The water was hot, and Jack took his time, in the process filling the small room with steam that he had to wipe off the mirror. When he shaved, he made a conscious effort to stare at his beard rather than his eyes. It wasn't a time for self-doubt.

It was dark outside his windows.
Moscow
was not lit the same way as an American city. Perhaps it was the near-total absence of cars at this hour.
Washington
always had people moving about. There was always the unconscious certainty that somewhere people were up and about their business, whatever that might be. The concept didn't translate here. Just as the words of one language never exactly, never quite correspond to those of another, so
Moscow
was to Ryan just similar enough to other major cities he'd visited to seem all the more alien in its differences. People didn't go about their business here. For the most part they went about the business assigned to them by someone else. The irony was that he would soon be one of the people giving orders, to a person who'd forgotten how to take them.

Morning came slowly to
Moscow
. The traffic sounds of trolley cars and the deeper rumble of truck diesels were muted by the snow cover, and Ryan's window didn't face in the proper direction to catch the first light of dawn. What had been gray began to acquire color, as though a child were playing with the controls on a color television. Jack finished his third cup of coffee, and set down the book he'd been reading at seven-thirty. Timing was everything on occasions like this, Candela told him. He made a final trip to the bathroom before dressing for his morning walk.

The sidewalks had been swept clean of the Sunday-night snowstorm, though there were still piles at the curbs. Ryan nodded to the security guards, Australian, American, and Russian, before turning north on Chaykovskogo. The bitter northerly wind made his eyes water, and he adjusted the scarf around his neck slightly as he walked toward
Vosstaniya
Square
. This was
Moscow
's embassy district. The previous morning he'd turned right at the far side of the square and seen half a dozen legations mixed together randomly, but this morning he turned left on Kudrinskiy
Pereulok—the Russians had at least nine ways of saying “street,” but the nuances were lost on Jack—then right, then left again on Barrikadnaya.

“Barricade” seemed an odd name for both a street and a movie theater. It looked odder still in Cyrillic lettering. The B was recognizable, though the Cyrillic “B” is actually a V, and the Rs in the word looked like Roman Ps. Jack altered his course somewhat, walking as close to the buildings as possible as he approached. Just as expected, a door opened and he turned into it. Again he was patted down. The security man found the sealed envelope in the coat pocket, but didn't open it, to Ryan's relief.

“Come.” The same thing he'd said the first time, Jack noted. Perhaps he had a limited vocabulary.

Gerasimov was sitting on an aisle seat, his back confidently to Ryan as Jack walked down the slope to see the man.

“Good morning,” he said to the back of the man's head.

“How do you like our weather?” Gerasimov asked, waving the security man away. He stood and led Jack down toward the screen.

“Wasn't this cold where I grew up.”

“You should wear a hat. Most Americans prefer not to, but here it is a necessity.”

“It's cold in
New Mexico
, too,” Ryan said.

“So I'm told. Did you think I would do nothing?” the KGB Chairman asked. He did so without emotion, like a teacher to a slow student. Ryan decided to let him enjoy the feeling for a moment.

“Am I supposed to negotiate with you for Major Gregory's freedom?” Jack asked neutrally—or tried to. The extra morning coffee had put an edge on his emotions.

“If you wish,” Gerasimov replied.

“I think you will find this to be of interest.” Jack handed over the envelope.

The KGB Chairman opened it and took out the photographs. He didn't display any reaction as he flipped through the three frames, but when he turned to look at Ryan his eyes made the morning's wind seem like the breath of spring.

“One's alive,” Jack reported. “He's hurt, but he'll recover. I don't have his picture. Somebody screwed up on that end. We have Gregory back, unhurt.”

“I see.”

“You should also see that your options are now those which we intended. I need to know which choice you will make.”

“It is obvious, is it not?”

“One of the things I have learned in studying your country is that nothing is as obvious as we would like.” That drew something that was almost a smile.

“How will I be treated?”

“Quite well.” A hell of lot better than you deserve.

“My family?”

“Them also.”

“And how do you propose to get the three of us out?”

“I believe your wife is Latvian by birth, and that she often travels to her home. Have them there Friday night,” Ryan said, continuing with some details.

“Exactly what—”

“You do not need that information, Mr. Gerasimov.”

“Ryan, you cannot—”

“Yes, sir, I can,” Jack cut him off, wondering why he'd said “sir.”

“And for me?” the Chairman asked. Ryan told him what he'd have to do. Gerasimov agreed. “I have one question.”

“Yes?”

“How did you fool Platonov? He's a very clever man.”

“There really was a minor flap with the SEC, but that wasn't the important part.” Ryan got ready to leave. “We couldn't have done it without you. We had to stage a really good scene, something that you don't fake. Congressmen
Trent
was over here six months ago, and he met a fellow named Valeriy. They got to be very close friends. He found out later that you gave Valeriy five years for 'antisocial activity.' Anyway, he wanted to get even. We asked for his help and he jumped at it. So I suppose you could say that we used your own prejudices against you.”

“What would you have us do with such people, Ryan?” the Chairman demanded. “Do you—”

“I don't make laws, Mr. Gerasimov.” Ryan walked out. It was nice, he thought on the return to the embassy compound, to have the wind at his back for a change.

“Good morning, Comrade General Secretary.” “You need not be so formal, Ilya Arkadyevich. There are Politburo members more senior to you who do not have the vote, and we have been comrades too . . . long. What is troubling you?” Narmonov asked cautiously. The pain in his colleague's eyes was evident. They were scheduled to talk about the winter wheat crop, but—

“Andrey Il'ych, I do not know how to begin.” Vaneyev nearly choked on the words, and tears began to stream from his eyes. “It is my daughter . . .” He went on for ten fitful minutes.

“And?” Narmonov asked, when it seemed that he'd finally stopped—but as was obvious, there had to be more. There was.

“Alexandrov and Gerasimov, then.” Narmonov leaned back in his chair and stared at the wall. “It took great courage indeed for you to come to me with this, my friend.”

“I cannot let them—even if it means my career, Andrey, I cannot let them stop you now. You have too many things to do, we—you have too many things to change. I must leave. I know that. But you must stay, Andrey. The people need you here if we are to accomplish anything.”

It was noteworthy that he'd said people rather than Party, Narmonov thought. The times really were changing. No. He shook his head. It wasn't that, not yet. All he had accomplished was to create the atmosphere within which the times might have the possibility of change. Vaneyev was one who understood that the problem was not so much goals as process. Every Politburo member knew—had known for years— the things that needed to be changed. It was the method of change that no one could agree on. It was like turning a ship to a new course, he thought, but knowing that the rudder might break if you did so. Continuing in the same path would allow the ship to plow on into . . . what? Where was the
Soviet Union
heading? They didn't even know that. But to change course meant risk, and if the rudder broke—if the Party lost its ascendancy—then there would be only chaos. That was a choice that no rational man would wish to face, but it was a choice whose necessity no rational man could deny.

We don't even know what our country is doing
, Narmonov thought to himself. For at least the past eight years all figures on economic performance had been false in one way or another, each compounding itself on the next until the economic forecasts generated by the GOSPLAN bureaucracy were as fictitious as the list of Stalin's virtues. The ship he commanded was running deeper and deeper into an enveloping fog of lies told by functionaries whose careers would be destroyed by the truth. That was how he spoke of it at the weekly Politburo meetings. Forty years of rosy goals and predictions had merely plotted a course on a meaningless chart. Even the Politburo itself didn't know the state of the
Soviet Union
—something the West hardly suspected.

The alternative? That was the rub, wasn't it? In his darker moments, Narmonov wondered if he or anyone else could really change things. The goal of his entire political life had been to achieve the power that he now held, and only now did he fully understand how circumscribed that power was, All the way up the ladder of his career he'd noted things that had to change, never fully appreciating how difficult that would be. The power he wielded wasn't the same as Stalin's had been. His more immediate predecessors had seen to that. Now the
Soviet Union
wasn't so much a ship to be guided, as a huge bureaucratic spring that absorbed and dissipated energy and vibrated only to its own inefficient frequency. Unless that changed . . . the West was racing into a new industrial age while the Soviet Union still could not feed itself, China was adopting the economic lessons of Japan, and in two generations might become the world's third economy: a billion people with a strong, driving economy, right on our border, hungry for land, and with a racial hatred of all Russians that could make Hitler's fascist legions seem like a flock of football hooligans. That was a strategic threat to his country that made the nuclear weapons of America and NATO shrivel to insignificance—and still the Party bureaucracy didn't see that it had to change or risk being the agent of its own doom!

Someone has to try, and that someone is me.

But in order to try, he first had to survive himself, survive long enough to communicate his vision of national goals, first to the Party, then to the people—or perhaps the other way around? Neither would be easy. The Party had its ways, resistant to change, and the people, the narod, no longer gave a moment's thought to what the Party and its leader said to them. That was the amusing part. The West—the enemies of his nation—held him in higher esteem than his own countrymen.