Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (86 page)

“Where?”

“All over
Europe
, including inside the
Soviet Union
itself. Supposedly, KGB is loyal to Narmonov, at least most of it, Narmonov thinks—our man says he's not so sure. The Soviet military is definitely not; he says that a coup is a serious possibility, but Narmonov is not taking strong enough action to deal with it. The possibility of blackmail is quite real. If this report is correct, there is the possibility of a rapid power shift over there whose consequences are impossible to estimate.”

“And what do you think?” Dennis Bunker asked soberly.

“The consensus at
Langley
is that this may be reliable information. We're beginning a careful check of all relevant data. The two best outside consultants are at
Princeton
and
Berkeley
. I'll have them in the office Monday to look over our data.”

“When will you have a firm estimate?” Secretary Talbot asked.

“Depends on what you mean by firm. End of next week, we'll have a preliminary estimate. 'Firm' is going to take a while. I've tried getting this confirmed by our British colleagues, but they came up blank.”

“Where could those things show up?” Liz Elliot asked.

“
Russia
's a big country,” Ryan replied.

“It's a big world,” Bunker said. “What's your worst-case estimate?”

“We haven't started that process yet,” Jack answered. “When you're talking about missing nuclear weapons, worst-cases can be pretty bad.”

“Is there any reason to suspect a threat directed against us?” Fowler asked.

“No, Mr. President. The Soviet military is rational, and that would be an act of lunacy.”

“Your faith in the uniformed mentality is touching,” Liz Elliot noted. “You really think theirs are more intelligent than ours?”

“They deliver when we ask them to,” Dennis Bunker said sharply. “I wish you would have just a little respect for them, Dr. Elliot.”

“We will save that for another day,” Fowler observed. “What could they possibly gain from threatening us?”

“Nothing, Mr. President,” Ryan answered.

“Agreed,” Brent Talbot said.

“I'll feel better when those SS-18s are gone,” Bunker noted, “but Ryan's right.”

“I want an estimate on that, too,” Elliot said. “I want it fast.”

“You'll get it,” Jack promised.

“What about the
Mexico
operation?”

“Mr. President, the assets are in place.”

“What is this?” the Secretary of State asked.

“Brent, I think it's time you got briefed in on this. Ryan, commence.”

Jack ran through the background information and the operational concept. It took several minutes.

“I can't believe they'd do such a thing: it's outrageous,” Talbot said.

“Is this why you're not coming out to the game?” Bunker asked with a smile. “Brent, I can believe it. How quickly will you have the transcripts from the aircraft?”

“Given his ETA into
Washington
, plus processing time . . . say around ten that night.”

“You can still come out to the game then, Bob,” Bunker said. It was the first time Ryan had ever seen someone address the President that way.

Fowler shook his head. “I'll catch it at Camp David. I want to be bright-eyed for this meet. Besides, the storm that just hit Denver might be here Sunday. Getting back into town could be tough, and the Secret Service spent a couple hours explaining how bad football games are for me—meaning them, of course.”

“Going to be a good one,” Talbot said.

“What's the point spread?” Fowler asked.

Jesus!
Ryan thought.

“Vikings by three,” Bunker said. “I'll take all of that action I can get.”

“We're flying out together,” Talbot said. “Just so Dennis doesn't drive the airplane.”

“Leaving me up the hills of
Maryland
. Well, somebody has to mind the government.” Fowler smiled. He had an odd smile, Jack thought. “Back to business. Ryan: you said this is not a threat to us?”

“Let me backtrack, sir. First, I must emphasize that the S
PINNAKER
report remains totally unconfirmed.”

“You said the CIA backs it.”

“There is a consensus of opinion that it is probably reliable. We're checking that very hard right now. That's the whole point of what I said earlier.”

“Okay,” Fowler said. “If it's not true, there is nothing for us to worry about, correct?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“And if it is?”

“Then the risk is one of political blackmail in the
Soviet Union
, worst-case, a civil war with the use of nuclear weapons.”

“Which is not good news—possible threats to us?”

“No direct threat to us is likely.”

Fowler leaned back in his chair. “That makes sense, I suppose. But I want a really, really good estimate of that just as fast as you can get it to me.”

“Yes, sir. Believe me, Mr. President, we're checking every aspect of this development.”

“Good report, Dr. Ryan.”

Jack stood to take his dismissal. It was so much more civilized now that they'd gotten rid of him.

The markets had sprung up of their own accord, mainly in the eastern sections of
Berlin
. Soviet soldiers, never the most free of individuals, now found themselves in an undivided Western city that offered each the chance simply to walk away, to disappear. The amazing thing was that so few did it, despite the controls kept on them, and one reason for it was the availability of open-air markets. The individual Soviet soldiers were continuously surprised at the desire of Germans, Americans and so many others to buy memorabilia of the Red Army—belts, shapka fur hats, boots, whole uniforms, all manner of trinkets—and the fools paid cash. Hard-currency cash, dollars, pounds, Deutschmarks, whose value at home in the Soviet Union was multiplied tenfold. Other sales to more discriminating buyers had included such big-ticket items as a T-8o tank, but that had required the connivance of a regimental commander, who'd justified it in his paperwork as the accidental destruction of a vehicle by fire. The colonel had gotten a Mercedes 56oSEL from that, with plenty of cash left over for his retirement fund. Western intelligence agencies had gotten all they wished by this point, leaving the markets to amateurs and tourists; they assumed that the Soviets tolerated it for the simple reason that it brought a good deal of hard currency into their economy, and did so at bargain prices. Westerners typically paid more than ten times the actual production cost of what they purchased. The introductory course in capitalism, some Russians thought, would have other payoffs when the troops concluded their conscripted service.

Erwin Keitel approached one such Soviet soldier, a senior sergeant by rank. “Good day,” he said in German.

“Nicht spreche,” the Russian answered “English?”

“English is okay, yes?”

“Da.” The Russian nodded.

“Ten uniforms.” Keitel held up both hands to make the number unambiguous.

“Ten?”

“Ten, all large, big like me,” Keitel said. He could have spoken in perfect Russian, but that would have caused more trouble than it was worth. “Colonel uniforms, all colonel, okay?”

“Colonel—polkovnik. Regiment officer, yes? Three stars here?” the man tapped his shoulders.

“Yes.” Keitel nodded. Tank uniform, must be for tank."

“Why you want?” the sergeant asked, mainly to be polite. He was a tanker, and getting the right garb was not a problem.

“Make movie—television movie.”

“Television?” The man's eyes lit up. “Belts, boots?”

“Yes.”

The man checked left and right, then lowered his voice. “Pistol?”

“You can do that?”

The sergeant smiled and nodded emphatically to show that he was a serious broker. “Take money.”

“Must be Russian pistol, correct pistol,” Keitel said, hoping that this pidgin exchange was clear.

“Yes, I can get.”

“How soon?”

“One hour.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand mark, no pistol. Ten pistol, five thousand mark more.” And that, Keitel thought, was highway robbery.

He held up his hands again. “Ten thousand mark, yes. I pay.” To show he was serious, he displayed a sheaf of hundred-mark notes. He tucked one in the soldier's pocket. “I wait one hour.”

“I come back here, one hour.” The soldier left the area rapidly. Keitel walked into the nearest Gasthaus and ordered a beer.

“If this were any easier,” he observed to a colleague, “I'd say it was a trap.”

“You heard about the tank?”

“The T-8o, yes, why?”

“Willi Heydrich did that for the Americans.”

“Willi?” Keitel shook his head. “What was his fee?”

“Five hundred thousand D-Mark. Damned-fool Americans. Anyone could have set that up.”

“But they didn't know that at the time.” The man laughed bleakly. DM 500,000 had been enough to set the former Oberst-Leutnant Wilhelm Heydrich up in a business—a Gasthaus like this one—which made for a much better living than he'd ever gotten from the Stasi. Heydrich had been one of Keitel's most promising subordinates, and now he had sold out, quit his career, turned his back on his political heritage, and turned into one more new-German citizen. His intelligence training had merely served as a vehicle, to take one last measure of spite out on the Americans.

“What about the Russian?”

“The one who made the deal? Ha!” the man snorted. “Two million marks. He undoubtedly paid off the division commander, got his Mercedes, and banked the rest. That unit rotated back to the Union soon thereafter, and one tank more or less from a division . . . ? The inspectorate might not even have noticed.”

They had one more round, while watching the TV over the bar—a disgusting habit picked up from the Americans, Keitel thought. When forty minutes had passed, he went back outside, with his colleague in visual contact. It might be a trap, after all.

The Russian sergeant was back early. He wasn't carrying anything but a smile.

“Where is it?” Keitel asked.

“Truck, around . . .” the man gestured.

“Ecke? Corner?”

“Da, that word, corner. Um die Ecke.” The man nodded emphatically.

Keitel waved to the other man, who went to get the car. Erwin wanted to ask the soldier how much of the money was going to his lieutenant, who typically skimmed a sizable percentage of every deal for their own use, but that really was beside the point, wasn't it?

The Soviet Army GAZ-69 light truck was parked a block away. It was a simple matter of backing up the agent's car to the tailgate and popping the trunk. But first, of course, Keitel had to inspect the merchandise. There were ten camouflage battle-dress uniforms, lightweight, but of better than normal quality, because these were for officers' use. Headwear was a black beret with the red star and rather antique-looking tank badge that showed them to be for an armor officer. The shoulderboards of each uniform had the three stars of a full colonel. Also included were the uniform belts and boots.

“Pistolen?” Keitel asked.

First, eyes swept the street. Then ten cardboard boxes appeared. Keitel pointed to one, and it opened to reveal a Makarov PM. That was a 9-millimeter automatic modeled on the German Walther PP. The Russians, in a gesture of magnanimity, even tossed in five boxes of 9mm-x-18 ball ammunition.

“Ausgezeichnet,” Keitel observed, reaching for his money. He counted out ninety-nine hundred-mark bills.

“Thank you,” the Russian said. “You need more, you see me, yes?”

“Yes, thank you.” Keitel shook his hand and got into the car.

“What has the world become?” the driver said as he headed off. As recently as three years before, those soldiers would have been court-martialed—perhaps even shot—for what they had done.

“We have enriched the
Soviet Union
to the tune of ten thousand marks.”

The driver grunted. “Doch, and that 'merchandise' must have cost at least two thousand to manufacture! What is it they call that.. . ?”

“A 'volume discount.'” Keitel couldn't decide whether to laugh or not. “Our Russian friends learn fast. Or perhaps the muzhik cannot count past ten.”

“What we plan to do is dangerous.”

“That is true, but we are being well paid.”

“You think I do this for money?” the man asked, an edge on his voice.

“No, nor do I. But if we must risk our lives, we might as well be rewarded for it.”

“As you say, Colonel.”

It never occurred to Keitel that he really did not know what he was doing, that Bock had not told him everything. For all his professionalism, Keitel had neglected to remind himself that he was doing business with a terrorist.

The air was wonderfully still, Ghosn thought. He'd never experienced really heavy snow. The storm was lingering longer than expected, was expected to continue for another hour or so. It had dropped half a meter, which, along with the flakes still in the air, muffled sound to a degree he had never known. It was a silence you could hear, he told himself standing on the porch.

“Like it, eh?” Marvin asked.

“Yes.”

“When I was a boy, we got really big storms, not like this one, storms that dropped feet of snow—like a whole meter at once, man—and then it would really get cold, like twenty or thirty below. You go outside, and it's like you're on another planet or something, and you wonder what it was like a hundred years ago, living in a tipi with your woman and your babies and your horses outside, everything clean and pure like it's supposed to be. It must have been something, man, it must have really been something.”

The man was poetic, but foolish, Ibrahim thought. So primitive a life, most of your children died before their first year had ended, starving in winter because there was no game to hunt. What fodder was there for the horses, and how did they get to it under the snow? How many people and animals froze to death? Yet he idolized the life. That was foolish. Marvin had courage. He had tenacity, and strength, and devotion, but the fact of the matter was that he didn't understand the world, didn't know God, and lived according to a fantasy. It really was unfortunate. He could have been a valuable asset.

“When do we leave?”

“We'll give the highway boys a couple of hours to scrape the roads. You take the car—it has front-wheel drive and you won't have any problem driving. I'll take the van. There's no hurry, right? We don't want to take chances?”