by Tom Clancy
Tell L[angley]? Mary asked next.
He just shook his head. 2 early 4 that.
She nodded agreement. Next, Mary Pat mimed riding a horse. That meant that there was a chase and they were really in the game, finally. It was as though she were afraid that her skills were going stale. Damned little chance of that, her husband thought. He was willing to bet that his wife had gone all the way through parochial school without a single rap on the knuckles, because the sisters had never once caught her misbehaving. . . .
And, for that matter, Ed reflected, neither had he.
W[ell], tomor[row] will be inter[esting], he told her, getting a sexy nod as a reply.
The hard part for the rest of the evening was not dwelling on the opportunity. Even with their training, their thoughts kept coming back to the idea of working an agent in the Russian MERCURY. It was a conceptual homer in the bottom of the ninth in the seventh game of the World Series—Reggie Jackson Foley as Mister October.
Damn.
“SO, SIMON, what do we really know about the guy?”
“Not all that much on the personal level,” Harding admitted. “He’s a Party man first, last, and always. His horizons have been broadened, I suppose, from his chairmanship of KGB. There’s talk that he prefers Western liquor to his own vodka, and stories that he enjoys American jazz, but those could be stories floated in-house by The Centre to help him appear amenable to the West—not bloody likely, in my humble opinion. The man is a thug. His Party record is not one of gentleness. One doesn’t advance in that organization except by toughness—and remarkably often the high-flyers are men who have crushed their own mentors along the way. It’s a Darwinian organization gone mad, Jack. The fittest survive, but they prove themselves to be the fittest by smashing those who are a threat to them, or merely smashing people to prove their own ruthlessness in the arena they’ve chosen.”
“How smart is he?” Ryan asked next.
Another draw on the briar pipe. “He’s no fool. Highly developed sense of human nature, probably a good—even a brilliant—amateur psychologist.”
“You haven’t compared him to someone from Tolstoy or Chekhov,” Jack noted. Simon was a lit major, after all.
Harding dismissed the thought. “Too easy to do so. No, people like him most often do not appear in literature, because novelists lack the requisite imagination. There was no warning of a Hitler in German literature, Jack. Stalin evidently thought himself another Ivan the Terrible, and Sergei Eisenstein played along with his epic movie about the chap, but that sort of thing is only for those without the imagination to see people as they are instead of being like someone else they understand. No, Stalin was a complex and fundamentally incomprehensible monster, unless you have psychiatric credentials. I do not,” Harding reminded him. “One need not understand them fully to predict their actions, because such people are rational within their own context. One need only understand that, or so I have always believed.”
“Sometimes I think I ought to get Cathy involved in this work.”
“Because she’s a physician?” Harding asked.
Ryan nodded. “Yeah, she’s pretty good reading people. That’s why we had the docs report in on Mikhail Suslov. None of them were pshrinks,” Jack reminded his workmate.
“So, no, we know remarkably little on Andropov’s personal life,” Harding admitted. “No one’s ever been tasked to delve too deeply into it. If he gets elevated to the General-Secretaryship, I imagine his wife will become a semipublic figure. In any case, there’s no reason to think him a homosexual or anything like that. They are quite intolerant of that aberration over there, you know. Some colleague would have used it against him along the way and wrecked his career for fair. No, the closet they live in within the Soviet Union is a very deep one. Better to be celibate,” the analyst concluded.
Okay, Ryan thought, I’ll call the Admiral tonight and tell him that the Brits don’t know, either. It was strangely disappointing, but somehow predictable. For all that the intelligence services knew, the frequency of holes in their knowledge was often surprising to the outsiders, but not so to those on the inside. Ryan was still new enough at the game to be surprised and disappointed. A married man would be used to compromise, to letting his wife have her way on all manner of things, because every married man is pussy-whipped to one extent or another—unless he is a total thug, and few people fit into that category. Fewer still could rise up any hierarchy that way, because in any organization you had to go along in order to get along. That was human nature, and even the Communist Party of the Soviet Union couldn’t repeal that, for all their talk about the New Soviet Man that they kept trying to build over there. Yeah, Ryan thought, sure.
“Well,” Harding said, checking his watch, “I think we’ve served Her Majesty enough for one day.”
“Agreed.” Ryan stood up and collected his jacket off the clothes tree. Take the tube this time to Victoria Station, and catch the Lionel home. The routine was getting to him. It would have been better to get a place in town and cut down the commute, but that way Sally wouldn’t have much in the way of green grass to play on, and Cathy had been adamant about that. Renewed proof that he was indeed pussy-whipped, Jack thought on the way to the elevator. Well, it could have been worse. He did have a good wife to do the whipping, after all.
COLONEL BUBOVOY came back to the embassy on his way home from the airport. A short dispatch was waiting, which he quickly decrypted: He’d be working through Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy. No particular surprise there. Aleksey Nikolay’ch was Andropov’s lapdog. And that was probably a good job, the rezident thought. You just had to keep the boss happy, and Yuriy Vladimirovich was probably not the demanding bastard that Beria had been. Party people might be overly precise in their demands, but anyone who’d worked in the Party Secretariat doubtless knew how to work with people. The age of Stalin had indeed passed.
So, it looked as though he had an assassination to arrange, Bubovoy thought. He wondered how Boris Strokov would react to it. Strokov was a professional, with little in the way of excess emotion, and less in the way of a professional conscience. To him, work was work. But the magnitude of this was higher than anything he would have encountered working for the Dirzhavna Sugurnost. Would that frighten him or excite him? It would be interesting to see. There was a coldness to his Bulgarian colleague that both alarmed and impressed the KGB officer. His particular skills could be useful things to have in one’s pocket. And if the Politburo needed this annoying Pole killed, then he would just have to die. Too bad, but if what he believed was true, then they were just sending him off to heaven as a holy martyr, weren’t they? Surely that was the secret ambition of every priest.
Bubovoy’s only concern was the political repercussions. Those would be epic, and so it was good that he was just a cutout in the operation. If it went bad, well, it wouldn’t be his fault. That Strokov was the best man for the job, based on his curriculum vitae, was something no man could deny, something a board of inquiry, if any, could confirm. He’d warned the Chairman that a shot, however closely taken, would not necessarily be fatal. He’d have to put that in a memo to make sure the thin paper trail on operation 15-8-82-666 would have his formal evaluation in it. He’d draft it himself and send it by diplomatic bag to The Centre—and keep his own copy in his office safe, just to make sure his own backside was properly covered.
But for now he would have to wait for the authorization to come from the Politburo. Would those old women elect to go forward with this? That was the question, and one on which he would not make a wager. Brezhnev was in his dotage. Would that make him bloodthirsty or cautious? It was too hard a question for the colonel to puzzle out. They were saying that Yuriy Vladimirovich was the heir apparent. If so, here was his chance to win his spurs.
“SO, MIKHAIL YEVGENIYEVICH, will you support me tomorrow?” Andropov asked over drinks in his flat.
Alexandrov swirled the expensive brown vodka in his glass. “Suslov will not attend tomorrow. They
say his kidneys have failed, and he has no more than two weeks,” the ideologue-in-waiting said, briefly dodging the issue. “Will you support me for his chair?”
“Need you ask, Misha?” the Chairman of the Committee for State Security responded. “Of course I will support you.”
“Very well. So, what are the chances for success in this operation you propose?”
“About fifty-fifty, my people tell me. We will use a Bulgarian officer to set it up, but for security reasons the assassin will have to be a Turk. . . .”
“A black-ass Muslim?” Alexandrov asked sharply.
“Misha, whoever it is will almost certainly be apprehended—dead, according to our plan. It is impossible to expect a clean getaway in such a mission. Thus, we cannot use one of our own. The nature of the mission places constraints upon us. Ideally, we would use a trained sniper—from Spetsnaz, for example—from three hundred meters, but that would mark the assassination as a killing done by a nation-state. No, this must appear to be the act of a single madman, as the Americans have them. You know, even with all the evidence the Americans had, some fools over there still blamed Kennedy on us or Castro. No, the evidence we leave must be a clear sign that we were not involved. That limits our operational methods. I think this is the best plan we can come up with.”
“How closely have you studied it?” Alexandrov asked, taking a swallow.
“It has been closely held. Operations like this must be. Security must be airtight, Mikhail Yevgeniyevich.”
The Party man conceded the point: “I suppose that is so, Yuriy—but the risk of failure . . .”
“Misha, in every aspect of life, there is risk. The important thing is that the operation not be tied to us. That we can assure with certainty. If nothing else, a serious wound will at least lessen Karol’s ardor for making trouble for us, will it not?”
“It should—”
“And half a chance of failure means half a chance of total success,” Andropov reminded his guest.
“Then I will support you. Leonid Ilyich will go along as well. That will carry the day. How long after that to get things moving?”
“A month or so, perhaps six weeks.”
“That quickly?” Party matters rarely sped along that well.
“What is the point of taking such, such—‘executive action,’ isn’t that what the Americans call it?—if it is to take so long? If it is to be done, better that it should be done quickly, so as to forestall further political intrigue by this man.”
“Who will replace him?”
“Some Italian, I suppose. His selection was a major aberration. Perhaps his death will encourage the Romans to go back to their old habits,” Andropov suggested. It generated a laugh from his guest.
“Yes, they are so predictable, these religious fanatics.”
“So tomorrow I will float the mission, and you will support me?” Andropov wanted that one very clear.
“Yes, Yuriy Vladimirovich. You will have my support. And you will support me for Suslov’s full voting seat at the table.”
“Tomorrow, comrade,” Andropov promised.
CHAPTER 12
HANDOFF
THIS TIME, the alarm clock worked, and woke them both. Ed Foley rose and headed for the bathroom, quickly made way for his wife, then headed to Eddie’s room to shake him loose while Mary Pat started breakfast. Their son immediately switched on the TV and got the morning exercise show that every city in the world seemed to have, starring, as everywhere in the world, a woman of impressive physique—she looked capable of waltzing through the Army’s Ranger School at Fort Benning, Georgia. Because he had seen the Lynda Carter series at home on cable, Eddie called her Worker-Womannnnnn! Mary Pat was of the opinion that the Russian’s blond hair came out of a bottle, while Ed thought it hurt just to watch the things she did. With no decent paper or sports page to read, however, he had little choice in the matter, and semi-vegetated in front of the TV while his son giggled through the end of the wake-up-and-sweat program. It was done live, the Chief of Station saw. So, whoever this broad was, she had to wake up at four in the morning, and so this was probably her morning workout as well. Well, then, at least it was honest. Her husband must have been a Red Army paratrooper, and she could probably beat the shit out of him, Ed Foley thought, waiting for the morning news.
That started at 6:30. The trick was to watch it and then try to figure out what was really happening in the world—just like at home, the CIA officer thought, with an early-morning grumble. Well, he’d have the Early Bird at the embassy for that, sent by secure fax from Washington for the senior embassy staffers. For an American citizen, living in Moscow was like being on a desert island. At least they had a satellite dish at the embassy so they could download CNN and other programming. It made them feel like real people—almost.
Breakfast was breakfast. Little Eddie liked Frosted Flakes—the milk was from Finland, because his mother didn’t trust the local grocery store, and the foreigners-only store was convenient to the compound. Ed and Mary Pat didn’t talk much over breakfast, in deference to the bugs that littered their walls. They never talked at home about important matters, except via hand code—and never in front of their son, because little kids were incapable of keeping secrets of any kind. In any case, their KGB surveillance people were probably bored with the Foleys by now, which they’d both worked hard at, inserting just enough randomness in their behavior to make them look like Americans. But a considered amount. Not too much. They’d planned it out carefully and thoroughly at Langley, with the help of a tame KGB Second Chief Directorate defector.
Mary Pat had her husband’s clothes all laid out on the bed, including the green tie to go with his brown suit. Like the President, Ed looked good in brown, his wife thought. Ed would wear a raincoat again, and he would keep it unbuttoned and loose around his body should another message be passed, and his senses would be thoroughly sandpapered all day.
“What are your plans for the day?” he asked Mary Pat in the living room.
“The usual. I might get together with Penny after lunch.”
“Oh? Well, say hello for me. Maybe we can get together for dinner later this week.”
“Good idea,” his wife said. “Maybe they can explain rugby to me.”
“It’s like football, honey, just the rules are a little goofy,” the Station Chief explained. “Well, off to keep the reporters happy.”
“Right!” Mary Pat laughed, working her eyes at the walls. “That guy from the Boston Globe is such an ass.”
Outside, the morning was pleasant enough—just a hint of cool air to suggest the approach of autumn. Foley walked off toward the station, waving at the gate guard. The guy on morning duty actually smiled once in a while. He’d clearly been around foreigners too much, or had been trained to do so by KGB. His uniform was that of the Moscow Militia—the city police—but Foley thought he looked a little too intelligent for that. Muscovites thought of their police as a rather low form of life, and such an agency would not attract the brightest of people.
The couple blocks to the metro station passed quickly. Crossing the streets was reasonably safe here—far more so than in New York—because private cars were pretty rare. And it was a good thing. Russian drivers made the Italians look prudent and orderly. The guys driving the ubiquitous dump trucks must all have been former tank crewmen, judging by their road manners. He picked up his copy of Pravda at the kiosk and took the escalator down to the platform. A man of the strictest habits, he arrived at the station at exactly the same time every morning, then checked the clock hanging from the ceiling to make sure. The subway trains ran on an inhumanly precise schedule, and he walked aboard at exactly 7:43 A.M. He hadn’t looked over his shoulder. It was too far into his residency in Moscow to rubberneck like a new tourist, and that, he figured, would make his KGB shadow think that his American subject was about as interesting as the kasha that Russians liked for breakfast along with the dreadful local coffee. Quality control was something th
e Soviets reserved for their nuclear weapons and space program, though Foley had doubts about those, based on what he’d seen in this city, where only the metro seemed to work properly. Such a strange combination of casual-klutz and Germanlike precision they were. You could tell how well things worked over here by what they were used for, and intelligence operations had the highest priority of all, lest the Soviets’ enemies find out not what they had, but what they didn’t have. Foley had agent CARDINAL to tell him and America what the Soviet Union had in the military realm. Generally, it was good stuff to learn, but that was mainly because the more you learned, the less you had to worry. No, it was political intelligence that counted most here because, as backward as they were, they were still big enough to cause trouble if you couldn’t counter them early on. Langley was very worried about the Pope at the moment. He’d evidently done something that might be embarrassing to the Russians. And Ivan didn’t like being embarrassed in the political field any more than American politicians—just that Ivan didn’t go running off to The Washington Post to get even. Ritter and Moore were very concerned about what Ivan might do—and even more worried about what Yuriy Andropov might do. Ed Foley didn’t have a feel for that particular Russian. Like most in CIA, he knew the guy only by his face, name, and his evident liver problems—that information had leaked out through a means the Station Chief didn’t know. Maybe the Brits . . . if you could trust the Brits, Ed cautioned himself. He had to trust them, but something kept making the hackles on his neck get nervous about them. Well, they probably had doubts about CIA. Such a crazy game this was. He scanned the front page. Nothing surprising, though the piece on the Warsaw Pact was a little interesting. They still worried about NATO. Maybe they really did worry about having the German army come east again. They were certainly paranoid enough. . . . Paranoia had probably been invented in Russia. Maybe Freud discovered it on a trip here, he mused, lifting his eyes for a pair tracking him . . . no, none, he decided. Was it possible that the KGB wasn’t tracking him? Well, possible, yes, but likely, no. If they had a guy—more likely a team—shadowing him, the coverage would be expert—but why put expert—but why put expert coverage on the Press Attaché? Foley sighed to himself. Was he too much of a worrier, or not paranoid enough? And how did you tell the difference? Or might he have exposed himself to a false-flag operation by wearing a green tie? How the hell do you tell?