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.
"Do you believe that little prick last night? You know, one thing I actually admire about Russia is the way you handle--"
"Antisocial behavior? Yes--five years in a camp of strict regime. Our new openness does not extend to condoning sexual perversion. Your friend Trent made an acquaintance on his last trip to the Soviet Union. The young ... man in question is now in such a camp." Platonov didn't say that he had refused to cooperate with the KGB, and so earned his sentence. Why confuse the issue? he thought.
"You can have him with my blessings. We have enough of them over here," Jack growled. He felt thoroughly awful; his eyes were pounding to escape from his head as a result of all the wine and insufficient sleep.
"So I have noticed. And may we have the SEC also?" Platonov asked.
"You know, I didn't do anything wrong. Not a damned thing! I got a tip from a friend and I followed up on it. I didn't go looking for it, it just happened. So I made a few bucks--so what? I write intelligence briefs for the President! I'm good at it--and they're coming after me! After all the--" Ryan stopped and stared painfully into Platonov's eyes. "So what the hell do you care?"
"Ever since we first met at Georgetown some years ago, frankly I have admired you. That business with the terrorists. I do not agree with your political views, as you plainly do not agree with mine. But as one man to another, you took some vermin off the street. You may choose to believe this or not, but I have argued against State support for such animals. True Marxists who want to free their peoples--yes. we should support them in any way we can--but bandits are murderers, they are mere scum who view us as a source of arms, nothing more. My country gains nothing by it. Politics aside, you are a man of courage and honor. Of course I respect that. It is a pity that your country does not. America only places its best men on pedestals so that lesser ones can use them as targets."
Ryan's wary look was replaced briefly with one of measurement. "You have that one right."
"So, my friend--what will they do to you?"
Jack let out a long breath as he focused his eyes down the corridor. "I have to get a lawyer this week. I suppose he'll know. I'd hoped to avoid that. I thought I could talk my way out of it, but--but this new bastard in SEC, a pansy that Trent--" Another breath. "Trent used his influence to get the job for him. How much you want to bet that the two of them ... I find myself in agreement with you. If one must have enemies, they should at least be enemies you can respect."
"And CIA cannot help you?"
"Ritter doesn't like me at all, never has. I made him look bad on something a few years back, and he isn't the sort of man to forget that sort of thing. Maybe one of his people ... he has some good ones. The Admiral wants to help, but he's old. The Judge is on his way out, supposed to have left a year ago, but he's hanging on somehow--he couldn't help me if he wanted to."
"The President likes your work. We know that."
"The President's a lawyer, a prosecutor. He gets even a whiff that you might have bent a law, and--it's amazing how quick you can get lonely. There's a bunch in the State Department who're after my ass, too. I don't see things quite their way. This is a bitch of a town to be honest in."
It's correct, then, Platonov thought. They'd gotten the report first from Peter Henderson, code-named Cassius, who'd been feeding data to the KGB for over ten years, first as special assistant to the retired Senator Donaldson of the Senate's intelligence committee, now an intelligence analyst for the General Accounting Office. KGB knew Ryan to be the bright, rising star of the CIA's Intelligence Directorate. His evaluation at Moscow Center had at first called him a wealthy dilettante. That had changed a few years ago. He'd done something to earn him presidential attention, and now wrote nearly half of the special intelligence briefing papers that went to the White House. It was known from Henderson that he had assembled a massive report on the strategic-arms situation, one that had raised hackles at Foggy Bottom. Platonov had long since formed his own impression. A good judge of character, from their first meeting at Georgetown's Galleria he'd deemed Ryan a bright opponent, and a brave one--but a man too accustomed to privilege, too easily outraged at personal attack. Sophisticated, but strangely naive. What he saw over lunch confirmed it. Fundamentally, Ryan was too American. He saw things in blacks and whites, goods and bads. But what mattered today was that Ryan had felt himself invincible, and was only now learning that this was not the case. Because of that, Ryan was an angry man.
"All that work wasted," Jack said after a few seconds. "They're going to trash my recommendations."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Ernest Fucking Allen has talked the President into putting SDI on the table." It required all of Platonov's professionalism not to react visibly to that statement. Ryan went on: "It's all been for nothing. They've discredited my analysis because of this idiot stock thing. The Agency isn't backing me up like they should. They're throwing me to the fucking dogs. Not a damned thing I can do about it, either." Jack finished off the hot dog.
"One can always take action," Platonov suggested.
"Revenge? I've thought of that. I could go to the papers, but the Post is going to run a story about the SEC thing. Somebody on the Hill is orchestrating the hanging party. Trent, I suppose. I bet he put that reporter on me last night, too, the bastard. If I try to get the real word out, well, who'll listen? Christ, I'm putting my tight little ass on the line just sitting here with you, Sergey."
"Why do you say that?"
"Why don't you guess?" Ryan allowed himself a smile that ended abruptly. "I'm not going to go to jail. I'd rather die than have to disgrace myself like that. God damn it, I've risked my tife--I've put it all on the line. Some things you know about, and one that you don't. I have risked my life for this country, and they want to send me to prison!"
"Perhaps we can help." The offer finally came across.
"Defect? You have to be joking. You don't really expect me to live in your workers' paradise, do you?"
"No, but for the proper incentive, perhaps we could change your situation. There will be witnesses against you. They could have accidents ..."
"Don't give me that shit!" Jack leaned forward. "You don't do jobs like that in our country and we don't do them in yours."
"Everything has a price. Surely you understand that better than I." Platonov smiled. "For example, the 'disaster' Mr. Trent referred to last night. What might that have been?"
"And how do I know who you're really working for?" Jack asked.
"What?" That surprised him. Ryan saw past the pain in his sinuses.
"You want an incentive? Sergey, I am about to put my life on the line. Just because I've done it before, don't you think that it's easy. We have somebody inside Moscow Center. Somebody big. You tell me now what that name would buy me."
"Your freedom," Platonov said at once. "If he's as high as you say, we would do very much indeed." Ryan didn't say a word for over a minute. The two men stared at each other as though over cards, as though they were gambling for everything each man owned--and as though Ryan knew that he held the lesser hand. Platonov matched the power of the American's stare, and was gratified to see that it was his power that prevailed.
"I'm flying to Moscow the end of the week, unless the story breaks before then, in which case I'm fucked. What I just told you, pal, it doesn't go through channels. The only person I'm sure it isn't is Gerasimov. It goes to the Chairman himself, direct to him, no intermediaries, or you risk losing the name."
"And why am I supposed to believe you know it?" The Russian pressed his advantage, but carefully.
It was Jack's turn to smile. His hole card had turned out to be a good one. "I don't know the name, but I know the data. With the four things that I know came from CONDUCTOR--THAT'S the code name--your troops can handle the rest. If your letter goes through channels, probably I don't get on the airplane. That's how far up the chain he is--if it's a he, but it probably is. How do I know you'll keep your word?"
"In the intelligence business one must keep one's promises," Platonov assured him.
"Then tell your Chairman that I want to meet him if he can arrange it. Man to man. No bullshit."
"The Chairman? The Chairman doesn't--"
"Then I'll make my own legal arrangements and take my chances. I'm not going to jail for treason either, if I can help it. That's the deal, Comrade Platonov," Jack concluded. "Have a nice drive home."
Jack rose and walked away. Platonov did not follow. He looked around and found his own security man, who signaled that they had not been observed.
And he had his own decision to make. Was Ryan genuine? Cassius said so.
He had run Agent Cassius for three years. Peter Henderson's data had always checked out. They'd used him to track down and arrest a colonel in Strategic Rocket Forces who'd been working for CIA, had gotten priceless strategic and political intelligence, and even inside American analysis of that Red October business of the previous--no, it was two years now, wasn't it, right before Senator Donaldson had retired--and now that he worked in the GAO, he had the best of all possible worlds: direct access to classified defense data and all his political contacts on the Hill. Cassius had told them some time before that Ryan was under investigation. At the time it had been merely a tidbit, no one had taken it seriously. The Americans were always investigating one another. It was their national sport. Then a second time he'd heard the same story, then the scene with Trent. Was it really possible ... ?
A leak high up in KGB, Platonov thought. There was a protocol, of course, for getting important data directly to the Chairman. The KGB allowed for any possibility. Once that message was sent, it would have to be followed up. Just the hint that CIA had an agent high in the KGB hierarchy ...
But that was only one consideration.
Once we set the hook, we will own Dr. Ryan. Perhaps he is foolish enough to think that a one-time exchange of information for services is possible, that he will never again ... more likely that he is so
desperate that he does not care at the moment. What kind of information might we get from him?
Special assistant to the Deputy Director for Intelligence! Ryan must see nearly everything! To recruit so valuable an agent--that hadn't been done since Philby, and that was over fifty years ago!
But is it important enough to break the rules? Platonov asked himself as he finished off his drink. Not in living memory had the KGB committed an act of violence in the United States--there was a gentlemen's agreement on that. But what were rules against this sort of advantage? Perhaps an American or two might have an auto accident, or an unexpected heart attack. That would also have to be approved by the Chairman. Platonov would give his recommendation. It would be followed. He was sure of that.
The diplomat was a fastidious man. He wiped his face with the paper napkin, put all the trash in the paper drink cup, and deposited it in the nearest receptacle. He left nothing behind to suggest that he'd ever been there.
The Archer was sure that they were winning. On announcing his mission to his subordinates, the reaction could not have been better. Grim, amused smiles, sideways looks, nods. The most enthusiastic of all had been their new member, the former Major of the Afghan Army. In their tent, twenty kilometers inside Afghanistan, the plans had been put together in five tense hours.
The Archer looked down at phase one, already complete. Six trucks and three BTR-60 infantry carriers were in their hands. Some were damaged, but that was not unexpected. The dead soldiers of the puppet army were being stripped of their uniforms. Eleven survivors were being questioned. They would not join in this mission, of course, but if they proved to be reliable, they would be allowed to join allied guerrilla bands. For the others ...
the Cardinal Of the Kremlin (1988) Page 36