Jack Ryan 11 - Bear And The Dragon (110 page)

“I know, Oleg. I understand that we developed the intelligence in Washington and forwarded it to your people immediately,” Reilly said to his friend.

“You must be proud of that,” Provalov observed.

“Wasn't the Bureau that did it,” Reilly responded. The Russians would be touchy about having Americans provide them with such sensitive information. Maybe Americans would have reacted the same way. “Anyway, what are you going to do about it?”

“We're trying to locate his electronic correspondents. We have their addresses, and they are all on Russian-owned ISPs. FSS probably has them all identified by now.”

“Arrest them when?”

“When they meet Suvorov. We have enough to make the arrests now.”

Reilly wasn't sure about that. The people Suvorov wanted to meet could always say that they came to see him by invitation without having a clue as to the purpose of the meeting, and a day-old member of the bar could easily enough sell the “reasonable doubt” associated with that to a jury. Better to wait until they all did something incriminating, and then squeeze one of them real hard to turn state's evidence on the rest. But the rules and the juries were different here.

“Anatoliy, what are you thinking about?” Golovko asked.

“Comrade Chairman, I am thinking that Moscow has suddenly become dangerous,” Major Shelepin replied. “The idea of former Spetsnaz men conspiring to commit treason on this scale sickens me. Not just the threat, but also the infamy of it. These men were my comrades in the army, trained as I was to be guardians of the State.” The handsome young officer shook his head.

“Well, when this place was the KGB, it happened to us more than once. It is unpleasant, yes, but it is reality. People are corruptible. It is human nature,” Golovko said soothingly. Besides, the threat isn't against me now, he didn't add. An unworthy thought, perhaps, but that also was human nature. “What is President Grushavoy's detail doing now?”

“Sweating, I should imagine. Who can say that this is the only threat? What if this Kong bastard has more than one such agent in Moscow? We should pick him up, too.”

“So we shall, when the time comes. He's been observed to do only one dead-drop over the past week, and we control that one -- yes, yes, I know,” Sergey added, when he saw the beginnings of Anatoliy's objections. “He isn't the only MSS operative in Moscow, but he's probably the only one on this case. Security considerations are universal. They must worry that one of their officers might be in our employ, after all. There are many wheels in such an operation, and they don't all turn in the same direction, my young friend. You know what I miss?”

“I should imagine it is having the second chief directorate under the same roof. That way the operation would be run cooperatively.”

Golovko smiled. “Correct, Anatoliy Ivan'ch. For now, we can only do our job and wait for others to do theirs. And, yes, waiting is never an entertaining way to spend one's time.” With that observation, both men resumed staring at the desk phones, waiting for them to ring.

The only reason that surveillance hadn't been tightened any more was that there wasn't enough room for the additional personnel, and Suvorov might take note of the thirty people who followed him everywhere. That day he awoke at his normal hour, washed up, had coffee and kasha for breakfast, left the apartment building at 9:15, and drove his car into the city, with a good deal of elusive company. He parked his car two blocks from Gor'kiy Park and walked the rest of the way there.

So did four others, also under surveillance. They met at a magazine kiosk at precisely 9:45 and walked together toward a coffee shop that was disagreeably crowded, too much so for any of the watchers to get close enough to listen in, though the faces were observed. Suvorov/Koniev did most of the talking, and the other four listened intently, and nods started.

Yefremov of the Federal Security Service kept his distance. He was senior enough that he could no longer guarantee that his face was unknown, and had to trust the more junior men to get in close, their earpieces removed and radio transmitters turned off, wishing they could read lips like the people in spy movies.

For Pavel Georgiyevich Yefremov, the question was, what to do now? Arrest them all and risk blowing the case -- or merely continue to shadow, and risk having them go forward...and perhaps accomplish the mission?

The question would be answered by one of the four contacts. He was the oldest of them, about forty, a Spetsnaz veteran of Afghanistan with the Order of the Red Banner to his name. His name was Igor Maximov. He held up his hand, rubbing forefinger and thumb, and, getting the answer to his question, he shook his head and politely took his leave. His departure was a cordial one, and his personal two-man shadow team followed him to the nearest Metro station while the others continued talking.

On learning this, Yefremov ordered him picked up. That was done when he got off the Metro train five kilometers away at the station near his flat, where he lived with his wife and son. The man did not resist and was unarmed. Docile as a lamb, he accompanied the two FSS officers to their headquarters.

“Your name is Maximov, Igor Il'ych,” Yefremov told him. “You met with your friend Suvorov, Klementi Ivan'ch, to discuss participation in a crime. We want to hear your version of what was discussed.”

“Comrade Yefremov, I met some old friends for coffee this morning and then I left. Nothing in particular was discussed. I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Yes, of course,” the FSS man replied. “Tell me, do you know two former Spetsnaz men like yourself, Amalrik and Zimyanin?”

“I've heard the names, but I don't know the faces.”

“Here are the faces.” Yefremov handed over the photos from the Leningrad Militia. “They are not pleasant to look upon.”

Maximov didn't blanch, but he didn't look at the photos with affection either. “What happened to them?”

“They did a job for your comrade, Suvorov, but he was evidently displeased with how they went about it, and so, they went swimming in the River Neva. Maximov, we know that you were Spetsnaz. We know that you earn your living today doing illegal things, but that is not a matter of concern to us at the moment. We want to know exactly what was said at the coffee shop. You will tell us this, the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours.” When he wanted to, Yefrernov could come on very hard to his official guests. In this case, it wasn't difficult. Maximov was not a stranger to violence, at least on the giving side. The receiving side was something he had no wish to learn about.

“What do you offer me?”

“I offer you your freedom in return for your cooperation. You left the meeting before any conclusions were reached. That is why you are here. So, do you wish to speak now, or shall we wait a few hours for you to change your mind?”

Maximov was not a coward -- Spetsnaz didn't have many of those, in Yefremov's experience -- but he was a realist, and realism told him that he had nothing to gain by noncooperation.

“He asked me and the others to participate in a murder. I presume it will be a difficult operation, otherwise why would he need so many men? He offers for this twenty thousand euros each. I decided that my time is more valuable than that.”

“Do you know the name of the target?”

Maximov shook his head. “No. He did not say. I did not ask.”

“That is good. You see, the target is President Grushavoy.” That got a reaction, as Maximov's eyes flared.

“That is state treason,” the former Spetsnaz sergeant breathed, hoping to convey the idea that he'd never do such a thing. He learned fast.

“Yes. Tell me, is twenty thousand euros a good price for a murder?”

“I would not know. If you want me to tell you that I have killed for money, no, Comrade Yefremov, I will not say that.”

But you have, and you'd probably participate in this one if the price went high enough. In Russia, E20,000 was a considerable sum. But Yefremov had much bigger fish to fry. “The others at the meeting, what do you know of them?”

“All are Spetsnaz veterans. Ilya Suslov and I served together east of Qandahar. He's a sniper, a very good one. The others, I know them casually, but I never served with them.”

Sniper. Well, those were useful, and President Grushavoy appeared in public a lot. He was scheduled to have an outdoor rally the very next day, in fact. It was time to wrap this up.

“So, Suvorov spoke of a murder for hire?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Good. We will take your statement. You were wise to cooperate, Igor Il'ych.” Yefremov had a junior officer lead him away. Then he lifted his phone. “Arrest them all,” he told the field commander.

“The meeting broke up. We have all of them under surveillance. Suvorov is en route back to his flat with one of the three.”

“Well, assemble the team and arrest them both.”

“Feeling better?” Colonel Aliyev asked.

“What time is it?”

“Fifteen-forty, Comrade General,” Colonel Aliyev replied. “You slept for thirteen hours. Here are some dispatches from Moscow.”

“You let me sleep that long?” the general demanded, instantly angry.

“The war has not begun. Our preparations, such as they are, are progressing, and there seemed no sense in waking you. Oh, we have our first set of reconnaissance photos. Not much better than the American ones we had faxed to us. Intelligence has firmed up its estimate. It's not getting any better. We have support now from an American ELINT aircraft, but they tell us that the Chinese aren't using their radios, which is not a surprise.”

“God damn it, Audrey!” the general responded, rubbing his unshaven face with both hands.

“So, court-martial me after you've had your coffee. I got some sleep, too. You have a staff. I have a staff, and I decided to let them do their jobs while we slept,” the operations officer said defiantly.

“What of the Never Depot?”

“We have a total of one hundred eighty tanks operating with full crews. Shorter on the infantry component and artillery, but the reservists seem to be functioning with some degree of enthusiasm, and the 265th Motor Rifle is starting to act like a real division for the first time.” Aliyev walked over a mug of coffee with milk and sugar, the way Bondarenko preferred it. “Drink, Gennady Iosifovich.” Then he pointed to a table piled with buttered bread and bacon.

“If we live, I will see you promoted, Colonel.”

“I've always wanted to be a general officer. But I want to see my children enter university, too. So, let's try to stay alive.”

“What of the border troops?”

“I have transport assigned to each post -- where possible, two sets of transport. I've sent some of the reservists in BTRs to make sure they have a little protection against the artillery fire when they pull out. We have a lot of guns in the photos from the M-5, Comrade General. And fucking mountains of shells. But the border troops have ample protection, and the orders have gone out so that they will not need permission to leave their posts when the situation becomes untenable -- at the company-officer level, that is,” Aliyev added. Commissioned officers were less likely to bug out than enlisted men.

“No word on when?”

The G-3 shook his head. “Nothing helpful from Intelligence. The Chinese are still moving trucks and such around, from what we can tell. I'd say another day, maybe as many as three.”

“So?” Ryan asked.

“So, the overheads show they're still moving the chess pieces on the board,” Foley answered. “But most of them are in place.”

“What about Moscow?”

“They're going to arrest their suspects soon. Probably going to pick up the control officer in Moscow, too. They'll sweat him some, but he does have diplomatic immunity, and you can't squeeze him much.” Ed Foley remembered when KGB had arrested his wife in Moscow. It hadn't been pleasant for her -- and less so for him -- but they hadn't roughed her up, either. Messing with people who traveled on diplomatic passports didn't happen often, despite what they'd seen on TV a few weeks before. And the Chinese probably regretted that one a lot, pronouncements on the SORGE feeds to the contrary notwithstanding.

“Nothing from inside to encourage us?”

“Nope.” The DCI shook his head.

“We ought to start moving the Air Force,” Vice President Jackson urged.

“But then it could be seen as a provocation,” Secretary Adler pointed out. “We can't give them any excuse.”

“We can move First Armored into Russia, say it's a joint training exercise with our new NATO allies,” TOMCAT said. “That could buy us a few days.”

Ryan weighed that and looked over at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Well, General?”

“It can't hurt all that much. They're already working with Deutsche Rail to get the move organized.”

“Then do it,” the President ordered.

“Yes, sir.” General Moore moved to make the call.

Ryan checked his watch. “I have a reporter to talk to.”

“Have fun,” Robby told his friend.

Zhigansk, on the west side of the Lena River, had once been a major regional air defense center for the old Soviet PVO Strany, the Russian air-defense command. It had a larger-than-average airfield with barracks and hangars, and had been largely abandoned by the new Russian military, with just a caretaker staff to maintain the facility in case it might be needed someday. This turned out to be a piece of lucky foresight, because the United States Air Force started moving in that day, mainly transport aircraft from the central part of America that had staged through Alaska and flown over the North Pole to get there. The first of thirty C-5 Galaxy transports landed at ten in the morning local time, taxiing to the capacious but vacant ramps to offload their cargo under the direction of ground crewmen who'd ridden in the large passenger area aft of the wing box in the huge transports. The first things wheeled off were the Dark Star UAVs. They looked like loaves of French bread copulating atop slender wings, and were long-endurance, stealthy reconnaissance drones that took six hours to assemble for flight. The crews got immediately to work, using mobile equipment shipped on the same aircraft.