Shadow Wars, page 16
A KGB general who had spent much time in Cuba never forgot how Fidel Castro used illicit drugs to bring in the hard currency he so desperately required. He didn’t grow or distribute the drugs—instead he aided the smugglers with safe passage, protection, and supplied them with weapons in return for a cash shakedown for his services. The fact that it was primarily American dollars that came back to Cuba impressed the general greatly. Castro’s theory of cash flow was related to the reliability of the American drug user, and the general took that theory to heart, basing his own concept on the demands of the European community. It became a simple matter of gradually and very stealthily taking over that profitable market in Europe without drawing attention to themselves. The process began subtly. Men who had once worked with organizations like the Stasi or the Securitate had no trouble insinuating themselves into the distribution line. Petty criminals and dealers were no match for former secret police. Nor did major importers care to match weapons against modern military hardware. It became a matter of sharing the wealth in return for superb protection.
Since a number of the republics on the Baltic and the southern tier of the old Soviet Union already provided enough disruption to create problems beyond their size for the new “Commonwealth,” little organizing was needed there. It was European Russia, west of the Urals—Ukraine, Russia, Belarus, Georgia—where this covert group concentrated their political efforts. Situations identical to those already experienced in the former Warsaw Pact countries were encouraged in the major Russian cities where dissatisfaction with the pace of reform in the Commonwealth was evident. Politicians, financial leaders, and cultural figures either met unusual deaths, were discredited publicly, or were revealed to be associated in criminal activities. Since the media, even within the Commonwealth, reveled in other people’s misery, free publicity was available.
People were the same everywhere—it wouldn’t have mattered whether Grigory Raskova, Norman Smith, Carl Halder, Wallace Ellyson, or even P. T. Barnum made that statement—and unhappy people are much easier to influence. Personal unhappiness was encouraged to develop into political dissatisfaction. Armies have no use in such a situation. Time becomes the most effective weapon.
Imperious. It had a nice feel and sound. That was the term that fit so neatly, but Ellyson had kept it to himself and never uttered it. Now he felt exactly that way as he glared across his wide desk. “Captain Ryng, I don’t think we have any choice but to work together.” Wallace Ellyson knew he was being pompous but he couldn’t force himself to react in a more professional way. There had never been a moment that he didn’t feel superior to anyone in uniform. He intensely disliked Bernie Ryng and had already decided he would have found fault with the man even if Katherine hadn’t been involved with him. It had to be the uniform.
Ryng found Ellyson overbearing, self-centered, and arrogant. It could all be summed up in one word—asshole. He was sure the man wouldn’t have understood why he was an asshole but then, he told Chance, people like that never did. “Yes. For your daughter’s sake, sir. We haven’t gotten a reason for someone grabbing her. There’s no one contacting you about a ransom. And for some strange reason they brought her back to Europe. Now that’s something I don’t understand at all, and everyone I’ve talked with is mystified by it.” Knowledge of Kat’s disappearance had followed a circuitous path—from Chance to Ryng to Crandall to Ellyson to the man who was almost as angry as her father—Norman Smith, whom none of the others knew about. Wallace Ellyson had done a masterful job as the outraged father struggling to act reasonably.
“Damn it.” Ellyson leaned forward angrily. Halder, for whatever reason possessed him, had placed him in an awkward position and the less said about it and the less people involved the better as far as Ellyson was concerned. He knew Halder didn’t trust him, but the feeling was also mutual. He disliked the necessity of working with Ryng and he found it difficult to assume the role of a terrified or outraged father when he’d figured out what had happened to Katherine—both situations required a charade of sorts on his part. Vanity aside, he wasn’t quite sure how to act in this position, and any sort of insecurity was anathema to Wallace Ellyson. “This was supposed to be kept absolutely confidential and—”
“And it still is,” Ryng snapped back. “None of them have any idea who we’re referring to. I’m trying to explain the options and how we see each one of them.” While the corpse in the Frankfurt apartment where she’d been held had been identified as Joseph Drobner, a minor Stasi functionary from Dresden, there was no trail. He seemed to have risen from nowhere and now he’d returned there permanently.
Adolph Geyer had explained that the Stasi were officially gone from Germany—“underground,” he’d added quickly. But why would they kidnap someone like Kat unless there was much more than met the eye? Ryng thought it odd that Ellyson hadn’t heard a thing about ransom. It was even odder that he’d agreed to operate under the restrictions Ryng had explained.
“I’m not interested in understanding a damn thing.” Ellyson glared at Ryng as if thinking were reserved for individuals on his own level. “My only concern is getting Katherine back here. I have been told that you have the necessary qualifications to accomplish assignments beyond other people. I have also been told in no uncertain terms that you possess a confrere at the White House, which, I might add, is indeed beyond me. So you and your friend, Mr. Chance, are free to do whatever is necessary, without any reservation on my part, to bring Katherine back here.” He rose from his chair to indicate that the audience had come to an end. But not a word of worry, not a mention about ransom—it was a totally different reaction than anyone would have expected. Wallace Ellyson had a singular goal in mind, to be left alone until he could properly sort things out and simplify what had been complicated by people who he felt should have left well enough alone.
“And I also need to use Chief Gannett if I may, sir.” Ryng stood up in deference to the ambassador.
“Gannett is an enlisted man. What qualifications does he bring to your efforts?” Ellyson straightened his paisley tie unconsciously and pulled at the cuffs of his shirt one at a time so the large, gold cuff links would stand out below the sleeves of his suit coat. “I really can’t just send my staff off … off on a lark. That’s what it seems to me until you have something solid to go on.”
Even now, the man is so conscious about his appearance. “Gannett is what I think you would call unprepossessing.” Ryng smiled at the irritation that sparkled in Ellyson’s eyes. “That cherubic grin and bald head are very deceiving. In less than a year, he’s gotten to know more covert operators in the cities in Western Europe on both sides of the fence than anyone else. His contacts with the hostage rescue units in these countries come with more IOUs than you or I can ever understand, and he probably knows as many who’d contract a kidnapping if they thought it was worthwhile.”
For just a moment, a flicker of concern crossed Ellyson’s face. “Why hostage rescue units? What makes you think she’s a hostage?” That certainly had never been Halder’s intention when they considered this option.
“I don’t think anything today, but who knows why she was grabbed or who did it, Mr. Ellyson. We both want her back. I have been given some authority that you have already acknowledged,” he added nastily. “I need Chief Gannett.”
“Very well, Captain.” Ellyson nodded toward the door. “I hope you justify that authority. I expect you to report to me just as you would to any superior in your Navy.”
Ryng returned to his office, left word he didn’t want to be disturbed, and sat down at his desk with a piece of paper. GDR—Voronov had said that there was a good possibility this underground had originated in the old German Democratic Republic; perhaps it was even the control center. Stasi—Geyer said many of them had gone underground, undefeated in their own eyes. Drobner—an ex-Stasi, an unknown quantity. GDR. Stasi. Drobner. And … Kat. Would someone like Kat give an underground organization a bargaining point of some kind? If she did, why? Start asking, Bernie. There was no reason to sit behind a desk in an office.
Wallace Ellyson had watched the door shut behind Ryng. He was disturbed by the fact that the reasons he disliked Ryng were changing. He couldn’t deny the man’s intelligence or determination or his affection for Kat. Those were the kind of traits a father hoped his daughter would find in a man. Instead, he disliked Ryng because these essentially positive characteristics introduced an unwanted element in his plans. Ellyson would damn well make sure no harm came to Katherine. If his partners balked, he would simply demand that she be released, no questions asked. That could eliminate any trail.
The last thing they needed was that pain-in-the-ass Gannett’s contacts coming up with a trail. In opposition to that solution was the fact that Katherine’s disappearance was supposed to have deflected any suspicion from him if his name ever became involved. But who was aware of their group? No one could possibly be suspicious of him. His name wasn’t involved with anything. Halder, for whatever reason—probably some misguided paranoia—had taken it upon himself to initiate the situation with Katherine. Now that the mistake had been made, he decided that Norman Smith and Carl Halder had damn well better be right that there was no trail. He glanced at his watch. When the hell was Smith going to get back to him? Why did you ever trust Halder? Wallace Ellyson licked his lips as he pondered that question. For that matter, why Malik or Raskova? You were taught to hate Russians. He quickly shoved the word ambition aside as wholly unfitting for someone in his position.
Paul Voronov pressed the button with an emotion that surprised and confused him. He’d never previously experienced a need for revenge because he was a purely professional military man. But the individual on the other side of the window had attempted to kill him in a nonprofessional manner, and revenge was the emotion he recognized. It was an unpleasant sensation which he struggled to contain.
The cell beyond the one-way window was instantly ablaze with brilliant light. Grigory Raskova had been asleep, curled in a protective, fetal position. The vivid explosion of light shocked him into a rigidity even Voronov hadn’t anticipated. Raskova rolled onto his back, legs together, toes pointed down, hands tucked close to his side, fingers aimed at his feet, almost as if he’d come to attention. His mouth was a straight line, lips sucked in between his teeth. His eyes were squeezed tight and tears instantly formed at the corners. And he was trembling visibly.
Voronov was momentarily taken aback, almost ashamed of his feelings of revenge, when he viewed what he considered a pathetic reaction. No Spetznaz would ever have done that! Then he realized that his prisoner was responding automatically to the instructions he’d been given and, out of fear, probably retained in his subconscious as he slept. It had only been an hour and a half, not nearly enough time to regain any reasonable mental strength. “Normally I don’t let people sleep as long as you have but you were most cooperative in our last session. Tell me, did you enjoy your night’s sleep?”
“I guess I feel better.” The voice was weak and raspy. “My throat—I need some water.”
“Again? So soon? I would have thought you’d burst with all that you drank before you slept. But I’ll have someone fetch another full bottle in due time if you think it would help. We’ll have to talk first, of course. And the food.” There hadn’t been any food or water. “I know it wasn’t much considering your girth, and it certainly wasn’t fancy, but does your stomach feel better now?”
Raskova’s forehead wrinkled as if he were trying to remember what he’d eaten. “I guess so.”
“Wonderful. Perhaps we can get through what we’re here for and you can get back to the real world. That involves telling the truth. You’d like to be finished with this also, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Before we start, don’t you think this is an effective way of obtaining the truth?”
Another pause. “What do you mean?”
“Well, after all, you subjected a number of people to this same room in order to obtain the truth.”
“I never did this to anyone!” Raskova’s voice quavered as he understood the direction the invisible voice was headed.
“What you really mean is that you were never in my position right now, asking questions I mean. But you did order others to interrogate people in this manner, didn’t you?”
Raskova said nothing but they could see his lips working.
“I’m waiting for an answer.” Voronov’s finger slowly turned the rheostat and the glare increased.
“Yes,” Raskova screamed.
“Truth. Honesty.” Voronov savored each word. “This builds character.” He turned down the glare.
Neither Chance nor Gannett had said a word. They watched, fascinated, as the naked man’s body visibly relaxed. His breathing, which had become short gasps, now grew more steady.
“Ask him about Joseph Drobner,” Gannett said softly.
When Raskova appeared to be back to as normal as possible, Voronov began again. “We are looking for some names,” he began in a pleasant voice, “and we think you might be able to help us. Why don’t you tell us about Joseph Drobner.”
“Drobner? I don’t know that name.”
“A former Stasi agent, this Herr Drobner. Certainly you must know the name.”
Raskova remained silent until the light began to grow brighter. “I’ve never heard that name,” he called out anxiously.
Voronov turned down the light. “All right, we’ll discuss your friend Herr Drobner later. You have already acknowledged that you gave the orders to have Colonel Voronov killed and that you received those orders from someone else. Now, the reason I think you wanted Voronov dead was because you knew he’d gone to Prague. I don’t know how you found out about that but wasn’t it because he was operating under special orders from our president?” It was a way of beginning, a method of placing the subject’s mind in the proper perspective, but Voronov was also curious. He understood that intelligence was everything. Without it, you were helpless. All the weapons in the world, all the power, none of it meant a damn if you didn’t have the intelligence to wield it. So how did someone working covertly come up with a plum like his trip to Prague when the most powerful man in the nation had been absolutely sure of its secrecy?
Raskova’s breathing seemed to have ceased. Was it the mention of the president? His hands curled into fists. He wasn’t supposed to have reacted like that. It was bad for the physical well-being of a man Raskova’s age.
Voronov decided on another direction. “If you could be where I am right now, and see yourself lying flat on a board as naked as a baby, you’d understand why I know you’re going to remain honest and truthful with me.” His voice was calm and well modulated but his hand was again on the rheostat and the glare was increasing gently. “Believe me, General, you’re better off with me than the ones who really love pain. Who told you about Voronov’s trip to Prague?”
“I don’t understand …” Raskova’s breathing was shallow, uneven. His body jerked with involuntary spasms. His actions might have been indicative of a person entering an epileptic seizure.
So much for appealing to his sensitivity. “That answer is a mistake,” Voronov shouted in a shrill voice. He pushed a button which caused the light to flash on and off. Brilliance—blackness. Brilliance—blackness. Even behind the smoky window, the violent strobe effect was uncomfortable. He turned away from the window to Chance and Gannett. “Don’t look. Even out here, this could drive a man crazy.” He folded his arms. “You’ll see what I mean.”
“Stop … please.” It was a cry of agony.
“See,” Voronov said. “Real torture isn’t necessary when you have something like this. The human mind is a strange thing.” And he added with a smile, “It’s a special pleasure to test it on a practitioner.” He pushed the button to stop the flashing. “I’m no expert at this. I’ve only seen it done once, but from everything I’ve heard General Raskova is much too easy.” The cell was once again bathed in a steady, searing glare.
“Thank you.” There was true gratitude in Raskova’s voice.
“It’s the least I can do when you know how much easier it is to cooperate. So now tell me where the weapons are stockpiled. Germany? Poland? We know it’s somewhere along the rail lines. Where?” he inquired politely.
Raskova’s sudden deep breath when Voronov mentioned weapons, followed by an effort to wet his lips, were both audible. “You have the wrong man. I don’t deal with weapons.”
“I’ve been told otherwise. You know, I should warn you that we’ve had others from your organization in this room and they eventually cooperated. How about Poland? Is that it? Where in Poland? Quickly now.”
“I don’t even understand the—” Raskova’s words were cut off by the strobe. “No!” he shrieked.
“Maybe not Poland. How about Germany?”
Raskova was rolling his head from one side to the other. Spittle ran from the corner of his mouth.
“It had to be Germany! Do you want to get back to this later?”
“Yes,” Raskova moaned.
“Don’t think I’ll forget. I need to know exactly where the weapons have been stockpiled.” He winked at Chance. “I’m sure it’s Germany. It took all he had not to say so,” he whispered with his hand over the mike. “Now we have two items you’ve avoided, Joseph Drobner and the weapons. Be assured I’ll get back to them and your comfort will be disturbed even more if you attempt to deny me the answers again.” Voronov turned off the strobe and added, “And if you don’t answer my questions next time, I’ll leave the strobe on until you’re blind. So, back to Colonel Voronov’s trip to Prague. You were about to tell me how you learned about that.”
“One of my men who covers the airport contacted me.” There was no expression in Raskova’s voice. It was almost as if he were reciting from memory. “It’s not usual for one of the aircraft reserved for the president to depart and return in the middle of the night.”
