Shadow Wars, page 18
A mistake had been made and it was his own fault. There should have been a more efficient method of conveying a message to General Raskova, or at least of knowing that the message was received. Absolute security was his responsibility, not something to be delegated to a man with less experience, but it was a pain-in-the-ass detail that had seemed adequate until more important things were out of the way. Battles had been lost because of such inattention.
Now, as he contemplated the situation, he realized he might never know if Raskova had received the message before his disappearance. Could it still be on that tape? How long ago had he called? Just two days because he’d returned immediately to Nice. It was understood by each individual that every message must be erased immediately after it was received. If it was still there on that tape, the people that grabbed Raskova must certainly be equally capable of figuring out that message, even tracing it if their electronics were up to par. The greatest problem, though, was how much Raskova knew. Smith had shared only so much with the man, but he had no idea how much Halder had discussed with him. Between the two of them, it could certainly be too much.
There was little to be gained from talking to Raskova’s wife. She’d never known about his involvement and the woman was terrified according to a Kremlin contact. All she could tell investigators when Raskova failed to appear at headquarters the following morning was that someone had come into their bedroom in the middle of the night. She had no idea of how they got in there nor what had happened to her husband. She did remember waking up, a split second of panic, then a needle, then nothing until she came to in her own bed. Her husband was gone. There were no faces to identify, no voices, not a word spoken—no nothing. It was so professional.
Now Norman Smith faced his next problem—he was left without a buffer for Arkady Malik. Raskova had been the control element, the one who controlled the man who controlled the Commonwealth’s nuclear forces. Smith still suspected that Malik, as brilliant as he appeared, could be a walking time bomb and the presidents of Belarus and Ukraine were said to have the same misgivings.
Raskova’s disappearance sounded to Smith like a KGB operation. Even the traces of the drug remaining in the woman’s blood was a type used by the KGB. Yet why would they grab one of their own, especially the head of a chief directorate? So much for a kinder and gentler KGB, he mused. There was nothing he could grasp that made sense to him. His most reliable sources claimed that the new KGB was both more embarrassed and less cooperative than the old one. What he’d been told so far was apparently all that he was going to learn for the foreseeable future.
“Norman, I’m going to insist on bringing your windbreaker out there if you’re going to sit in that cold wind.”
He waved the windbreaker in the air without turning around. No, the KGB wouldn’t snatch one of their own like that! It was a ruse, a fucking ruse to make it look like the KGB. But who?
“I know the Army issued you a mind of your own so you can do whatever you want, and I know you’ve sat in foxholes when it was twenty below zero. But you’re not getting any younger. Do you want me to be a widow?” It was nagging of a kind, but it was more than that. She was both teasing and showing her concern and her voice was soft.
He shook his head in the negative as if she were right there. None of them—KGB, GRU—operated like that. Who else was into kidnapping? Also, who had the balls to get by the security around Raskova’s apartment and walk away with him? Someone is onto a bad smell.
“Honestly, if I didn’t love you so much, I’d say you were developing early senility.” She closed the door carefully behind her as she came out on the patio. There was another chair beside him and she plopped down in it with a sigh as if she had worn herself out taking care of him. Then she patted his hand. “I don’t mean to be nasty, honey. It’s just that after all those years you were away all over the world, and I was always so excited when you came home, it’s kind of hard to let go now.” She glanced over for the first time and was pleased to see him smiling back at her. “And I was always so afraid when you were off again but I’d never admit it to you. That’s why I did say I’d never let you out of my sight after you retired.”
“I remember your saying that, and I remember agreeing. I still do. That’s why we’re living here away from all that Washington crap.” The Spetznaz had the balls—that’s who! When you had an impossible job, they were the ones. But he had understood they were on his side—Raskova’s side really, for he’d guaranteed them. “That’s who did it!” he said out loud.
“Did what?” she asked curiously.
He smiled again. “Nothing special. Just a mystery I was reading. I think I figured it out.”
“You just don’t know how to stop using your brain, do you? Thank goodness you wanted this place. Why, if we were in the city, you’d be off working somewhere until you dropped.”
“You hit the nail right on the head. That’s why we’re here now. Makes sense to get away from all that.” So much for guarantees. There was always one rotten apple in the bunch. But how the hell do you find out which Spetznaz did it, or why? Someone was onto Raskova, but how did they find out?
“Since you seem so set on spending your time outside, why don’t we take a week or two and go somewhere warm? Wouldn’t it be nicer to sit outside where it’s comfortable? Instead of wool pants and a sweater, you could wear Bermudas and a nice madras shirt,” she added wistfully, dating herself.
Shit, for that matter, what were they finding out? He doubted it would take much to make Raskova sing. So what if he was a big wheel in the KGB. Didn’t he roll over on his back and spread his legs a couple of years before when they had a house cleaning? He’d grown old and fat once they put him in a fancy office. And if you really wanted to be honest about it, he’d turned against his own kind—even if they were running off in the wrong direction. “Why don’t you go into town and talk with a travel agent? As a matter of fact, why not right now? I’ve got some phone calls to make and I’m going to be busy for a while. Maybe a nice cruise to a warm place. How’s that sound?”
“You’re really serious, aren’t you, Norman?”
“Very much so. I think you have a good point.” He didn’t like calling Halder, especially when it got to talking about the Ellyson girl, but if anyone could come up with some old contacts, it was him. There was no point in letting this pass a moment longer. If they could find where Raskova had been taken, perhaps there would be a means of eliminating him before he talked.
She rose from her chair. “You’re so understanding, Norman.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank God you survived all those years that frightened me so much. It would have been a crime to lose a man as fine as you.”
Smith beamed at her and nodded. That’s probably what Mrs. Raskova’s thinking right now.
Carl Halder’s reaction was anything but enthusiastic about Norman Smith’s idea. “Somehow, I’ve always felt that avoiding the Spetznaz was the best policy, Norman … the only one,” he added quickly. “You know, they’re almost like soldiers of fortune. I know they’re supposed to be loyal and the best fighters in the Russian Army, and all that macho shit, but at least a few of them have gone to the highest bidder. One man didn’t pull off that snatch. How do we know how many others we can’t depend on?”
Smith ignored his question. “You know Raskova well, better than me.” He wasn’t easy to shake when he was certain of something. “Someone’s on to something. Between the two of us, he has to know too much. How strong do you think Grigory would be if they want information?”
“That’s hard to say. The Stasi theory always assumed that the older someone was, and the more information they carried around, the easier it was to come up with something. Younger, stronger people with narrow, specific information were always the toughest. But men like Raskova,” he continued thoughtfully, “who spend their life in something like the KGB giving orders to torture people, were sometimes the most terrified. I always thought it had to do with the way others reacted to pain. Wondering what you’re most susceptible to must be a frightening thing to face head-on.”
“What you’ve just told me is what we both have to worry about. Grigory may be an easy touch.”
“Everyone is an easy touch when the right touch is applied,” Halder said nastily. “Me. You. We all have a weakness.”
“We have to get to him quickly then …”
“When were you supposed to meet him?”
“Yesterday.”
“Probably too late already. When did they grab him?”
“The night before apparently.”
“When my Stasi was doing that sort of thing, if we couldn’t get what we wanted in thirty-six hours, we had the wrong man,” Halder said. “Don’t try to find Raskova. If he was going to talk, he already has. Spinning our wheels like that is just going to call attention to us if he didn’t talk. Better to find who took Raskova and hope that we can eliminate them.”
“Can you find out? Are your contacts sufficiently … ?”
“My contacts are superb, Norman.” Halder willingly acknowledged that Smith was in charge. The man had been a general, commanded a theater of operations, and made a name for himself within NATO. But Halder also considered himself an equal because Norman Smith couldn’t get by without him. “Give me a day, maybe less. Good-bye,” he said hastily.
“Not quite yet, Carl. You know there’s another reason why I’m calling.” He wanted Halder to bring up Katherine Ellyson, if for no other reason than he wanted Halder to defer to him.
There was silence on the other end.
“Wallace’s daughter, Carl. We agreed that she’d be left alone unless somehow there was any suspicion that Wallace might be involved. We were saving that because we might need his influence in Washington. What the hell was your reason—”
“Let’s not be coy, Norman. I don’t think you trust Ellyson any more than I do. Whatever way the wind blows, that’s where Wallace is headed. If he thought his ass was in danger, he’d serve your balls up on a platter.”
“But no one else has those contacts in Washington that we may—”
Halder interrupted again. “Damn it, Norman, use your head. We’ve got his daughter and that means we have him. Just in case you weren’t aware, he sent her back to the States. I had someone keeping an eye out because I thought he might pull some shit like that. I figure that was the first step in sticking it up our ass. Even if he thought about getting out before he was implicated—or even tried to pull a fast one on us—there’s no way he’s going to pull out now.”
“When he couldn’t get hold of you, he called me. He’s not taking this well at all. Maybe he thinks it’s you trying to pull one on him. Did you ever think of that?” Smith scolded. “You opened a bag of worms, you know. Since she was in the States when your people took her, the word got out fast that she’d disappeared. Somehow, even the president, Gilbert Crandall, knows about it, and he’s made as much horsepower available as possible to find her. All we need is some snoop mixing us up with her.”
“They won’t find her.”
“Where is she?”
“As always, Norman, it’s better if only one of us knows. Think about poor Raskova and you’ll know what I mean. Shit, we’re worried about him talking, and you want me to tell you where she is? She’s safe. Believe me.”
“Just make sure your people take it easy on her,” Smith countered.
“She’s being a first-class bitch. I’ll tell you that. But she’s not going to get hurt unless she does it to herself. Norman,” he added sternly, “she’s good insurance. Let me take care of it. And let me see if I can learn who grabbed Raskova. Maybe we can take care of that problem. Since you’re so good at handling Malik, why don’t you make sure he doesn’t go off half-cocked now that his buddy, Raskova, is gone. Now, if you don’t mind, time’s precious.”
“I’ll wait to hear from you.” And with that, Smith hung up the phone. That was what he wanted to hear. Halder had the commitments and was doing a fine job in his own bailiwick. Yet there was something about Halder’s tone, something about the way he injected Smith’s first name so often. Was he getting too cocky, too sure of himself?
Now was obviously the time to establish contact with Malik. Arkady Malik, the head of the Russian Strategic Rocket Forces, would bring his people together in his own way. Smith hadn’t anticipated that he would make direct contact with Malik so soon but how could any of them have anticipated the Raskova situation? Deep down, Smith had experienced a gnawing sensation about the KGB general, a sense that he might follow the prevailing winds if the going got tough. Smith knew how Halder felt about Wallace Ellyson and, in a way, Smith’s suspicion of the Russian was based on a similar, inherent distrust of the KGB general. Neither Smith nor Halder had ever discussed their concerns directly with each other, but the retired American general could sense it in Halder and he was willing to acknowledge his own prejudices, but only to himself. No honor among thieves, he mused ruefully to himself. How true that was. It was difficult enough to work with your own kind, and now look at the people he’d involved himself with. Surely success would justify this new experience.
But Arkady Malik, a general of the old school, wasn’t that way. He was a true patriot, an old-fashioned Russian. He wanted his country back. Both he and Smith understood that a standoff between their two nations was good for their economies and definitely necessary to strengthen their countries from within. It was important now to defuse Malik’s temper, to emphasize low-profile, and to make it damn well clear that it was chaos in Eastern Europe that would eventually tip the scales in Russia—not the other way around.
So, Smith convinced himself, the Raskova affair wasn’t an absolute breakdown, not in the true sense of the word. The last real crisis from Norman Smith’s vantage point occurred when his command post was overrun during the Tet Offensive and he’d found himself facing the business end of an NVA bayonet. If a terrified mess cook hadn’t thrown himself into Smith’s trench and quite by accident landed on the attacker, Smith’s name would have appeared on the Wall with fifty-eight thousand others. That had been a crisis. This was a problem that could be handled with reasonable planning and the proper delegation of authority.
Paul Ferrand spoke English with a very slight accent. He chose his words carefully, watching his listener’s eyes to be sure his meaning was clear. If he feared anything, it was being misunderstood when he was showing his appreciation of another’s cultural habits. Ferrand wanted his jokes to be funny, his anger obvious, and his quick mind unchallenged. He prided himself on getting along with Americans and often imitated their sense of humor. Colleagues had no success in attempting to explain that American humor was foolishness. He liked the Americans and he thought they were often quite funny—you had to laugh at yourself in this business.
In exchange Ferrand was appreciated by foreigners because he made the effort to understand them. There was a healthy competition and an honest respect among those who qualified for the elite forces of any nation. Experts considered his French GIGN on a par with the British and Australian SAS and the German GSG-9, and much of that respect was due to the leadership of Paul Ferrand. GIGN’s field of specialization was hostage rescue but his men were trained to perform with the best of the world’s covert operations groups.
It was Ferrand who’d called Ryng and asked if he could come to Prague the following day, explaining that his orders to cooperate with Ryng came from the highest level in Paris. It was obvious President Crandall was using every ounce of influence in obtaining allied cooperation.
Paul Ferrand sat on the opposite side of Bernie Ryng’s desk in civilian attire, his appearance as American as his host. “I’ll bet it would be safe for me to assume that your intelligence people have been doing me a favor, even though I hadn’t asked for it yet,” Ryng commented pleasantly. He was familiar with Paul Ferrand by reputation. The man was brutally efficient on a mission and a great politician when he had to be. Ryng also suspected the French colonel enjoyed a friendly jousting with American egos. There was nothing wrong with doing the same for him. Ferrand, like Adolph Geyer in Germany, was an asset.
Ferrand raised his eyebrows but said nothing. This was a different approach than he’d anticipated. Ryng wanted to discuss business right away rather than do the American small talk. So why not hit him between the eyes? “If you want to know where Miss Ellyson has been taken,” he began casually, “I must admit my sources lost her in Numberg. A switch in vehicles, I am told.” This was business.
Ryng was caught completely off guard. All he could say was, “How did you learn she was missing?”
“Our intelligence is the best in Europe,” he answered with a self-deprecating shrug. And then his expression grew more serious. “I don’t mean to be coy with you, Captain. That’s not why I’m here. We didn’t know she was missing until one of my people picked up some stray information from a source he won’t even tell me about. Soon after that, Washington contacted Paris and our involvement became official. But we were already following that lead. We thought it would be a nice gesture to deliver Miss Ellyson back safely. We hope you don’t mind because we also found out about you when you and Mr. Chance flew into Frankfurt together.” He tapped his chin with an index finger and looked sadly at Ryng. “Apparently, Captain, someone else also recognized you, someone who was definitely not a friend. That’s most probably when they decided Frankfurt wasn’t safe enough for her and why you and Adolph Geyer found an empty apartment. We naturally started making assumptions …” He stopped in midsentence. “Am I assuming too much?”
