Shadow Wars, page 32
To exacerbate Crandall’s problems, Gannett reported that Bernie Ryng had also dropped from sight. Their last conversation confirmed that the East German Stasi had not evaporated like their government when the two Germanys were reunited. At that time, Ryng said that he and the German GSG-9 officer coordinating with the SEALs would have limited contact with Gannett while they chased down a firm lead on the main Stasi training base east of Berlin near a town called Fürstenwalde. In an instant world, Gilbert Crandall found it difficult to lose contact with Markov. Should he assume that Voronov had made a move to protect Markov? It was a tremendous relief a few hours later when Gannett reported that Markov would soon be able to re-establish contact with the White House.
Long, late afternoon shadows stretched into dark gullies as Bernie Ryng maneuvered the snowmobile across the vacant landscape adjacent to the lake. A chill, light breeze had died with the falling sun but the air temperature was dropping rapidly. It would be a frigid night. When he and Geyer had left Dresden in a hurry that day, bound for Fürstenwalde, the car had been packed with gear they would use if they confirmed that it was the Stasi center and called SEAL Team Six in for a night jump. All of that had burned with Adolph Geyer in the wreckage of their car. Only two automatic rifles and a few more clips of ammunition remained.
The borrowed jacket did little more than cut the wind as Ryng raced across the snow-covered fields. His eyes were tearing as the cold air tore at them. He tightened his lids until they were bare slits but that only forced the tears to squeeze out and run down his cheeks until they froze and burned like tiny drops of hot wax. As feeling escaped his fingers, he remembered his gloves, neatly folded on the front seat of Geyer’s car. They were so much smoke now. He tucked his fingers under his chin, one hand at a time, but they were gradually losing their sense of touch. He forced himself to look down every half-minute to make sure he still had a good grip on the handles. There was a steady light from a house in the distance that guided him. Sometimes it disappeared when the machine dipped into a low area and he was afraid it would be gone when he climbed the other side. Each time it reappeared was a moment for quiet celebration because it was that much closer. Ryng knew it really wasn’t that far away but he also knew he could only hold out against the bitter cold for a short time.
The two things he coveted most expanded in his numbed mind until he was sure that they would be the most important he might ever wish for—warmth before frostbite set in, closely followed by a working telephone. Without the former, he would never again function as a SEAL, even if he managed to survive the cold. And if he couldn’t get through to Ben Gannett shortly, it would be impossible to stop what appeared increasingly inevitable with each passing hour.
Now he had no doubt there was at least one American involved with the Stasi, a man whose face was too familiar to have been driving around that deserted, godforsaken lake purely by chance. He recalled Chance’s detailed report of Raskova’s interrogation, the mention of a “general,” Voronov’s reaction to Russians taking orders from a “Westerner”—the man whose face he recognized in that BMW! Once again, what little Voronov had squeezed out of General Raskova had been confirmed … an American general involved! And if there was one American, why not more? The reasons no longer mattered. They could be worked out later. What was important was to get an identification on that face.
The other factor to confirm with Gannett was that he was certain the assumption about a Stasi training center near Fürstenwalde, the one that Adolph Geyer had gotten wind of, was correct. It had to be an important cog in the operation in Eastern Europe, maybe the most critical. Birds with the firepower of that Havoc didn’t simply rise out of the ground like that. Someone at the lake, someone who’d recognized them and needed to protect the individual in that other car had ordered that attack. It had happened much too quickly for the helicopter to have traveled a long distance. It had to have been manned and ready for lift-off when an emergency was called. And he was sure intuitively that Kat would be found at Fürstenwalde. He had to get Holloway’s SEAL Team Six in there before sunrise.
Ryng glanced down at his hands. They were so hard to make out in the twilight. Were the tips of his fingers getting white? There was little movement when he flexed them, trying to make fists. A moment later, he found himself staring hard at his right hand, willing it to let go of the handle grip. Very slowly, so slowly that he had to look up to see where he was going, his fingers uncurled. The pain as he stretched his arm toward that guiding light and pointed with his fingers told him they weren’t frozen yet. He made a fist a few times before grasping the handle again and doing the same with the other hand. His fingers were still working, barely. But the light was much closer.
For some reason, an image of Gilbert Crandall settled in his mind. They were in the White House, just like the day Ryng had visited, and the president was enjoying the warmth of his pool. Ryng followed the precision of the well-planned laps, the change from a crawl to a breaststroke to a sidestroke to a backstroke, then the same over again. He appreciated the steady, easy rhythm and discipline of the older man. Then he imagined the expression of satisfaction when the president climbed out of the water and slipped on a terry cloth robe before he drank his ritual beer—American, never imported.
He’s the one you’re going to have to talk to, Bernie. He’s made a commitment to Sergei Markov that is probably the greatest gamble of his career. Ryng reflected on what had actually taken place. Gilbert Crandall could have dismissed Markov’s desperate appeal and still come out of it smelling like a rose. The Russian Republic could collapse, Eastern Europe could tumble into chaos, but Crandall could escape shouldering any of the blame if he’d chosen to do so. That’s just the way the world turns, old boy, just the way the old ball bounces. Sometimes governments change so quickly, boundaries alter overnight, leaders are killed or kidnapped or thrown out—so many little blips in the passage of time occur that they become one more miscellaneous item in the history of humanity. No one will be able to claim Crandall participated. No one will … but he has to … he wants to help …. you do, too, Ryng … keep going …
Ryng’s thoughts were so completely centered on the importance of Gilbert Crandall’s distant part in this crisis that he had lost concentration. His eyes, his eyelashes stuck together by frozen tears, were almost completely closed. He could no longer feel the handlebars. The result was that the distant light expanded hypnotically in vision until it was all he saw. He never did see the three-foot picket fence, the top white and almost invisible against the snow, that surrounded the small house until he was on top of it.
He cut the gas and attempted to swerve in the last split second as the wooden fence loomed directly ahead. But it was much too late. The machine slammed into the fence with full force. There was a tearing, splintering sound as the structure gave way. Picket slats flew to either side as the weight of snowmobile and passenger tore through the frozen wood.
Ryng threw his arms up to protect his face. One of the vehicle’s skis snapped. The machine pivoted sharply to the right. He felt himself hurtling through the air. The weapons flew in another direction. Then he landed with a thud that knocked the wind from his body. He felt himself rolling helplessly. Snow filled his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his ears, and he could feel it wet and melting, almost warm under his clothing. Then he was lying on his back, staring up at a clear, starlit sky, struggling desperately for air, unable to move.
He was conscious of a door opening, a flood of light growing until it spread completely across him. A man appeared in the door, outlined against the glare. Ryng could make out a rifle held cautiously in the man’s hands, pointed in his direction.
A stream of German words carried across the snow to him. It sounded so distant against the ringing in his ears yet he knew the man was close, no more than fifteen or twenty feet away. Ryng wondered at the strange sound that seemed almost on top of him until he realized that he was making the noise himself. He was gasping for breath, struggling to suck in air, and he sounded more like a sick, old dog howling at the moon. That ringing in his ears compounded the baying, too, as he struggled for oxygen, and that was combined with the man shouting at him, then calling loudly back over his shoulder.
Ryng brushed snow from his face with a hand that had no feeling. The man in the doorway brandished the rifle at the movement. A woman appeared behind him and stared over his shoulder at the apparition in the snow. Then she whispered something in his ear.
The man, raising the rifle toward his shoulder to indicate he would use it, stepped outside and walked cautiously toward Ryng. The woman followed. The man circled around behind him out of sight as she advanced to a place at his feet and spoke directly to the figure in the snow.
All Ryng could do was circle his arms around his chest and squeeze down in an effort to pump his burning lungs. He moved his lips and attempted to respond, but the only sound was somewhere between the baying and a choking gurgle.
The woman reached down and grabbed his belt roughly and jerked upward. Pain shot through his back. But the sudden movement also brought a tiny breath of air into his lungs. She did the same thing a second time, then a third, then a fourth. She stood back with her hands on her hips and watched as Ryng relearned the art of breathing.
The man came back into his vision on the side and said something to the woman. She shook her head. They spoke so quickly that his limited German was useless. Then the rifle was in her hands and the man reached a hand down to him. Ryng attempted to rise on one elbow and grasp it but there was so little sensation in his fingers that he fell back. The man moved around behind, slipped his hands under Ryng’s arms, and jerked upward until he stumbled to his feet. His head was reeling and he stumbled backward until a pair of strong hands supported him. Then he was being half-pushed, half-helped toward the open door while the woman held the gun pointed squarely at his midsection.
It was bright and warm inside. He was given a gentle push and fell onto an old sofa. Rolling over and struggling into a half-sitting position, he strained to open his eyes against the brilliant light. He breathed deeply, savoring warm air that carried the aroma of food. His head ached and his lungs burned but the most noticeable sensation was the pain that began to spread across his cheeks and into his fingers, the two skin areas exposed to the freezing air.
He reached to his cheeks but could feel almost nothing through his numb fingertips, so he began rubbing his hands slowly together to regain circulation. The woman spoke again. He looked up and saw that she was speaking to him. Although he was still unable to understand, he nodded and continued rubbing his hands. She handed the rifle to the man and moved over to the sink. There she ran some warm water on a cloth and came back, folding it over his face. She held it there with her hands and asked what was obviously a question. Ryng understood the German words you and better and nodded his head that he did feel better.
It was another fifteen minutes before the sensation returned to his hands so that he could hold the cloth to his face himself. By then, the man, who had yet to say a word to him, was seated comfortably with the rifle still fixed on Ryng’s belly. The woman asked Ryng if he wanted a cup of tea. He was able to say yes and to thank her in her own language when he had a warm mug of aromatic tea in both hands.
“You do not speak German well,” she said very slowly.
Ryng managed a tired smile as he responded, “No,” and shook his head.
“What language?”
He stared at her and saw that she seemed genuinely curious. The man’s expression hadn’t changed. “My German is very poor. Do you speak English?”
A broad smile crossed her face and she looked across to the man. “He speaks English … and the accent is American,” she said in near perfect English.
The rifle was rested on the man’s knee, but it was still pointing in Ryng’s direction. “He sounds like the Americans on the radio.”
Ryng looked from one to the other. “Who did you think I was?”
“The new Stasi,” the man snapped. “They’re the only ones using the lake this winter. Who else would have brought in all those new helicopters the last week or so?” Then he glanced at the woman for assurance and, when she nodded, asked, “How do we know you are an American? Do you have proof?”
Ryng reached under his shirt and pulled open an inner pocket. He handed the man a thin wallet. “Go ahead. Look it over yourself.”
The man showed the contents to the woman. She picked up Ryng’s ID and compared the picture to the face in front of her. “You were much darker then.”
“I was also operating out of a base in southern California. It was warm and sunny there.”
“Is a captain an important position in the Navy?”
“I always like to think so.”
She handed the wallet back to him. “And you’re here because of the Stasi?” There was still a look of uncertainty on her face.
“Exactly.” Ryng was functioning more normally now and the urgency that had driven him that frigid evening to this light and warmth returned. “And I must contact some people now, if you’ll help me. It’s urgent. Otherwise, you may have Stasi all over you.”
“That helicopter, the one that was doing all that shooting earlier. What was that?”
“They killed my partner, a German. They almost killed me, too. We thought we had cornered the most important one.”
“And you say they’ll come back.” She looked at the man. “I suppose so,” she said wearily.
“No later than tomorrow, more likely tonight,” Ryng affirmed, “to make sure I’m dead. They can’t afford to have me alive.”
“And it’s clear tonight. No more snow. They’ll follow your trail here. Can you protect us?”
“Better than that. I can get you out of here before they come. It’s better that you leave, really. There may be a lot more shooting.” Ryng looked at his watch. “But I have to make a call. I must use your phone.”
The man looked questioningly at the woman, and then laid the rifle on the floor when she nodded in agreement. Rising from his chair, with a backward glance at Ryng, he walked over to the far side of the kitchen, picked up a telephone with a long cord, and returned halfway across the room with it before stopping. He fixed Ryng with a hard, uncertain stare. “You’re sure you can protect us from them? You don’t know what it was like here before we became one country again. I was a prisoner of the Stasi for a while. I never knew why.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ll never forget the pain.”
“I promise. My people will send a helicopter for me—German Army—and they’ll provide transport for you. You both can go at the same time.”
“This isn’t a private line. Someone could be listening,” the man said with a look of concern.
“My people will be here quickly.”
The man walked the rest of the way across the room and handed the instrument to Ryng.
Ben Gannett answered on the first ring.
Kat Ellyson was awakened by the discomfort of her bound wrists and ankles and the dull ache in her jaw. The steady movement of the vehicle, the engine noise, and finally the glare of overhead lights as they passed through a town reminded her that she was in the back seat of Halder’s car.
She struggled slowly to a sitting position and looked out the window. It was completely dark, just a faint glow from the fading lights of the town they’d just passed through when she looked out the rear window. The windows of houses were alight to either side of the road, but the distances between each one grew greater with each succeeding mile. The headlights caught a road sign, Route 246 East, and there were names of towns—Storkow, Kolpin, Fürstenwalde—but she couldn’t remember the mileages. They looked like German names, she thought, but she still had no idea where she was.
Halder caught sight of her in the rearview mirror. “Good evening, Miss Ellyson,” he boomed good-naturedly. “I do hope you’re feeling better.”
She glared back at his reflection in the mirror. “Where am I?”
“You’re safe.”
“But where are we now?”
“Germany, if that makes you feel better.”
“I know that.” Then she added under her breath, “You shithead.”
“You may call me Carl. That sounds nicer. And I’d hoped I might be a friend,” he said with a touch of ugly humor in his voice.
“You can’t be. You …”
Halder’s smile was polite as he looked into the mirror. “You’ll be settled in another place in no time, believe me,” he said nastily.
“Where are we going?”
“You might have seen the road signs. A place just outside Fürstenwalde. There’ll be something to eat there, and a comfortable place to sleep. I want to make sure you get home after everything you’ve been through.”
“Bullshit!” she exploded.
“If that’s the way you’re going to be, you’re going to have to stay back there. I thought it was worth one more try to see if you’d be more cooperative.”
“Bullshit,” she repeated.
It was completely dark out now, no streetlights or even houses visible, and the Mercedes’s tires squealed as they took a corner at high speed. Halder had lost sight of Norman Smith’s car soon after dark. It didn’t matter. The general knew the way. He’d been there before. But it would have been so much easier if Smith had stayed down at his home. His part had been the planning. Smith was a superb organizer. That’s what retired generals were for. But Halder considered himself more qualified to confront the problems that would necessarily arise. The rules had changed slightly now. While he still hoped the entire scheme would work out more or less as they all planned, Germany was the single most important part of it. It always had been to Halder. The Stasi would make sure of that.
