Shadow Wars, page 6
“Henry, I want the secure line to Markov activated. Then make yourself scarce for a while.” Perhaps the day wouldn’t be a loss after all.
Does this one want to hang my balls from the top of the Kremlin? It was a logical question in Sergei Markov’s mind. If there was one who had it in for him, there could be dozens—and he knew damn well there was at least one.
“No, sir,” answered Arkady Malik, the commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces. “I don’t believe we are in a position to limit production of the launch vehicle.” Malik peered through steel-rimmed glasses at Markov. His eyes were black, like his brush cut and his perpetual five o’clock shadow, and the aviator-type glasses made his always stem expression more penetrating. Malik was not only a stem administrator and leader of the nuclear forces, he was a strong advocate of their use. He honestly believed a war could be won with nuclear weapons and, even in a radically altered Russian Republic, he’d never stopped converting proponents to his thinking. “And we especially don’t want to allow the Americans to inspect the production facilities. That system is so critical—”
“I know. I know. I know,” Markov interrupted wearily. “I’m just searching for something … anything that will satisfy the specifics of the treaty.” He didn’t especially care what it was because he knew the Americans wouldn’t think of giving up a critical weapon system any more than he would, but he had to have a solid idea of what his military would sacrifice. At this stage, the answer was simple—nothing.
He had no idea of how to proceed further with the intransigent Malik and had decided to dismiss him when they were interrupted by his appointments secretary. “Excuse me, sir, you have a request to activate the green communications system.”
The green communications system was the linkup that Markov and Crandall had effected wholly on their own. The spoken words on each end were garbled before transmission by blue-green laser via satellite. The land-line connections were as secure as modern technology could make them. It was a private communications system that effectively placed the president of the United States and the president of the Russian Republic in a soundproof room by themselves. That meant that Crandall had received his message and was aware of a potentially critical situation.
After concluding the necessary polite small talk, Crandall said, “I am making arrangements for the delivery of a case of the finest Polish vodka—Luksusowa, I understand—to the White House.”
“You see, it worked!” Markov exclaimed exultantly. “I think we’ve achieved a relationship that not a soul could have anticipated ten years ago, and it couldn’t have happened at a more crucial time.”
“Please continue,” Crandall said.
“It would take too long for me to explain the situation properly and I assure you there would be suspicious people here if you and I talked too long. I am also not in the enviable position that you enjoy. Please understand when I say I’m not certain whom I can trust yet beyond a very small circle of loyal friends. They have informed me of the potential for another coup attempt that seems to extend beyond our borders, quite possibly something that could affect you. As far as the details, what I am asking is that you call in the individual sending you the vodka for a conference. He speaks for me.”
“If he speaks for you, and he’s an American, how do you expect me to trust him?”
“There is a young military officer I know I can trust beyond any other. My closest associates recommended him. He is the one who is closest to me in directly combatting this mutual problem we are about to face. He assured me that your man is equally as loyal to you. It is a strange relationship I promise you. I have never met your man, never heard his name before, and I probably never will have the pleasure of meeting him. But these are also men I would trust—I have to trust—with my life. Will you accept that?”
“I have no choice at this time since I am unaware of the problem,” Crandall answered. He didn’t like dealing with people in this manner. Too much innuendo. No absolutes. And while he liked Markov, he still experienced an innate distrust of Russians, new Russians or not. That was the nature of his generation and he knew Markov understood that. “When I have met privately with this individual, I’ll know better. I can tell you honestly that as of this moment I know nothing about him.”
“And I can tell you honestly that my man says yours has been the ultimate enemy,” Markov countered. “To me, that demands trust.”
That was another aspect of the Russian persona, the need to appreciate the enemy. They couldn’t accept someone as an enemy without rationalizing. “I promise I will be in touch with you as soon as I have met with this man.”
Crandall pressed the button that severed the connection. How could a man properly manage a nation the size of Russia if he couldn’t trust all the people around him? My God, with the problems that confronted that nation, it was almost impossible to govern anyway—and then to actually admit to the leader of another country that you couldn’t trust … for that matter, how many of his own …
No, there was no point in analyzing his own staff. That was sheer paranoia. He would wait until he’d talked with this Navy captain before making any verbal commitments.
The editor of Gazeta Wyborcza, Warsaw’s largest daily newspaper, gently smoothed the flat, white pages on his desk with the palm of his hand without looking down at the words he’d just finished typing. Instead, he stared straight ahead as if he were looking out the window toward the ancient church on the opposite side of the street. But his eyes failed to register the building because those pages contained his next editorial, more than likely his last at this paper. And it came from the heart. It had been rewritten four times since last night, and now the final draft had been edited three more times. It was ready. He was unaware that a tiny smile of satisfaction appeared at the corners of his mouth to expand on a sensation of inner warmth.
Poland had suffered for so long but the greatest assault on her ancient dignity had come in the past few years as the well-intentioned leaders of her new government brought the economy to the edge of disaster. It was almost as if the Germans were back again, attacking from the inside with the objective of destroying everything that was good—the Roman Catholic Church, the established labor unions, the family traditions. It was no less insidious than the blitzkrieg attack a half-century ago. And the result would be the same. It made no difference whether the nation was overrun by the military or the rich—the result was the same. The average man suffered no less whether he was dead or ground under the heel of the banker. The Polish zloty was close to worthless. Inflation had increased the prices of most products beyond the reach of the average man, making the salaries of those still working almost worthless.
The editorial was a call to action, a cry in the night, a plea for Poland to reject the modern concepts of the market economy before there were no jobs left for the average man. The man on the shop floor is the prince of our nation, the breadwinner of the masses, the sure key to the survival of Poland as we know it. If this market economy is allowed to continue, we will find our old people dying in the streets, our children too sick to get out of their beds to attend school. We face a depression beyond anything any of us can possibly imagine unless we stand up to the politicians and economists who will continue to live like kings….
He had no doubt at all that it was the finest editorial he’d ever written—and to believe a German had actually provided the inspiration! That was the most amazing thing, that a German would actually admit that the iniquities his country had visited upon Poland over the centuries demanded repayment to the Polish people. Carl Halder was unlike any other German he’d ever met. Those penetrating gray eyes demanded attention, but they also conveyed a deep sincerity to sensitive people like the editor.
Halder was the conscience of Germany!
They’d dined together three times at Halder’s insistence so they could discuss the economic reform that was tearing away the fabric of the Polish economic system. Market prices beyond imagination. Lost government subsidies. Increasing unemployment with no end in sight. Soaring inflation. The National Bank of Poland had enlisted the central bankers of the West to lobby the concept of independence until they were actually free of government intervention and public pressures. So many promises for a better life. So many disappointments. Halder promised that the supposedly liberated East Germans were experiencing the same thing—except they were being subsidized by the German government. Overnight, those in the eastern part of the country were given full-valued marks to ease the change. What did Poland receive when they were drawn into this economic maelstrom? Nothing.
By this time tomorrow, he would be gone from this office. The government would demand his resignation. They still exercised an influence on the media that they had given up to the National Bank. Poland had been liberated from the tyranny of communism and promised a freedom that was more than she could live under, more than the average worker could accept. Too many had lost their jobs already, and eventually the weakest would begin to starve because they were unable to wait for the market economy to feed or clothe or house them.
The editor had no idea how Carl Halder had been aware of his sympathies, nor did he care at this point. The only important fact was that Halder promised him that he would be able to use his powerful pen from underground to continue his impassioned plea for a return to the security of the old order. He would be allowed to sway Poland in a more liberal direction. Some would say they were regressing, returning to the old ways Poland had just escaped from, but he was sure the socialist system could utilize some of the positive aspects of capitalism to everyone’s benefit.
He’d promised Halder that he would never mention his intentions to his wife. After the editorial appeared, she’d understand why he was making this sacrifice. He’d already composed the note to be left when he slipped out of their bedroom before dawn the next day. Halder had promised that his family would be protected until he could reappear again after the new government took control.
The editorial did appear the next day, and it was exactly as he’d written it. And it did cause a deep-seated reaction—both among the new government officials working so hard to re-establish Poland’s economy and among the old-line workers and a generation of bureaucrats, police officials, and military officers who had seen their lifetime guarantees and party membership crushed at the same time.
Unfortunately, whether one agreed or disagreed with the editor, it was impossible to discuss his ideas with him for he turned up very dead. Officially, his death was listed as an accident for he had been struck by a car. His blood alcohol level tested extremely high. There were no witnesses to the accident, a hit-and-run.
Unwittingly, the editor had been so cooperative that there was no way anyone would ever trace the deceased to Carl Halder.
Wallace Ellyson was elegant in every respect, so much so that men who didn’t know him well might have assumed he was gay. He’d retained a full head of hair, his once-blond mane now gray but still as wavy as in his youth. He wore his usual custom-fitted pin-striped suit, a silk shirt with his initials on the breast pocket, and a muted silk tie that no doubt contained a designer label.
Many of his affectations came from his days as a Rhodes scholar. He’d been fascinated with the English university system, its formality, the relationships between scholar and teacher, and the rigidity of its tradition. It was therefore easy for him to understand how the Cambridge “Apostles”—Blunt, Philby, Caimcross, Burgess, Hollis—had evolved. His study of their background and behavior as they embraced successful careers of treason became the basis of his own belief that anything could be accomplished in government. It was all how one manipulated people and events.
As Ryng sat across the desk from the ambassador, the man’s delicate, almost effeminate, features and deep blue eyes reminded him immediately of Kat. There was no denying they were father and daughter but that was as far as the comparison went. Ellyson’s blue eyes were as cold as Kat’s were warm and loving and the man had a habit of staring down anyone who sat across from him.
“Tell me, Captain Ryng,” he began with deference, “just what makes a landlocked Navy captain rate a priority request from the White House to take the next available flight back to Washington for a briefing? Nothing in Prague can possibly have anything to do with our naval forces.” Ellyson’s voice was sharp, his words clipped and precise, and his eyes never left Ryng’s. He’d requested the man’s relief, not a personal audience with Gilbert Crandall.
It was exactly as Ryng had been warned when he reported for duty before he ever paid his initial courtesy call on the ambassador—watch out for that man because he never misses a trick, probably has numerous sets of balls hanging in his trophy case. “I really have no indication, sir,” Ryng answered politely. He had nothing against Ambassador Ellyson nor did he care to say anything about his assignment that would further upset Kat’s father. While he knew his less-than-casual relationship with Kat was the reason for her sudden departure from Prague, he wanted to maintain a professional relationship with the ambassador. He had no intention of discussing Kat’s whereabouts after his conversation with Chance until he had more information. As it was, it took everything he had to appear normal. It seemed from what Chance reported that she was taken for a purpose and would be kept safe for that reason. But until his contacts in Washington came back with some answers, he felt his world coming apart inside. But Ellyson was a different matter—to even mention Kat’s situation would be akin to pulling a trigger. “My responsibilities do extend well beyond the Navy. Actually, the military attaché’s billet is general military rather than related to any individual branch of the service. I also spent a full week at State reviewing everything involved on the civilian side of embassy duty. But, to be honest with you, I know nothing more about this message than you do.”
Ellyson picked up the copy of Ryng’s orders from his desk, glanced at it with raised eyebrows, rolled the message into a ball, and tossed it in his wastebasket, then brought his eyes back to the man sitting across from him. “As the ambassador, I’m supposed to be aware of everything my subordinates are involved with—including the military. I hope you do understand that.” His long, delicate fingers touched at the tips, creating a steeple upon which he gracefully rested his chin.
That was another of the ambassador’s maddening habits, often ending a statement of fact with a demand. Ryng had no compunctions about lying to anyone about his meeting with Voronov, and certainly not Ellyson. Wouldn’t the man be outraged if he understood that this was well above his head? “I would certainly expect that will continue, sir. Even though the political situation has been radically altered here in the past few years, I expect we’ll still have to look at every critical situation mutually.”
It was what Ellyson expected to hear each time, whether or not he believed the speaker. “I’m pleased you stopped by, Captain. I’ll look forward with interest to hear what took place in Washington.” He never looked up.
When Ryng stepped outside the front door of the embassy, the car was waiting to take him to the airport. He would sleep as much as possible on the flight over since he knew that sleep would be hard to come by once he arrived. As soon as he landed at Dulles, his first step would be to call his friend at Naval Intelligence. That was the first person he’d contacted after hanging up on David Chance. He’d been promised that there were civilian contacts at the FBI and CIA who’d be able to find out something about Kat’s odd disappearance more quickly than any official investigation.
Paul Voronov never bothered to consider why he turned down General Raskova’s offer of a chauffeured automobile that day. It hadn’t seemed important at the time. Now that he was out on the street, he noted the weather was more frigid than he’d anticipated and there was a hint of snow in the air. A north wind whipped down the streets of Moscow creating tiny dust devils that seemed magnetically attracted to him. He enjoyed walking but had already decided this wasn’t a day to enjoy the scenery as he tucked his head deeper inside the fur collar of his heavy coat. A warm car would have suited him more.
He’d started out on the metro, getting off at a stop not too far from Dzerzhinsky Square. He enjoyed walking in that area, slowing down to study the old buildings that reeked of a violent history—now, as much as in the past. Though the Spetznaz sometimes worked in conjunction with the KGB domestically, and he was always welcomed at KGB Headquarters, it always seemed a necessity to develop a positive attitude before he met with any of the people in that place.
Voronov found himself yawning as he turned down an alley that was a shortcut to the headquarters building. The only sound sleep he’d experienced in the last couple of days was on the flights between Moscow and Prague. The president had arranged for a private plane so he might leave at night and return in the dark the day after. The only people aware of his trip besides Markov were a few of the president’s closest aides and the pilots, who were also Markov’s personal crew.
Then how the hell did Raskova know about the damn trip? General Raskova was the head of the KGB’s Second Chief Directorate (Internal Security and Counterintelligence) but there was no reason he or anyone else there should have known about it. “Welcome back from your jaunt to Prague, Colonel Voronov.” That’s exactly what he’d prefaced their conversation with. Then Raskova asked if Voronov would come to his office to discuss the pros and cons of assigning certain Spetznaz officers for command in one of the southern republics experiencing civil unrest. One didn’t turn down such a request from a man like Raskova, and that initial statement had escaped Voronov until now.
