Shadow Wars, page 9
“Canadian authorities did have a two-engine jet that crossed the border from North Dakota. They were sure they had a reliable ID, a flight plan, and a destination of Winnipeg—all phony. Things like that slip through the cracks because it all looked so neat and who the hell’s smuggling dope into Manitoba in the middle of the winter?
“Then our people faxed a photo and description of Miss Ellyson to the Mounties. It didn’t take long to track her down on a flight from Winnipeg to Montreal. Phony names, of course, for her and the guy she was traveling with. It must have been pretty well planned because they probably had to run to catch the flight from Montreal to Frankfurt. May have been over the Atlantic when you were. And, I’m sorry to say, Bernie, our people just missed them at Frankfurt, probably by no more than half an hour. The trail’s cold from there. They apparently disappeared into the city.”
Kat was back in Europe. That was the part that didn’t make sense at all. It didn’t make sense to Gilbert Crandall either. He agreed that he’d be the one to inform Wallace Ellyson the following day if no contact had been made.
That same day, events were taking place in Poland that would draw almost no attention in the United States and little major concern beyond their immediate vicinity. The bishop of Poznan in western Poland died a few hours after a fall on the stairs in his quarters. That day, he’d intended to deliver a speech to local labor leaders concerning the new support the church intended to offer the unions. To the south, in the city of Wroclaw, one of Solidarity’s strongest supporters died instantly in a one-car accident. And in the much smaller southern city of Tarnow, not too far from Krakow, the mayor appointed a new police chief, a man who had been a KGB resident in Warsaw and now operated under an assumed name and a clean background. Although the mayor didn’t know much about his new chief, he now lived under the fear that the local newspaper would report his dalliance with his sister-in-law. That’s what those people had explained to him when they interrupted the mayor in her bed one night—and gave him the name of his new chief. Other mayors in other eastern European cities had much the same experience for various indiscretions.
Not too distant from Krakow, but across the Czech border in the city of Ostrava, a man who had been a close aide to Markus Wolf in the Stasi became a trusted adviser to the mayor. The appointment was announced soon after their private meeting in which the mayor had been shocked with accurate details of his Communist party association in his youth.
Across various districts of Hungary, nameless men familiar with the diverse and often virulent cultural distinctions of the nation spread through the countryside. They explained to the peasants how heavily the current government intended to tax them in their new market economy before the large corporations now arising would gradually take over their land. These contacts were made in tiny village churches, local wine bars, and at the cooperatives where the people went to buy their seed for the spring plantings once the snow had gone.
In the shattered states of Yugoslavia, where the Eastern Orthodox republics still favored the benefits of the communist philosophy and the western Roman Catholics were Christian Democrats and leaned toward a market economy, old flames were being fanned into one more armed encounter. Romania and Bulgaria would soon find that individuals with identical intentions were following similar orders. Belgrade, Bucharest, Sofia, and other much smaller cities were gradually, and quietly, losing certain valuable civic, cultural, and religious leaders through accidents and disappearances. Singularly, none of these incidents was noteworthy beyond the local level, and within days life would return to normal. It would take more time before a cohesive strategy became evident.
Carl Halder stared at the list, nodding to himself at how easily each event was falling into place. The success of each incident had been duly passed on to a higher individual on the ladder if it didn’t become immediately obvious through newspaper reports. When it was not noted publicly, the necessary data was passed on through a nameless line until it eventually would end up with Halder in Frankfurt or the farm outside of Dresden. He found that the collapse of borders and the unification of Germany had made his work so much easier. Travel between Frankfurt and Dresden would have been more difficult before. Now he could move with ease. It was just that the governmental shift had been in the wrong direction. He was certain that by the time the capital was shifted from Bonn to Berlin that everything would be back to the way it should have been. But a reborn Stasi would deliver it.
Halder stared vacantly at the Matisse copies on the opposite wall of his office. The red button on his phone blinked as the telltale chime on his phone indicated his secretary was calling him from the outer office. “Yes,” he answered softly, still staring at the Matisses.
“Herr Drobner is here with the Ellyson woman.”
Carl Halder had never ceased being a student. Early in life, he’d understood that learning is a never-ending process. As an eighteen-year-old conscripted into East Germany’s Nationale Volksarmee, he learned that he wasn’t cut out to be a follower. Before his service was completed, Halder had impressed the right officers so that he had no trouble entering the Stasi when he was released. He modeled himself after Erich Mielke, the famous director of the Stasi, and his own personal hero, Markus Wolf. It was the latter who’d been impressed by Halder’s effort at self-education. The young man had read as many political and philosophical texts in the headquarters library as he could find time for. He engaged older officers in debate until his interests gradually became apparent to Wolf. From that moment on, the educational program was taken on by the mentor. Carl Halder took to foreign espionage naturally. Wolf groomed him until they could anticipate each other.
But the idea of disappearing by fashioning his own death had been Halder’s. An absolutely brilliant concept!
The Ellyson girl—his idea also. And it had worked! Halder was ecstatic at his success. He’d discussed the idea with the other partners in the past, but actually initiating it was his own decision. He had no intention of notifying them of his success until it became necessary. Picking the right men hadn’t been easy. Moving the girl from Vail to Montreal required real pros. Getting her to Frankfurt required finesse, and he’d selected Drobner because the man could handle both the prisoner and the authorities. Yes, he reflected again, it’s working.
4
Labyrinth
General Raskova was personally mortified by Paul Voronov’s arrogance. When Voronov arrived outside Raskova’s office at the correct time, the shiny bill on his officer’s cap was cracked, two of the buttons were missing from his filthy, slightly torn greatcoat, and he had a decided limp. But his outward appearance remained as calm as always for Voronov was never one to display his inner feelings. He had no doubt that Raskova had arranged the incident, but one didn’t make unsubstantiated accusations against the head of the Second Chief Directorate of the KGB. Yet it was a distinct pleasure for Voronov to accept the chair that General Raskova offered.
“Believe me, Captain, my people will find the person who nearly canceled our appointment,” Raskova had assured him before stepping into his outer office, ostensibly to assign someone the task. When he had returned and taken a seat opposite Voronov, he continued, “The president is demanding more severe penalties for alcohol abuse exactly because of incidents such as yours. I think we will make an example out of this one when we catch him.”
The black Zil that had failed to kill Paul Voronov did proceed directly to the KGB’s underground garage, exactly as Voronov had anticipated. Even as he sat in General Raskova’s office, all damaged parts were being removed so that perfectly matched replacement units could be bolted in place. From there, it would go to the paint shop where eight men would sandblast it prior to painting, changing the color to a drab gray, and placing it under the heat lamps.
Voronov expressed his appreciation for Raskova’s concern, never giving a hint of how much his ankle ached. Their meeting lasted for more than the allocated half an hour even though Raskova had never anticipated that it would take place. The general did have a southern republic that had requested a new senior officer in charge of counterintelligence. He even insisted that Voronov make recommendations from a prepared list of names while they enjoyed an excellent glass of tea prepared with an old, ornate samovar. It had been an excellent show for a meeting Raskova hadn’t expected.
After Voronov’s departure, Raskova was tempted to contact one of the others, finally deciding on Carl Halder. But Halder’s private line rang and rang and Raskova finally gave up. He thought Voronov’s use of Markov’s private plane and the meeting with the American in Prague signaled a necessity to alter their plans. It just didn’t sit right with Raskova, whose career had been built on the correctness of his assumptions and suspicions. He was sure, too, that Halder would agree that Voronov must be eliminated. The man wouldn’t survive the next time.
When Paul Voronov limped into his apartment later that afternoon, likely at about the same time the driver of the Zil and his associate were being executed, he found that whoever had gone through his personal belongings had little concern whether or not the search was obvious. For the first time in his professional life, he was confused by this new set of circumstances. Never before had he been on the receiving end. Even when leading an unsuccessful operation, he had managed to withdraw with minimal casualties. Once, in Panama, he had been taken prisoner by Ryng’s unit, yet he managed to escape from what had been considered an impossible situation.
Now he appeared to be the hunted. He found his favorite vodka nestled in the ice in his freezer and poured himself a glass, settling in the only soft chair he possessed. It seemed improbable that Raskova could have known why he’d gone to Prague. The president had made it clear no one beyond a trusted few would ever know of the trip. No matter Raskova’s position, how could he know what Sergei Markov was thinking? Was there something else Raskova suspected that would cause him to attempt to kill a senior Spetznaz officer? So much for the sanitized KGB being out of the assassination business! No, it was more likely that one of Markov’s trusted associates was also working for General Raskova.
The vodka tasted too good, flowed down his throat too smoothly, felt too warm in his belly. And there was one aspect that was painfully obvious to him—that the failed attempt on his life didn’t mean he was safe. It was more than probable the second attempt would be successful because Raskova was not one to accept failure.
Paul Voronov packed a change of clothes in a duffle, then changed his mind and squeezed it into his briefcase. There was no need to broadcast the fact that he was leaving. He called the special number Sergei Markov had given him and requested a car at the rear door of his building. They would be watching his apartment from the street so he left the lights burning as he limped out the door. There would be someone watching the rear of the building, too, but the odds were that they wouldn’t make an attempt on him in a car with Kremlin plates, nor would they take out one of the president’s drivers. They would trail him to the Kremlin, no doubt about that, but there was no way they could follow him into Markov’s office.
Usually, the ambassador’s office dealt directly with an officer on military matters but, with Bernie Ryng gone and the lieutenant attending a briefing at the British embassy, Ben Gannett was the most senior from the military staff, except for the medical officer. Gannett assumed the order to appear in Ambassador Ellyson’s office was official in nature. But there was nothing of the sort on the man’s mind.
“Tell me, Chief, without any embellishment, exactly what is the purpose of Captain Ryng’s sudden trip to Washington?” Wallace Ellyson’s blue eyes peered into Gannett’s. His index fingers were steepled just beneath his lower lip. In the past, he found that enlisted people were intimidated by his imposing office. It came as an interesting surprise that this one seemed completely at ease.
Gannett returned the stare without being rude, a slight trace of amusement around his eyes. He’d been in the Navy much too long. This ambassador didn’t come close to swinging the power of many of the admirals and generals and politicians he’d worked with. He’d also anticipated this approach because Bernie Ryng had warned him about this one’s personality quirks. He feigned surprise at the question. “Beats me, sir. You know as much as I do. Mr. Ryng doesn’t share specific information with me unless I have a need to know.”
“Come now, Chief, I understand you were on duty the night that he received a couple of calls from the United States. I assume you remember those particular communications.” He folded his arms and sat back in his high-backed chair. “Every call is logged in.”
“Tell you the truth, sir, that didn’t have a thing to do with the captain’s trip as far as I know. That was another SEAL, someone we both knew, who was calling. He was probably drinking, you know, calling at that hour. Unless I missed something, they weren’t talking about Mr. Ryng’s trip. I don’t think his orders to fly back to Washington had even come in yet—had they?” There was nothing he’d uttered that was an actual lie. It was just that the less said, the better, especially to Ellyson.
“Perhaps you’re right … perhaps so,” the ambassador murmured as an afterthought. There was an uncomfortable silence before he continued. “I don’t know the medical officer, Lieutenant Otto, well at all. What is his background? What I’m curious about, since he is a doctor, is how capable is he with something complex … or perhaps with a delicate situation? After all, he is the senior officer with Ryng gone.” He leaned forward. “I’ll be honest. Can he do what you and Captain Ryng do?”
“I think he did have some sea time on a carrier, as a medical officer, of course. He’s in the reserve so I suppose he could have gotten out after his tour at sea, but he told me he extended for this duty. Apparently his father has some friends in the Pentagon who got these orders for him. Lieutenant Otto is really big into wines,” Gannett said confidentially, leaning forward in his chair. “He could probably start you a nice little cellar right here. But he’s doing his job, and he’s having a wonderful time.” The twinkle in Gannett’s eyes expanded into a broad grin. “I like working with Lieutenant Otto. Great sense of humor.”
“What you’re telling me, Chief,” Ellyson interjected coolly, “is that you don’t make a practice of providing professional assessments of officers—in other words, you know how to cover your ass.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I’m a master chief,” Gannett retorted politely. His eyes grew serious as he unconsciously patted down the few hairs left on his head. “Lieutenant Otto is not a regular line officer and he’s not authorized to handle classified material at this time, sir, and I expect that he would agree with that analysis. Beyond being a good medical officer, his strengths seem to be in public relations for the embassy for the time being. If it can’t wait until Mr. Ryng returns, I’d be happy to do what I can for you.”
“Between you and me, Chief, between you and me. No further.”
Gannett nodded.
“I received a call from my daughter this morning. She was back in the States, skiing in Colorado at my place in Vail. It was a very short, very stilted conversation, most likely because we have a current disagreement, and perhaps I cut it short because someone was waiting in the outer office to see me. So I called her back at what would be the end of the day there. When there was no answer, I called a friend of mine who handles rentals in the building. He told me the condo had been empty for two days. That means she wasn’t calling from Vail. That may also be why her end of the conversation was so strange.” The blue eyes never left Gannett’s. “That’s why I was asking you about Captain Ryng’s sudden trip back. You know as well as anyone else that he’s been seeing my daughter and it seemed to me his trip was too coincidental.”
Gannett was circumspect. “If you’re concerned about Captain Ryng, my first suggestion would be to call someone you know in State to see exactly what his trip back was all about.”
“I’m ahead of you, Chief. There wasn’t a soul there who could provide me with an answer. That’s why I decided to see if you could help me out. Obviously, you have nothing to add.”
“Only that I’d be happy to do whatever I can to help you out, sir. If I could …”
“You could forget this conversation, Chief Gannett. My daughter’s old enough to take care of herself. If she chooses to go off on her own, then I guess it would be wise of me to leave her on her own. She did call. That indicates that at least we haven’t forgotten how to communicate with each other no matter how strained things may be.” When he leaned toward Gannett to make his next point, his expression softened considerably. “Whatever your personal opinion of me, please accept as fact that I would do anything to help Katherine, no matter what it was. I expect you to be discreet.” Ellyson stood up. “Anything you may be able to contribute will be appreciated and kept in confidence. That will be all.”
Gannett rose also and nodded. “You have my word, sir.” As he pulled the door shut behind him, he silently acknowledged what a pleasure it was to leave the man. There was nothing Ellyson had said, beyond his regard for his daughter, that seemed to be honest.
Dresden—what a beautiful city … or at least the old city had been. Then came the bombing, the fire storms. Innocent people, thousands of them, burned to death. History, culture, old-world elegance, all destroyed. Dresden was a modern city now, or as modern as could be with the funds available to the German Democratic Republic. Actually, as it was rebuilt, Karl Braun decided, it became more like one of those new Russian cities that had risen from the ashes. So much of the design, the materials, even the quality of construction, were similar to the cities the Russians rebuilt after the war. Braun had seen pictures of the old city at the farm outside of Dresden, the safe house Halder employed when he brought people together.
