Andropov did not quite see the contradiction in his own mind. Like so many Great Men, he was blind to those things that conflicted with his own capacious ego.
And, in any case, it all came back to Karol and the danger he posed.
He made a mental note for the morning staff meeting. He had to see what the possibilities were. The Politburo would wonder aloud how to deal with the problem announced by the Warsaw Letter, and eyes would turn to his chair, and he’d need something to say. The trick would be in finding something that would not frighten his colleagues out of their conservative wits. They were so fearful, these supposedly powerful men.
He read so many reports from his field officers, the talented spies of the First Chief Directorate, always probing into the thoughts of their counterparts. It was so strange, how much fear there was in the world, and the most fearful of all were so often those who held the power in their hands.
No, Andropov drained his glass and decided against another nightcap. The reason for their fear was that they worried they did not have the power. They were not strong. They were henpecked by their wives, just like factory workers and peasant farmers. They dreaded losing what they so greedily held, and so they used their power in ignoble enterprises directed at crushing those who would seize what they held. Even Stalin, that mightiest of despots, had used his power mainly to eliminate those who might sit in his elevated chair. And so the great Koba had spent his energy not looking forward, not looking outward, but looking down. He was like a woman in her kitchen who feared mice under her skirt, instead of a man with the power and the will to slay an onrushing tiger.
But could he do otherwise? Yes! Yes, he could look forward and see the future and chart a path to it. Yes, he could communicate his vision to the lesser men who sat around the table in the Kremlin, and lead them with the force of his will. Yes, he could find and refocus the vision of Lenin and all the thinkers of the governing philosophy of his country. Yes, he could alter the course of his nation and be forever remembered as a Great Man—
But first, here and now, he’d need to deal with Karol and his annoying threat to the Soviet Union.
CHAPTER 2:
VISIONS AND HORIZONS
CATHY ALMOST PANICKED at the thought of driving him to the train station. Seeing him walk to the left side of the car, she’d assumed, as any American would, that he’d be driving, and so she was visibly surprised when he tossed her the keys.
The pedals, she discovered, were the same as in an American car, because people all around the world were right-footed, even if those in England drove left-handed. The gear shift was in the center console, and so she had to use her left hand to shift. Backing out of the brick driveway was not terribly different from normal. Both instantly wondered if it was as hard for Brits to transform their driving to the right—in more ways than one—side of the road when they came to America, or hopped the ferry to France. Jack decided he’d ask somebody over a beer someday.
“Just remember, left is right, and right is left, and you drive on the wrong side of the road.”
“Okay,” she replied with annoyance. She knew she’d have to learn, and the rational part of her brain knew that this was as good a time as ever, even though now had a nasty way of appearing out of the ground like a guerrilla out of a spider hole. The way out of the mini-development took them past a one-story building that looked like it housed a doctor’s office, past the park with the swing set that had sold Jack on this particular house. Sally liked swings, and she’d surely meet and make new friends here. And Little Jack would get some sun there, too. In the summer, anyway.
“Turn left, babe. It’s a right turn here when you go left, you don’t cross traffic.”
“I know,” Dr. Caroline Ryan said, wondering why Jack hadn’t called for a cab. She still had a ton of work to do with the house, and didn’t need a driving lesson. Well, at least it seemed to be a nimble car, she found, giving it a kick that was answered by rapid acceleration. Not her old Porsche, though.
“Bottom of the hill, turn right.”
“Uh-huh.” Good, this would be simple. She’d have to find her way home, and she hated asking for directions. It came from being a surgeon, as in command of her world as a fighter pilot in his cockpit… And, being a surgeon, she wasn’t allowed to panic, was she?
“Right here,” Jack told her. “Remember oncoming traffic.” There was none at the moment, but that would change, probably as soon as he got out of the car. He didn’t envy her attempt to learn local navigation solo, but the surest way to learn to swim was to jump in—assuming you didn’t drown. But the Brits were hospitable people, and if necessary some kind local driver would probably lead her all the way home.
The train station was about as impressive as a Bronx elevated platform, a smallish stone building with stairs and/or escalators that led down to the tracks. Ryan bought his ticket with cash, but noted a sign that offered books of commuter tickets for daily use. He picked up a copy of The Daily Telegraph. That would mark him to the locals as a conservative sort of person. Those of a more liberal bent chose The Guardian. He decided to pass on the tabloids that had naked women on the inside. Hell of a thing to see right after breakfast.
He had to wait about ten minutes for the train, which arrived with little noise, being a cross between an American electric intercity train and a subway. His ticket was first class, which placed him in a small compartment. The windows went up and down if you pulled on a leather strap, and the compartment door hinged outward to let him exit directly instead of walking down the corridor. With that set of discoveries made, Ryan sat down and scanned the paper’s front page. As in America, local politics covered about half of the sheet, and Ryan looked at two of the articles, figuring he might as well learn the local customs and beefs. The schedule said about forty minutes to Victoria Station. Not too bad, and much better than driving it, Dan Murray had told him. In addition, parking a car in London was even worse than it was in New York, wrong side of the street and all.
The ride on the train was agreeably smooth. The trains were evidently a government-run monopoly, and somebody spent money on the roadbeds. A conductor took his ticket with a smile—doubtless marking Jack as a Yank instantly—and moved on, leaving Ryan to his paper. The passing scenery soon overtook his interest. The countryside was green and lush. The Brits did love their lawns. The row houses here were smaller than those in his childhood neighborhood in Baltimore, with what looked like slate roofs, and Jesus, the streets were narrow here. You’d really have to pay attention while driving, lest you end up in someone’s living room. That probably wouldn’t sit well, even to Englishmen accustomed to dealing with the shortcomings of visiting Yanks.
It was a clear day, some white fluffy clouds aloft, and the sky a delightful blue. He’d never experienced rain over here. Yet they had to have it. Every third man on the street carried a furled umbrella. And a lot of them wore hats. Ryan hadn’t done that since his time in the Marine Corps. England was just different enough from America to be dangerous, he decided. There were a lot of similarities, but the differences rose up and bit you on the ass when you least expected them. He’d have to be very careful with Sally crossing the street. At four and a half, she was just imprinted enough to look the wrong way at the wrong time. He’d seen his little girl in the hospital once, and that was, by God, enough for a lifetime.
He was rumbling through a city now, a thick one. The right-of-way was elevated. He looked around for recognizable landmarks. Was that St. Paul’s Cathedral off to the right? If so, he’d be at Victoria soon. He folded his paper. Then the train slowed, and—yeah. Victoria Station. He opened the compartment door like a native and stepped out on the platform. The station was a series of steel arches with embedded glass panes, long since blackened by the stack gasses of steam trains long departed… But nobody had ever cleaned the glass. Or was it just air pollution that did it?