“Still no sailing orders, skipper?’ his executive officer asked.
“Nope. I imagine everybody’s wondering what we’ll be doing, but for my money even the flags” -Morris always referred to admirals as flags- “don’t know yet. There’s a meeting of COs tomorrow morning at CINCLANTFLT. S’pose I’ll find out something then. Maybe,” he said dubiously.
“What do you think of this German stuff?”
“The Krauts I’ve worked with at sea have been all right. Trying to blast the whole Russian command structure-nobody’s that crazy.” Morris shrugged, a frown spreading across his dark face. “XO, there ain’t no rule that says the world has to make sense.”
“Damn if that ain’t the truth. I think those ASROCs are going to be needed, skipper.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
CROFTON, MARYLAND
“To sea?” Martha Toland asked.
“That’s where they want me, and it’s where I belong, like it or not.” Bob had trouble meeting his wife’s eyes. Listening to the brittle edge on her voice at the moment was bad enough. It wasn’t his job to bring fear into her life, but that was precisely what he’d just done.
“Bob, is it as bad as I think?”
“There’s no telling, babe. It might be, but there’s no telling. Look, Marty, you remember Ed Morris and Dan McCafferty, right? They both have their own commands now, and they have to go. Am I supposed to stay in a nice safe place on the beach?”
His wife’s reply was devastating.
“They’re professionals, you’re not,” she said coldly. “You play weekend warrior and serve your two weeks a year just to pretend that you’re still in the Navy, Bob. You’re a civilian spook, you don’t belong out there. You can’t even swim!” Marty Toland could give lessons to sea lions.
“The hell I can’t!” Toland protested, knowing that it was an absurd thing to argue about.
“Right! I haven’t seen you in a pool in five years. Oh, dammit, Bob, what if something happens to you? You go out there to play your damned games and leave me behind with the kids. What do I tell them?”
“You tell them I didn’t run away, I didn’t hide, I-” Toland looked away. He hadn’t expected this. Marty came from a Navy family. She was supposed to understand. But there were tears on her cheeks now, and her mouth was quivering. He took a step forward to wrap his arms around her. “Look, I’m going to be on a carrier, okay? The biggest ship we have, the safest, best-protected ship we have, with a dozen other ships surrounding her to keep the bad guys away, and a hundred airplanes. They need me to help figure out what the bad guys are up to so they can keep them as far away as possible. Marty, what I’m doing is necessary. They need me. The Admiral asked for me by name. I’m important-at least somebody thinks so.” He smiled gently to hide his lie. A carrier was the best-protected ship in the fleet because she had to be: the carrier was also the number-one target for the Russians.
“I’m sorry.” She broke out of his grasp and walked to the window. “How are Danny and Ed?”
“A lot busier than I am. Danny’s sub is somewhere up-well, right now he’s a lot closer to the Soviets than I’ll ever be. Ed’s getting ready to sail. He’s got a 1052-an escort ship-and he’ll probably be out protecting convoys or something from submarines. They both have their own families. At least you get a chance to see me before I go.”
Marty turned and smiled for the first time since he had unexpectedly walked through the door. “You will be careful.”
“I’ll be damned careful, babe.” But would it matter?
13. – The Strangers Arrive and Depart
AACHEN, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
It was the traffic that did it. The envelope came as promised to the proper post office box, and the key worked as he’d been told to expect. Minimum personnel involvement. The major grumbled at having to expose himself in the open this way, but it wasn’t the first time he’d had to work with the KGB, and he needed this up-to-date information if his mission were to have any chance of success. Besides, he smiled briefly, the Germans are so proud of their postal service . . .
The major folded the oversized envelope and tucked it into his jacket pocket before leaving the building. His clothing was entirely German in origin, as were the sunglasses which he donned on opening the door. He scanned the sidewalk in both directions, looking for anyone who might be trailing him. Nothing. The KGB officer had promised him that the safe house was totally secure, that no one had the least suspicion that they were here. Perhaps. The taxi was waiting for him across the street. He was in a hurry. The cars were stopped on the street, and he decided to go straight across instead of walking to the corner. The major was from Russia and not accustomed to the unruly European traffic where the pedestrians are expected to follow the rules too. He was a hundred meters from the nearest traffic cop, and the nearby German drivers could sense that the cop’s back was turned. It should have been as much a surprise to the major as to American tourists that, when driving, the orderly Germans were anything but. He stepped off the curb without looking, just as the traffic started moving.
He never even saw the accelerating Peugeot. It was not moving fast, only twenty-five kilometers per hour. Fast enough. The right fender caught him on the hip, spun him around, and catapulted the major into a lamppost. He was knocked unconscious before he knew what had happened, which was just as well, since his legs remained in the street and the Peugeot’s rear wheel crushed both ankles. The damage to his head was spectacular. A major artery was cut open, and blood fountained onto the sidewalk as he lay motionless on his face. The car stopped at once, its driver leaping out to see what she had done. There was a scream from a child who had never seen so much blood, and a postman raced to the corner to summon the police officer standing in the traffic circle, while another man went into a store to call an ambulance.
The stopped traffic allowed the taxi driver to leave his vehicle and come over. He tried to get close, but already a half dozen men were bending over the body.
“Er ist tot,” one observed, and the body was pale enough to make one think so. The major was already in shock. So was the Peugeot’s driver, whose eyes were already dripping tears as her breaths came in irregular sobs. She was trying to tell everyone that the man had stepped right in front of her car, that she hadn’t had a chance to stop. She spoke in French, which only made things more difficult.
Pushing through the spectators, the taxi driver was almost close enough to touch the body by now. He had to get that envelope . . . but then the policeman arrived.
“Alles zurfick!” the cop ordered, remembering his training: first, get things under control. His training also enabled him to resist the instinct to move the body. This was a head injury, perhaps a neck injury also, and those were not to be moved except by Experten. A bystander called out that he had summoned an ambulance. The policeman nodded curtly and hoped it would arrive soon. Making traffic accident reports was far more routine than watching an unconscious-or dead?-man bleed untidily on the sidewalk. He looked up gratefully a moment later to see a lieutenant-a senior watch supervisor-pushing his way in.
“Ambulance?”
“On the way, Herr Leutnant. I am Dieter, Gunther-traffic detail. My post is down the street.”
“Who was driving the car here?” the lieutenant asked.
The driver stood as erect as she could and started gasping out her story in French. A passerby who had seen the whole thing cut her off.
“This one just stepped off the curb without looking. The lady had no chance to stop. I am a banker, and I came out of the post office right behind this one. He tried to cross at the wrong place and stepped into the street without looking at the traffic. My card.” The banker handed the lieutenant his business card.
“Thank you, Dr. Muller. You have no objection to making a statement?”
“Of course. I can come directly to your station if you wish.”
“Good.” The lieutenant rarely had one this clean-cut.
The taxi driver just stood at the edge of the crowd. An experienced KGB case officer, he’d seen operations go bad before, but this was . . . absurd. There was always something new that could ruin an operation, so often the most simple, most foolish thing. This proud Spetznaz commando, cut down by a middle-aged Frenchwoman driving a sedan! Why hadn’t he looked at the damned traffic? I should have gotten someone else to fetch the envelope, and screw the damned orders. Security, he swore behind an impassive face. Orders from Moscow Center: minimum personnel involvement. He walked back across the street to his cab, wondering how he’d explain this to his control. Mistakes were never the Center’s fault.