The aircraft came to a halt, and the stagecraft began. The Air Force sergeant—this one always a man—opened the door on the left side of the aircraft to see that the truck-mounted stairs were already in place. Two more non-coms scurried down so that they could salute Ryan when he walked down. Andrea Price-O’Day was talking over her digital radio circuit to the chief of the Secret Service advance team to make sure it was safe for the President to appear in the open. She’d already heard that the Poles had been as cooperative as any American police force, and had enough security deployed here to defend against an attack by space aliens or Hitler’s Wehrmacht. She nodded to the President and Mrs. Ryan.
“Showtime, babe,” Jack told Cathy, with a dry smile.
“Knock ’em dead, Movie Star,” she said in reply. It was one of their inside jokes.
John Patrick Ryan, President of the United States of America, stood in the door to look out over Poland, or at least as much of it as he could see from this vantage. The first cheers erupted then, for although he’d never even been close to Poland before, he was a popular figure here, for what reason Jack Ryan had no idea. He walked down, carefully, telling himself not to trip and spill down the steps. It looked bad to do so, as one of his antecedents had learned the hard way. At the bottom, the two USAF sergeants snapped off their salutes, which Ryan unconsciously returned, and then he was saluted again by a Polish officer. They did it differently, Jack saw, with ring and little finger tucked in, like American Cub Scouts. Jack nodded and smiled to this officer, then followed him to the receiving line. There was the U.S. ambassador to introduce him to the Polish president. Together they walked down a red carpet to a small lectern, where the Polish president welcomed Ryan, and Ryan make remarks to demonstrate his joy at visiting this ancient and important new American ally. Ryan had a discordant memory of the “Polack” jokes so popular when he’d been in high school, but managed not to relate any to the assembled throng. This was followed by a review past the honor guard of soldiers, about three companies of infantrymen, all spiffed up for this moment; Jack walked past them, looking in each face for a split second and figuring they just wanted to go back to barracks to change into their more comfortable fatigues, where they’d say that this Ryan guy looked okay for a damned American chief of state, and wasn’t it good that this pain-in-the-ass duty was over. Then Jack and Cathy (carrying flowers given to her by two cute Polish kids, a boy and a girl, age six or so, because that was the best age to greet an important foreign woman) got into the official car, an American limo from the U.S. Embassy, for the drive into town. Once there, Jack looked over to the ambassador.
“What about Moscow?”
Ambassadors had once been Very Important People, which explained why each still had to be approved by vote of the United States Senate. When the Constitution had been drafted, world travel had been done by sailing ship, and an ambassador in a foreign land was the United States of America, and had to be able to speak for his country entirely without guidance from Washington. Modern communications had transformed ambassadors into glorified mailmen, but they still, occasionally, had to handle important matters with discretion, and this was such a case.
“They want the Secretary to come over as soon as possible. The backup aircraft is at a fighter base about fifteen miles from here. We can get Scott there within the hour,” Stanislas Lewendowski reported.
“Thanks, Stan. Make it happen.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the ambassador, a native of Chicago, agreed with a curt nod.
“Anything we need to know?”
“Aside from that, sir, no, everything’s pretty much under control.”
“I hate it when they say that,” Cathy observed quietly. “That’s when I look up for the falling sandbag.”
“Not here, ma’am,” Lewendowski promised. “Here things are under control.”
That’s nice to hear, President Ryan thought, but what about the rest of the fucking world?
“Eduard Petrovich, this is not a happy development,” Golovko told his president.
“I can see that,” Grushavoy agreed tersely. “Why did we have to learn this from the Americans?”
“We had a very good source in Beijing, but he retired not long ago. He’s sixty-nine years old and in ill health, and it was time to leave his post in their Party Secretariat. Sadly, we had no replacement for him,” Golovko admitted. “The American source appears to be a man of similar placement. We are fortunate to have this information, regardless of its source.”
“Better to have it than not to have it,” Eduard Petrovich admitted. “So, now what?”
“Secretary of State Adler will be joining us in about three hours, at the Americans’ request. He wishes to consult with us directly on a ‘matter of mutual interest.’ That means the Americans are as concerned with this development as we are.”
“What will they say?”
“They will doubtless offer us assistance of some sort. Exactly what kind, I cannot say.”
“Is there anything I don’t already know about Adler and Ryan?”
“I don’t think so. Scott Adler is a career diplomat, well regarded everywhere as an experienced and expert diplomatic technician. He and Ryan are friends, dating back to when Ivan Emmetovich was Deputy Director of CIA. They get along well and do not have any known disagreements in terms of policy. Ryan I have known for over ten years. He is bright, decisive, and a man of unusually fine personal honor. A man of his word. He was the enemy of the Soviet Union, and a skilled enemy, but since our change of systems he has been a friend. He evidently wishes us to succeed and prosper economically, though his efforts to assist us have been somewhat disjointed and confused. As you know, we have assisted the Americans in two black operations, one against China and one against Iran. This is important, because Ryan will see that he owes us a debt. He is, as I said, an honorable man, and he will wish to repay that debt, as long as it does not conflict with his own security interests.”
“Will an attack on China be seen that way?” President Grushavoy asked.
Golovko nodded decisively. “Yes, I believe so. We know that Ryan has said privately that he both likes and admires Russian culture, and that he would prefer that America and Russia should become strategic partners. So, I think Secretary Adler will offer us substantive assistance against China.”
“What form will it take?”
“Eduard Petrovich, I am an intelligence officer, not a gypsy fortuneteller …” Golovko paused. “We will know more soon, but if you wish me to make a guess …”
“Do so,” the Russian president commanded. The SVR Chairman took a deep breath and made his prediction:
“He will offer us a seat on the North Atlantic Council.” That startled Grushavoy:
“Join NATO?” he asked, with an open mouth.
“It would be the most elegant solution to the problem. It allies us with the rest of Europe, and would face China with a panoply of enemies if they attack us.”
“And if they make this offer to us …?”
“You should accept it at once, Comrade President,” the chief of the RSV replied. “We would be fools not to.”
“What will they demand in return?”
“Whatever it is, it will be far less costly than a war against China.”
Grushavoy nodded thoughtfully. “I will consider this. Is it really possible that America can recognize Russia as an ally?”
“Ryan will have thought this idea through. It conforms to his strategic outlook, and, as I said, I believe he honestly admires and respects Russia.”
“After all his time in CIA?”
“Of course. That is why he does. He knows us. He ought to respect us.”
Grushavoy thought about that one. Like Golovko, he was a Russian patriot who loved the very smell of Russian soil, the birch forests, the vodka and the borscht, the music and literature of his land. But he was not blind to the errors and ill fortune his country had endured over the centuries. Like Golovko, Grushavoy had come to manhood in a nation called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and had been educated to be a believer in Marxism-Leninism, but he’d gradually come to see that, although the path to political power had required worshiping at that godless altar, the god there had been a false one. Like many, he’d seen that the previous system simply didn’t work. But unlike all but a small and courageous few, he’d spoken out about the system’s shortcomings. A lawyer, even under the Soviet system when law had been subordinated to political whim, he’d crusaded for a rational system of laws which would allow people to predict the reaction of the state to their actions with something akin to confidence. He’d been there when the old system had fallen, and had embraced the new system as a teenager embraced his first love. Now he was struggling to bring order— lawful order, which was harder still—to a nation which had known only dictatorial rule for centuries. If he succeeded, he knew he’d be remembered as one of the giants of human political history. If he failed, he’d just be remembered as one more starry-eyed visionary unable to turn his dream into reality. The latter, he thought in quiet moments, was the more likely outcome.