“Might not be that easy,” Ritter said, and let it go at that. “How’s the evaluation coming?”
“Finished it yesterday.”
“It’s for the President’s eyes plus a few others, but this one’s going to be tightly held.”
“Fair enough. I can have it printed up this afternoon. If that’s all . . . ?” It was. Ryan left the room. Moore watched the door close before speaking.
“I haven’t told anyone yet, but the President is concerned about Narmonov’s political position again. Ernie Allen is worried that the latest change in the Soviet position indicates a weakening in Narmonov’s support at home, and he’s convinced the boss that this is a bad time to push on a few issues. The implication of that is, if we bring CARDINAL out, well, it might have an undesired political effect.”
“If Misha gets caught, we get the same political effect,” Ritter pointed out. “Not to mention the slightly deleterious effect it’ll have on our man. Arthur, they are after him. They may have gotten to Vaneyev’s daughter already—”
“She’s back at work in GOSPLAN,” the DCI said.
“Yeah, and the man at the cleaners has disappeared. They got to her and broke her,” the DDO insisted. “We have to break him out once and for all. We can’t leave him flapping in the breeze, Arthur. We owe this man.”
“I cannot authorize the extraction without presidential approval.”
Ritter came close to exploding. “Then get it! Screw the politics—in this case, screw the politics. There is a practical side to this, Arthur. If we let a man like this go down, and we don’t lift a finger to protect him, the word will get out—hell, the Russians’ll make a TV miniseries out of it! It will cost us more in the long term than this temporary political garbage.”
“Hold it for a minute,” Greer said. “If they broke this Party guy’s daughter, how come she’s back to work?”
“Politics?” Moore mused. “You suppose the KGB’s unable to hurt this guy’s family?”
“Right!” the DDO snorted. “Gerasimov’s in the opposing faction, and he’d pass the opportunity to deny a Politburo seat to Narmonov’s man? It smells like politics, all right, but not that kind. More likely our friend Alexandrov has the new boy in his back pocket and Narmonov doesn’t know about it.”
“So, you think they’ve broken her, but let her go and are using her as leverage on the old man?” Moore asked. “It does make sense. But there’s no evidence.”
“Alexandrov’s too old to go after the post himself, and anyway the ideologue never seems to get the top spot—more fun to play kingmaker. Gerasimov’s his fair-haired boy, though, and we know that he’s got enough ambition to have himself crowned Nicholas the Third.”
“Bob, you’ve just come up with another reason not to rock the boat right now.” Greer sipped at his coffee for a moment. “I don’t like the idea of leaving Filitov in place either. What are the chances that he can just lay low? I mean, the way things are set up, he might just talk his way out of anything they can bring against him.”
“No, James.” Ritter shook his head emphatically. “We can’t have him lay low, because we need the rest of this report, don’t we? If he runs the risk of getting it out despite the attention he’s getting, we can’t then leave him to fate. It’s not right. Remember what this man’s done for us over the years.” Ritter argued on for several minutes, demonstrating the ferocious loyalty to his people that he’d learned as a young case officer. Though agents often had to be treated like children, encouraged, supported, and often disciplined, they became like your own children, and danger to them was something to be fought.
Judge Moore ended the discussion. “Your points are well taken, Bob, but I still have to go to the President. This isn’t just a field operation anymore.”
Ritter stood his ground. “We put all the assets in place.”
“Agreed, but it won’t be carried out until we get approval.”
The weather at Faslane was miserable, but at this time of year it usually was. A thirty-knot wind was lashing the Scottish coast with snow and sleet when Dallas surfaced. Mancuso took his station atop the sail and surveyed the rocky hills on the horizon. He’d just completed a speed run, zipping across the Atlantic at an average of thirty-one knots, about as hard as he cared to push his boat for any extended period of time, not to mention his running submerged far closer to the coast than he would have preferred. Well, he was paid to follow orders, not to love them.
The seas were rolling about fifteen feet, and his submarine rolled with them, wallowing her way forward at twelve knots. The seas came right over the spherical bow and splashed high on meeting the blunt face of the sail. Even the foul-weather gear didn’t help much. Within a few minutes he was soaked and shivering. A Royal Navy tug approached and took station off Dallas’ port bow, leading her in to the loch while Mancuso came to terms with the rolling. One of his best-kept professional secrets was an occasional touch of seasickness. Being on the sail helped, but those inside the submarine’s cylindrical hull were now regretting the heavy lunch served a few hours earlier.
Within an hour they were in sheltered waters, taking the S-turns into the base that supported British and American nuclear submarines. Once there, the wind helped, easing the slate-gray bulk of the submarine up to the pier. People were already waiting there, sheltered in a few cars as the lines were passed and secured by the submarine’s deck crew. As soon as the brow was passed, Mancuso went below to his cabin.
His first visitor was a commander. He’d expected a submarine officer, but this one had no service badges at all. That made him an intelligence type.
“How was the crossing, Captain?” the man asked.
“Quiet.” Well, get on with it!
“You sail in three hours. Here are your mission orders.” He handed over a manila envelope with wax seals, and a note on the front that told Mancuso when he could open it. Though often a feature in movies, it was the first time this had happened to him as a CO. You were supposed to be able to discuss your mission with the people who gave it to you. But not this time. Mancuso signed for them, locked them in his safe under the watchful eyes of the spook, and sent him back on his way.
“Shit,” the Captain observed to himself. Now his guests could come aboard.
There were two of them, both in civilian clothes. The first came down the torpedo-loading hatch with the aplomb of a real sailor. Mancuso soon saw why.
“Howdy, skipper!”
“Jonesy, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Admiral Williamson gave me a choice: either be recalled to temporary active duty or come aboard as a civilian tech-rep. I’d rather be a tech-rep. Pay’s better,” Jones lowered his voice. “This here’s Mr. Clark. He doesn’t talk much.”
And he didn’t. Mancuso assigned him to the spare bunk in the engineer’s stateroom. After his gear came down the hatch, Mr. Clark walked into the room, closed the door behind him, and that was that.
“Where do you want me to stash my stuff?” Jones asked.
“There’s a spare bunk in the goat locker,” Mancuso replied.
“Fine. The chiefs eat better anyway.”
“How’s school?”
“One more semester till my masters. I’m already getting nibbles from some contractors. And I’m engaged.” Jones pulled out his wallet and showed the Captain a photo. “Her name’s Kim, and she works in the library.” “Congratulations, Mr. Jones.”
“Thanks, skipper. The Admiral said you really needed me. Kim understands. Her dad’s Army. So, what’s up? Some kind of spec-op, and you couldn’t make it without me, right?” “Special Operations” was a euphemism that covered all sorts of things, most of which were dangerous.
“I don’t know. They haven’t told me yet.”
“Well, one more trip ‘up north’ wouldn’t be too bad,” Jones observed. “To be honest, I kind of missed it.”
Mancuso didn’t think they were going there, but refrained from saying so. Jones went aft to get settled. Mancuso went into the engineer’s stateroom.
“Mr. Clark?”
“Yes, sir.” He’d hung up his jacket, revealing that he wore a short-sleeved shirt. The man was a little over forty, Mancuso judged. On first inspection, he didn’t look all that special, perhaps six-one, and slim, but then Mancuso noted that the man didn’t have the normal middle-age roll at the waist, and his shoulders were broader than they looked on the tall frame. It was the second glance at an arm that added a piece to the jigsaw. Half hidden under the black hair on his forearm was a tattoo, a red seal, it seemed to be, with a wide, impudent grin.