“One can always take action,” Platonov suggested.
“Revenge? I’ve thought of that. I could go to the papers, but the Post is going to run a story about the SEC thing. Somebody on the Hill is orchestrating the hanging party. Trent, I suppose. I bet he put that reporter on me last night, too, the bastard. If I try to get the real word out, well, who’ll listen? Christ, I’m putting my tight little ass on the line just sitting here with you, Sergey.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why don’t you guess?” Ryan allowed himself a smile that ended abruptly. “I’m not going to go to jail. I’d rather die than have to disgrace myself like that. God damn it, I’ve risked my life—I’ve put it all on the line. Some things you know about, and one that you don’t. I have risked my life for this country, and they want to send me to prison!”
“Perhaps we can help.” The offer finally came across.
“Defect? You have to be joking. You don’t really expect me to live in your workers’ paradise, do you?”
“No, but for the proper incentive, perhaps we could change your situation. There will be witnesses against you. They could have accidents . . .”
“Don’t give me that shit!” Jack leaned forward. “You don’t do jobs like that in our country and we don’t do them in yours.”
“Everything has a price. Surely you understand that better than I.” Platonov smiled. “For example, the ‘disaster’ Mr. Trent referred to last night. What might that have been?”
“And how do I know who you’re really working for?” Jack asked.
“What?” That surprised him. Ryan saw past the pain in his sinuses.
“You want an incentive? Sergey, I am about to put my life on the line. Just because I’ve done it before, don’t you think that it’s easy. We have somebody inside Moscow Center. Somebody big. You tell me now what that name would buy me.”
“Your freedom,” Platonov said at once. “If he’s as high as you say, we would do very much indeed.” Ryan didn’t say a word for over a minute. The two men stared at each other as though over cards, as though they were gambling for everything each man owned—and as though Ryan knew that he held the lesser hand. Platonov matched the power of the American’s stare, and was gratified to see that it was his power that prevailed.
“I’m flying to Moscow the end of the week, unless the story breaks before then, in which case I’m fucked. What I just told you, pal, it doesn’t go through channels. The only person I’m sure it isn’t is Gerasimov. It goes to the Chairman himself, direct to him, no intermediaries, or you risk losing the name.”
“And why am I supposed to believe you know it?” The Russian pressed his advantage, but carefully.
It was Jack’s turn to smile. His hole card had turned out to be a good one. “I don’t know the name, but I know the data. With the four things that I know came from CONDUCTOR—that’s the code name—your troops can handle the rest. If your letter goes through channels, probably I don’t get on the airplane. That’s how far up the chain he is—if it’s a he, but it probably is. How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“In the intelligence business one must keep one’s promises,” Platonov assured him.
“Then tell your Chairman that I want to meet him if he can arrange it. Man to man. No bullshit.”
“The Chairman? The Chairman doesn’t—”
“Then I’ll make my own legal arrangements and take my chances. I’m not going to jail for treason either, if I can help it. That’s the deal, Comrade Platonov,” Jack concluded. “Have a nice drive home.”
Jack rose and walked away. Platonov did not follow. He looked around and found his own security man, who signaled that they had not been observed.
And he had his own decision to make. Was Ryan genuine?
Cassius said so.
He had run Agent Cassius for three years. Peter Henderson’s data had always checked out. They’d used him to track down and arrest a colonel in Strategic Rocket Forces who’d been working for CIA, had gotten priceless strategic and political intelligence, and even inside American analysis of that Red October business of the previous—no, it was two years now, wasn’t it, right before Senator Donaldson had retired—and now that he worked in the GAO, he had the best of all possible worlds: direct access to classified defense data and all his political contacts on the Hill. Cassius had told them some time before that Ryan was under investigation. At the time it had been merely a tidbit, no one had taken it seriously. The Americans were always investigating one another. It was their national sport. Then a second time he’d heard the same story, then the scene with Trent. Was it really possible . . . ?
A leak high up in KGB, Platonov thought. There was a protocol, of course, for getting important data directly to the Chairman. The KGB allowed for any possibility. Once that message was sent, it would have to be followed up. Just the hint that CIA had an agent high in the KGB hierarchy . . .
But that was only one consideration.
Once we set the hook, we will own Dr. Ryan. Perhaps he is foolish enough to think that a one-time exchange of information for services is possible, that he will never again . . . more likely that he is so desperate that he does not care at the moment. What kind of information might we get from him?
Special assistant to the Deputy Director for Intelligence! Ryan must see nearly everything! To recruit so valuable an agent— that hadn’t been done since Philby, and that was over fifty years ago!
But is it important enough to break the rules? Platonov asked himself as he finished off his drink. Not in living memory had the KGB committed an act of violence in the United States—there was a gentlemen’s agreement on that. But what were rules against this sort of advantage? Perhaps an American or two might have an auto accident, or an unexpected heart attack. That would also have to be approved by the Chairman. Platonov would give his recommendation. It would be followed. He was sure of that.
The diplomat was a fastidious man. He wiped his face with the paper napkin, put all the trash in the paper drink cup, and deposited it in the nearest receptacle. He left nothing behind to suggest that he’d ever been there.
The Archer was sure that they were winning. On announcing his mission to his subordinates, the reaction could not have been better. Grim, amused smiles, sideways looks, nods. The most enthusiastic of all had been their new member, the former Major of the Afghan Army. In their tent, twenty kilometers inside Afghanistan, the plans had been put together in five tense hours.
The Archer looked down at phase one, already complete. Six trucks and three BTR-60 infantry carriers were in their hands. Some were damaged, but that was not unexpected. The dead soldiers of the puppet army were being stripped of their uniforms. Eleven survivors were being questioned. They would not join in this mission, of course, but if they proved to be reliable, they would be allowed to join allied guerrilla bands. For the others . . .
The former Army officer recovered maps and radio codes. He knew all the procedures that the Russians had so assiduously taught to their Afghan “brothers.”
There was a battalion base camp ten kilometers away, due north on the Shékábád road. The former Major contacted it on the radio, indicating that “Sunflower” had repulsed the ambush with moderate losses and was heading in. This was approved by the battalion commander.
They loaded a few of the bodies aboard, still in their bloody uniforms. Trained former members of the Afghan Army manned the heavy machine guns on the BTR carriers as the column moved out, keeping proper tactical formation on the gravel road. The base camp was just on the far side of the river. Twenty minutes later they could see it. The bridge had long since been wrecked, but Russian engineers had dumped enough gravel to make a ford. The column halted at the guard post on the east side.
This was the tense part. The Major made the proper signal, and the guard post waved them through. One by one the vehicles moved across the river. The surface was frozen and the drivers had to follow a line of sticks across to keep from becoming trapped in the deep water that lay under the crackling ice. Another five hundred meters.
The base camp was on a small rise. It was surrounded by low-lying bunkers made of sandbags and logs. None were fully manned. The camp was well sited, with wide fields of fire in all directions, but they’d only man their weapons pits fully at night. Only a single company of troops was actually in the post, while the remainder were out patrolling the hills around the camp. Besides, the column was coming in at mealtime. The battalion motor pool was in sight.