The cabin talk was more lively now. The excitement was beginning as the airplane’s crew started moving about. What followed went in a blur. Ernie Allen was met by a welcoming committee of the appropriate level and whisked off in an embassy limousine. Everyone else was relegated to a bus. Ryan sat by himself, still watching the countryside outside the German-made vehicle.
Will Gerasimov bite—really bite?
What if he doesn’t?
What if he does? Ryan asked himself with a smile.
It had all seemed pretty straightforward in Washington, but here, five thousand miles away . . . well. First he’d get some sleep, aided by a single government-issue red capsule. Then he’d talk to a few people at the embassy. The rest would have to take care of itself.
20.
The Key of Destiny
IT was bitterly cold when Ryan awoke to the beeping sound of his watch alarm. There was frost on the windows even at ten in the morning, and he realized that he hadn’t made sure the heat in his room was operating. His first considered action of the day was to pull on some socks. His seventh-floor room—it was called an “efficiency apartment”—overlooked the compound. Clouds had moved in, and the day was leaden gray with the threat of snow.
“Perfect,” Jack observed to himself on the way to the bathroom. He knew that it could have been worse. The only reason he had this room was that the officer who ordinarily lived here was on honeymoon leave. At least the plumbing worked, but he found a note taped to the medicine cabinet mirror admonishing him not to mess the place up the way the last transient had. Next he checked the small refrigerator. Nothing: Welcome to Moscow. Back in the bathroom, he washed and shaved. One other oddity of the embassy was that to get down from the seventh floor, you first had to take an elevator up to the ninth floor and another one down from there to the lobby. Jack was still shaking his head over that one when he got into the canteen.
“Don’t you just love jet lag?” a member of the delegation greeted him. “Coffee’s over there.”
“I call it travel shock.” Ryan got himself a mug and came back. “Well, the coffee’s decent. Where’s everybody else?”
“Probably still sacked out, even Uncle Ernie. I caught a few hours on the flight, and thank God for the pill they gave us.
Ryan laughed. “Yeah, me too. Might even feel human in time for dinner tonight.”
“Feel like exploring? I’d like to take a walk, but—”
“Travel in pairs.” Ryan nodded. The rule applied only to the arms negotiators. This phase of negotiations would be sensitive, and the rules for the team were much tighter than usual. “Maybe later. I have some work to do.”
“Today and tomorrow’s our only chance,” the diplomat pointed out.
“I know,” Ryan assured him. He checked his watch and decided that he’d wait to eat until lunchtime. His sleep cycle was almost in synch with Moscow, but his stomach wasn’t quite sure yet. Jack walked back to the chancery.
The corridors were mainly empty. Marines patrolled them, looking very serious indeed after the problems that had occurred earlier, but there was little evidence of activity on this Saturday morning. Jack walked to the proper door and knocked. He knew it was locked.
“You’re Ryan?”
“That’s right.” The door opened to admit him, then was closed and relocked.
“Grab a seat.” His name was Tony Candela. “What gives?”
“We have an op laid on.”
“News to me—you’re not operations, you’re intelligence,” Candela objected.
“Yeah, well, Ivan knows that, too. This one’s going to be a little strange.” Ryan explained for five minutes.
” ‘A little strange,’ you say?” Candela rolled his eyes.
“I need a keeper for part of it. I need some phone numbers I can call, and I may need wheels that’ll be there when required.”
“This could cost me some assets.”
“We know that.”
“Of course, if it works . . .”
“Right. We can put some real muscle on this one.”
“The Foleys know about this?”
” ‘Fraid not.”
“Too bad, Mary Pat would have loved it. She’s the cowboy. Ed’s more the button-down-collar type. So, you expect him to bite Monday or Tuesday night?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Let me tell you something about plans,” Candela said.
They were letting him sleep. The doctors had warned him again, Vatutin growled. How was he supposed to accomplish anything when they kept—
“There’s that name again,” the man with the headphones said tiredly. “Romanov. If he must talk in his sleep, why can’t he confess . . . ?”
“Perhaps he’s talking with the Czar’s ghost,” another officer joked. Vatutin’s head came up.
“Or perhaps someone else’s.” The Colonel shook his head. He’d been at the point of dozing himself. Romanov, though the name of the defunct royal family of the Russian Empire, was not an uncommon one—even a Politburo member had had it. “Where’s his file?”
“Here.” The joker pulled open a drawer and handed it over. The file weighed six kilograms, and came in several different sections. Vatutin had committed most of it to memory, but had concentrated on the last two parts. This time he opened the first section.
“Romanov,” he breathed to himself. “Where have I seen that . . . ?” It took him fifteen minutes, flipping through the frayed pages as speedily as he dared.
“I have it!” It was a citation, scrawled in pencil. “Corporal A. I. Romanov, killed in action 6 October 1941, ‘. . . defiantly placed his tank between the enemy and his disabled troop commander’s, allowing the commander to withdraw his wounded crew . . .’ Yes! This one’s in a book I read as a child. Misha got his crew on the back deck of a different tank, jumped inside, and personally killed the tank that got Romanov’s. He’d saved Misha’s life and was posthumously awarded the Red Banner—” Vatutin stopped. He was calling the subject Misha, he realized.
“Almost fifty years ago?”
“They were comrades. This Romanov fellow had been part f Filitov’s own tank crew through the first few months. Well, e was a hero. He died for the Motherland, saving the life of his officer,” Vatutin observed. And Misha still talks to him . . .
I have you now, Filitov.
“Shall we wake him up and—”
“Where’s the doctor?” Vatutin asked.
It turned out that he was about to leave for home and was not overly pleased to be recalled. But he didn’t have the rank to play power games with Colonel Vatutin.
“How should we handle it?” Vatutin asked after outlining
his thoughts.
“He should be weary but wide awake. That is easily done.”
“So we should wake him up now and—”
“No.” The doctor shook his head. “Not in REM sleep—”
“What?”
“Rapid Eye Movement sleep—that’s what it’s called when the patient is dreaming. You can always tell if the subject is in a dream by the eye movement, whether he talks or not.”
“But we can’t see that from here,” another officer objected.
“Yes, perhaps we should redesign the observation system,” the doctor mused. “But that doesn’t matter too much. During REM sleep the body is effectively paralyzed. You’ll notice that he’s not moving now, correct? The mind does that to prevent injury to the body. When he starts moving again, the dream is over.”
“How long?” Vatutin asked. “We don’t want him to get too rested.”
“Depends on the subject, but I would not be overly concerned. Have the turnkey get a breakfast ready for him, and as soon as he starts moving, wake him up and feed him.”
“Of course.” Vatutin smiled.
“Then we just keep him awake . . . oh, eight hours or so more. Yes, that should do it. Is it enough time for you?”
“Easily,” Vatutin said with more confidence than he should have. He stood and checked his watch. The Colonel of “Two” called the Center and gave a few orders. His system, too, cried out for sleep. But for him there was a comfortable bed. He wanted to have all of his cleverness when the time came. The Colonel undressed fastidiously, calling for an orderly to polish his boots and press his uniform while he slept. He was tired enough that he didn’t even feel the need for a drink. “I have you now,” he murmured as he faded into sleep.
“G’night, Bea,” Candi called from the door as her friend opened up her car. Taussig turned one last time and waved before getting in. Candi and the Geek couldn’t have seen the way she stabbed the key into the ignition. She drove only half a block, turning a corner before pulling to the curb and staring at the night.
They’re doing it already, she thought. All the way through dinner, the way he looked at her—the way she looked at him! Already those wimpy little hands are fumbling with the buttons on her blouse . . .