Like most Russian buildings, it was overheated. Jack removed his overcoat and handed it over to an attendant. The Soviet delegation was already lined up to greet their American counterparts, and the Americans shuffled down the rank of Soviets, ending at a table of drinks of which everyone partook. There would be ninety minutes of drinking and socializing before the actual dinner. Welcome to Moscow. Ryan approved of the plan. Enough alcohol could make any meal seem a feast, and he’d yet to experience a Russian meal that rose above the ordinary. The room was barely lit, allowing everyone to watch the falling snow through the large plate-glass windows.
“Hello again, Dr. Ryan,” a familiar voice said.
“Sergey Nikolayevich, I hope you are not driving tonight,” Jack said, gesturing with his wineglass to Golovko’s vodka. His cheeks were already florid, his blue eyes sparkling with alcoholic mirth.
“Did you enjoy the flight in last night?” the GRU Colonel asked. He laughed merrily before Ryan could reply. “You still fear flying?”
“No, it’s hitting the ground that worries me.” Jack grinned. He had always been able to laugh at his own pet fear.
“Ah, yes, your back injury from the helicopter crash. One can sympathize.”
Ryan waved at the window. “How much snow are we supposed to get tonight?”
“Perhaps half a meter, perhaps more. Not a very large storm, but tomorrow the air will be fresh and clear, and the city will sparkle with a clean blanket of white.” Golovko was almost poetic in his description.
Already he’s drunk, Ryan told himself. Well, tonight was supposed to be a social occasion, nothing more, and the Russians could be hospitable as hell when they wanted to be. Though one man was experiencing something very different, Jack reminded himself.
“Your family is well?” Golovko asked within earshot of another American delegate.
“Yes, thank you. Yours?”
Golovko gestured for Ryan to follow him over to the drink table. The waiters hadn’t come out yet. The intelligence officer selected another glass of clear liquor. “Yes, they are all well.” He smiled broadly. Sergey was the very image of Russian good fellowship. His face didn’t change a whit as he spoke his next sentence: “I understand that you want to meet Chairman Gerasimov.”
Jesus! Jack’s expression froze in place; his heart skipped a beat or two. “Really? How did you ever get that idea?”
“I’m not GRU, Ryan, not really. My original assignment was in Third Directorate, but I have since moved on to other things,” he explained before laughing again. This laugh was genuine. He’d just invalidated CIA’s file on himself—and, he could see, Ryan’s own observation. His hand reached out to pat Ryan on the upper arm. “I will leave you now. In five minutes you will walk through the door behind you and to the left as though looking for the men’s room. After that, you will follow instructions. Understood?” He patted Ryan’s arm again.
“Yes.”
“I will not see you again tonight.” They shook hands and Golovko moved off.
“Oh, shit,” Ryan whispered to himself. A troupe of violins came into the reception room. There must have been ten or fifteen of them, playing gypsy airs as they circulated about. They must have practiced hard, Jack thought, to play in perfect synchronization despite the dark room and their own random meanderings. Their movement and the relative darkness would make it hard to pick out individuals during the reception. It was a clever, professional touch aimed at making it easier for Jack to slip away.
“Hello, Dr. Ryan,” another voice said. He was a young Soviet diplomat, a gofer who kept notes and ran errands for the senior people. Now Jack knew that he was also KGB, Gerasimov was not content with a single surprise for the evening, he realized. He wanted to dazzle Ryan with KGB’s prowess. We’ll see about that, Jack thought, but the bravado seemed hollow even to himself. Too soon. Too soon.
“Good evening—we’ve never met.” Jack reached into his pants pocket and felt for his keychain. He hadn’t forgotten it.
“My name is Vitaliy. Your absence will not be noticed. The men’s room is that way.” He pointed. Jack handed over his glass and walked toward the door. He nearly stopped dead on leaving the room. No one inside could have known it, but the corridor had been cleared. Except for one man at the far end, who gestured once. Ryan walked toward him.
Oh, shit. Here we go . . .
He was a youngish man, on the short side of thirty. He looked like the physical type. Though his build was concealed by an overcoat, he moved in the brisk, efficient way of an athlete. His facial expression and penetrating eyes made him a bodyguard. The best thought that came to Ryan was that he was supposed to appear nervous. It didn’t require much In the way of talent to do so. The man took him around the corner and handed him a Russian-made overcoat and fur hat, then spoke a-single word:
“Come.”
He led Ryan down a service corridor and out into the cold air of an alley. Another man was waiting outside, watching. He nodded curtly to Ryan’s escort, who turned once and waved for Jack to hurry. The alley ended on Shabolovka Street, and both men turned right. This part of town was old, Jack saw at once. The buildings were mostly pre-revolution. The center of the street had trolley tracks embedded in cobblestones, and overhead were the catenary wires that supplied power to the streetcars. He watched as one rumbled past— actually it was two trams linked together, the colors white over red. Both men sprinted across the slippery street toward a red brick building with what looked like a metal roof. Ryan wasn’t sure what it was until they turned the corner.
The car barn, he realized, remembering similar places from his boyhood in Baltimore. The tracks curved in here, then diverged to the various bays in the barn. He paused for a moment, but his escort waved him forward urgently, moving to the left-most service bay. Inside it, of course, were streetcars, lined up like sleeping cattle in the darkness. It was totally still in there, he realized with surprise. There should have been people working, the sound of hammers and machine tools, but there was none of that. Ryan’s heart pounded as he walked past two motionless trams. His escort stopped at the third. Its doors were open, and a third bodyguard-type stepped down and looked at Ryan. He immediately patted Jack down, seeking weapons but finding none in a quick but thorough search. A jerk of the thumb directed him up and into the tram.
It had evidently just come in, and there was snow on the first step. Ryan slipped and would have fallen had not one of the KGB men caught his .arm. He gave Jack a look that in the West would have been accompanied by a smile, but the Russians are not a smiling people except when they want to be. He went up again, his hands firm on the safety rails. All you have to do . . .
“Good evening,” a voice called. Not very loudly, but it didn’t have to be. Ryan squinted in the darkness and saw the glowing orange light of a cigarette. He took a deep breath and walked toward it. “Chairman Gerasimov, I presume?”
“You do not recognize me?” A trace of amusement. The man flicked his Western-made butane lighter to illuminate his face. It was Nikolay Borissovich Gerasimov. The flame gave his face exactly the right sort of look. The Prince of Darkness himself . . .
“I do now,” Jack said, struggling to control his voice.
“I understand that you wish to speak with me. How may I be of service?” he asked in a courtly voice that belied the setting.
Jack turned and gestured to the two bodyguards who were standing at the front of the car. He turned back but didn’t have to say anything. Gerasimov spoke a single word in Russian, and both men left.
“Please excuse them, but their duty is to protect the Chairman, and my people take their duties seriously.” He waved to the seat opposite his. Ryan took it.
“I didn’t know your English was so good.”
“Thank you.” A courteous nod followed by a businesslike observation: “I caution you that time is short. You have information for me?”
“Yes, I do.” Jack reached inside his coat. Gerasimov tensed for a moment, then relaxed. Only a madman would try to kill the chief of the KGB, and he knew from Ryan’s dossier that he was not mad. “I have something for you,” said Ryan.
“Oh?” Impatience. Gerasimov was not a man who liked to be kept waiting. He watched Ryan’s hands fumble with something, and was puzzled to hear the rasp of metal scraping against metal. Jack’s clumsiness disappeared when the key came off the ring, and when he spoke, he was a man claiming another’s pot.