Clark smirked. “That’s why they pay me so much. I—”
Conversation stopped for a moment. The submarine’s hull creaked as it settled on the bottom, and the boat took on a slight list. Mancuso looked at the coffee in his cup and figured it for six or seven degrees. Submariner machismo prevented him from showing any reaction, but he’d never done this, at least not with Dallas. A handful of submarines in the U.S. Navy were specially designed for these missions. Insiders could identify them at a glance from the arrangement of a few hull fittings, but Dallas wasn’t one of them.
“I wonder how long this is going to take?” Mancuso asked the overhead.
“May not happen at all,” Clark observed. “Almost half of them don’t. The longest I’ve ever had to sit like this was… twelve days, I think. Seemed like an awfully long time. That one didn’t come off.”
“Can you say how many?” Ramius asked.
“Sorry, sir.” Clark shook his head.
Ramius spoke wistfully. “You know, when I was a boy, I fished here—right here many times. We never knew that you Americans came here to fish also.”
“It’s a crazy world,” Clark agreed. “How’s the fishing?”
“In the summer, very good. Old Sasha took me out on his boat. This is where I learned the sea, where I learned to be a sailor.”
“What about the local patrols?” Mancuso asked, getting everyone back to business.
“There will be a low state of readiness. You have diplomats in Moscow, so the chance of war is slight. The surface patrol ships are mainly KGB. They guard against smugglers—and spies.” He pointed to Clark. “Not so good against submarines, but this was changing when I left. They were increasing their ASW practice in Northern Fleet, and, I hear, in Baltic Fleet also. But this is bad place for submarine detection. There is much fresh water from the rivers, and the ice overhead—all makes for difficult sonar conditions.”
That’s good to hear, Mancuso thought. His ship was in an increased state of readiness. The sonar equipment was fully manned and would remain so indefinitely. He could get Dallas moving in a matter of two minutes, and that should be ample, he thought.
Gerasimov was thinking, too. He was alone in his office. A man who controlled his emotions even more than most Russians, his face displayed nothing out of the way, even though there was no one else in the room to notice. In most people that would have been remarkable, for few can contemplate their own destruction with objectivity.
The Chairman of the Committee for State Security assessed his position as thoroughly and dispassionately as he examined any aspect of his official duties. Red October. It all flowed out from that. He had used the Red October incident to his advantage, first suborning Gorshkov, then disposing of him; he’d also used it to strengthen the position of his Third Directorate arm. The military had begun to manage its own internal security—but Gerasimov had seized upon his report from Agent Cassius to convince the Politburo that the KGB alone could ensure the loyalty and security of the Soviet military. That had earned him resentment. He’d reported, again via Cassius, that Red October had been destroyed. Cassius had told KGB that Ryan was under criminal suspicion, and—
And we—I!—walked into the trap.
How could he explain that to the Politburo? One of his best agents had been doubled—but when? They’d ask that, and he didn’t know the answer; therefore all the reports received from Cassius would become suspect. Despite the fact that much good data had come from the agent, knowledge that he’d been doubled at an unknown time tainted all of it. And that wrecked his vaunted insights into Western political thought.
He’d wrongly reported that the submarine hadn’t defected, and not discovered the error. The Americans had gotten an intelligence windfall, but KGB didn’t know of it. Neither did GRU, but that was little comfort.
And he’d reported that the Americans had made a major change in their arms-negotiation strategy, and that, too, was wrong.
Could he survive all three disclosures at once? Gerasimov asked himself.
Probably not.
In another age he would have faced death, and that would have made the decision all the easier. No man chooses death, at least not a sane one, and Gerasimov was coldly sane in everything he did. But that sort of thing didn’t happen now. He’d end up with a subministerial job somewhere or other, shuffling papers. His KGB contacts would be useless to him beyond such meaningless favors as access to decent groceries. People would watch him walking on the street—no longer afraid to look him in the face, no longer fearful of his power, they’d point and laugh behind his back. People in his office would gradually lose their deference, and talk back, even shout at him once they knew that his power was well and truly gone. No, he said to himself, I will not endure that.
To defect, then? To go from being one of the world’s most powerful men to becoming a hireling, a mendicant who traded what he knew for money and a comfortable life? Gerasimov accepted the fact that his life would become more comfortable in physical terms—but to lose his power!
That was the issue, after all. Whether he left or stayed, to become just another man . . . that would be like death, wouldn’t it?
Well, what do you do now?
He had to change his position, had to change the rules of the game, had to do something so dramatic . . . but what?
The choice was between disgrace and defection? To lose everything he’d worked for—within sight of his goal—and face a choice like this?
The Soviet Union is not a nation of gamblers. Its national strategy has always been more reflective of the Russians’ national passion for chess, a series of careful, pre-planned moves, never risking much, always protecting its position by seeking small, progressive advantages wherever possible. The Politburo had almost always moved in that way. The Politburo itself was largely composed of similar men. More than half were apparatchiks who had spoken the appropriate words, filled the necessary quotas, taking what advantages they could, and who had won advancement through a stolidness whose perfection they could display around the table in the Kremlin. But the function of those men was to provide a moderating influence on those who aspired to rule, and these men were the gamblers. Narmonov was a gambler. So was Gerasimov. He’d play his own game, allying himself with Alexandrov to establish his ideological constituency, blackmailing Vaneyev and Yazov to betray their master.
And it was too fine a game to quit so easily. He had to change the rules again, but the game did not really have any rules—except for the one: Win.
If he won—the disgraces would not matter, would they?
Gerasimov took the key from his pocket and examined it for the first time in the light of his desk lamp. It looked ordinary enough. Used in the designed manner, it would make possible the deaths of—fifty million? A hundred? More? The Directorate Three men on the submarines and in the land-based rocket regiments held that power—the zampolit, the political officer alone had the authority to activate the warheads without which the rockets were mere fireworks. Turn this key in the proper way at the proper time, he knew, and the rockets were transformed into the most frightening instruments of death yet devised by the mind of man. Once launched, nothing could stop them . . .
But that rule was going to be changed, too, wasn’t it?
What was it worth to be the man who could do that?
“Ah.” Gerasimov smiled. It was worth more than all the other rules combined, and he remembered that the Americans had broken a rule, too, in killing their courier in the Moskvich railyard. He lifted his phone and called for a communications officer. For once the longitudinal lines worked in his favor.
Dr. Taussig was surprised when she saw the signal. One thing about “Ann” was that she never altered her routine. Despite the fact that she’d impulsively visited her contact, heading to the shopping center was her normal Saturday routine. She parked her Datsun fairly far out, lest some klutz in a Chevy Malibu smash his door against hers. On the way in, she saw Ann’s Volvo, and the driver’s side visor was down. Taussig checked her watch and increased her pace to the entrance. On going in, she turned left.
Peggy Jennings was working alone today. They were spread too thin to get the job done as fast as Washington wanted, but that wasn’t exactly a new story, was it? The setting was both good and bad. Following her subject to the shopping mall was fairly easy, but once inside it was damned near impossible to trail a subject properly, unless you had a real team of agents operating. She got to the door only a minute behind Taussig, already knowing that she’d lost her. Well, this was only a preliminary look at her. Routine, Jennings told herself on opening the door.