“Himmler wasn’t as smart,” Jack observed.
“True enough. Feliks broke at least three attempts to bring Lenin down, and one of them was pretty serious. The full story on that never has gotten out, but you can bet the records are right in there,” the driver said. He was an Australian, part of the company contracted to handle perimeter security for the embassy, and a former commando of the Aussie SAS. He never performed any actual espionage activities—at least not for America—but he often played the part, doing strange things. He’d learned to spot and shake tails along the way, and that made the Russians certain that he was CIA or some sort of spook. He made an excellent tour guide, too.
He checked the mirror. “Our friends are still there. You don’t expect anything, do you?”
“We’ll see.” Jack turned. They weren’t being very subtle, but he hadn’t expected that they would. “Where’s Frunze?”
“South of the embassy, mate. You should have told me that you wanted to go there, we’d have hit it first.” He made a legal U-turn while Ryan kept looking back. Sure enough, the Zhiguli—it looked like an old Fiat—did the same, following them like a faithful dog. They went past the American compound again on the way, past the former Greek Orthodox church known to embassy wags as Our Lady of the Microchips for all the surveillance devices it surely contained.
“What exactly are we doing?” the driver asked.
“We’re just driving around. The last time I was here, all I saw was the way to and from the Foreign Ministry and the inside of a palace.”
“And if our friends get any closer?”
“Well, if they want to talk with me, I suppose I might oblige,” Ryan answered.
“Are you serious?” He knew Ryan was CIA.
“You bet.” Jack chuckled.
“You know I have to do a written report on things like that?”
“You have your job. I have mine.” They drove around for another hour, but nothing happened. That was to Ryan’s disappointment, and the driver’s relief.
They arrived the usual way. Though the crossing points were shuffled at random, the car—it was a Plymouth Reliant, about four years old, with Oklahoma tags—stopped at the Border Patrol control booth. There were three men inside, one of whom appeared to be asleep and had to be roused.
“Good evening,” the Border Patrolman said. “Could I see some identification, please?” All three men handed over driver’s licenses, and the photographs matched. “Anything to declare?”
“Some booze. Two quarts—I mean liters—for each of us.” He watched with interest as a dog sniffed around the car. “You want us to pull over and pop the trunk?”
“Why were you in Mexico?”
“We represent Cummings-Oklahoma Tool and Die. Pipeline and refinery equipment,” the driver explained. “Mainly large-diameter control valves and like that. We’re trying to sell some to Pemex. The sales stuff is in the trunk, too.”
“Any luck?” the Border Patrolman asked.
“First try. It’ll take a few more. They usually do.”
The dog handler shook his head negatively. His Labrador wasn’t interested in the car. No smell of drugs. No smell of nitrates. The men in the car didn’t fit the profile. They looked fairly clean-cut, but not overly so, and had not chosen a busy time to make the crossing.
“Welcome back,” the patrolman said. “Safe trip home.”
“Thank you, sir.” The driver nodded and dropped the car into drive. “See ya.”
“I don’t believe it,” the man in the back said, once they were a hundred meters away from the control point. He spoke in English. “They don’t have the first idea of security.”
“My brother’s a major in the Border Guards. I think he’d have a heart attack if he saw how easy that was,” the driver observed. He didn’t laugh. The hard part would be getting out, and as of now they were in enemy territory. He drove right at the posted speed limit while local drivers whizzed by him. He liked the American car. Though it lacked power, he’d never driven a car with more than four cylinders and didn’t really know the difference. He’d been in the United States four times before, but never for a job like this, and never with so little preparation.
All three spoke perfect American English, with a prairie twang to coincide with their identification papers—that’s how they all thought of their driver’s licenses and Social Security cards, even though they could hardly be called proper “papers.” The odd thing was that he liked America, especially the easy availability of inexpensive, wholesome food. He’d stop at a fast-food place on the way to Santa Fe, preferably a Burger King, where he’d indulge his love for a charcoal-cooked hamburger served with lettuce, tomatoes, and mayonnaise. That was one of the things Soviets found most amazing about America, the way anyone could get food without standing in a block-long line. And it was usually good food. How could Americans be so good at difficult tasks like food production and distribution, he wondered, and be so stupid about simple things like proper security? They just didn’t make any sense at all, but it was wrong—dangerous—to be contemptuous of them. He understood that. The Americans played by a set of rules so different as to be incomprehensible . . . and there was so much randomness here. That frightened the KGB officer in a fundamental way. You couldn’t tell which way they’d jump any more than you could predict the behavior of a driver on a highway. More than anything else, it was that unpredictability that reminded him that he was on the enemy’s ground. He and his men had to be careful, had to keep to their training. Being at ease in an alien environment was the surest route to disaster—that lesson had been pounded home all the way through the academy. There were just too many things that training could not do. The KGB could scarcely predict what the American government would do. There was no way they could be prepared for the individual actions of two hundred-plus million people who bounced from decision to decision.
That was it, he thought. They have to make so many decisions every day. Which food to buy, which road to take, which car to drive. He wondered how his countrymen would handle such a huge load of decisions, forced upon you every day. Chaos, he knew. It would result in anarchy, and that was historically the greatest fear of Russians.
“I wish we had roads like this at home,” the man next to him said. The one in the back was asleep, for real this time. For both of them it was the first time in America. The operation had been laid on too fast. Oleg had done several jobs in South America, always covered as an American businessman. A Moscovite, he remembered that there, once you were twenty kilometers beyond the outer ring road, all the roads were gravel, or simply dirt. The Soviet Union did not have a single paved road that led from one border to another.
The driver—his name was Leonid—thought about that. “Where would the money come from?”
“True,” Oleg agreed tiredly. They’d been driving for ten hours. “But you’d think we could have roads as good as Mexico.”
“Hmph.” But then people would have to choose where they wanted to go, and no one had ever bothered to train them how. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Six more hours, maybe seven.
Captain Tania Bisyarina came to much the same conclusion as she checked the dashboard clock in her Volvo. The safe house in this case wasn’t a house at all, but an old house-trailer that looked more like the sort used as mobile offices by contractors and engineers. It had started life as the former, but ended as the latter when an engineering firm had abandoned it a few years before, after half-completing their project in the hills south of Santa Fe. The drainage lines and sewers they’d been installing for a new housing development had never been finished. The developer had lost his financing, and the property was still tied up in court battles. The location was perfect, close to the interstate, close to the city, but hidden away behind a ridge and marked only by a dirt access road that even the local teenagers hadn’t discovered yet for their post-dance parking. The visibility question was both good and bad news. Scrub pines hid the trailer from view, but also allowed clandestine approach. They’d have to post an outside guard. Well, you couldn’t have everything. She’d driven in without lights, having carefully timed her arrival for a time when the nearest road was effectively deserted. From the back of her Volvo, she unloaded two bags of groceries. The trailer had no electricity, and all the food had to be nonperishable. That meant the meat was plastic-wrapped sausage, and she had a dozen cans of sardines. Russians love them. Once the groceries were in, she got a small suitcase from her car and set it next to the two jerricans of water in the nonfunctional bathroom.