Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (49 page)

He hated them all, sitting there alone, his eyes sweeping over the scene as he might have done a zoo, watching the animals. Bock detested them for their laughter and their smiles . . . and their futures. It wasn't fair. He'd had a purpose in life, a goal to strive for. They had jobs. Fifty or so weeks per year, they left their homes and drove to their workplaces and did whatever unimportant thing it was that they did, and came home, and like good Europeans saved their money for the annual fling in the Aegean, or Majorca, or America, or someplace where there was sun and clean air and a beach. Pointless though their lives might have been, they had the happiness that life had denied to the solitary man sitting in the shade of a white umbrella, staring out to sea again and sipping at his beer. It was not fair, not the least bit fair. He had devoted his life to their welfare—and they had the life that he'd hoped to give them, while he had less than nothing.

Except his mission.

Bock decided that he would not lie to himself on this issue any more than he did on others. He hated them. Hated them all. If he didn't have a future, why should they? If happiness was a stranger to him, why should it be their companion? He hated them because they had rejected him and Petra, and Qati, and all the rest who fought against injustice and oppression. In doing that, they had chosen the bad over the good—and for that one was damned. He was more than they were, Bock knew, he was better than they could ever hope to be. He could look down on all of them and their pointless little lives, and whatever he did to them—for them, he still tried to believe—was for him alone to decide. If some of them were hurt, that was too bad. They were not really people. They were empty shadows of what could have been people if they'd lived lives of purpose. They had not cast him out, they'd cast themselves out, seeking the happiness that came from . . . whatever lives they led. The lazy way. Like cattle. Bock imagined them, heads down in feeding troughs, making contented barnyard noises while he surveyed them. If some had to die—and some did have to die—should it trouble him? Not at all, Günther decided.

“Mister President . . .”

“Yes, Elizabeth?” Fowler replied with a chuckle.

“When's the last time someone told you how good a lover you are?”

“I sure don't hear that in the Cabinet Room.” Fowler was speaking to the top of her head, which nestled on his chest. Her left arm was wrapped around his chest, while his left hand stroked her blonde hair. The fact of the matter, the President thought, was that he was indeed pretty good at this. He had patience, which he judged the most important talent for the business. Liberation and equal-rights issues notwithstanding, it was a man's job to make a woman feel cherished and respected. “Not in the Press Room, either.”

“Well, you're hearing it from your National Security Advisor.”

“Thank you, Dr. Elliot.” Both had a good laugh. Elizabeth moved up to kiss him, dragging her breast along his chest to do so. “Bob, you don't know what you mean to me.”

“Oh, I think I might,” the President allowed.

Elliot shook her head. “All those dry years in academe. Never had time, always too busy. I was so tied up with being a professor. So much time wasted . . .” A sigh.

“Well, I hope I was worth waiting for, dear.”

“You were, and you are.” She rolled over, resting her head on his shoulder and drawing his hand across her chest until it rested on a convenient spot. His other hand found a similar place, and her hands held his in place.

What do I say next?
Liz asked herself. She had spoken the truth Bob Fowler was a gentle, patient, and talented lover. It was also true that on hearing such a thing, any man, even a President, was under control. Nothing, for a while, she decided. There was time to enjoy him further, and time to examine her own feelings, her eyes open and staring at a dark rectangle on the wall that was a fine oil painting whose artist she'd never bothered to note, some sweeping Western landscape of where the plains ended at the Front Range of the Rockies. His hands moved gently, not quite arousing again, but giving her subtle waves of pleasure which she accepted passively, occasionally adjusting the position of her head to show that she was still awake.

She was starting to love the man. Wasn't that odd? She paused, wondering if it was or wasn't. There was much to like and admire in him. There was also much to confuse. He was an irreconcilable mixture of coldness and warmth, and his sense of humor defied understanding. He cared deeply about many things, but his depth of feeling seemed always motivated by a logical understanding of issues and principles rather than true passion. He was often befuddled—genuinely so—that others didn't share his feelings on issues, in the same way that teachers of mathematics were never angered, but saddened and puzzled that others failed to see the beauty and symmetry of their calculations. Fowler was also capable of remarkable cruelty and total ruthlessness, both delivered without a trace of rancor. People stood in his way, and if he could destroy them, he did. It was like the line in The Godfather. It was never personal, just business. Perhaps he'd learned that from the mafiosi he'd sent to prison, Liz wondered. The same man could treat his true followers with a matter-of-fact coldness that rewarded efficiency and loyalty with . . . how could she describe it? The gratitude of an accountant.

And yet he was also a wonderfully tender man in bed. Liz frowned at the wall. There was no understanding him, was there?

“Did you see that report from Japan?” the President asked, getting to business just as Elliot was on the verge of a conclusion.

“Ummm, glad you brought that up. Something disturbing came into the office the other day.”

“About what?” Fowler showed his interest by moving his hands in a more deliberate fashion, as though to coax information out of her that she'd been waiting to reveal for some time.

“Ryan,” Liz replied.

“Him again? What is it?”

“The reports we heard about improper financial dealings were true, but it looks like he weaseled out of them on a technicality. It would have been enough to keep him out of this Administration, but since he's grand-fathered in from before—”

“There are technicalities and technicalities. What other thing do you have?”

“Sexual impropriety, and possibly using Agency personnel to settle personal scores.”

“Sexual impropriety . . . disgraceful. . . .”

Elliot giggled. He liked that. “There might be a child involved.” Fowler did not like that. He was a very seriously committed man on the issue of children's rights. His hands stopped moving.

“What do we know?”

“Not enough. It should be looked at, though,” Liz said, coaxing his hands back into motion.

“Okay, have the FBI do a quiet investigation,” the President said, ending the issue, he thought.

“That won't work.”

“Why?”

“Ryan has a very close relationship with the Bureau. They might balk on those grounds, might smooth the thing over.”

“Bill Shaw isn't like that. He's as good a cop as I've ever met—even I can't make him do things, and that's the way it should be.” Logic and principle again. The man was impossible to predict.

“Shaw worked personally on the Ryan Case—the terrorist thing, I mean. Prior personal involvement by the head of the investigative agency . . . ?”

“True,” Fowler admitted. It would look bad. Conflict of interest and all that.

“And Shaw's personal trouble-shooter is that Murray fellow. He and Ryan are pretty tight.”

A grunt. “So, what then?”

“Somebody from the Attorney General's office, I think.”

“Why not Secret Service?” Fowler asked, knowing the answer, but wondering if she did.

“Then it looks like it's a witch-hunt.”

“Good point. Okay, the A.G.'s office. Call Greg tomorrow.”

“Okay, Bob.” Time to change subjects. She brought one of his hands to her face, and kissed it. “You know, at times like this I really miss cigarettes.”

“Smoke after sex?” he asked with a harder embrace.

“When you make love to me, Bob, I smoke during sex. . . .” She turned to stare into his eyes.

“Maybe I should think about relighting the fire . . . ?”

“They say,” the National Security Advisor purred, moving to kiss him again, “they say the President of the United States is the most powerful man in the world . . .”

“I do my best, Elizabeth.”

Half an hour later, Elliot decided that it was true. She was starting to love him. Then she wondered what he felt for her. . . .

FUELING THE FIRE

“Guten Abend, Frau Fromm,” the man said.

“And you are?”

“Peter Wiegler, from the Berliner Tageblatt. I wonder if I might speak with you briefly.”

“About what?” she asked.

“Aber . . .” He gestured at the rain he was standing in. She remembered that she was civilized after all, even to a journalist.

“Yes, of course, please come in.”

“Thank you.” He came in out of the rain and removed his coat, which she hung on a peg. He was a captain in the KGB's First Chief (Foreign) Directorate, a promising young officer of thirty years, handsome, gifted in language, the holder of a master's degree in psychology, and another in engineering. He already had Traudl Fromm figured out. The new Audi parked outside was comfortable but not luxurious, her clothing—also new—very presentable but not overpowering. She was proud and moderately greedy, but also parsimonious. Curious, but guarded. She was hiding something, also smart enough to know that turning him away would generate more suspicion than whatever explanation she might have. He took his seat on an overstuffed chair, and waited for the next move. She didn't offer coffee. She hoped the encounter would be a short one. He wondered if this third person on his list of ten names might be something worth reporting to Moscow Center.

“Your husband is associated with the Greifswald-Nord Nuclear Power Station?”

“He was. As you know, it is being closed down.”

“Quite so. I would like to know what you and he think of that. Is Dr. Fromm at home?”

“No; he is not,” she answered uncomfortably. “Wiegler” didn't react visibly.

“Really? May I ask where he is?”

“He is away on business.”

“Perhaps I might come back in a few days, then?”

“Perhaps. You might call ahead?” It was the way she said it that the KGB officer noticed. She was hiding something, and the captain knew that it had to be something—

There was another knock at the door. Traudl Fromm went to answer it.

“Guten Abend, Frau Fromm,” a voice said. “We bring a message from Manfred.”

The captain heard the voice, and something inside his head went on alert. He told himself not to react. This was Germany, and everything was in Ordnung. Besides, he might learn something . . .

“I, ah, have a guest at the moment,” Traudl answered.

The next statement was delivered in a whisper. The captain heard approaching steps, and took his time before turning to look. It was a fatal error.

The face he saw might as easily have come from one of the endless World War II movies that he'd grown up on, just that it lacked the black-and-silver-trimmed uniform of an SS officer. It was a stern, middle-aged face with light blue eyes entirely devoid of emotion. A professional face that measured his as quickly as he—

It was time to—

“Hello. I was just about to leave.”

“Who is he?” Traudl didn't get a chance to answer.

“I'm a reporter with—” It was too late. A pistol appeared from nowhere. “Was gibt's hier?” he demanded.

“Where is your car?” the man behind the gun asked.

“I parked it down the street. I—”

“All those spaces right in front? Reporters are lazy. Who are you?”

“I'm a reporter with the—”

“I think not.”

“This one, too,” the one in black said. The captain remembered the face from somewhere . . . He told himself not to panic. That, too, was a mistake.

“Listen closely. You will be going on a short trip. If you cooperate, you will be returned here within three hours. If you do not cooperate, things will go badly for you. Verstehen Sie?”

They had to be intelligence officers, the captain thought, making a correct guess. And they had to be German, and that meant that they would play by the rules, he told himself, making the last mistake of what had been a promising career.

The courier arrived from Cyprus right on schedule, handing off his package to another man at one of five preselected transfer points, all of which had been under surveillance for twelve hours. The second man walked two blocks and started up his Yamaha motorcycle, tearing off into the countryside just as fast as he could in an area where motorcyclists were all certifiably mad. Two hours after that, he delivered the package, certain that he had not been followed, and kept going another thirty minutes before circling back to his point of origin.

Günther Bock took the package and was annoyed to see that it was to all appearances a movie cassette—Chariots of Fire—rather than the hollowed-out book he'd requested. Perhaps Erwin was delivering a message along with the cassette. Bock inserted it in a player and switched it on, catching the first few minutes of the feature movie, which was subtitled in French. Soon, he realized that Keitel's message was on what intelligence professionals really did. He fast-forwarded through ninety minutes of the film before the picture changed.

What!

“Who are you?” an off-camera voice asked harshly.

“I am Peter Wiegler, I am a reporter with—” The rest was a scream. The equipment used was crude, just an electrical cord ripped off a lamp or appliance, the insulation trimmed off the free end to expose a few centimeters of copper. Few understood just how effective crude instruments could be, especially if the user possessed some degree of sophistication. The man who called himself Peter Wiegler screamed as though his throat would split from the effort. He'd already bitten through his lower lip in previous efforts to keep silent. The only good thing about using electricity was that it wasn't especially bloody, just noisy.

“You must understand that you are being foolish. Your courage is impressive, but wasted here. Courage only has use when there is hope of rescue. We've already searched your car. We have your passports. We know that you are not German. So, what are you? Pole, Russian, what?”

The young man opened his eyes and took a long breath before speaking. “I am an investigative reporter with the Berliner Tageblatt.” They hit him again with the electric cord, and this time he passed out. Bock watched a man's back approach the victim and check his eyes and pulse. The torturer appeared to be wearing a chemical-warfare-protective suit of rubberized fabric, but without the hood and gloves. It must have been awfully hot, Bock thought.

“Obviously a trained intelligence officer. Probably Russian. Not circumcised, and his dental work is stainless steel, not especially well-done. That means an East Bloc service, of course. Too bad, this lad is quite brave.” The voice was admirably clinical, Bock thought.

“What drugs do we have?” another voice asked.

“A rather good tranquilizer. Now?”

“Now. Not too much.”

“Very well.” The man went off-camera, then returned with a syringe. He grasped the victim's upper arm, then injected the drug into a vein inside the elbow. It took three minutes before the KGB man regained consciousness, just enough for the rush of drugs to assault his higher brain functions.

“Sorry we had to do that to you. You have passed the test,” the voice said, this time in Russian.

“What test—” The answer was in Russian, just two words before his brain took hold and stopped him. “Why did you ask me in Russian?”

“Because that was what we wished to know. Good night.”

The victim's eyes went wide as a small-caliber pistol appeared, was placed against his chest, and fired. The camera withdrew a bit to show more of the room. A plastic sheet—actually three of them—covered the floor to catch blood and other droppings under the metal chair. The bullet wound was speckled with black powder marks, and bulged outward from the intrusion of gun-gases below the skin. There wasn't much bleeding. Heart wounds never produced much. In a few more seconds, the body stopped quivering.

“We could have taken more time to ascertain additional information, but we have what we need, as I will explain later.” It was Keitel's voice, off camera.

“Now, Traudl . . .”

They brought her in front of the camera, hands bound in front of her, her mouth gagged with the same bandaging tape, her eyes wide in terror, naked. She was trying to say something around the gag, but no one there had been interested. The tape was a day and a half old, of course. Günther could tell that from the TV that was playing in the corner, tuned to an evening news broadcast. The entire performance was a professional tour de force designed to meet his requirements.

Bock could almost hear the man thinking, Now, how do we do this? Günther momentarily regretted the instructions he'd given Keitel. But the evidence had to be positive. Magicians and other experts in illusion regularly consulted with intelligence agencies—but some things could not be faked, and he had to be sure that he could trust Keitel to do terrible and dangerous things. It was an objective necessity that this be graphic.

Another man looped a rope over a ceiling beam and hauled her hands up, then the first pressed his pistol into her armpit and fired a single shot. At least he wasn't a sadist, Bock thought. Such people were not reliable. It was quite sad to watch in any case. The bullet had punctured her heart, but she was too excited to die quickly, struggling for more than half a minute, eyes still wide, fighting for breath, still trying to speak, probably begging for help, asking why . . . After she went limp, one checked the pulse at her neck, then lowered her slowly to the floor. They'd been as gentle about it as they could have been under the circumstances. The shooter spoke without facing the camera.

“I hope you are satisfied. I did not enjoy this.”

“You weren't supposed to,” Bock said to the television set.

The Russian was taken off the chair and laid beside Traudl Fromm. While the bodies were dismembered, Keitel's voice spoke. It was a useful diversion, as the visual scene simply got more horrible. Bock was not squeamish about many things, but it troubled his psyche when human bodies were abused after death. Necessary or not, it seemed gratuitous to him.

“The Russian is undoubtedly an intelligence officer, as you have seen. His automobile was a rental from Berlin, and is being driven tomorrow to Magdeburg, where it will be turned in. It was parked down the street, normal procedure for a professional, of course, but a give-away in the event of capture. In the car we found a list of names, all of them in the DDR nuclear-power industry. It would seem that our Russian comrades have suddenly become interested in Honecker's bomb project. A pity we didn't have another few years to follow up on that, no? I regret the complication involved, but it took us several days to set up arrangements for disposing of the bodies, and we had no idea Frau Fromm had her ”guest“ when we knocked on the door. At that point, of course, it was too late. Besides, with the rain we had ideal conditions for the kidnapping.” Two men were working on each body. All wore the protective suits, and now they had their hoods and masks on, doubtless to protect them from the smell as much as to protect their identity. As in a slaughterhouse, sawdust was applied in bucketfuls to soak up the copious amounts of blood being spilled. Bock knew from experience just how messy murders could be. They worked quickly as Keitel's voice-over went on, using powered industrial cutting tools. Arms and legs had been removed from the torsos, and then the heads were removed and held up to the camera. No one could fake this. Keitel's men had truly murdered two human beings. The dismemberment in front of a playing television made that absolutely certain, and would doubtless also make disposal easier. The pieces were assembled neatly for wrapping in plastic. One of the men started brushing the blood-soaked sawdust into a pile for yet another plastic bag.

“The body parts will be burned at two widely separated locations. This will be accomplished long before you get the tape. That ends our message. We await further instructions.” And the tape returned to the dramatization of the 1920 Olympics—or was it 1924? Bock wondered. Not that it mattered, of course.

“Yes, Colonel?”

“One of my officers has failed to check in.” The Colonel was from Directorate T, the technical branch of the First Chief Directorate The holder of a doctor's degree in engineering, his personal specialty was missile systems He had worked in America and France, ferreting out the secrets of various military weapons before being promoted to his current job.

“Details?”

“Captain Yevgemy Stepanovich Feodorov, age thirty, married, one child, a fine young officer on the major's list He was one of the three I sent into Germany at your direction to check out their nuclear facilities He's one of my best.”

“How long?” Golovko asked.

“Six days. He flew into Berlin via Pans last week. He had German papers, good ones from downstairs, and a list of ten names to investigate. His instructions were to maintain a low profile unless he discovered something important, in which case he was to make contact with Station Berlin—what's left of it, I mean. We scheduled a periodic check-in, of course. He didn't make it, and after twenty-four hours, I got the alert.”

“Could it be that he's just careless?”

“Not this boy,” the Colonel said flatly. “Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Feodorov . . . wasn't his father. . . ?”

“Stefan Yurievich, yes. Yevgeniy is his youngest son.”

“Good God, Stefan taught me,” Golovko said. “Possibility of . . . ?”

“Defection?” The Colonel shook his head angrily. “Not a chance. His wife is in the chorus with the opera. No—they met in university and married young over the objections of both sets of parents. It's a love-match like we all wish we had. She's a stunningly beautiful girl, voice like an angel. Only a zhopnik would walk away from her. Then there's the child. He is by all reports a good father.” Golovko saw where this was leading.

“Arrested, then?”

“I haven't heard a whisper. Perhaps you might arrange to have that checked. I fear the worst.” The Colonel frowned and stared down at the rug. He didn't want to be the one who broke the news to Natalia Feodorova.

“Hard to believe,” Golovko said.

“Sergey Nikolay'ch, if your suspicions are correct, then this program we were tasked to investigate is a matter of grave importance to them, is it not? We may have confirmed something in the most expensive way possible.”