Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (629 page)

Bubovoy leaned back and spoke judiciously. This was what Andropov wanted to hear, and he was ready to deliver it. “Comrade Chairman, one must weigh one hazard against another. The greatest danger is if our assassin talked about how he came to be in Rome. A dead man tells no tales, as they say. And a silenced voice cannot give out information. The other side can speculate, but it is merely speculation. For our part, we can easily release information through the press sources we control about Muslim animosity toward the head of the Roman church. The Western news services will pick it up and, with proper guidance, we can help shape the public understanding of what has taken place. The United States and Canada Institute has some excellent academicians for this purpose, as you know. We can use them to formulate the black propaganda, and then use people from the First Chief Directorate to propagate it. This proposed operation is not without risk, of course, but, though complex, it is not all that difficult from a conceptual point of view. The real problems will be in its execution and in operational security. That’s why it’s critical to eliminate the assassin immediately. The most important thing is the denial of information to the other side. Let them speculate all they wish, but without hard information, they will
know
nothing. This operation will be very closely held, I presume.”

“Less than five people at present. How many more?” Andropov asked, impressed at Bubovoy’s expertise and sangfroid.

“At least three Bulgarians. Then they will select the Turk—it must be a Turk, you see.”

“Why?” Though Andropov figured he knew the answer.

“Turkey is a Muslim country, and there is a long-standing antipathy between the Christian churches and Islam. This way, the operation will generate additional discord between the two religious groups—consider that a bonus,” the Sofia
rezident
suggested.

“And how will you select the assassin?”

“I will leave that to Colonel Strokov—his ancestry is Russian, by the way. His family settled in Sofia at the turn of the century, but he thinks like one of us. He is
nashi,
” Bubovoy assured his boss, “a graduate of our own academy, and an experienced field operator.”

“How long to set this up?”

“That depends more on Moscow than Sofia. Strokov will need approval from his own command, but that is a political question, not an operational one. After he gets his orders . . . two weeks, perhaps as many as four.”

“And the chances of success?” the Chairman asked.

“Medium to high, I should think. The DS field officer will drive the killer to the proper place, and then kill him a moment after the mission is accomplished, before making his escape. That is more dangerous than it sounds. The assassin will probably have a pistol, and it will not be a suppressed weapon. So the crowd will be drawn to the sound. Most people will draw back, but some will leap forward into danger, hoping to detain the gunman. If he falls from a silent bullet in the back, they will still rush in, while our man, like others in the crowd, draws back. Like waves on the beach,” Bubovoy explained. He could see it all happening in his mind. “Shooting a pistol is not as easy as the cinema would have us believe, though. Remember, on a battlefield, for every man killed, two or three are wounded and survive. Our gunman will get no closer than four or five meters. That’s close enough for an expert, but our man will not be an expert. And then there’s the complicating factor of medical care. Unless you’re shot through the heart or brain, skilled surgeons can often reach into the grave and pull a wounded man back out. So, realistically, it is a fifty-percent operation. The consequences of failure, therefore, must be taken into account. That is a political question, Comrade Chairman,” Bubovoy concluded, meaning that it wasn’t his ass on the line, exactly. At the same time, he knew that mission success meant general’s stars, which, for the colonel, was an acceptable gamble with a huge upside and little in the way of a downside. It appealed to his careerism as well as his patriotism.

“Very well. What needs to be done?”

“First of all, the DS operates under political guidance. The section that Colonel Strokov commands operates with few written records, but it is directly controlled by the Bulgarian Politburo. So we would have to get political authorization, which necessarily means approval from our own political leadership. The Bulgarians will not authorize their cooperation without an official request from our government. After that, it’s actually a straightforward operation.”

“I see.” Andropov went silent for half a minute or so. There was a Politburo meeting the day after tomorrow.
Was it too soon to float this mission?
he wondered. How difficult might it be to make his case? He’d have to show them the Warsaw Letter, and they would not be the least bit pleased by it. He’d have to present it in such a way as to make the urgency of the matter plain and . . . frightening to them.

Would they be frightened? Well, he could help them along that path, couldn’t he? Andropov pondered the question for a few more seconds and came to a favorable conclusion.

“Anything else, Colonel?”

“It hardly needs saying that operational security must be airtight. The Vatican has its own highly effective intelligence service. It would be a mistake to underestimate their capabilities,” Bubovoy warned. “Therefore, our Politburo and the Bulgarians must know that this matter cannot be discussed outside of their own number. And for our side, that means no one, even in the Central Committee or the Party Secretariat. The smallest leak would be ruinous to the mission. But, at the same time,” he went on, “we have much working for us. The Pope necessarily cannot isolate himself, nor can he be protected as we or any other nation-state would do with such a threat to its chief of state. In an operational sense, he is, actually, rather a ‘soft’ target—
if,
that is, we can find an assassin willing to risk his life to get sufficiently close to take his shot.”

“So, if I can get authorization from the Politburo, and then we make the request for assistance from our Bulgarian brothers, and then you can get this Colonel Strokov moving, how long before it actually happens?”

“A month, I should think, perhaps two months, but not more than that. We would need some support from Station Rome, for issues of timing and such, but that’s all. Our own hands would be entirely clean—especially if Strokov assists in eliminating the assassin immediately upon completion of his mission.”

“You’d want this Strokov fellow to act personally?”

“Da.”
Bubovoy nodded. “Boris Andreyevich is not averse to getting his hands wet. He’s done this sort of thing before.”

“Very well.” Andropov looked down at his desk. “There will be no written records of this operation. Once I have proper authorization, you will receive notice to proceed from my office, but only by operational code, and that is 15-8-82-666. Any complex information will be relayed by messenger or by face-to-face contact only. Is that clear?”

“It is clear, Comrade Chairman. Nothing gets written down except the operation number. I expect I will be flying a good deal between Sofia and Moscow, but that is not a problem.”

“The Bulgarians are trustworthy?” Andropov asked, suddenly worried.

“Yes, they are, Comrade Chairman. We have a long-standing operational relationship with them, and they are expert at this sort of thing—more than we are, in fact. They have had more practice. When someone must die, it’s often the Bulgars who take care of matters for us.”

“Yes, Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy has told me that. I just have no direct knowledge of it.”

“You could, of course, meet with Colonel Strokov any time you wish,” Bubovoy suggested.

Andropov shook his head. “Better that I should not, I think.”

“As you wish, Comrade Chairman.”
That figures,
Bubovoy thought. Andropov was a party man, not used to getting his hands dirty. Politicians were all the same—bloodthirsty, but personally tidy, depending on others to carry out their nasty wishes. Well, that was his job, the colonel decided, and since politicians controlled the good things in his society, he needed to please them to get the honey from the hive. And he had as big a sweet tooth as anyone else in the Soviet Union. At the end of this mission might be general’s stars, a nice flat in Moscow—even a modest dacha in the Lenin Hills. He’d be glad to return to Moscow, and so would his wife. If the price of it was the death of some foreigner who was a political inconvenience to his country, well, that was just too bad. He should have been more careful about who he was offending.

“Thank you for coming and for giving me your expertise, Comrade Colonel. You will be hearing from me.”

Bubovoy stood. “I serve the Soviet Union,” he said, and made his way through the hidden door.

Rozhdestvenskiy was in the secretaries’ room, waiting for him.

“How did it go, Ilya?”

“I am not sure I am allowed to say” was the guarded reply.

“If this is about Operation -666, then you are allowed, Ilya Fedorovich,” Rozhdestvenskiy assured him, leading him out the door into the corridor.

“Then the meeting went well, Aleksey Nikolay’ch. More than that, I can only say with the Chairman’s approval.” This might be a security test, after all, however much a friend Rozhdestvenskiy might be.

“I told him you could be relied upon, Ilya. This could be good for both of us.”

“We serve, Aleksey, just like everybody else in this building.”

“Let me get you to your car. You can make the noon flight easily.” A few minutes later, he was back in Andropov’s office.

“Well?” the Chairman asked.

“He says the meeting went well, but he will not say another word without your permission. Ilya Fedorovich is a serious professional, Comrade Chairman. Am I to be your contact for the mission?”

“Yes, you are, Aleksey,” Andropov confirmed. “I will send a signal to that effect.” Andropov didn’t feel the need to run the operation himself. His was a big-picture mind, not an operational one. “What do you know of this Colonel Boris Strokov?”

“Bulgarian? The name is familiar. He’s a senior intelligence officer who has in the past specialized in assassination operations. He has ample experience—and obviously Ilya knows him well.”

“How does one specialize in assassinations?” the Chairman asked. It was an aspect of the KGB he hadn’t been briefed in on.

“His real work is something else, obviously, but the DS has a small group of officers with experience in this sort of thing. He is the most experienced. His operational record is flawless. If memory serves, he’s personally eliminated seven or eight people whose deaths were necessary—mostly Bulgarians, I think. Probably a Turk or two as well, but no Westerners that I know of.”

“Is it difficult to do?” Yuriy Vladimirovich asked.

“I have no such experience myself,” Rozhdestvenskiy admitted. He didn’t add that he didn’t especially want any. “Those who do say that their concern is not so much in accomplishing the mission as in completing it—that is, avoiding police investigation afterwards. Modern police agencies are fairly effective at investigating murders, you see. In this case, you can expect a most vigorous investigation.”

“Bubovoy wants this Strokov fellow to go on the mission and then eliminate the assassin immediately afterward.”

Rozhdestvenskiy nodded thoughtfully. “That makes good sense. We have discussed that option ourselves, as I recall.”

“Yes.” Andropov closed his eyes for a moment. Again, the image paraded itself before his mind. Certainly it would solve a lot of political problems. “Yes, my next job will be to get the Politburo’s approval for the mission.”

“Quickly, Comrade Chairman?” Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

“Tomorrow afternoon, I think.”

DOWN IN COMMUNICATIONS, Zaitzev had allowed his daily routine to absorb his consciousness. It suddenly struck him how mindless his job was. They wanted this job to be done by machines, and he’d become that machine. He had it all committed to memory, which operational designator went to which case officer upstairs and what the operations were all about. So much information slid into his mind along the way that it rather amazed him. It had happened so gradually that he’d never really noticed. He noticed now.

But it was 15-8-82-666 that kept swimming around his mind. . . .

“Zaitzev?” a voice asked. The communicator turned to see Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy.

“Yes, Comrade Colonel?”

“A dispatch for
rezident
Sofia.” He handed across the message form, properly made out.

“On the machine or the pad, comrade?”

The colonel paused for a moment, weighing the two options. He came down on the side of consistency: “The pad, I think.”

“As you wish, Comrade Colonel. I will have it out in a few minutes.”

“Good. It will be waiting for Bubovoy when he gets back to his desk.” He made the comment without thinking about it. People all over the world talk too much, and no amount of training can entirely stop them from doing so.

So, the Sofia
rezident
was just here?
Zaitzev didn’t have to ask. “Yes, Comrade Colonel. Shall I call you to confirm the dispatch?”

“Yes, thank you, Comrade Major.”

“I serve the Soviet Union,” Zaitzev assured him.

Rozhdestvenskiy made his way back upstairs, while Zaitzev went through the normal, mind-numbing routine of encryption.

MOST SECRET
IMMEDIATE AND URGENT
FROM: OFFICE OF CHAIRMAN, MOSCOW CENTRE
TO: REZIDENT SOFIA
REFERENCE: OPERATIONAL DESIGNATOR 15-8-82-666
FOR ALL FUTURE COMMUNICATIONS YOUR OPERATIONAL CONTACT
WILL BE COLONEL ROZHDESTVENSKIY. BY ORDER OF THE
CHAIRMAN.

It was just a housekeeping message, but coded “Immediate and Urgent.” That meant it was important to Chairman Andropov, and the reference made it an operation, not just a query to some
rezident.

They really want to do it,
Zaitzev realized.