'If you were him, what would you do?' von Eich asked.
'Defect!' Or shoot us down
Behind them in the jump seat, the Russian pilot, whose only job was to talk Russian in case of an emergency, was strapped down in his seat and had not the first idea what to do. He'd been cut out of the radio conversations and had only intercom now. Moscow wanted them to turn the aircraft back. He didn't know why, but-but what? he asked himself.
'Here he comes, sliding over toward us.'
As carefully as he could, the MiG pilot maneuvered his fighter to the left. He wanted to get over the Boeing's cockpit, from which position he could gently reduce altitude and force it downward. To do this required as much skid as he could muster, and the pilot could only pray that the American was equally adept. He positioned himself so that he could see? but-
The MiG-25 was designed as an interceptor, and the cockpit gave the pilot very restricted visibility. He could no longer see the airplane with which he was flying formation. He looked ahead. The shore was only a few kilometers away. Even if he were able to make the American reduce altitude, he'd be over the Baltic before it would matter to anyone. The pilot pulled back on his stick and climbed off to the right. Once clear, he reversed course.
'Toolbox, this is Hammer Lead,' he reported. 'The American will not change course. I tried, but I will not collide with his airplane without orders.'
The controller had watched the two radar blips merge on his scope, and was now amazed that his heart hadn't stopped. What the hell was going on? This was an American plane. They couldn't force it to stop, and if there were an accident, who would be blamed for it? He made his decision.
'Return to base. Out.'
'You will pay for this!' the KGB General promised the ground-intercept officer. He was wrong.
'Thank God,' von Eich said as they passed over the coastline. He called up the chief cabin steward next. 'How are the folks in back?'
'Mainly asleep. They must have had a big party tonight. When are we getting the electricity back?'
'Flight engineer,' the pilot said, 'they want to know about the electrical problems.'
'Looks like it was a bad breaker, sir. I think? Yeah, I fixed it.'
The pilot looked out his window. The wingtip lights were back on, as were the cabin lights, except in back. Passing Ventspils, they turned left to a new heading two-five-nine. He let out a long breath. Two and a half hours to Shannon. 'Some coffee would be nice,' he thought aloud.
Golovko hung up the phone and spat out a few words that Jack didn't understand exactly, though their message seemed rather clear.
'Sergey, could I clean my knee up?'
'What exactly have you done, Ryan?' the KGB officer asked.
'I fell out of the airplane and the bastards left without me. I want to be taken to my embassy, but first, my knee hurts '
Golovko and Vatutin stared at each other and both wondered several things. What had actually happened? What would happen to them? What to do with Ryan?
'Who do we even call?' Golovko asked.
27
VATUTIN decided to call his directorate chief, who called the KGB's First Deputy Chairman, who called someone else, and then called back to the airport office where they were all waiting. Vatutin noted the instructions, took everyone to Gerasimov's car, and gave directions that Jack didn't understand. The car headed straight through Moscow's empty early-morning streets-it was just after midnight, and those who had been out to the movies or the opera or the ballet were now at home. Jack was nestled between the two KGB colonels, and hoped that they'd be taking him to the embassy, but they kept going, crossing the city at a high rate of speed, then up into the Lenin Hills and beyond to the forests that surround the city. Now he was frightened. Diplomatic immunity seemed a surer thing at the airport than it did in the woods.
The car slowed after an hour, turning off the paved main road onto a gravel path that meandered through trees. There were uniforms about, he saw through the windows. Men with rifles. That sight made him forget the pain from his ankle and knee. Exactly where was he? Why was he being brought here? Why the people with guns?? The phrase that came to him was a simple, ominous one: Take him for a ride
No! They can't be doing that, reason told him. I have a diplomatic passport. I was seen alive by too many people. Probably the Ambassador is already-But he wouldn't be. He wasn't cleared for what had happened, and unless they got word off the plane? Regardless, they couldn't possibly? But in the Soviet Union, the saying went, things happened that simply didn't happen. The car's door flew open. Golovko got out and pulled Ryan with him. The only thing Jack was sure of now was that there was no point in resistance. It was a house, a quite ordinary frame house in the woods. The windows glowed yellow from lights behind the curtains. Ryan saw a dozen or so people standing around, all with uniforms, all with rifles, all staring at him with the same degree of interest given a paper target. One, an officer, came over and frisked Ryan with considerable thoroughness, eliciting a grunt of pain when he got to the bloody knee and torn trousers. He surprised Ryan with what might have been a perfunctory apology. The officer nodded to Golovko and Vatutin, who handed over their automatics and led Ryan into the house.
Inside the door, a man took their coats. Two more men in civilian clothes were obvious police or KGB types. They wore unzipped jackets, and they had to be packing pistols from the way they stood, Jack knew. He nodded politely to them, and got no response other than another frisking from one while the other watched from a safe shooting distance. Ryan was astonished when the two KGB officers were frisked as well. When this was complete, the other one motioned them through a doorway.
General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union Andrey Il'ych Narmonov was sitting in an overstuffed chair in front of a newly built fire. He rose when the four men entered the room, and gestured for them to sit on the sofa opposite his place. The bodyguard took position standing behind the head of the Soviet government. Narmonov spoke in Russian. Golovko translated.
'You are?'
'John Ryan, sir,' Jack said. The General Secretary pointed him to a chair opposite his own, and noted that Ryan favored his leg.
'Anatoliy,' he said to the bodyguard, who took Ryan's arm and walked him to a first-floor bathroom. The man dampened a washcloth with warm water and handed it over. Back in the sitting room, he could hear people talking, but Ryan's knowledge of Russian was too thin to catch any of it. It was good to wash off the leg, but it looked as though the pants were finished, and the nearest change of clothes-he checked his watch-was probably near Denmark by now. Anatoliy watched him the whole time. The bodyguard pulled a gauze bandage from the medicine cabinet and helped Jack tape it in place, then walked him back as gracefully as Ryan's aches and pains allowed.
Golovko was still there, though Vatutin had left, and the empty chair was still waiting. Anatoliy took his former place behind Narmonov.
'The fire feels good,' Jack said. 'Thank you for letting me wash the knee off.'
'Golovko tells me that we did not do that to you. Is this correct?'
It seemed an odd question to Jack, since Golovko was handling the translating. So Audrey Ily'ch speaks a little English, does he?
'No, sir, I did it to myself. I have not been mistreated in any way.' Just had the piss scared out of me, Ryan thought to himself. But that's my own damned fault. Narmonov looked at him with silent interest for perhaps half a minute before speaking again. 'I did not need your help.'
'I do not know what you mean, sir,' Ryan lied.
