course-but if something went wrong, things might be different. The Russians liked the idea of positive control. The orders he got now for course and altitude were far more exact than those given in American air space, as though he didn't know what to do unless some jerk-off on the ground told him. Of course there was an element of humor to it. The pilot was Colonel Paul von Eich. His family had come to America from Prussia a hundred years before, but none of them had been able to part with the 'von' that had once been so important to family status. Some of his ancestors had fought down there, he reflected, on the flat, snow-covered Russian ground. Certainly a few more recent relatives had. Probably a few lay buried there while he whizzed overhead at six hundred miles per hour. He wondered vaguely what they'd think of his job while his pale blue eyes scanned the sky for the lights of other aircraft.
Like most passengers, Ryan judged his height above the ground by what he could see, but the dark Soviet countryside denied him that. He knew they were close when the aircraft commenced a wide turn to the left. He heard the mechanical whine as the flaps went down and noted the reduced engine noise. Soon he could just pick out individual trees, racing by. The pilot's voice came on, telling smokers to put them out, and that it was time for seat belts again. Five minutes later they returned to ground level again at Sheremetyevo Airport. Despite the fact that airports all over the world look exactly alike, Ryan could be sure of this one-the taxiways were the bumpiest anywhere.
The cabin talk was more lively now. The excitement was beginning as the airplane's crew started moving about. What followed went in a blur. Ernie Alien was met by a welcoming committee of the appropriate level and whisked off in an embassy limousine. Everyone else was relegated to a bus. Ryan sat by himself, still watching the countryside outside the German-made vehicle.
Will Gerasimov bite-really bite?
What if he doesn't?
What if he does? Ryan asked himself with a smile.
It had all seemed pretty straightforward in Washington, but here, five thousand miles away? well. First he'd get some sleep, aided by a single government-issue red capsule. Then he'd talk to a few people at the embassy. The rest would have to take care of itself.
20
IT was bitterly cold when Ryan awoke to the beeping sound of his watch alarm. There was frost on the windows even at ten in the morning, and he realized that he hadn't made sure the heat in his room was operating. His first considered action of the day was to pull on some socks. His seventh-floor room-it was called an 'efficiency apartment'-overlooked the compound. Clouds had moved in, and the day was leaden gray with the threat of snow.
'Perfect,' Jack observed to himself on the way to the bathroom. He knew that it could have been worse. The only reason he had this room was that the officer who ordinarily lived here was on honeymoon leave. At least the plumbing worked, but he found a note taped to the medicine cabinet mirror admonishing him not to mess the place up the way the last transient had. Next he checked the small refrigerator. Nothing: Welcome to Moscow. Back in the bathroom, he washed and shaved. One other oddity of the embassy was that to get down from the seventh floor, you first had to take an elevator up to the ninth floor and another one down from there to the lobby. Jack was still shaking his head over that one when he got into the canteen.
'Don't you just love jet lag?' a member of the delegation greeted him. 'Coffee's over there.'
'I call it travel shock.' Ryan got himself a mug and came
back. 'Well, the coffee's decent. Where's everybody else?'
'Probably still sacked out, even Uncle Ernie. I caught a few hours on the flight, and thank God for the pill they gave us.
Ryan laughed. 'Yeah, me too. Might even feel human in time for dinner tonight.'
'Feel like exploring? I'd like to take a walk, but-'
'Travel in pairs.' Ryan nodded. The rule applied only to the arms negotiators. This phase of negotiations would be sensitive, and the rules for the team were much tighter than usual. 'Maybe later. I have some work to do.'
'Today and tomorrow's our only chance,' the diplomat pointed out.
'I know,' Ryan assured him. He checked his watch and decided that he'd wait to eat until lunchtime. His sleep cycle was almost in synch with Moscow, but his stomach wasn't quite sure yet. Jack walked back to the chancery.
The corridors were mainly empty. Marines patrolled them, looking very serious indeed after the problems that had occurred earlier, but there was little evidence of activity on this Saturday morning. Jack walked to the proper door and knocked. He knew it was locked.
'You're Ryan?'
'That's right.' The door opened to admit him, then was closed and relocked.
'Grab a seat.' His name was Tony Candela. 'What gives?'
'We have an op laid on.'
'News to me-you're not operations, you're intelligence,' Candela objected.
'Yeah, well, Ivan knows that, too. This one's going to be a little strange.' Ryan explained for five minutes.
' 'A little strange,' you say?' Candela rolled his eyes.
'I need a keeper for part of it. I need some phone numbers I can call, and I may need wheels that'll be there when required.'
'This could cost me some assets.'
'We know that.'
'Of course, if it works?'
'Right. We can put some real muscle on this one.'
'The Foleys know about this?'
' 'Fraid not.'
'Too bad, Mary Pat would have loved it. She's the cowboy. Ed's more the button-down-collar type. So, you expect him to bite Monday or Tuesday night?'
'That's the plan.'
'Let me tell you something about plans,' Candela said.
They were letting him sleep. The doctors had warned him again, Vatutin growled. How was he supposed to accomplish anything when they kept-
'There's that name again,' the man with the headphones said tiredly. 'Romanov. If he must talk in his sleep, why can't he confess??'
'Perhaps he's talking with the Czar's ghost,' another officer joked. Vatutin's head came up.
'Or perhaps someone else's.' The Colonel shook his head. He'd been at the point of dozing himself. Romanov, though the name of the defunct royal family of the Russian Empire, was not an uncommon one-even a Politburo member had had it. 'Where's his file?'
'Here.' The joker pulled open a drawer and handed it over. The file weighed six kilograms, and came in several different sections. Vatutin had committed most of it to memory, but had concentrated on the last two parts. This time he opened the first section.
'Romanov,' he breathed to himself. 'Where have I seen that??' It took him fifteen minutes, flipping through the frayed pages as speedily as he dared.
'I have it!' It was a citation, scrawled in pencil. 'Corporal A. I. Romanov, killed in action 6 October 1941? defiantly placed his tank between the enemy and his disabled troop commander's, allowing the commander to withdraw his wounded crew? Yes! This one's in a book I read as a child. Misha got his crew on the back deck of a different tank, jumped inside, and personally killed the tank that got Romanov's. He'd saved Misha's life and was posthumously awarded the Red Banner-' Vatutin stopped. He was calling the subject Misha, he realized.
'Almost fifty years ago?'
