“Going to be a good one,” Talbot said.
“What's the point spread?” Fowler asked.
Jesus! Ryan thought.
“Vikings by three,” Bunker said. “I'll take all of that action I can get.”
“We're flying out together,” Talbot said. “Just so Dennis doesn't drive the airplane.”
“Leaving me up the hills of Maryland. Well, somebody has to mind the government.” Fowler smiled. He had an odd smile, Jack thought. “Back to business. Ryan: you said this is not a threat to us?”
“Let me backtrack, sir. First, I must emphasize that the SPINNAKER report remains totally unconfirmed.”
“You said the CIA backs it.”
“There is a consensus of opinion that it is probably reliable. We're checking that very hard right now. That's the whole point of what I said earlier.”
“Okay,” Fowler said. “If it's not true, there is nothing for us to worry about, correct?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“And if it is?”
“Then the risk is one of political blackmail in the Soviet Union, worst-case, a civil war with the use of nuclear weapons.”
“Which is not good news — possible threats to us?”
“No direct threat to us is likely.”
Fowler leaned back in his chair. “That makes sense, I suppose. But I want a really, really good estimate of that just as fast as you can get it to me.”
“Yes, sir. Believe me, Mr. President, we're checking every aspect of this development.”
“Good report, Dr. Ryan.”
Jack stood to take his dismissal. It was so much more civilized now that they'd gotten rid of him.
The markets had sprung up of their own accord, mainly in the eastern sections of Berlin. Soviet soldiers, never the most free of individuals, now found themselves in an undivided Western city that offered each the chance simply to walk away, to disappear. The amazing thing was that so few did it, despite the controls kept on them, and one reason for it was the availability of open-air markets. The individual Soviet soldiers were continuously surprised at the desire of Germans, Americans and so many others to buy memorabilia of the Red Army — belts, shapka fur hats, boots, whole uniforms, all manner of trinkets — and the fools paid cash. Hard-currency cash, dollars, pounds, Deutschmarks, whose value at home in the Soviet Union was multiplied tenfold. Other sales to more discriminating buyers had included such big-ticket items as a T-8o tank, but that had required the connivance of a regimental commander, who'd justified it in his paperwork as the accidental destruction of a vehicle by fire. The colonel had gotten a Mercedes 56oSEL from that, with plenty of cash left over for his retirement fund. Western intelligence agencies had gotten all they wished by this point, leaving the markets to amateurs and tourists; they assumed that the Soviets tolerated it for the simple reason that it brought a good deal of hard currency into their economy, and did so at bargain prices. Westerners typically paid more than ten times the actual production cost of what they purchased. The introductory course in capitalism, some Russians thought, would have other payoffs when the troops concluded their conscripted service.
Erwin Keitel approached one such Soviet soldier, a senior sergeant by rank. “Good day,” he said in German.
“Nicht spreche,” the Russian answered “English?”
“English is okay, yes?”
“Da.” The Russian nodded.
“Ten uniforms.” Keitel held up both hands to make the number unambiguous.
“Ten?”
“Ten, all large, big like me,” Keitel said. He could have spoken in perfect Russian, but that would have caused more trouble than it was worth. “Colonel uniforms, all colonel, okay?”
“Colonel — polkovnik. Regiment officer, yes? Three stars here?” the man tapped his shoulders.
“Yes.” Keitel nodded. Tank uniform, must be for tank.'
“Why you want?” the sergeant asked, mainly to be polite. He was a tanker, and getting the right garb was not a problem.
“Make movie — television movie.”
“Television?” The man's eyes lit up. “Belts, boots?”
“Yes.”
The man checked left and right, then lowered his voice. “Pistol?”
“You can do that?”
The sergeant smiled and nodded emphatically to show that he was a serious broker. “Take money.”
“Must be Russian pistol, correct pistol,” Keitel said, hoping that this pidgin exchange was clear.
“Yes, I can get.”
“How soon?”
“One hour.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand mark, no pistol. Ten pistol, five thousand mark more.” And that, Keitel thought, was highway robbery.
He held up his hands again. “Ten thousand mark, yes. I pay.” To show he was serious, he displayed a sheaf of hundred-mark notes. He tucked one in the soldier's pocket. “I wait one hour.”
“I come back here, one hour.” The soldier left the area rapidly. Keitel walked into the nearest Gasthaus and ordered a beer.
“If this were any easier,” he observed to a colleague, “I'd say it was a trap.”
“You heard about the tank?”
“The T-8o, yes, why?”
“Willi Heydrich did that for the Americans.”
“Willi?” Keitel shook his head. “What was his fee?”
“Five hundred thousand D-Mark. Damned-fool Americans. Anyone could have set that up.”
“But they didn't know that at the time.” The man laughed bleakly. DM 500,000 had been enough to set the former Oberst-Leutnant Wilhelm Heydrich up in a business — a Gasthaus like this one — which made for a much better living than he'd ever gotten from the Stasi. Heydrich had been one of Keitel's most promising subordinates, and now he had sold out, quit his career, turned his back on his political heritage, and turned into one more new- German citizen. His intelligence training had merely served as a vehicle, to take one last measure of spite out on the Americans.
“What about the Russian?”
“The one who made the deal? Ha!” the man snorted. “Two million marks. He undoubtedly paid off the division commander, got his Mercedes, and banked the rest. That unit rotated back to the Union soon thereafter, and one tank more or less from a division…? The inspectorate might not even have noticed.”
They had one more round, while watching the TV over the bar — a disgusting habit picked up from the Americans, Keitel thought. When forty minutes had passed, he went back outside, with his colleague in visual contact. It might be a trap, after all.
The Russian sergeant was back early. He wasn't carrying anything but a smile.
“Where is it?” Keitel asked.
“Truck, around…” the man gestured.
“Ecke? Corner?”
“Da, that word, corner. Um die Ecke.” The man nodded emphatically.
Keitel waved to the other man, who went to get the car. Erwin wanted to ask the soldier how much of the money was going to his lieutenant, who typically skimmed a sizable percentage of every deal for their own use, but that really was beside the point, wasn't it?
The Soviet Army GAZ-69 light truck was parked a block away. It was a simple matter of backing up the agent's car to the tailgate and popping the trunk. But first, of course, Keitel had to inspect the merchandise. There
