whenever he'd said that, it had been with the inner realization that such was not and would never be the case. Now his boast was becoming reality. There were still places to run, still contacts he could trust. But how many? How soon before trusted associates would bend to the changes in the world? The Soviets had betrayed themselves and world socialism. The Germans. The Poles. The Czechs, the Hungarians, the Romanians. Who was next?
Couldn't they see? It was all a trap, some kind of incredible conspiracy of counterrevolutionary forces. A lie. They were casting away what could be — should be — was — the perfect social order of structured freedom from want, orderly efficiency, of fairness and equality. Of…
Could that all be a lie? Could it all have been a horrible mistake? Had he and Petra killed those cowering exploiters for nothing?
But it didn't matter, did it? Not to Gunther Bock, not right now. He was soon to be hunted again. One more safe patch of ground was about to become a hunting preserve for his enemies. If the Bulgarians shared their papers with the Russians, if the Russians had a few men in the right office, with the right credentials and the right access, his address and new identity could already be on its way to Washington, and from there to BND headquarters, and in a week's time he might be sharing a cell close to Petra's.
Petra, with her light brown hair and laughing blue eyes. As brave a girl as any man could want. Seemingly cold to her victims, wonderfully warm to her comrades. So fine a mother she'd been to Erika and Ursel, so superior at that task as she'd been at every other she'd ever attempted. Betrayed by supposed friends, caged like an animal, robbed of her own offspring. His beloved Petra, comrade, lover, wife, believer. Robbed of her life. And now he was being driven farther from her. There had to be a way to change things back.
But first, he had to get away.
Bock set the paper down and tidied up the kitchen. When things were clean and neat, he packed a single bag and left the apartment. The elevator had quit again, and he walked down the four flights to the street. Once there he caught a tram. In ninety minutes he was at the airport. His passport was a diplomatic one. In fact he had six of them carefully concealed in the lining of his Russian-made suitcase, and, ever the careful man, three of them were the numerical duplicates of others held by real Bulgarian diplomats, unknown to the Foreign Ministry office that kept the records. That guaranteed him free access to the most important ally of the international terrorist: air transport. Before time for lunch, his flight rotated off the tarmac, headed south.
Ryan's flight touched down at a military airport outside Rome just before noon, local time. By coincidence they rolled in right behind yet another VC-2oB of the 89th Military Airlift Wing that had arrived only a few minutes earlier from Moscow. The black limousine on the apron was waiting for both aircraft.
Deputy Secretary of State Scott Adler greeted Ryan as he stepped off with an understated smile.
“Well?” Ryan asked through the airport sounds.
“It's a go.”
“Damn,” Ryan said as he took Adler's hand. “How many more miracles can we expect this year?”
“How many do you want?” Adler was a professional diplomat who'd worked his way up the Russian side of the State Department. Fluent in their language, well-versed in their politics, past and present, he understood the Soviets as did few men in government — including Russians themselves. “You know the hard part about this?”
“Getting used to hearing da instead of nyet, right?”
“Takes all the fun out of negotiations. Diplomacy can really be a bitch when both sides are reasonable.” Adler laughed as the car pulled off.
“Well, this ought to be a new experience for both of us,” Jack observed soberly. He turned to watch “his” aircraft prepare for an immediate departure. He and Adler would be traveling together for the rest of the trip.
They sped towards central Rome with the usual heavy escort. The Red Brigade, so nearly exterminated a few years earlier, was back in business, and even if it hadn't been, the Italians were careful protecting foreign dignitaries. In the right-front seat was a serious-looking chap with a little Beretta squirt-gun. There were two lead cars, two chase cars, and enough cycles for a motocross race. The speedy progress down the ancient streets of Rome made Ryan wish he were back in an airplane. Every Italian driver, it seemed, had ambitions to ride in the Formula One circuit. Jack would have felt safer in a car with Clark, driving an unobtrusive vehicle on a random path, but in his current position his security arrangements were ceremonial in addition to being practical. There was one other consideration, of course…
“Nothing like a low profile,” Jack muttered to Adler.
“Don't sweat it. Every time I've come here it's been the same way. First time?”
“Yep. First time in Rome. I wonder how I've ever missed coming here — always wanted to, the history and all.”
“A lot of that,” Adler agreed. “Think we might make a little more?”
Ryan turned to look at his colleague. Making history was a new thought to him. Not to mention a dangerous one. “That's not my job, Scott.”
“If this does work, you know what'll happen.”
“Frankly, I never bothered thinking about that.”
“You ought to. No good deed ever goes unpunished.”
“You mean Secretary Talbot…?”
“No, not him. Definitely not my boss.”
Ryan looked forward to see a truck scuttle out of the way of the motorcade. The Italian police officer riding on the extreme right of the motorcycle escort hadn't flinched a millimeter.
“I'm not in this for credit. I just had an idea, is all. Now I'm just the advance man.”
Adler shook his head slightly and kept his peace. Jesus, how did you ever last this long in government service?
The striped jumpsuits of the Swiss Guards had been designed by Michaelangelo. Like the red tunics of the British guardsmen, they were anachronisms from a bygone era when it had made sense for soldiers to wear brightly-colored uniforms, and also, like the guardsmen uniforms, they were kept on more for their attractiveness to tourists than for any practical reason. The men and their weapons look so quaint. The Vatican guards carried halberds, evil-looking long-handled axes made originally for infantrymen to unhorse armored knights — as often as not by crippling the horse the enemy might be riding; horses didn't fight back very well, and war is ever a practical business. Once off his mount, an armored knight was dispatched with little more effort than that required to break up a lobster — and about as much remorse. People thought medieval weapons romantic somehow, Ryan told himself, but there was nothing romantic about what they were designed to do. A modern rifle might punch holes in some other fellow's anatomy. These were made to dismember. Both methods would kill, of course, but at least rifles made for neater burial.
The Swiss guards had rifles, too, Swiss rifles made by SIG. Not all of them wore Renaissance costumes, and since the attempt on John Paul II, many of the guards had received additional training, quietly and unobtrusively, of course, since such training did not exactly fit the image of the Vatican. Ryan wondered what Vatican policy was on the use of deadly force, whether the chief of the guards chafed at the rules imposed from on high by people who certainly did not appreciate the nature of the threat and the need for decisive protective action. But they'd do their best within their constraints, grumbling among themselves and voicing their opinions when the time seemed right, just like everyone else in that business.
A bishop met them, an Irishman named Shamus O'Toole whose thick red hair clashed horribly with his clothing. Ryan was first out of the car, and his first thought was a question: was he supposed to kiss O'Toole's ring or not? He didn't know. He hadn't met a real bishop since his confirmation — and it had been a long time since sixth grade in Baltimore. O'Toole deftly solved that problem by grasping Ryan's hand in a bearish grip.
“So many Irishmen in the world!” he said with a wide grin.
“Somebody has to keep things straight, Excellency.”
“Indeed, indeed!” O'Toole greeted Adler next. Scott was Jewish and had no intentions to kiss anyone's ring. “Would you come with me, gentlemen?”
Bishop O'Toole led them into a building whose history might have justified three scholarly volumes, plus a picture book for its art and architecture. Jack barely noticed the two metal detectors they passed through on the third floor. Leonardo da Vinci might have done the job, so skillfully were they concealed in door frames. Just like the White House. The Swiss guards didn't all wear uniforms. Some of the people prowling the halls in soft clothes were too young and too fit to be bureaucrats, but for all that the overall impression was a cross between visiting an old art museum and a cloister. The clerics wore cassocks, and the nuns — they were here in profusion also — were not
