America

Jake nodded.

'Running a covert operation like that would be extraordinarily difficult for a foreign intelligence service. Difficult for anyone, but essentially impossible for a foreign service. Funding, covers, cut-outs, it would be a huge undertaking. As a rule, the larger the operation, the more likely it is to be affected by random chance, by the friction of normal life.'

'So it wasn't Russia.'

'I doubt it. My directorate wouldn't handle it.'

'No one but the Americans wanted SuperAegis,' Jake said thoughtfully, scrutinizing Ilin's face. 'Europe and Russia went along only when their tails were twisted.'

Ilin nodded. 'They ceased active opposition only when they were backed into a corner, with no other options. America is the only superpower. With an antiballistic missile shield in place, America will be even less inclined to listen to other nations' concerns.'

'I thought expanding the shield to cover Europe and Russia made the system politically palatable?'

'It made the medicine impossible to refuse, but if the system never becomes operational, Europe will not be unhappy.'

'Europe?'

Ilin smiled. He dropped the stub of his cigarette into his beer can, then went to the refrigerator and helped himself to another can. 'You

Americans! You sit here in your prosperous paradise, with your beautiful houses and stables of cars and supermarkets full of cheap food and think the unwashed hordes in China and India and the Middle East are your enemies. Not so. Your enemy is your largest economic rival. Europe has a larger economy than the United States; in fact, it's the largest economy on Earth. They have slashed taxes, jettisoned massive overregulation, kissed socialism good-bye, embraced capitalism, and adopted one currency. Europe is on the road to becoming a federal state. Europe is the next superpower.'

'Not Russia.'

'Not Russia,' Ilin agreed flatly. 'An academic economist I met at a Washington cocktail party told me that Russia will never be able to accumulate capital as rapidly as Europe or the United States. She was right, of course. The place is too large, with a harsh climate and relatively few people. The Russians will always pay more for the infrastructure upon which a modern economy rests. Roads, factories, bridges, food, electrical grids, pipelines, all kinds of distribution systems. . everything costs more. Always has and always will. The problem with capitalism is that it is a game Russia cannot win.'

In the silence that followed that remark he lit another cigarette.

'Europe is Russia's natural enemy,' Ilin continued finally, musing aloud. 'Has been for centuries. Russia's foreign policy since the Middle Ages has been designed to protect itself from the European powers. As along as they were divided and could be played off against each other, Russia, with its vast spaces and thin, poor population, had a chance. With Europe united, Russia's future looks grim.' 1 see.

'Today the bulk of our intelligence efforts are directed against Europe. More of them should be.'

'I suppose the Europeans resent that.'

'What they resent is American intelligence efforts against them. With the collapse of communism, they directed their efforts against the United States, sought to use their intelligence services to provide an edge for their industrial efforts. Naturally the Americans reacted.' He grinned tightly. 'It is a different game these days. Without the ideological bogeyman to frighten people, they can more easily convince themselves that betrayal of their company is not betrayal of their country. After all, they tell themselves, it's only money. Most people want more of it. Want the good life that their neighbors have.' He gestured at the room in which they were sitting. 'They want this.'

'And you, Ilin? What do you want?'

'Are you asking my price?'

'No,' Jake Grafton said. 'I don't think you have one.'

'Thank you,' Janos Ilin said. A smile lit up his face. 'That is the nicest compliment I have ever received from an American.'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Three hours after the P-3 Orion left th.em, USS La Jolla was still making six knots, still running at eight hundred feet. America was a hundred yards behind her, about one hull length, stepped down slightly to stay out of La Jolla's wash and clear of the towed array cable. An hour ago La Jolla had made a gentle turn of ninety degrees to a course of three four zero. If she stayed on this course for another fifteen minutes, then turned left again, she would be making a perfect square search pattern with the launch site at the approximate center.

Kolnikov had kept the lights on America's sail illuminated. With the aid of the blue-green illuminator and the visible light sensors, he had a relatively clear image on one of the vertical displays. He stood staring at it, mesmerized by the gently turning prop, trying to read the mind of La Jolla's commander. Did he know he was being followed?

Kolnikov was inclined to believe the American didn't know, but how do you explain those two minor course changes in the minutes after America joined behind her? It really looked like he had some noise from the stealth sub on his gear and was checking to ensure it wasn t a false signal. If he knew America was behind him, he was pretending just now. Would he let America fall back and disengage?

Or would he shoot the instant the range opened enough for his torpedoes to arm, which was about one thousand yards?

A hell of a problem.

Turchak was right, of course, Kolnikov mused. And Heydrich, though he hated to admit it, even to himself. He should have fired two torpedoes at the attack boat as soon as she got within the torpedoes' envelope, before the crew even had an inkling that America was near.

Fighter pilots kill fighter pilots, submarine captains are supposed to kill submariners — isn't that the way it goes? Sneak up, launch a torpedo or missile before they see you, shoot 'em in the back. Escape before their friends can take revenge. That is the essence of modern war.

God knows Kolnikov had spent enough years training for it. He knew what it was and how to do it.

But this isn't war, he told himself. We stole a submarine for money. If we had stolen a car no one would have gotten very excited. On the other hand, shooting people while you are stealing things is a bad business. Yeah, we had to shoot some people to get aboard the sub, and we killed that American traitor. Thinking about the dead, he waved irritably, as if he could banish them from his memory.

Too many things on your conscience, Kolnikov. Far too many. A dangerous luxury, a conscience, beyond the pocketbook of a poor man like you.

If La Jolla makes the ninety-degree left turn — in what? ten, no, eleven minutes — Kolnikov mused, then I'll break away, slow to barely maintaining plane effectiveness, let him motor on until he's increased the separation to a mile or so. Then I'll turn ninety degrees to the right and sail away, staying in his stern quarter, where his sonar is the least effective. In the event he does anything aggressive, I'll be in a perfect position to launch from the port tubes.

That decision made, he descended the ladder to the galley and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sipped the hot, black liquid, savored it, stared at his reflection in the plastic that covered the coffeepot operating instructions, which were mounted on the bulkhead. After several sips, he topped off the cup, then climbed back to the control room, where he perched on the captain's stool and lit a cigarette.

On the proper minute, La Jolla began her port turn. Vladimir

Kolnikov sighed with relief. He had Turchak follow her diligently around the turn, then as she steadied on her new course, two five zero degrees, he told Turchak to slow to two knots. 'Watch out for that towed array,' he warned. 'It's right above us.'