“Halt!” Ryan stopped cold in his tracks and turned to see where the sound had come from. It was an Air Force security policeman — woman. Girl, actually, Ryan saw, though her M-16 rifle neither knew nor cared about plumbing fixtures.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“ID, please.” The young lady was quite attractive, and quite professional. She also had a backup in the trees. Ryan handed over his CIA credentials.
“I've never seen one of these, sir.”
“I came in last night on the VC-2o. I'm staying over at the Inn, room 109. You can check with Colonel Parker's office.”
“We're on security alert, sir,” she said next, reaching for her radio.
“Just do your job, miss — excuse me, Sergeant Wilson. My plane doesn't leave till ten.” Jack leaned against a tree to stretch. It was too nice a morning to get excited about anything, even if there were two armed people who didn't know who the hell he was.
“Roger.” Sergeant Becky Wilson switched off her radio. “The Colonel's looking for you, sir.”
“On the way back, I turn left at the Burger King?”
That's right, sir." She handed his ID back with a smile.
Thanks, Sarge. Sorry to bother you."
“You want a ride back, sir? The colonel's waiting.”
“I'd rather walk. He can wait, he's early.” Ryan walked away from a buck-sergeant who now had to ponder the importance of a man who kept her base commander sitting on the front step of the Cannon. It took ten brisk minutes, but Ryan's directional sense had not left him, despite the unfamiliar surroundings and a six-hour time differential.
“Morning, sir!” Ryan said as he vaulted the wall into the parking lot.
“I set up a little breakfast with COMUSAFE staff. We'd like your views on what's happening in Europe.”
Jack laughed. “Great! I'm interested in hearing yours.” Ryan walked off toward his room to dress. What makes them think I know anything more than they do! By the time his plane left, he'd learned four things he hadn't known. Soviet forces withdrawing from what had formerly been called East Germany were decidedly unhappy with the fact that there was no place for them to withdraw to. Elements of the former East German army were even less happy about their enforced retirement than Washington actually knew; they probably had allies among ex-members of the already de-established Stasi. Finally, though an even dozen members of the Red Army Faction had been apprehended in Eastern Germany, at least that many others had gotten the message and vanished before they, too, could be swept up by the Bundeskriminalamt, the German federal police. That explained the security alert at Ramstein, Ryan was told.
The VC-2oB lifted off from the airfield just after ten in the morning, headed south. Those poor terrorists, he thought, devoting their lives and energy and intellect to something that was vanishing more swiftly than the German countryside below him. Like children whose mother had died. No friends now. They'd hidden out in Czechoslovakia and the German Democratic Republic, blissfully unaware of the coming demise of both communist states. Where would they hide now? Russia? No chance. Poland? That was a laugh. The world had changed under them, and was about to change again, Ryan thought with a wistful smile. Some more of their friends were about to watch the world change. Maybe, he corrected himself. Maybe…
“Hello, Sergey Nikolayevich,” Ryan had said as the man had entered his office, a week before.
“Ivan Emmetovich,” the Russian had replied, holding out his hand. Ryan remembered the last time they'd been this close, on the runway of Moscow 's Sheremetyevo Airport. Golovko had held a gun in his hand then. It had not been a good day for either, but as usual, it was funny the way things had worked out. Golovko, for having nearly, but not quite, prevented the greatest defection in Soviet history, was now First Deputy Chairman of the Committee for State Security. Had he succeeded, he would not have gone quite so far, but for being very good, if not quite good enough, he'd been noticed by his own President, and his career had taken a leap upward. His security officer had camped in Nancy 's office with John Clark, as Ryan had led Golovko into his.
“I am not impressed.” Golovko looked around disapprovingly at the painted gypsum-board drywall. Ryan did have a single decent painting borrowed from a government warehouse, and, of course, the not-exactly-required photo of President Fowler over by the clothes tree on which Jack hung his coat.
“I do have a nicer view, Sergey Nikolayevich. Tell me, is the statue of Iron Feliks still in the middle of the square?”
“For the moment.” Golovko smiled. “Your Director is out of town, I gather.”
“Yes, the President decided that he needed some advice.”
“On what?” Golovko asked with a crooked smile.
“Damned if I know,” Ryan answered with a laugh. Lots of things, he didn't say.
“Difficult, is it not? For both of us.” The new KGB Chairman was not a professional spook either — in fact, that was not unusual. More often than not, the director of that grim agency had been a Party man, but the Party was becoming a thing of history also, and Narmonov had selected a computer expert who was supposed to bring new ideas into the Soviet Union 's chief spy agency. That would make it more efficient. Ryan knew that Golovko had an IBM PC behind his desk in Moscow now.
“Sergey, I always used to say that if the world made sense, I'd be out of a job. So, look what's happening. Want some coffee?”
“I would like that, Jack.” A moment later he expressed approval of the brew.
“ Nancy sets it up for me every morning. So. What can I do for you?”
“I have often heard that question, but never in such surroundings as this.” There was a rumbling laugh from Ryan's guest. “My God, Jack, do you ever wonder if this is all the result of some drug-induced dream?”
“Can't be. I cut myself shaving the other day, and I didn't wake up.”
Golovko muttered something in Russian that Jack didn't catch, though his translators would when they went over the tapes.
“I am the one who reports to our parliamentarians on our activities. Your Director was kind enough to respond favorably to our request for advice.”
Ryan couldn't resist that opening: “No problem, Sergey Nikolayevich. You can screen all your information through me. I'd be delighted to tell you how to present it.” Golovko took it like a man.
“Thank you, but the Chairman might not understand.” With jokes aside, it was time for business.
“We want a quid pro quo.” The fencing began.
“And that is?”
“Information on the terrorists you guys used to support.”
“We cannot do that,” Golovko said flatly.
“Sure you can.”
Next Golovko waved the flag: “An intelligence service cannot betray confidences and continue to function.”
“Really? Tell Castro that next time you see him,” Ryan suggested.
“You're getting better at this, Jack.”
“Thank you, Sergey. My government is most gratified indeed for your President's recent statement on terrorism. Hell, I like the guy personally. You know that. We're changing the world, man. Let's clean a few more messes up. You never approved of your government's support for those creeps.”
“What makes you believe that?” the First Deputy Chairman asked.
“Sergey, you're a professional intelligence officer. There's no way you can personally approve the actions of undisciplined criminals. I feel the same way, of course, but in my case it's personal.” Ryan leaned back with a hard look. He would always remember Sean Miller and the other members of the Ulster Liberation Army who'd made two earnest attempts to kill Jack Ryan and his family. Only three weeks earlier, after years exhausting every legal opportunity, after three writs to the Supreme Court, after demonstrations and appeals to the Governor of Maryland and the President of the United States for executive clemency, Miller and his colleagues had, one by one, walked into the gas chamber in Baltimore, and been carried out half an hour later, quite dead. And may God have mercy on their souls, Ryan thought. If God has a strong enough stomach. One chapter in his life was now closed for good.