Chapter 43
Decisions
The colonel flying Air Force One executed an even better landing than usual. Jack and Cathy Ryan were already awake and showered to alertness, helped by a light breakfast heavy on fine coffee. The President looked out the window to his left and saw troops formed up in precise lines, as the aircraft taxied to its assigned place.
“Welcome to Poland, babe. What do you have planned?”
“I’m going to spend a few hours at their big teaching hospital. Their chief eye-cutter wants me to look at his operation.” It was always the same for FLOTUS, and she didn’t mind. It came from being an academic physician, treating patients, but also teaching young docs, and observing how her counterparts around the world did their version of her job. Every so often, you saw something new that was worth learning from, or even copying, because smart people happened everywhere, not just at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine. It was the one part of the First Lady folderol that she actually enjoyed, because she could learn from it, instead of just being a somewhat flat-chested Barbie doll for the world to gawk at. To this end she was dressed in a beige business suit, whose jacket she would soon exchange for a doc’s proper white lab coat, which was always her favorite item of apparel. Jack was wearing one of his dark-blue white-pinstriped President-of-the-United-States suits, with a maroon striped tie because Cathy liked the color combination, and she really did decide what Jack wore, except for the shirt. SWORDSMAN wore only white cotton shirts with button-down collars, and despite Cathy’s lobbying for something different, on that issue he stood firm. This had caused Cathy to observe more than once that he’d wear the damned things with his tuxedos if convention didn’t demand otherwise.
The aircraft came to a halt, and the stagecraft began. The Air Force sergeant—this one always a man—opened the door on the left side of the aircraft to see that the truck-mounted stairs were already in place. Two more non-coms scurried down so that they could salute Ryan when he walked down. Andrea Price-O’Day was talking over her digital radio circuit to the chief of the Secret Service advance team to make sure it was safe for the President to appear in the open. She’d already heard that the Poles had been as cooperative as any American police force, and had enough security deployed here to defend against an attack by space aliens or Hitler’s Wehrmacht. She nodded to the President and Mrs. Ryan.
“Showtime, babe,” Jack told Cathy, with a dry smile.
“Knock ’em dead, Movie Star,” she said in reply. It was one of their inside jokes.
John Patrick Ryan, President of the United States of America, stood in the door to look out over Poland, or at least as much of it as he could see from this vantage. The first cheers erupted then, for although he’d never even been close to Poland before, he was a popular figure here, for what reason Jack Ryan had no idea. He walked down, carefully, telling himself not to trip and spill down the steps. It looked bad to do so, as one of his antecedents had learned the hard way. At the bottom, the two USAF sergeants snapped off their salutes, which Ryan unconsciously returned, and then he was saluted again by a Polish officer. They did it differently, Jack saw, with ring and little finger tucked in, like American Cub Scouts. Jack nodded and smiled to this officer, then followed him to the receiving line. There was the U.S. ambassador to introduce him to the Polish president. Together they walked down a red carpet to a small lectern, where the Polish president welcomed Ryan, and Ryan made remarks to demonstrate his joy at visiting this ancient and important new American ally. Ryan had a discordant memory of the “Polack” jokes so popular when he’d been in high school, but managed not to relate any to the assembled throng. This was followed by a review past the honor guard of soldiers, about three companies of infantrymen, all spiffed up for this moment; Jack walked past them, looking in each face for a split second and figuring they just wanted to go back to barracks to change into their more comfortable fatigues, where they’d say that this Ryan guy looked okay for a damned American chief of state, and wasn’t it good that this pain-in-the-ass duty was over. Then Jack and Cathy (carrying flowers given to her by two cute Polish kids, a boy and a girl, age six or so, because that was the best age to greet an important foreign woman) got into the official car, an American limo from the U.S. Embassy, for the drive into town. Once there, Jack looked over to the ambassador.
“What about Moscow?”
Ambassadors had once been Very Important People, which explained why each still had to be approved by vote of the United States Senate. When the Constitution had been drafted, world travel had been done by sailing ship, and an ambassador in a foreign land was the United States of America, and had to be able to speak for his country entirely without guidance from Washington. Modem communications had transformed ambassadors into glorified mailmen, but they still, occasionally, had to handle important matters with discretion, and this was such a case.
“They want the Secretary to come over as soon as possible. The backup aircraft is at a fighter base about fifteen miles from here. We can get Scott there within the hour,” Stanislas Lewendowski reported.
“Thanks, Stan. Make it happen.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the ambassador, a native of Chicago, agreed with a curt nod.
“Anything we need to know?”
“Aside from that, sir, no, everything’s pretty much under control.”
“I hate it when they say that,” Cathy observed quietly. “That’s when I look up for the falling sandbag.”
“Not here, ma’am,” Lewendowski promised. “Here things are under control.”
That’s nice to hear, President Ryan thought, but what about the rest of the f*cking world?
Eduard Petrovich, this is not a happy development,” Golovko told his president.
“I can see that,” Grushavoy agreed tersely. “Why did we have to learn this from the Americans?”
“We had a very good source in Beijing, but he retired not long ago. He’s sixty-nine years old and in ill health, and it was time to leave his post in their Party Secretariat. Sadly, we had no replacement for him,” Golovko admitted. “The American source appears to be a man of similar placement. We are fortunate to have this information, regardless of its source.”
“Better to have it than not to have it,” Eduard Petrovich admitted. “So, now what?”
“Secretary of State Adler will be joining us in about three hours, at the Americans’ request. He wishes to consult with us directly on a ‘matter of mutual interest.’ That means the Americans are as concerned with this development as we are.”
“What will they say?”
“They will doubtless offer us assistance of some sort. Exactly what kind, I cannot say.”
“Is there anything I don’t already know about Adler and Ryan?”
“I don’t think so. Scott Adler is a career diplomat, well regarded everywhere as an experienced and expert diplomatic technician. He and Ryan are friends, dating back to when Ivan Emmetovich was Deputy Director of CIA. They get along well and do not have any known disagreements in terms of policy. Ryan I have known for over ten years. He is bright, decisive, and a man of unusually fine personal honor. A man of his word. He was the enemy of the Soviet Union, and a skilled enemy, but since our change of systems he has been a friend. He evidently wishes us to succeed and prosper economically, though his efforts to assist us have been somewhat disjointed and confused. As you know, we have assisted the Americans in two black operations, one against China and one against Iran. This is important, because Ryan will see that he owes us a debt. He is, as I said, an honorable man, and he will wish to repay that debt, as long as it does not conflict with his own security interests.”
“Will an attack on China be seen that way?” President Grushavoy asked.
Golovko nodded decisively. “Yes, I believe so. We know that Ryan has said privately that he both likes and admires Russian culture, and that he would prefer that America and Russia should become strategic partners. So, I think Secretary Adler will offer us substantive assistance against China.”
“What form will it take?”
“Eduard Petrovich, I am an intelligence officer, not a gypsy fortune-teller ...” Golovko paused. “We will know more soon, but if you wish me to make a guess...”
“Do so,” the Russian president commanded. The SVR Chairman took a deep breath and made his prediction:
“He will offer us a seat on the North Atlantic Council.” That startled Grushavoy:
“Join NATO?” he asked, with an open mouth.
“It would be the most elegant solution to the problem. It allies us with the rest of Europe, and would face China with a panoply of enemies if they attack us.”
“And if they make this offer to us ... ?”
“You should accept it at once, Comrade President,” the chief of the RSV replied. “We would be fools not to.”
“What will they demand in return?”
“Whatever it is, it will be far less costly than a war against China.”
Grushavoy nodded thoughtfully. “I will consider this. Is it really possible that America can recognize Russia as an ally?”
“Ryan will have thought this idea through. It conforms to his strategic outlook, and, as I said, I believe he honestly admires and respects Russia.”
“After all his time in CIA?”
“Of course. That is why he does. He knows us. He ought to respect us.”
Grushavoy thought about that one. Like Golovko, he was a Russian patriot who loved the very smell of Russian soil, the birch forests, the vodka and the borscht, the music and literature of his land. But he was not blind to the errors and ill fortune his country had endured over the centuries. Like Golovko, Grushavoy had come to manhood in a nation called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and had been educated to be a believer in Marxism-Leninism, but he’d gradually come to see that, although the path to political power had required worshiping at that godless altar, the god there had been a false one. Like many, he’d seen that the previous system simply didn’t work. But unlike all but a small and courageous few, he’d spoken out about the system’s shortcomings. A lawyer, even under the Soviet system when law had been subordinated to political whim, he’d crusaded for a rational system of laws which would allow people to predict the reaction of the state to their actions with something akin to confidence. He’d been there when the old system had fallen, and had embraced the new system as a teenager embraced his first love. Now he was struggling to bring order—lawful order, which was harder still—to a nation which had known only dictatorial rule for centuries. If he succeeded, he knew he’d be remembered as one of the giants of human political history. If he failed, he’d just be remembered as one more starry-eyed visionary unable to turn his dream into reality. The latter, he thought in quiet moments, was the more likely outcome.
But despite that concern, he was playing to win. Now he had the gold and oil discoveries in Siberia, which had appeared as if gifts from the merciful God his education had taught him to deny. Russian history predicted—nay, demanded—that such gifts be taken from his country, for such had always been their hateful ill luck. Did God hate Russia? Anyone familiar with the past in his ancient country would think so. But today hope appeared as a golden dream, and Grushavoy was determined not to let this dream evaporate as all the others had. The land of Tolstoy and Rimsky-Korsakov had given much to the world, and now it deserved something back. Perhaps this Ryan fellow would indeed be a friend of his country and his people. His country needed friends. His country had the resources to exist alone, but to make use of those resources, he needed assistance, enough to allow Russia to enter the world as a complete and self-sufficient nation, ready to be a friend to all, ready to give and to take in honor and amity. The wherewithal was within his reach, if not quite within his hand. To take it would make him an Immortal, would make Eduard Petrovich Grushavoy the man who raised up his entire country. To do that he’d need help, however, and while that abraded his sense of amour propre, his patriotism, his duty to his country required that he set self aside.
“We shall see, Sergey Nikolay’ch. We shall see.”
The time is ripe,” Zhang Han San told his colleagues in the room of polished oak. ”The men and weapons are in place. The prize lies right before our eyes. That prize offers us economic salvation, economic security such as we have dreamed of for decades, the ability,” he went on, ”to make China the world’s preeminent power. That is a legacy to leave our people such as no leader has ever granted his descendants. We need only take it. It lies almost in our hands, like a peach upon a tree.”
“It is feasible?” Interior Minister Tong Jie asked cautiously.
“Marshal?” Zhang handed the inquiry off to the Defense Minister.
Luo Cong leaned forward. He and Zhang had spent much of the previous evening together with maps, diagrams, and intelligence estimates. “From a military point of view, yes, it is possible. We have four Type A Group armies in the Shenyang Military District, fully trained and poised to strike north. Behind them are six Type B Group armies with sufficient infantry to support our mechanized forces, and four more Type C Group armies to garrison the land we take. From a strictly military point of view, the only issues are moving our forces into place and then supplying them. That is mainly a question of railroads, which will move supplies and men. Minister Qian?” Luo asked. He and Zhang had considered this bit of stage-managing carefully, hoping to co-opt a likely opponent of their proposed national policy early on.
The Finance Minister was startled by the question, but pride in his former job and his innate honesty compelled him to respond truthfully: “There is sufficient rolling stock for your purposes, Marshal Luo,” he replied tersely. “The concern will be repairing damage done by enemy air strikes on our rights-of-way and bridges. That is something the Railroad Ministry has examined for decades, but there is no precise answer to it, because we cannot predict the degree of damage the Russians might inflict.”
“I am not overly worried about that, Qian,” Marshal Luo responded. “The Russian air force is in miserable shape due to all their activity against their Muslim minorities. They used up a goodly fraction of their best weapons and spare parts. We estimate that our air-defense groups should preserve our transportation assets with acceptable losses. Will we be able to send railroad-construction personnel into Siberia to extend our railheads?”
Again Qian felt himself trapped. “The Russians have surveyed and graded multiple rights-of-way over the years in their hopes for extending the Trans-Siberian Railroad and settling people into the region. Those efforts date back to Stalin. Can we lay track rapidly? Yes. Rapidly enough for your purposes? Probably not, Comrade Marshal,” Qian replied studiously. If he didn’t answer honestly, his seat at this table would evaporate, and he knew it.
“I am not sanguine on this prospect, comrades,” Shen Tang spoke for the Foreign Ministry.
“Why is that, Shen?” Zhang asked.
“What will other nations do?” he asked rhetorically. “We do not know, but I would not be optimistic, especially with the Americans. They become increasingly friendly with the Russians. President Ryan is well known to be friendly with Golovko, chief advisor to President Grushavoy.”
“A pity that Golovko still lives, but we were unlucky,” Tan Deshi had to concede.
“Depending on luck is dangerous at this level,” Fang Gan told his colleagues. “Fate is no man’s friend.”
“Perhaps the next time,” Tan responded.
“Next time,” Zhang thought aloud, “better to eliminate Grushavoy and so throw their country into total chaos. A country without a president is like a snake without a head. It may thrash about, but it harms no one.”
“Even a severed head can bite,” Fang observed. “And who is to say that Fate will smile upon this enterprise?”
“A man can wait for Fate to decide for him, or he can seize the foul woman by the throat and take her by force—as we have all done in our time,” Zhang added with a cruel smile.
Much more easily done with a docile secretary than with Destiny herself, Zhang, Fang didn’t say aloud. He could go only so far in this forum, and he knew it. “Comrades, I counsel caution. The dogs of war have sharp teeth, but any dog may turn and bite his master. We have all seen that happen, have we not? Some things, once begun, are less easily halted. War is such a thing, and it is not to be undertaken so lightly.”
“What would you have us do, Fang?” Zhang asked. “Should we wait until we run out of oil and wheat? Should we wait until we need troops to quell discord among our own people? Should we wait for Fate to decide for us, or should we choose our own destiny?”
The only reply to that came from Chinese culture itself, the ancient beliefs that came to all of the Politburo members almost as genetic knowledge, unaffected by political conditioning: “Comrades, Destiny awaits us all. It chooses us, not we it. What you propose here, my old friend, could merely accelerate what comes for us in any case, and who among us can say if it will please or displease us?” Minister Fang shook his head. “Perhaps what you propose is necessary, even beneficial,” he allowed, “but only after the alternatives have been examined fully and discarded.”
“If we are to decide,” Luo told them, “then we must decide soon. We have good campaigning weather before us. That season will only last so long. If we strike soon—in the next two weeks—we can seize our objectives, and then time works for us. Then winter will set in and make offensive campaigning virtually impossible against a determined defense. Then we can depend upon Shen’s ministry to safeguard and consolidate what we have seized, perhaps to share our winnings with the Russians ... for a time,” he added cynically. China would never share such a windfall, they all knew. It was merely a ploy fit to fool children and mushy-headed diplomats, which the world had in abundance, they all knew.
Through all this, Premier Xu had sat quietly, observing how the sentiments went, before making his decision and calling for a vote whose outcome would, of course, be predetermined. There was one more thing that needed asking. Not surprisingly, the question came from Tan Deshi, chief of the Ministry of State Security:
“Luo, my friend, how soon would the decision have to be made to ensure success? How easily could the decision be called back if circumstances warrant?”
“Ideally, the ‘go’ decision would be made today, so that we can start moving our forces to their preset jumping-off places. To stop them—well, of course, you can stop the offensive up to the very moment the artillery is to open fire. It is much harder to advance than it is to stay in place. Any man can stand still, no matter where he is.” The preplanned answer to the preplanned question was as clever as it was misleading. Sure, you could always stop an army poised to jump off, about as easily as you could stop a Yangtze River flood.
“I see,” Tan said. “In that case, I propose that we vote on conditional approval of a ‘go’ order, subject to change at any time by majority vote of the Politburo.”
Now it was Xu’s turn to take charge of the meeting: “Comrades, thank you all for your views on the issue before us. Now we must decide what is best for our country and our people. We shall vote on Tan’s proposal, a conditional authorization for an attack to seize and exploit the oil and goldfields in Siberia.”
As Fang had feared, the vote was already decided, and in the interests of solidarity, he voted with the rest. Only Qian Kun wavered, but like all the others, he sided with the majority, because it was dangerous to stand alone in any group in the People’s Republic, most of all this one. And besides, Qian was only a candidate member, and didn’t have a vote at this most democratic of tables.
The vote turned out to be unanimous.
Long Chun, it would be called: Operation SPRING DRAGON.
Scott Adler knew Moscow as well as many Russian citizens did, he’d been here so many times, including one tour in the American Embassy as a wet-behind-the-ears new foreign-service officer, all those years before, during the Carter Administration. The Air Force flight crew delivered him on time, and they were accustomed to taking people on covert missions to odd places. This mission was less unusual than most. His aircraft rolled to a stop at the Russian fighter base, and the official car rolled up even before the mechanical steps unfolded. Adler hustled out, unaccompanied even by an aide. A Russian official shook hands with him and got him into the car for the drive into Moscow. Adler was at ease. He knew that he was offering Russia a gift fit for the world’s largest Christmas tree, and he didn’t think they were stupid enough to reject it. No, the Russians were among the world’s most skillful diplomats and geopolitical thinkers, a trait that went back sixty years or more. It had struck him as sad, back in 1978, that their adroit people had been chained to a doomed political system—even back then, Adler had seen the demise of the Soviet Union coming. Jimmy Carter’s “human rights” proclamation had been that president’s best and least appreciated foreign-policy play, for it had injected the virus of rot into their political empire, begun the process of eating away their power in Eastern Europe, and also of letting their own people start to ask questions. It was a pot that Ronald Reagan had sweetened—upping the ante with his defense buildup that had stretched the Soviet economy to the breaking point and beyond, allowing George Bush to be there when they’d tossed in their cards and cast off from the political system that stretched back to Vladimir ll’ych Ulyanov, Lenin himself, the founding father, even the god of Marxism-Leninism. It was usually sad when a god died ...
... but not in this case, Adler thought as the buildings flashed by.
Then he realized that there was one more large but false god out there, Mao Zedong, awaiting final interment in history’s rubbish heap. When would that come? Did this mission have a role to play in that funeral? Nixon’s opening to China had played a role in the destruction of the Soviet Union, which historians still had not fully grasped. Would its final echo be found in the fall of the People’s Republic itself? That remained to be seen.
The car pulled into the Kremlin through the Spaskiy Gate, then proceeded to the old Council of Ministers Building. There Adler alighted and hurried inside, into an elevator to a third-floor meeting room.
“Mr. Secretary.” The greeting came from Golovko. Adler should have found him an eminence gris, he thought. But Sergey Nikolay’ch was actually a man of genuine intellect and the openness that resulted directly from it. He was not even a pragmatist, but a man who sought what was best for his country, and would search for it everywhere his mind could see. A seeker of truth, SecState thought. That sort of man he and America could live with.
“Chairman. Thank you for receiving us so quickly.”
“Please come with me, Mr. Adler.” Golovko led him through a set of high double doors into what almost appeared to be a throne room. EAGLE couldn’t remember if this building went back to the czars. President Eduard Petrovich Grushavoy was waiting for him, already standing politely, looking serious but friendly.
“Mr. Adler,” the Russian president said, with a smile and an extended hand.
“Mr. President, a pleasure to be back in Moscow.”
“Please.” Grushavoy led him to a comfortable set of chairs with a low table. Tea things were already out, and Golovko handled the serving like a trusted earl seeing to the needs of his king and guest.
“Thank you. I’ve always loved the way you serve your tea in Russia.” Adler stirred his and took a sip.
“So, what do you have to say to us?” Grushavoy asked in passable English.
“We have shown you what has become for us a cause for great concern.”
“The Chinese,” the Russian president observed. Everyone knew all of this, but the beginning of the conversation would follow the conventions of high-level talk, like lawyers discussing a major case in chambers.
“Yes, the Chinese. They seem to be contemplating a threat to the peace of the world. America has no wish to see that peace threatened. We’ve all worked very hard—your country and mine—to put an end to conflict. We note with gratitude Russia’s assistance in our most recent conflicts. Just as we were allies sixty years ago, so Russia has acted again lately. America is a country that remembers her friends.”
Golovko let out a breath slowly. Yes, his prediction was about to come true. Ivan Emmetovich was a man of honor, and a friend of his country. What came back to him was the time he’d held a pistol to Ryan’s head, the time Ryan had engineered the defection of KGB chairman Gerasimov all those years before. Sergey Nikolay’ch had been enraged back then, as furious as he had ever been in a long and stressful professional life, but he’d held back from firing the pistol because it would have been a foolish act to shoot a man with diplomatic status. Now he blessed his moderation, for now Ivan Emmetovich Ryan offered to Russia what he had always craved from America: predictability. Ryan’s honor, his sense of fair play, the personal honesty that was the most crippling aspect of his newly acquired political persona, all combined to make him a person upon whom Russia could depend. And at this moment, Golovko could do that which he’d spent his life trying to do: He could see the future that lay only a few short minutes away.
“This Chinese threat, it is real, you think?” Grushavoy asked.
“We fear it is,” the American Secretary of State answered. “We hope to forestall it.”
“But how will we accomplish that? China knows of our military weakness. We have de-emphasized our defense capabilities of late, trying to shift the funds into areas of greater value to our economy. Now it seems we might pay a bitter price for that,” the Russian president worried aloud.
“Mr. President, we hope to help Russia in that respect.”
“How?”
“Mr. President, even as we speak, President Ryan is also speaking with the NATO chiefs of state and government. He is proposing to them that we invite Russia to sign the North Atlantic Treaty. That will ally the Russian Federation with all of Europe. It ought to make China take a step back to consider the wisdom of a conflict with your country.”
“Ahh,” Grushavoy breathed. “So, America offers Russia a full alliance of state?”
Adler nodded. “Yes, Mr. President. As we were allies against Hitler, so today we can again be allies against all potential enemies.”
“There are many complications in this, talks between your military and ours, for example—even talks with the NATO command in Belgium. It could take months to coordinate our country with NATO.”
“Those are technical matters to be handled by diplomatic and military technicians. At this level, however, we offer the Russian Federation our friendship in peace and in war. We place the word and the honor of our countries at your disposal.”
“What of the European Union, their Common Market of economic alliances?”
“That, sir, is something left to the EEC, but America will encourage our European friends to welcome you completely into the European community, and offer all influence we can muster to that end.”
“What do you ask in return?” Grushavoy asked. Golovko hadn’t offered that prediction. This could be the answer to many Russian prayers, though his mind made the leap to see that Russian oil would be a major boon to Europe, and hence a matter of mutual, not unilateral, profit.
“We ask for nothing special in return. It is in the American interest to help make a stable and peaceful world. We welcome Russia into that world. Friendship between your people and ours is desirable to everyone, is it not?”
“And in our friendship is profit also for America,” Golovko pointed out.
Adler sat back and smiled agreement. “Of course. Russia will sell things to America, and America will sell things to Russia. We will become neighbors in the global village, friendly neighbors. We will compete economically, giving and taking from each other, as we do with many other countries.”
“The offer you make is this simple?” Grushavoy asked.
“Should it be more complicated?” the SecState asked. “I am a diplomat, not a lawyer. I prefer simple things to complex ones.”
Grushavoy considered all this for half a minute or so. Usually, diplomatic negotiations lasted weeks or months to do even the simplest of things, but Adler was right: Simple was better than complex, and the fundamental issue here was simple, though the downstream consequences might be breathtaking. America offered salvation to Russia, not just a military alliance, but the opening of all doors to economic development. America and Europe would partner with the Russian Federation, creating what could become both an open and integrated community to span the northern hemisphere. It stood to make Eduard Petrovich Grushavoy the Russian who brought his country a full century into the present/future of the world, and for all the statues of Lenin and Stalin that had been toppled, well, maybe some of his own likeness would be erected. It was a thought to appeal to a Russian politician. And after a few minutes, he extended his hand across the low table of tea things.
“The Russian Federation gladly accepts the offer of the United States of America. Together we once defeated the greatest threat to human culture. Perhaps we can do so again—better yet, together we may forestall it.”
“In that case, sir, I will report your agreement to my President.”
Adler checked his watch. It had taken twenty minutes. Damn, you could make history in a hurry when you had your act together, couldn’t you? He stood. “I must be off then to make my report.”
“Please convey my respects to President Ryan. We will do our best to be worthy allies to your country.”
“He and I have no doubts of that, Mr. President.” Adler shook hands with Golovko and walked to the door. Three minutes after that, he was back in his car and heading back to the airport. Once there, the aircraft had barely begun to taxi when he got on the secure satellite phone.
Mr. President?” Andrea said, coming up to Ryan just as the plenary session of the NATO chiefs was about to begin. She handed over the secure portable phone. ”It’s Secretary Adler.”
Ryan took the phone at once. “Scott? Jack here. What gives?”
“It’s a done deal, Jack.”
“Okay, now I have to sell it to these guys. Good job, Scott. Hurry back.”
“We’re rolling now, sir.” The line went dead. Ryan tossed the phone to Special Agent Price-O’Day.
“Good news?” she asked.
“Yep.” Ryan nodded and walked into the conference room.
“Mr. President.” Sir Basil Charleston came up to him. The chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service, he’d known Ryan longer than anyone else in the room had. One odd result of Ryan’s path to the Presidency was that the people who knew him best were all spooks, mainly NATO ones, and these found themselves advising their chiefs of government on how to deal with America. Sir Basil had served no less than five Prime Ministers of Her Majesty’s Government, but now he was in rather a higher position than before.
“Bas, how are you?”
“Doing quite well, thank you. May I ask a question?”
“Sure.” But I don’t have to answer it, Jack’s smile added in reply.
“Adler is in Moscow now. Can we know why?”
“How will your PM react to inviting Russia into NATO?”
That made Basil blink, Ryan saw. It wasn’t often that you could catch this guy unawares. Instantly, his mind went into overdrive to analyze the new situation. “China?” he asked after about six seconds.
Jack nodded. “Yeah. We may have some problems there.”
“Not going north, are they?”
“They’re thinking about it,” Ryan replied.
“How good is your information on that question?”
“You know about the Russian gold strike, right?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. President. Ivan’s been bloody lucky on both scores.”
“Our intel strike in Beijing is even better.”
“Indeed?” Charleston observed, letting Jack know that the SIS had also been pretty much shut out there.
“Indeed, Bas. It’s class-A information, and it has us worried. We’re hoping that pulling Russia into NATO can scare them off. Grushavoy just agreed on it. How do you suppose the rest of these folks will react to it?”
“They’ll react cautiously, but favorably, after they’ve had a chance to consider it.”
“Will Britain back us on this play?” Ryan asked.
“I must speak with the PM. I’ll let you know.” With that, Sir Basil walked over to where the British Prime Minister was chatting with the German Foreign Minister. Charleston dragged him off and spoke quietly into his ear. Instantly, the Prime Minister’s eyes, flaring a little wide, shot over to Ryan. The British PM was somewhat trapped, somewhat unpleasantly because of the surprise factor, but the substance of the trap was that Britain and America always supported each other. The “special relationship” was as alive and well today as it had been under the governments of Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill. It was one of the few constants in the diplomatic world for both countries, and it belied Kissinger’s dictum that great nations didn’t have friendships, but rather interests. Perhaps it was the exception proving the rule, but if so, exception it was. Both Britain and America would hurl themselves in front of a train for the other. The fact that in England, President Ryan was Sir John Ryan, KCVO, made the alliance even more firm. In acknowledgment of that, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom walked over to the American chief of state.
“Jack, will you let us in on this development?”
“Insofar as I can. I may give Basil a little more on the side, but, yeah, Tony, this is for real, and we’re damned worried about it.”
“The gold and the oil?” the PM asked.
“They seem to think they’re in an economic box. They’re just about out of hard currency, and they’re hurting for oil and wheat.”
“You can’t make an arrangement for that?”
“After what they did? Congress would hang me from the nearest lamppost.”
“Quite,” the Brit had to agree. BBC had run its own news miniseries on human rights in the PRC, and the Chinese hadn’t come off very well. Indeed, despising China was the new European sport, which hadn’t helped their foreign-currency holdings at all. As China had trapped themselves, so the Western nations had been perversely co-opted into building the wall. The citizens of these democracies wouldn’t stand for economic or trade concessions any more than the Chinese Politburo could see its way to making the political sort. “Rather like Greek tragedy, isn’t it, Jack?”
“Yeah, Tony, and our tragic flaw is adherence to human rights. Hell of a situation, isn’t it?”
“And you’re hoping that bringing Russia into NATO will give them pause?”
“If there’s a better card to play, I haven’t seen it in my deck, man.”
“How set are they on the path?”
“Unknown. Our intelligence on this is very good, but we have to be careful making use of it. It could get people killed, and deny us the information we need.”
“Like our chap Penkovskiy in the 1960s.” One thing about Sir Basil, he knew how to educate his bosses on how the business of intelligence worked.
Ryan nodded, then proceeded with a little of his own disinformation. It was business, and Basil would understand: “Exactly. I can’t have that man’s life on my conscience, Tony, and so I have to treat this information very carefully.”
“Quite so, Jack. I understand fully.”
“Will you support us on this?”
The PM nodded at once. “Yes, old boy, we must, mustn’t we?”
“Thanks, pal.” Ryan patted him on the shoulder.