"Clancy, Tom - Jack Ryan 03 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clancy Tom)

led. "SDIO won't like it. The Judge will have to go to I
President for that." I
"So he goes to the President. What if the activity her!
connected with the arms proposal they just made?" I
"Do you think it is?" I
"Who can say?" Jack asked. "It's a coincidence. They wJ
me." I
"Okay, I'll talk to the Director."
Ryan drove home two hours later. He drove his Jaguar CFS out onto the George Washington Parkway. It was one ╗f the many happy memories from his tour of duty in England, le loved the silky-smooth feeling of the twelve-cylinder en-jne enough that he'd put his venerable old Rabbit into semi-etirement. As he always tried to do, Ryan set his Washington msiness aside. He worked the car up through its five gears ind concentrated on his driving.
"Well, James?" the Director of Central Intelligence asked. I "Ryan thinks the new activity at Bach and Mozart may be related to the arms situation. I think he might be correct. He frants into Tea Clipper. I said you'd have to go to the Pres-dent." Admiral Greer smiled.
: "Okay, I'll get him a written note. It'll make General Parks lappier, anyway. They have a full-up test scheduled for the nd of the week. I'll set it up for Jack to see it." Judge Moore aniled sleepily. "What do you think?"
"I think he's right: Dushanbe and Tea Clipper are essen-ially the same project. There are a lot of coarse similarities, oo many to be a pure coincidence. We ought to upgrade our assessment."
"Okay." Moore turned away to look out the windows. The vorld is going to change again. It may take ten or more years, tut it's going to change. Ten years from now it won't be my problem, Moore told himself. But it sure as hell will be Ryan's iroblem. "I'll have him flown out there tomorrow. And maybe ve'll get lucky on Dushanbe. Foley got word to CARDINAL bat we're very interested in the place."
"CARDINAL? Good."
"But if something happens ..."
Greer nodded. "Christ, I hope he's careful," the DDI said.
: Ever since the death of Dmitri Fedorovich, it has not been he same at the Defense Ministry, Colonel Mikhail Semyon->vich Filitov wrote into his diary left-handed. An early riser, ie sat at a hundred-year-old oak desk that his wife had bought or him shortly before she'd died, almostЧwhat was it? Thirty ears, Misha told himself. Thirty years this coming February, lis eyes closed for a moment. Thirty years. Never a single day passed that he did not remember his
34 Х TOMUWMji
Elena. Her photograph was on the desk, the sepia print faded with age, its silver frame tarnished. He never seemed to hav< time to polish it, and didn't wish to be bothered with a maid The photo showed a young woman with legs like spindles, arms high over her head, which was cocked to one side. The round, Slavic face displayed a wide, inviting smile that perfectly conveyed the joy she'd felt when dancing with the Kirov Company. j Misha smiled also as he remembered the first impressid of a young armor officer given tickets to the performance a! a reward for having the best-maintained tanks in the divisiofl How can they do that? Perched up on the tips of their tw as though on needle-point stilts. He'd remembered playifl on stilts as a child, but to be so graceful! And then she'] smiled at the handsome young officer in the front row. Fd the briefest moment. Their eyes had met for almost as littl time as it takes to blink, he thought. Her smile had change ever so slightly. Not for the audience any longer, for tha timeless instant the smile had been for him alone. A bulk through the heart could not have had a more devastatiq effect. Misha didn't remember the rest of the performance-to this day he couldn't even remember which ballet it ha been. He remembered sitting and squirming through the re of it while his mind churned over what he'd do next. Alreai Lieutenant Filitov had been marked as a man on the mo\ a brilliant young tank officer for whom Stalin's brutal pui of the officer corps had meant opportunity and rapid pri motion. He wrote articles on tank tactics, practiced innovatii battle drills in the field, argued vociferously against the fal "lessons" of Spain with the certainty of a man born to-1
profession.
But what do I do now? he'd asked himself. The Red An hadn't taught him how to approach an artist. This wasn't son farm girl who was bored enough by work on the kolkhoz offer herself to anyoneЧespecially a young Army officer \v might take her away from it all. Misha still remembered 1 shame of his youthЧnot that he'd thought it shameful at timeЧwhen he'd used his officer's shoulder boards to 1
any girl who'd caught his eye. But I don't even know her name, he'd told himself. W
do I do? What he'd done, of course, was to treat the mat!
as a military exercise. As soon as the performance had endi
he'd fought his way into the rest room and washed hands and face. Some grease that still remained under his fingernails was removed with a pocketknife. His short hair was wetted down into place, and he inspected his uniform as strictly as a general officer might, brushing off dust and picking off lint, stepping back from the mirror to make sure his boots gleamed as a oldier's should. He hadn't noticed at the time that other men I the men's room were watching him with barely suppressed tins, having guessed what the drill was for, and wishing him Kk, touched with a bit of envy. Satisfied with his appearance, lisha had left the theater and asked the doorman where the rtists' door was. That had cost him a ruble, and with the nowledge, he'd walked around the block to the stage en-rance, where he found another doorman, this one a bearded Id man whose greatcoat bore ribbons for service in the rev-lution. Misha had expected special courtesy from the door-nan, one soldier to another, only to learn that he regarded U the female dancers as his own daughtersЧnot wenches to e thrown at the feet of soldiers, certainly! Misha had con-dered offering money, but had the good sense not to imply le man was a pimp. Instead, he'd spoken quietly and reasonablyЧand truthfullyЧthat he was smitten with a single ancer whose name he didn't know, and merely wanted to meet her.
"Why?" the old doorman had asked coldly. "Grandfather, she smiled at me," Misha had answered in ic awed voice of a little boy.
: "And you are in love." The reply was harsh, but in a loment the doorman's face turned wistful. "But you don't now which?"
"She was inЧthe line, not one of the important ones, 1 lean. What do they call that?ЧI will remember her face ntil the day I die." Already he'd known that. The doorman looked him over and saw that his uniform as properly turned out, and his back straight. This was not [swaggering pig of an NKVD officer whose arrogant breath |ank of vodka. This was a soldier, and a handsome young ne at that. "Comrade Lieutenant, you are a lucky man. Do |ou know why? You are lucky because I was once young, bid old as I am, I still remember. They will start to come out | ten minutes or so. Stand over there, and make not a sound." I It had taken thirty minutes. They came out in twos and
threes. Misha had seen the male members of the troupe and thought themЧwhat any soldier would think of a man in a ballet company. His manhood had been offended that they held hands with such pretty girls, but he'd set that aside. When the door opened, his vision was damaged by the sudden glare of yellow-white light against the near blackness of the un alley, and he'd almost missed her, so different she lookf without the makeup.
He saw the face, and tried to decide if she were the ri] one, approaching his objective more carefully than he wo ever do under the fire of German guns. ^ "You were in seat number twelve," she'd said before U could summon the courage to speak. She had a voice! \ "Yes, Comrade Artist," his reply had stammered out. "Did you enjoy the performance, Comrade Lieutenant?" A shy, but somehow beckoning smile, "It was wonderful!" Of course.
"It is not often that we see handsome young officers in thj front row," she observed.
"I was given the ticket as a reward for performance in mj unit. I am a tanker," he said proudly. She called me ham some! Х "Does the Comrade Tanker Lieutenant have a name?" "I am Lieutenant Mikhail Semyonovich Filitov." "I am Elena Ivanova Makarova." "It is too cold tonight for one so thin, Comrade Artist, there a restaurant nearby?" "Restaurant?" She'd laughed. "How often do you co
to Moscow?"
"My division is based thirty kilometers from here, but I not often come to the city," he'd admitted.
"Comrade Lieutenant, there are few restaurants even Moscow. Can you come to my apartment?"
"WhyЧyes," his reply had stuttered out as the stage ch
opened again.
"Marta," Elena said to the girl who was just coming o "We have a military escort home!"
"Tania and Resa are coming," Marta said.
Misha had actually been relieved by that. The walk to apartment had taken thirty minutesЧthe Moscow subwi hadn't yet been completed, and it was better to walk than wait for a tram this late at night.
ЧЧ - Ч ЧЧ...u.i . L╗ 1
I She was far prettier without her makeup, Misha remem-
I bered. The cold winter air gave her cheeks all the color they
I ever needed. Her walk was as graceful as ten years of intensive
I training could make it. She'd glided along the street like an
I apparition, while he gallumped along in his heavy boots. He
I felt himself a tank, rolling next to a thoroughbred horse, and
I was careful not to go too close, lest he trample her. He hadn't
I yet learned of the strength that was so well hidden by her
I grace.