The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [326]
"This is as close as the Germans got in 1941," John explained. "This is where they stopped 'em."
"What do you call those things?"
"Those things" were immense steel I-beams, three of them welded at ninety-degree angles to look like enormous jacks.
"Hedgehogs, but in the SEALs we called 'em horned scullies. Hard to drive a tank over one," Clark told his younger partner.
"They take their history serious here, don't they?"
"You would, too, if you stopped somebody who wanted to erase your country right off the map, sonny. The Germans were pretty serious back then, too. It was a very nasty war, that one."
"Guess so. Take the next right, Mr. C."
Ten minutes later, they were in a forest of birch trees, as much a part of the Russian soul as vodka and borscht. Soon thereafter they came to a guard shack. The uniformed guard held an AK-74 and looked surprisingly grim. Probably briefed on the threat to Golovko and others, John imagined. But he'd also been briefed on who was authorized to pass, and they only had to show their passports to get cleared, the guard also giving them directions about which country lane to take.
"The houses don't look too bad," Chavez observed.
"Built by German POWs," John told him. "Ivan doesn't exactly like the Germans very much, but he does respect their workmanship. These were built for the Politburo members, mainly after the war, probably. There's our place."
It was a wood-frame house, painted brown and looking like a cross between a German country house and something from an Indiana farm, Clark thought. There were guards here, too, armed and walking around. They'd been called from the first shack, John figured. One of them waved. The other two stood back, ready to cover the first one if something untoward happened.
"You are Klerk, Ivan Sergeyevich?"
"Da," John answered. "This is Chavez, Domingo Stepanovich."
"Pass, you are expected," the guard told them.
It was a pleasant evening. The sun was down now, and the stars were making their appearance in the sky. There was also a gentle westerly breeze, but Clark thought he could hear the ghosts of war here. Hans von Kluge's panzer grenadiers, men wearing the feldgrau of the Wehrmacht. World War II on this front had been a strange conflict, like modern TV wrestling. No choice between good and bad, but only between bad and worse, and on that score it had been six-five and pick 'em. But their host probably wouldn't see history that way, and Clark had no intention of bringing up the subject.
Golovko was there, standing on the sheltered porch by the furniture, dressed casually. Decent shirt, but no tie. He wasn't a tall man, about halfway between Chavez and himself in height, but the eyes always showed intelligence, and now they also showed interest. He was curious about the purpose of this meeting, as well he might be.
"Ivan Sergeyevich," Golovko said in greeting. Handshakes were exchanged, and the guests conducted inside. Mrs. Golovko, a physician, was nowhere in evidence. Golovko first of all served vodka, and directed them to seats.
"You said you had a message for me." The language for this meeting was to be English, John saw.
"Here it is." Clark handed the pages across.
"Spasiba." Sergey Nikolay'ch sat back in his chair and started to read.
He would have been a fine poker player, John thought. His face changed not at all through the first two pages. Then he looked up.
"Who decided that I needed to see this?" he asked.
"The President," Clark answered.
"Your Ryan is a good comrade, Vanya, and an honorable man." Golovko paused. "I see you have improved your human-intelligence capabilities at Langley."
"That's probably a good supposition, but I know nothing of the source here, Chairman Golovko," Clark answered.
"This is, as you say, hot."
"It is all of that," John agreed, watching him turn another page.
"Son of a bitch!" Golovko observed, finally showing some emotion.
"Yeah, that's about what I said," Chavez entered the conversation.
"They are well-informed. This does not surprise me. I am sure they have ample