The sum of all fears - Tom Clancy [225]
The stadium had to seat sixty thousand people, perhaps a little more. It had three primary levels, called lower, mezzanine, and upper, plus two complete ranks of enclosed boxes, some of which looked quite luxurious. Structurally, it was quite impressive. Massive reinforced-concrete construction, all the upper decks were cantilevered. There were no pillars to block a spectator's view. A fine stadium. A superb target. Beyond the parking lot to the north were endless hectares of low-rise apartment buildings. To the east was a government office center. The stadium was not in the city center, but that couldn't be helped. Bock found and took his seat, orienting himself with the compass and the TV equipment. The latter was quite easy. An ABC banner was being hung below one of the press boxes.
"Hey!"
"Yes?" Bock looked down at a security guard.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"Sorry." He held up his tickets. "I just bought them, and I wanted to see where my seats were, so that I would know where to park. I've never seen an American football game," he added, heavy on the accent. Americans, he'd heard, were always nice to people with European accents.
"You want to park in Area A or B. Try to arrive early, like before five. You want to beat the rush-hour traffic. It can be a bear out there."
Gunther bobbed his head. "Thank you. I'll be leaving now."
"No problem, sir. It's no big deal. I mean, it's the insurance, y'know? You have people wandering around, they might get hurt and sue."
Bock and Russell left. They circled the bottom level, just so that Gunther could be sure he had the configuration memorized. Then that became unnecessary when he found a stadium diagram printed on a small card.
"Seen what you wanted?" Marvin asked, when they got back to the car.
"Yes, possibly."
"You know, that's pretty subtle," the American mused aloud.
"What do you mean?"
"Dickin' with the TV. The really dumb thing about revolutionaries is that they overlook the psychological stuff. You don't have to kill a lot of people, just pissin' them off, scarin' them, that's enough, isn't it?"
Bock stopped at the parking-lot exit and looked at his companion. "You have learned much, my friend."
"This is pretty hot stuff," Ryan said, leafing through the pages.
"I didn't know it was that bad." Mary Patricia Foley agreed.
"How are you feeling?"
The senior field officer's eyes twinkled. "Clyde has dropped. Waiting for my water to break."
Jack looked up. "Clyde?"
"That's what I'm calling him - her - whatever."
"Doing your exercises?"
"Rocky Balboa should be in the shape I'm in. Ed's got the nursery all painted up. The crib is put back together. All ready, Jack."
"How much time will you be taking off?"
"Four weeks, maybe six."
"I may want you to go over some of this at home," Ryan said, lingering on page two.
"Long as you pay me." Mary Pat laughed.
"What do you think, MP?"
"I think SPINNAKER is the best source we have. If he says it, it's probably true."
"We haven't caught a whiff of this anywhere else "
"That's why you recruit good penetration agents."
"True." Ryan had to agree.
The report from Agent SPINNAKER wasn't quite earth-shaking, but it was like the first rumble that got people worrying about a major quake. Since the Russians had taken the cork out of the bottle, the Soviet Union had developed an instant case of political schizophrenia. Wrong term, Ryan reflected. Multiple-personality disorder, perhaps. There were five identifiable political areas: the true-believing communists, who thought that any divergence from the True Path was a mistake (the Forward-to-the-Past crowd, some called them); the progressive socialists who wanted