The sum of all fears - Tom Clancy [336]
"Going to be a good one," Talbot said.
"What's the point spread?" Fowler asked.
Jesus! Ryan thought.
"Vikings by three," Bunker said. I'll take all of that action I can get."
"We're flying out together," Talbot said. "Just so Dennis doesn't drive the airplane."
"Leaving me up the hills of Maryland. Well, somebody has to mind the government." Fowler smiled. He had an odd smile, Jack thought. "Back to business. Ryan: you said this is not a threat to us?"
"Let me backtrack, sir. First, I must emphasize that the SPINNAKER report remains totally unconfirmed."
"You said the CIA backs it."
"There is a consensus of opinion that it is probably reliable. We're checking that very hard right now. That's the whole point of what I said earlier."
"Okay," Fowler said. "If it's not true, there is nothing for us to worry about, correct?"
"Yes, Mr President."
"And if it is?"
"Then the risk is one of political blackmail in the Soviet Union, worst-case, a civil war with the use of nuclear weapons."
"Which is not good news - possible threats to us?"
"No direct threat to us is likely."
Fowler leaned back in his chair. "That makes sense, I suppose. But I want a really, really good estimate of that just as fast as you can get it to me."
"Yes, sir. Believe me, Mr President, we're checking every aspect of this development."
"Good report, Dr Ryan."
Jack stood to take his dismissal. It was so much more civilized now that they'd gotten rid of him.
The markets had sprung up of their own accord, mainly in the eastern sections of Berlin. Soviet soldiers, never the most free of individuals, now found themselves in an undivided Western city that offered each the chance simply to walk away, to disappear. The amazing thing was that so few did it, despite the controls kept on them, and one reason for it was the availability of open-air markets. The individual Soviet soldiers were continuously surprised at the desire of Germans, Americans and so many others to buy memorabilia of the Red Army - belts, shapka fur hats, boots, whole uniforms, all manner of trinkets - and the fools paid cash. Hard-currency cash, dollars, pounds, Deutschmarks, whose value at home in the Soviet Union was multiplied tenfold. Other sales to more discriminating buyers had included such big-ticket items as a T-80 tank, but that had required the connivance of a regimental commander, who'd justified it in his paperwork as the accidental destruction of a vehicle by fire. The colonel had gotten a Mercedes 560SEL from that, with plenty of cash left over for his retirement fund. Western intelligence agencies had gotten all they wished by this point, leaving the markets to amateurs and tourists; they assumed that the Soviets tolerated it for the simple reason that it brought a good deal of hard currency into their economy, and did so at bargain prices. Westerners typically paid more than ten times the actual production cost of what they purchased. The introductory course in capitalism, some Russians thought, would have other payoffs when the troops concluded their conscripted service.
Erwin Keitel approached one such Soviet soldier, a senior sergeant by rank. "Good day," he said in German.
"Nicht spreche," the Russian answered "English?"
"English is okay, yes?"
"Da." The Russian nodded.
"Ten uniforms." Keitel held up both hands to make the number unambiguous.
"Ten?"
"Ten, all large, big like me," Keitel said. He could have spoken in perfect Russian, but that would have caused more trouble than it was worth. "Colonel uniforms, all colonel, okay?"
"Colonel - Polkovnik. Regiment officer, yes? Three stars here?" the man tapped his shoulders.
"Yes." Keitel nodded. Tank uniform, must be for tank."
"Why you want?" the sergeant asked, mainly to be polite. He was a tanker, and getting the right garb was not a problem.
"Make movie - television movie."
"Television?"