The Bear and the Dragon - By Tom Clancy Page 0,5

from the person on the computer. So, it wasn’t spelled properly.

“Why does this name sound familiar?” he asked. “But the machine says no-hit.”

“Let’s see...” a co-worker said, leaning over and respelling the name. “Try this ...” Again a no-hit. A third variation was tried.

“Bingo! Thanks, Beverly,” the watch officer said. “Oh, yeah, we know who this guy is. Rasputin. Low-life bastard—sure as hell, look what happened when he went straight,” the officer chuckled.

Rasputin?” Golovko asked. “Nekulturniy swine, eh?” He allowed himself a brief smile. “But who would wish him dead?” he asked his security chief, who, if anything, was taking the matter even more seriously than the Chairman. His job had just become far more complicated. For starters, he had to tell Sergey Nikolay’ch that the white Mercedes was no longer his personal conveyance. Too ostentatious. His next task of the day was to ask the armed sentries who posted the corners of the building’s roof why they hadn’t spotted a man in the load area of a dump truck with an RPG—within three hundred meters of the building they were supposed to guard! And not so much as a warning over their portable radios until the Mercedes of Gregoriy Filipovich Avseyenko had been blown to bits. He’d sworn many oaths already on this day, and there would be more to come.

“How long has he been out of the service?” Golovko asked next.

“Since ‘93, Comrade Chairman,” Major Anatoliy Ivan’ch Shelepin said, having just asked the same question and received the answer seconds earlier.

The first big reduction-in-force, Golovko thought, but it would seem that the pimp had made the transition to private enterprise well. Well enough to own a Mercedes Benz S- 600 ... and well enough to be killed by enemies he’d made along the way ... unless he’d unknowingly sacrificed his own life for that of another. That question still needed answering. The Chairman had recovered his self-control by this point, enough at any rate for his mind to begin functioning. Golovko was too bright a man to ask Why would anyone wish to end my life? He knew better than that. Men in positions like his made enemies, some of them deadly ones ... but most of them were too smart to make such an attempt. Vendettas were dangerous things to begin at his level, and for that reason, they never happened. The business of international intelligence was remarkably sedate and civilized. People still died. Anyone caught spying for a foreign government against Mother Russia was in the deepest of trouble, new regime or not—state treason was still state treason—but those killings followed ... what did the Americans call it? Due process of law. Yes, that was it. The Americans and their lawyers. If their lawyers approved of something, then it was civilized.

“Who else was in the car?” Golovko asked.

“His driver. We have the name, a former militiaman. And one of his women, it would seem, no name for her yet.”

“What do we know of Gregoriy’s routine? Why was he there this morning?”

“Not known at this time, Comrade,” Major Shelepin replied. “The militia are working on it.”

“Who is running the case?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Shablikov, Comrade Chairman.”

“Yefim Konstantinovich—yes, I know him. Good man,” Golovko allowed. “I suppose he’ll need his time, eh?”

“It does require time,” Shelepin agreed.

More than it took for Rasputin to meet his end, Golovko thought. Life was such a strange thing, so permanent when one had it, so fleeting when it was lost—and those who lost it could never tell you what it was like, could they? Not unless you believed in ghosts or God or an afterlife, things which had somehow been overlooked in Golovko’s childhood. So, yet another great mystery, the spymaster told himself. It had come so close, for the first time in his life. It was disquieting, but on reflection, not so frightening as he would have imagined. The Chairman wondered if this was something he might call courage. He’d never thought of himself as a brave man, for the simple reason that he’d never faced immediate physical danger. It was not that he had avoided it, only that it had never come close until today, and after the outrage had passed, he found himself not so much bemused as curious. Why had this happened? Who had done it? Those were the questions he had to answer, lest it happen again. To be courageous once was enough, Golovko thought.

Dr. Benjamin Goodley arrived at Langley at 5:40, five minutes earlier than his customary time.