The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

subordinates, and now he had sold out, quit his career, turned his back on his
political heritage, and turned into one more new-German citizen. His
intelligence training had merely served as a vehicle, to take one last measure
of spite out on the Americans.
'What about the Russian?'
'The one who made the deal? Ha!' the man snorted. 'Two million marks. He
undoubtedly paid off the division commander, got his Mercedes, and banked the
rest. That unit rotated back to the Union soon thereafter, and one tank more or
less from a division . . . ? The inspectorate might not even have noticed.'
They had one more round, while watching the TV over the bar – a disgusting habit
picked up from the Americans, Keitel thought. When forty minutes had passed, he
went back outside, with his colleague in visual contact. It might be a trap,
after all.
The Russian sergeant was back early. He wasn't carrying anything but a smile.
'Where is it?' Keitel asked.
'Truck, around . . .' the man gestured.
'Ecke? Corner?'
'Da, that word, corner. Um die Ecke.' The man nodded emphatically.
Keitel waved to the other man, who went to get the car. Erwin wanted to ask the
soldier how much of the money was going to his lieutenant, who typically skimmed
a sizable percentage of every deal for their own use, but that really was beside
the point, wasn't it?
The Soviet Army GAZ-69 light truck was parked a block away. It was a simple
matter of backing up the agent's car to the tailgate and popping the trunk. But
first, of course, Keitel had to inspect the merchandise. There were ten
camouflage battle-dress uniforms, lightweight, but of better than normal
quality, because these were for officers' use. Headwear was a black beret with
the red star and rather antique-looking tank badge that showed them to be for an
armor officer. The shoulderboards of each uniform had the three stars of a full
colonel. Also included were the uniform belts and boots.
'Pistolen?' Keitel asked.
First, eyes swept the street. Then ten cardboard boxes appeared. Keitel pointed
to one, and it opened to reveal a Makarov PM. That was a nine-millimeter
automatic modeled on the German Walther PP. The Russians, in a gesture of
magnanimity, even tossed in five boxes of 9mm-x-18 ball ammunition.
'Ausgezeichnet,' Keitel observed, reaching for his money. He counted out
ninety-nine hundred-mark bills.
'Thank you,' the Russian said. 'You need more, you see me, yes?'
'Yes, thank you.' Keitel shook his hand and got into the car.
'What has the world become?' the driver said as he headed off. As recently as
three years before, those soldiers would have been court-martialed – perhaps
even shot – for what they had done.
'We have enriched the Soviet Union to the tune of ten thousand marks.'
The driver grunted. 'Doch, and that "merchandise" must have cost at least two
thousand to manufacture! What is it they call that . . . ?'
'A "volume discount".' Keitel couldn't decide whether to laugh or not. 'Our
Russian friends learn fast. Or perhaps the muzhik cannot count past ten.'