by Marc Cameron
Both Chinese men arrived at roughly the same time, the taller eyeing West like he was a piece of meat. The one with thinning hair—the boss—had more of an uphill climb. He stood for a moment to catch his breath.
“Did they speak?” the taller one asked, looking at the policeman but gesturing to West.
Both Indonesian men nodded.
The tall man hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the jungle behind the outhouse. “Bring him,” he said in Bahasa Indonesian.
Another blow to the back of the head sent West staggering forward. The policemen began to herd him along the hillside toward the outhouse. All for turning the other cheek in most circumstances, West decided he would kill the tall Chinese man before the others killed him. The two policemen were such bumbling idiots, he would probably have a chance to take one of them.
The boss raised a hand.
“No,” he said.
The tall man looked back, obviously surprised. “What are you doing?” he asked in Mandarin.
West was conversant enough in Mandarin to understand it if not to speak fluently, though he saw no need to let them know that.
The boss released a slow breath through pursed lips. “Every death leaves a ripple,” he said. “Too many ripples cause a storm. There is no need to march through Indonesia killing everyone who crosses our path.”
“I beg to differ,” the tall one said. “We do not know what he has been told.”
“Then we will keep him incommunicado,” the boss said. “Too many have seen us. Do you expect to kill them all?”
“That is not up to us,” the tall one said. “General—”
“Stop!” the boss snapped. “You assume a great deal in thinking the man does not understand you.”
The tall one gave a humble nod. “That is my mistake,” he said. “I only wish to point out that we are to leave no evidence of this . . . matter.”
“There is still work to be done in that regard,” the boss said. “But not here.” He focused directly on West. “May I have your name?”
“Father Patrick West. I am in charge of Catholic relief and charity efforts on Java.”
The man took a handkerchief from the pocket of his slacks and mopped his high forehead, staring at the ground for a moment in thought. “It would seem,” he said, peering up at West without lifting his head, “that you have been preaching Christianity to the Muslims. We have heard reports.”
“Who are you?” West said. “Are you even—”
The tall man gave a curt nod to the policemen, earning West another half-dozen punches and slaps.
The boss didn’t want West dead yet, but wasn’t averse to having him beaten. He waited for the policemen to tire enough that they slowed, then said, “You are under arrest for proselyting Christianity until we get this sorted out.”
“That is ridiculous,” West said, face placid, though he wanted to drive his fist through the smug man’s teeth. “Everyone around here knows I respect my Muslim neighbors, too—”
“Bring him,” the tall one barked. The Chinese men turned to walk downhill.
“And the young man?” Father West said. “Do you plan to arrest him, as well?”
“Do not worry over others,” the boss said over his shoulder. “You are in enough trouble yourself.”
“Please—”
“Silence!” the nearest policeman said, doling out another smack to West’s head.
West played through the scenarios, lost in thought, slowing a half-step to earn another sickening punch to the kidney. He clenched his teeth and allowed himself a moment of fury as he regained his balance. The gravity of his situation fell on him hard. He’d need all his training and study—both secular and spiritual—to keep from being crushed. The text he’d put in his phone would send the moment the device was turned on and in range of a signal. It was impossible to know when that would be. West knew the message would arrive too late to save him, but at least someone else would know that China now possessed next-generation AI. Fortunately, that someone happened to be the most powerful man in the world.
5
TWENTY-SIX DAYS LATER
Jack Ryan met Mary Pat Foley at the top of the staircase on the second floor of the White House Residence, diagonally across from the Lincoln Bedroom. It was early, too early for breakfast, really, but both had such full schedules that they had to start work at the proverbial zero-dark-thirty if they hoped to put any kind of a dent in their days. Ryan embraced Foley as an old friend, brotherly, but close enough to smell her rosewater shampoo. She wore an expensive-looking A-line wool skirt befitting the director of national intelligence and a fashionable silk blouse that she’d probably describe as camel or taupe but Jack would have said was tan.
Foley was in better-than-average shape for a woman in her sixties, but used the banister to haul herself up the last two steps for dramatic effect.
She shook her finger at her old friend. “I thought about having my detail bum-rush your detail so I could take the elevator.”
“I’m pretty sure my detail can take your detail,” Ryan said.
“That’s because this is your home turf,” Mary Pat groused. “My detail doesn’t have guys on the roof with sniper rifles. They’re pretty damned good, though.”
“I know they are,” Ryan said. “But next time use the elevator. Nobody’s going to stop you.”
Mary Pat grinned. “I’d rather gripe about it, Jack.” They’d been acquainted for well over thirty years, fast friends for most of that, and she customarily used his given name unless they were in the Oval Office and there were others present. She’d been here enough to know her way around, and walked toward the dining room off the West Sitting Hall without being told. “Anyway,” she said. “I could use the exercise.”
Foley could be counted on to speak her mind. Ryan liked that. He enjoyed their no-spin chats.
“Griping counts as exercise now?” Ryan chuckled, following a step behind. “I’ll have to tell that to the kids.”
“You know what I mean, wiseass,” she said, drawing a raised brow from the female Secret Service agent posted in the Center Hall, across from the elevator.
“What do you think, Tina?” Ryan said as they passed. “Could my detail take Director Foley’s detail?”
“Without question, Mr. President,” Special Agent Tina Jordan said, stone-faced. With her hands folded low and relaxed in front of her slightly rumpled gray slacks, she tipped her head cordially to Mary Pat. “Good morning, Director Foley.”
The DNI paused outside the dining room door and turned to face Ryan, sniffing the air. “Eggs and bacon, Jack? What gives?”
“Hey,” Ryan said. “The most powerful man in the world should be able to eat what he wants for breakfast.” He shot a guilty glance over his shoulder as if afraid of being caught, then showed Foley through the door. “Seriously, Cathy had an early surgery to perform. That leaves me to harden my arteries at will.”
“I’m up for some comfort food,” Foley said. “Because we need to talk about Russia—and Russia should not be discussed over something as paltry as a breakfast of seeds and whey.”
“Not China?” Ryan mused. “President Zhao and his war games are all over the PDB this morning.” The PDB was the President’s Daily Brief, prepared by Foley’s office. It fused sensitive and secret data gleaned from across the nation’s seventeen intelligence agencies and was ready for Ryan when he woke up each morning.
“Russia first,” Foley said. “I’m saving the Chinese for last.”
A steward from the White House kitchen got them both seated, while the sous-chef, a woman whose parents were from the Dominican Republic, uncovered two plates piled high with eggs Benedict—made with bacon, the way Ryan liked it, instead of ham.
“Thank you, Josey,” Ryan said to the sous-chef. “It looks fantastic.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pr
esident.” The woman stood fast, as if she were waiting to be dismissed.
“Was there something else?”
“There is, Mr. President,” Josey said, shuffling her feet like a child with a C on her report card. “These Benedicts turned out to perfection . . . Chef asked me to take a photo with you and the breakfast for the White House Instagram account . . .”
Ryan sighed, waving a hand over his plate as if to give her the go-ahead. Photos of his food for social media—one of the countless things you never realized about being President of the United States until you were on the job. “This has Arnie’s name written all over it,” he muttered.
“Truth be told, Mr. President,” Josey whispered, glancing toward the doors, “it was Mr. van Damm who asked Chef to get some photos.” She took a small digital camera out of her jacket pocket—personal cell phones were locked away downstairs.
Mary Pat reflexively held up an open hand in front of her face at the sight of the camera. “Just the President, if you don’t mind.” She shot a sheepish glance at Ryan. “I know, I know. My photo is all over open-source media now that I’m in this job, but old habits die hard.”
“Of course, Director Foley,” Josey said, snapping three quick photos from different angles before thanking Ryan and stepping out.
“I like her,” Foley said. “She’s honest. The kind of gal I would have tried to recruit.”
“Be my guest,” Ryan said. “She’s not likely to be here long with a brain like hers.”
As was his habit, Ryan poured his guest’s coffee before his own. Being President was a lonely job. Hell, he thought, sometimes being Jack Ryan could be a lonely job. People had come to expect a certain decorum in his actions, a measured restraint when what he wanted to do was beat some bad actor to death with a hammer. He’d proven more than once that he wasn’t beyond using the full force of the presidency with devastating effect. But the times Mary Pat had talked him off the ledge were too numerous to count.
Apart from his wife, Cathy, Mary Pat Foley was Ryan’s closest confidant. Blessed with an innate ability to read people within a few moments after meeting them, she’d been a skilled field officer with the Agency. Her husband, Ed, had been the station chief in Moscow during the turbulent eighties—when things were even worse between the U.S. and Russia than they were now—marginally. Mary Pat was well known among her cohort as a bit of a cowboy, ready to take any manner of risk for her agents—a mother hen. She’d taken Ryan under her wing early on, mentoring him, offering advice from a near peer when he was still new to the CIA and unaccustomed to the Byzantine ways. Her maiden name was Kaminsky and she spoke Russian with the colloquial ease of someone who’d grown up in a Russian household, peppering her conversation with just the right mixture of humor and resignation to the vagaries of life to make her blend in like a native. She could think in Russian—beyond just the language—which made her invaluable as the top intelligence officer for Ryan’s administration.
Ryan used the point of his knife—Cathy preferred Shun when it came to blades—to pop a poached egg. He paused for a moment, watching the yolk mix with the hollandaise and drench the English muffin in liquid gold. Ryan didn’t do Instagram, but if any food was photogenic, this was it. He savored a bite—much richer than the steel-cut oats and skim milk Cathy normally made him eat—and then took a sip of coffee before speaking over the top of the cup.
“So, what’s this about Yermilov?”
Knife in one hand, Foley used the other to gesture at Ryan with her fork. “The man is a menace, Jack. You know that? He’s shameless.”
“Talks regarding Russia are becoming quotidian,” Ryan said.
Foley chuckled. “Doing your crosswords this morning, Mr. President?”
“Keeping the language alive,” Ryan said. “At any rate, it’s not a secret Yermilov fancies himself the next tsar. This report on China . . .”
“I’m briefing you on Russia, Jack,” Foley said. “Seriously, why do you keep asking about the Chinese? I’m your director of national intelligence. Do you know something I don’t know?”
“Hey,” Ryan chuckled. “I read Intellipedia.”
“Of course you do.” Foley dabbed her lips with a linen napkin, leaving a trace of red lipstick, and then looked at Ryan. “In your spare time.”
Part of the government’s venture into Web 2.0, Intellipedia was an online data-sharing system overseen by Foley’s office. Much like Wikipedia, the collaborative tool allowed intelligence analysts—half of them barely thirty years old, from what Ryan had seen—from the seventeen U.S. intelligence agencies to post and share to wikis classified up to and including Top Secret Sensitive Compartmented Information (TS SCI) regarding their areas of expertise. The forum was open to those with the necessary security clearance. Personal opinions were not only allowed but encouraged. In Ryan’s view, one of the best things about what his friend John Clark called Wikispook was that it was not anonymous. Submitters shared an opinion, and then had to own it. Any analyst was free to state individual views that would be shared with anyone with the appropriate clearance, but that opinion linked back to the analyst, not some nameless avatar or pseudonym.
Ryan took another bite of eggs Benedict, wishing he had longer to savor it. “We’re always on the brink of something when it comes to Nikita Yermilov,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not discounting your intelligence product. These guys have been studying the way we wage war for the last couple of decades—and figuring out how to counter it. We’ve got to start looking at things differently. The next war will likely be on ground we don’t yet even comprehend at this point. Cyber . . . AI . . . who knows what.”
“No argument there,” Foley said. “Both Yermilov and Zhao are running more and more active measures against the West every day. The bad old days with a hell of a lot more technology. The Bureau arrested two Chinese illegals in Queens last week—brothers living under the assumed identities of two children who died in the late seventies.”
Ryan gave a contemplative nod. “I read that brief. Your people are following a couple more, if I’m not mistaken.”
“We are,” Foley said. “A joint team of Bureau and Agency folk.” She pretended to wipe her brow with the back of her hand. “You don’t know how hard it was to get that one put together. Sadly, there are still a few bastions of blinkered thought in the puzzle palaces of our intelligence community. The directors of both agencies were fine with the task force—”
“They better be.” Ryan cut her off. He’d appointed them both.
Mary Pat raised her hand. “They’re on board, Jack, but a couple of old-dog senior executives were guarding their turf like the last bone in the yard. Deanne Staples at the Bureau and Simon Cross at CIA.”
“Did you mentor them?”
“Right out the door,” Foley said. “I am so far past that shit, pardon my French. Gave them each a nice send-off and a pretty plaque thanking them for their service. Yermilov and Zhao both want to end us, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a couple of dinosaurs bent on marking their territory keep us from catching him at his game.”
Ryan chuckled. “Good for you.”
“Sorry, Jack,” Foley said. “It’s not your problem. I just needed to vent. Anyway, the task force has teams on seven suspected illegals at the moment, two here in D.C., one in Manhattan, and a married couple in Colorado Springs who run a diner outside Cheyenne Mountain.” She chuckled. “Most are Russian, but the two in Colorado are Chinese.”
“Do we know who’s running them?”
Foley took a sip of coffee. “Nothing definitive,” she said. “A couple of sources say there is significant infighting among a couple of high-ranking military brass in Beijing. We do have a source close to General Song, a one-star who runs war-gaming scenarios who says he could be ripe to turn. He’d have a treasure trove of data at his fingertips if they want the scenarios to be realistic. We’re playi
ng it slow or we run the risk of burning that source.”
Ryan didn’t ask for specifics about the sources. Both he and Foley had been at this game long enough that neither made a habit of discussing details about intelligence officers or their assets’ meeting schedules unless it was absolutely necessary. Ryan trusted his staff—but people leaked, sometimes on purpose, more often accidentally. Loose lips really had sunk a fair number of ships—and gotten more than a few outed agents shot. As the saying went, Trust in God, but tether your camel at night.
“Anyway, we’ll keep a close watch on the general.” Foley used the tip of her index finger to doodle on the tablecloth. “The situation with all these illegals reminds me of life before you took this stodgy desk job.”
“I’ve always had a stodgy desk job,” Ryan said.
“Yeah,” Foley said, “but you could get up and come play with the rest of us there for a while.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny . . .”
Foley put both hands on the tablecloth and leaned forward. “Don’t you miss the field?”
“Not one damned bit,” Ryan lied.
Foley sat back, obviously seeing through him. “It’s safer to be a chess player than a chess piece,” she said. “But it’s not nearly as much fun. Anyway, you’re up on your briefing books. Yermilov wants Ukraine and Zhao wants us out of the South China Sea—”
The door from the Sitting Hall opened and Ryan’s chief of staff blew in, gripping his cell phone like it was a sword. He was the only bald guy Ryan knew who could look like he had bedhead. The single Windsor knot of his polyester tie hung at half-mast. He wore no jacket and the top button of his blue striped Eddie Bauer shirt gaped open. The sleeves were rolled to just below his elbows.