Line of Sight

by Tom Clancy

  “I’m following the plan, according to schedule.”

  “Perfectly, as far as I’m concerned. But my sense is that we need to move the calendar forward. Keep striking while the iron is hot. It’s time for sharper measures.”

  The Chechen bristled. They had agreed to a plan and to a timetable more than two years ago. Thanks to their cooperation, Brkić had been able to smuggle in jihadi fighters from Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Yemen, Morocco, and elsewhere, along with weapons and much-needed cash and drugs to finance their operations.

  What Red Wing didn’t understand was that Brkić had yet another plan, and another timetable, with an even larger agenda. But Red Wing could never know that. Red Wing wouldn’t understand.

  Worse, Red Wing would oppose it.

  Red Wing was a reliable ally, but not a true believer.

  Brkić still needed Red Wing’s contacts and resources, but it was Allah himself who guided Brkić’s steps now.

  “What do you propose?” Brkić finally asked.

  Red Wing laid out a new timetable. It was possible to carry it out, Brkić calculated, and smart. But it was also dangerous. If it failed or endangered his own, larger plan, he would kill Red Wing and fulfill the will of Allah instead. But for now, Red Wing was useful, and their smaller plan helpful for the cause.

  “I will plan the next mission immediately,” Brkić said.

  “You are a great patriot, and a servant of the Most High.”

  Brkić found that in life it often wasn’t possible to be both.

  “His will be done.”

  21

  SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  Jack powered up his cell phone as the airport bus shuttled from the plane toward the small, dated terminal, an unpretentious glass-and-concrete building surrounded by low hills dotted with houses and pine-covered mountains beyond.

  No point in wasting time, he thought. He scrolled through the list of names Gavin had sent him. A list of eleven blond, blue-eyed women in their twenties birth-named Aida Curić, all living in Sarajevo. Gavin even included photos from driver’s licenses or other official documents, along with their contact information, but with the caveat that the Bosnian databases he found weren’t always up-to-date and might not be completely reliable.

  At least it was a good start, and with any luck, one of these women would be the adult version of the young girl in his mother’s cherished memory. He actually looked forward to delivering his mother’s letter to this woman, though she had forbidden him to read it in advance. She didn’t say, however, that he couldn’t hang around to see the woman’s response. Jack knew his mother, and whatever she wrote would bless this Aida Curić person down to her toenails.

  He owed his mother a lot—well, everything, actually—and she never asked anything of him, so, in a way, this was a blessing to him as well. The smile he’d see on her face when she got the good news and the “Nice job, son” he’d get would be worth whatever minor hassles he was going to face over the next few days. He just hoped this Aida person appreciated the gift his mother had given her and would somehow reciprocate, even if it was just a letter in response.

  Jack fetched his one piece of slightly oversized luggage from baggage claim and passed easily through a largely disinterested passport check, then snagged a wad of local currency at an ATM in the lobby: Bosnian convertible marks, aka BAM.

  Jack turned around and saw a twentysomething guy in a worn polo shirt and jeans, holding a handwritten sign that read JACK RYAN and scanning the lobby. They locked eyes and the driver smiled broadly.

  “Mr. Ryan?”

  “Jack, please.” Jack stuck out his hand and the man shook it enthusiastically. “You are?”

  “Adnan.”

  “Great to meet you, Adnan. Ready to roll?”

  “Let me get your bag,” Adnan said, reaching for the handle, but Jack waved him off.

  “I got it, no sweat.” He knew the man was angling for a tip, but Jack was always a good tipper and, like his dad, he didn’t care for people making a fuss over him, whatever the reason.

  “Okay,” the driver said, nodding and pointing at the sliding-glass-door exit. The two of them headed out into the surprising heat of a bright September afternoon. Jack read online that it was always better to arrange for a cab or car service in advance. The locals often jacked up the price if you just showed up. This way, the price was set and not negotiable, and the driver knew where to go in advance, which, in this case, was an address for an Airbnb that Jack had found near the Stari Grad—the Old Town. After a change of clothes into something cooler, he’d start his search for Aida Curić, and maybe try to find a place that sold this ćevapi stuff he’d heard so much about.

  Adnan popped the trunk on a slightly worse-for-wear silver Toyota sedan and Jack tossed his roller into it. Adnan’s front passenger seat was crowded with boxes of used business books in German and Serbo-Croatian, along with a few English-language thrillers, so Jack climbed into the backseat.

  Adnan threaded his way through Sarajevo’s busy streets, crowded with mostly late-model cars, crammed public buses, and at least one Tito-era trolley car straight off the set of Doctor Zhivago. Like most urban centers these days, Sarajevo had a lot of trash on the ground and graffiti sprayed on the walls, Jack saw. Had it not been for the street signs, Jack might have thought he was in a working-class suburb of Rome or Paris.

  “American, yes?” Adnan asked in a thick accent. He glanced at Jack in his rearview mirror.

  “That obvious?”

  “Your e-mail address tell me this.” A battered Mercedes sedan stopped short in front of them as he spoke, his eyes on Jack in the rearview. But somehow Adnan sensed the trouble; he blasted his horn and swerved into another lane to avoid a collision.

  “First time in Bosnia, Jack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think?”

  “So far, so good.” Jack was grateful for the air conditioner even though it clearly needed a shot of Freon.

  Adnan smiled broadly. “It’s a beautiful country, with beautiful women and the best food. Yes, very beautiful.”

  “Can’t wait to find out,” Jack said, suddenly realizing his faux pas. “The food, I mean. I hear the thing to get is ćevapi.”

  “Yes, it’s the best. We are famous for it. And cheap. The food here is very good prices for you Americans.”

  Adnan’s phone rang and he picked up, chattering in Bosanski with the caller on the other end. Jack cast his gaze back outside. The people in their cars or walking the pavement seemed neither particularly well dressed nor desperately poor, and many of them were smoking, young and old alike. Like city dwellers everywhere, they had mostly unsmiling faces stress-hardened against the harsh realities of not enough wages and too-high rents. The anxious energy of the city radiated against the car’s tinted glass like the rays of the sun.

  Adnan hung up. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries. Everything okay?”

  “My mother. She’s sick.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not bad. Just a cold. But I worry, you know?”

  “It’s your mother. You should worry,” Jack said.

  Adnan smiled at that. “How long are you in Bosnia?”

  Jack didn’t particularly care to answer questions, especially from strangers, but this guy was a driver and just trying to make small talk.

  Right?

  “A week,” Jack lied. He had no idea how long he’d be in town. He might even be leaving tomorrow if his luck held.

  “Too bad. There is much to see, especially out in the country. Business?”

  “Pleasure.”

  “Good. You Americans work too hard.”

  “What about you? Is this your full-time job?”

  “Me? Yes. One of them. I also study German, and sometimes work at my father’s shop, and s
ometimes clean windows. Whatever work I can get.”

  “Jobs are hard to get here?”

  “More than forty percent unemployment here in the city. Very bad.”

  “Why so high?”

  “People moving into the city from the country every day. But mostly, it is stupid government and corrupt politicians causing problems. Hard to develop industries and jobs when you pay too much in taxes and bribes to idiots like we got.”

  “Trust me, you don’t have a monopoly on idiots,” Jack said. “Your English is very good. You learned it in school?”

  “Mostly on the Internet, playing video games. School not so good here.”

  “I saw your books in the front seat. You’re studying German and business. Thinking about starting an importing company?”

  “No. Export company. Starting with me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I want to learn enough German to emigrate. Eighty thousand Bosnians leave every year looking for work, especially in Germany. I have a cousin in Frankfurt, drives a taxi. Soon as I save up enough money, I’m going there.”

  “That’s gotta be tough, leaving your own country to find work somewhere else,” Jack offered.

  “What choice do I have? You go where the work is. If I make enough, maybe come back.”

  Jack didn’t know what else to say. Adnan was like millions of other people displaced by the crushing economic realities of globalism. Jack was lucky he was born in a country that still knew how to compete.

  “How much longer until we arrive?”

  “Ten minutes. Maybe.”

  Adnan kept weaving in and out of lanes, and even ran a few yellow lights. Not being on the meter put a fire under his tail, which didn’t bother Jack at all.

  He glanced back out the window and enjoyed the ride, absorbing as much detail as he could. There were plenty of small private shops and kiosks selling tobacco and convenience items but also chain shopping markets, department stores, and big banks, particularly foreign ones, as the taxi neared the city center. There were several mosques, their soaring minarets stabbing the skyline. He wasn’t used to being in a Muslim-majority city. But he also saw a fair number of churches, Catholic and Orthodox, and he’d read somewhere that the city still had a vibrant Jewish community. No wonder Sarajevo was referred to as the “Jerusalem of Europe.”

  But there weren’t any soaring skyscrapers or super-wide boulevards in the oldest part of the historic city, nor any cranes or signs of new construction. Sarajevo felt like an old suit: well tailored and serviceable but worn and tired. No new construction meant nobody was planning for a bright and expansive future. Maybe the lack of it was partly a function of the city’s historical sensibilities, but more likely it meant this was a city without visionary leadership and, perhaps, without hope. Jack noticed as they crossed a bridge that the Miljacka River was barely a trickle in the wide, littered bed that marked the southern boundary of the Old Town.

  Adnan turned and made his way to a narrow but unremarkable street flanked by low concrete buildings just tall enough to block the sun. Checking his Google Maps, he parked in front of a driveway leading to an alley, bordering a four-story apartment complex.

  “Here we are,” Adnan said. “Twenty marks, please.”

  Jack opened his wallet and pulled out his Visa card. Adnan frowned. “Cash is better.”

  “Your website said you took Visa and MasterCard.”

  “Sure, but cash is better.” Adnan saw the skeptical look in Jack’s eyes. “If you do not have the cash, I will take the card. But in my country, there’s a seventeen percent tax on credit cards, and a three percent fee, so I lose twenty percent if I take the card.”

  Twenty percent? No wonder these guys were struggling. “No problem,” Jack said, and pulled out a twenty-mark bill and tossed him another ten for the tip—which, according to the travel guides, wasn’t necessary to do in this part of the world. But ten marks was about six bucks, and Jack figured Adnan was working his ass off just to keep his nose above water.

  “Thank you!” Adnan reached for his door handle. “Let me get your bag.”

  “Just pop the trunk, will you?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Adnan shoved a business card into Jack’s hand. “You need a ride, you call Adnan, okay?”

  Jack pocketed the card and grinned. “Who else would I call?”

  “Oh, one more thing I should tell you. There is no water in Sarajevo from midnight to five in the morning.”

  “Is there a water shortage?”

  Adnan shook his head, grinning. “No, no water shortage.”

  “Then why?”

  Adnan shrugged. “Who knows? But plan accordingly.”

  Jack pulled his bag out of the trunk, slammed the lid, and waved good-bye as Adnan pulled away. He turned into the alley and headed for his building. He hadn’t noticed the Audi sedan parked at the end of the street, let alone the man in the loose tie and rumpled suit intently marking Jack’s arrival, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have known the man’s name was Dragan Kolak.

  22

  NEAR TJENTIŠTE, REPUBLIKA SRPSKA, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  Tarik Brkić’s 4x4 Nissan quad pickup arrived at the camp at the end of the dusty road, his driver heading for the camouflaged storage facility. A bearded Tunisian raised a palm in half salute and smiled as the Chechen commander passed.

  Brkić was pleased, despite the earlier call from Red Wing. The Tunisian was one of a group of eighteen jihadi fighters trained and equipped here in the last two months and heading out for Germany later tonight, soon to be replaced with fresh new recruits from Kosovo and Macedonia. The foundation was being laid for an independent Muslim state in the heart of Europe, guided only by sharia law, and beholden to no one but Allah himself.

  But independence was not enough. Even Red Wing understood that. Such a state would pose too great a threat to the European powers, a humiliating reminder of the Islamic flood that nearly swamped Europe centuries before. NATO would crush it at the first opportunity. How to protect such a state? That was where he and Red Wing differed.

  As for the rest of Europe, hadn’t Islamic armies once invaded Spain and Portugal? France and Austria? Italy and Hungary? Bulgaria and Greece? Crete and Malta? Hadn’t Muslim fighters stormed the city gates of Constantinople, Athens, Moscow, Vienna, Lisbon, and Madrid?

  Brkić believed with all of his heart that former Muslim lands would be Muslim again, and sharia would come to all of Europe, either through demographics or, sooner, by force of arms, which he preferred. As a prolific father and a ruthless fighter, he was proud that he had excelled at both.

  The Nissan pulled up to the storage building and parked next to a Happy Times! tour van just as Emir stepped into view. Brkić grinned broadly and signaled for the driver to stop. He leaped out of the vehicle and embraced the smaller Bosniak in a bear hug. They were related by marriage and by blood, or at least the shedding of it.

  “Emir! You bring good news?”

  Emir smiled, almost shyly. “Good news, yes, but even more than that. Come.”

  Emir steered the larger man through the opened sliding doors of the warehouse. It was too far from the nearest paved road to be seen, even with binoculars. It was further hidden by the small draw where it was built, and flanked on three sides by towering pines. As a precaution, the steel roof was insulated inside and out with natural materials to eliminate any kind of heat signature or optical detection from overhead surveillance.

  Outwardly, the building appeared to be an oversized barn. It was large enough to hold several wheeled vehicles, service bays, welding equipment, an industrial forklift, tools, and, most important, a Bosnian Army BM-21 Grad multiple rocket launcher. Stolen during the confusion of the last war, it had been stored and maintained in secret by Brkić ever since.

  The Grad and its variants were the most ubiquitous multiple rocket
launch systems (MRLS) in the world, in service in more than seventy countries, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. Of Soviet design, the Grad had been around since the 1960s, and its ease of use, simple maintenance requirements, and enormous destructive potential made it one of the most effective artillery systems ever designed.

  The gasoline-powered eight-cylinder 6x6 truck mounted a box launcher of forty 122-millimeter rocket tubes, and was operated by a three-man crew. The rockets could be launched from inside the cab or externally by a trigger on the end of a sixty-four-meter cable. The BM-21’s primary flaw was its accuracy. The fin-stabilized “dumb” rockets were targeted with Cold War–era optical periscopes and collimators.

  Originally designed as an area denial weapon to blunt massed armor and infantry assaults, the Grad system relied on large numbers of relatively inaccurate rockets and their high explosive payloads to overwhelm opponents. Over the years, the unguided rockets increased in range and accuracy with improved engines and more reliable propellants, but the Grad was never considered a precision weapon.

  Until now.

  The TOS-2 Starfire 122-millimeter missile featured a new and highly efficient solid-fuel propellant, which meant a larger payload without sacrificing range. Most important, computers onboard each missile provided laser and GPS guidance that adjusted the missile fins during trajectory, allowing for minimal but sufficient in-flight maneuver to ensure highly accurate targeting. All the BM-21 launcher had to do was fire the missile in approximately the right direction and the automated, computer-controlled guidance systems would take over.

  Brkić’s plans now hinged on the Syrian and the magic tricks he’d brought with him.

  Emir and Brkić made their way past sparking arc welders and the clang of steel hammers toward the middle of the facility, where the BM-21 Grad vehicle stood.

  “Aslan!” Tarik shouted.

  The big Chechen lieutenant was standing on the launch platform. He whipped around at the sound of his name.