Tom Clancy Enemy Contact - Mike Maden

by Tom Clancy

  Clark noticed a marked difference in young Ryan since their last conversation. Quiet, but in good spirits. Apparently, Jack had taken a good look in that mirror they had talked about back at his apartment, and he must have fixed whatever he had seen down in Peru.

  “Any line on Cluzet?” Jack asked Gavin, who was munching on a jumbo-sized Snickers bar.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. That Iron Syndicate outfit that was hunting you last year? The one Clark told me to keep an eye on? Well, I found an Interpol internal memorandum linking the Cluzet brothers to it, thanks to those funky tattoos.”

  “So I take it you contacted Interpol for a line on him?”

  Clark answered, “We talked about it. But the Iron Syndicate is global. They’ve got agents and informants planted in every major security agency. It’s better if we go after Cluzet ourselves, and maybe build a case that helps unravel the organization while we’re at it.”

  Jack had read the 2018 DNI Worldwide Threat Assessment. It listed organized crime, a $2 trillion global enterprise, as a serious American national security threat. He wanted Cluzet dead, but he was all for taking down the Iron Syndicate in the process if at all possible.

  “If we’re not going to Interpol, our only shot at finding Cluzet is the Czech.”

  “That’s exactly why we’re here,” Clark said.

  “Where is he now?”

  “At home, in Czechia.”

  “He’s making it kinda easy, isn’t he?” Jack asked.

  “‘A dog always returns to his vomit,’ the Bible says,” Gavin offered, wiping the chocolate from his lips.

  “And you don’t trust the Czech government to round him up for us, either, I take it.”

  “I think it’ll be better if we talk to him ourselves. I’d hate for the old fart to accidentally get a bullet in the face and his secrets die with him because we tipped off the wrong person.”

  “Then let’s go talk to him.”

  “We’re already planning on it. You want in?”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “It involves another long plane ride.”

  “I can use the miles.”

  “Are you one hundred percent? This thing might get a little hairy.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even think about cutting me out of this.”

  Clark recognized the determination in his eyes. He also understood it. He had the same fire in his belly when he reaped bloody vengeance for Pamela Madden’s murder four decades ago.

  Clark threw a thumb over his shoulder. A stack of mission gear stood in the corner of the hangar. Something serious was about to go down.

  “Brought your kit along, just in case. We’re saddling up right now. Wheels up as soon as the plane is gassed and the preflight completed. I’ll brief you on the ride over.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “You earned it, kid. You did a heck of a job down there.”

  Heads nodded all around.

  “No,” Jack said. “The job just got started. Now it’s time to finish it.”

  83

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Case closed.

  Fortson at Q Group had signed off, as had the IT division heads from each of the IC departments. So had Watson.

  Foley sighed with relief. The intelligence community had dodged a bullet. No, an artillery shell. For a terrifying moment, she envisioned shutting down the entire IC Cloud, currently processing more than a thousand terabytes of video and audio surveillance data each day, and trillions of pieces of metadata from phone and computer records from around the world. Intelligence collection and processing as it was currently practiced would have ground to a halt. The damage to American intelligence credibility would have been devastating, perhaps insurmountable. No ally would ever trust the United States again.

  Fortunately, the leak was cauterized.

  Fung had been the lone perpetrator, and his breach had been severely limited in scope and time. The forensics on his laptop had been completed and confirmed Fortson’s initial conclusion. Watson immediately and secretly patched Fung’s breach with the CIA comms satellite.

  She then helped design a secret emergency security audit, searching desperately for any other signs of a breach in the IC Cloud. If some other party had broken in and saw what they were up to, they’d go to ground. The bigger challenge was to keep the IC Cloud humming along while the investigation was going on. Too many other critical, real-time projects were at stake, and even the hint of a possibility of a breach would have put their allies—particularly the Five Eyes members—in a panic.

  Foley was grateful for Watson’s Herculean efforts. Judging by the time stamps on her calls, texts, and e-mails, Watson had worked around the clock for the last forty-eight hours. Now she was off to a conference in London but promised to be available 24/7 should any need arise.

  Watson and the experts all agreed that Fung’s breach had been something of a fluke and not indicative of a larger security problem. Foley worried about Watson. She had taken the news about Fung’s espionage particularly hard and counted it as both a personal and professional failure. In a sense, she was right on both counts. But Foley was equally culpable. It had all happened on her watch.

  The most obvious question that plagued her was how had Fung managed to evade the regular security audits of critical IC contracting personnel. Were they not being conducted as often and as thoroughly as she assumed? Or relying too heavily on polygraph testing—easily defeated by proper coaching? She would need to address the issue as soon as the dust settled.

  Now all that was left was for Foley to put together an executive summary of the Fung incident and call the President. As a former national security advisor and deputy director of Central Intelligence, he would appreciate both the severity of the crisis and its rapid resolution.

  As POTUS, she imagined he would be furious. But Foley didn’t believe in hiding the dirty laundry, come what may.

  Sunshine was the best disinfectant, especially in her line of work.

  KLATOVY DISTRICT, PLZEŇ REGION, CZECHIA (FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE CZECH REPUBLIC)

  The barrel of Clark’s Colt .45 pressed against The Czech’s knee as he sat in his favorite high-backed office chair. Like the rest of his massive hunting lodge, the log walls featured trophies of game he had killed in the surrounding forest.

  “Really, Mr. Clark? Such dramatics?”

  “Last chance, buddy. If you ever want to dance the cha-cha again, you better tell me where we can find Cluzet.”

  Jack was in the room as well, Glock 19 in hand, along with Gavin, who was already rooting around the gangster’s laptop.

  “We’ve both seen this movie before. If I tell you, you’ll kill me anyway.”

  Jack said, “We just want Cluzet. Not you.”

  “Is that what you told my guards outside before you killed them, too?”

  “They didn’t cooperate. That made them collateral damage. Now it’s your turn to choose,” Jack said.

  The owlish eyes behind the glasses studied Jack’s face.

  “Cluzet has wronged you personally, hasn’t he?”

  Jack charged forward, gun up. He jammed the barrel against The Czech’s skull, knocking his glasses off his nose. “Cluzet! Where is he?”

  “Jack—”

  “Last chance, asshole!”

  The Czech saw the murderous rage in Jack’s eyes. “I’m not a micromanager. I honestly have no idea.”

  “Then there’s no reason for you to waste any more space on the planet.” Jack’s finger slid over to the trigger.

  “No! Wait. Perhaps I have something more valuable than Cluzet to offer.”

  Clark pushed Jack’s pistol away from the old man’s forehead. “Like what?”

  “Your country has a problem. A very large problem. A problem only I can resolve. But I will n
eed to speak to Director Foley.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind,” Jack said.

  “Why Director Foley?” Clark asked.

  “Trust me, she will want to hear what I have to say.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Mary Pat Foley frowned with confusion when The Czech told her about the BKA agent murder in Berlin. That it was all based on intel provided to him by CHIBI.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but CHIBI is dead. Killed himself. The leak has been sealed.”

  “It’s not possible. My representative is meeting with him tomorrow. The confirmation came just an hour ago,” The Czech said over the phone.

  The blood drained from Foley’s face.

  The Czech finished her thought for her. “You were meant to believe the leak was sealed. Whatever corpse was conveniently provided to you was a ruse, and, judging by the sound of your voice, a brilliant one.”

  * * *

  —

  Fifteen minutes later, The Czech handed Clark’s phone back to him with a triumphant smirk.

  “Mr. Clark, Mary Pat here. I’m afraid we’re going to have to agree to his terms. Complete amnesty, in exchange for that algorithmic key.”

  “You trust him, ma’am?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” His knowledge of the BKA murder was all the proof she needed.

  “Now what?”

  “I need you to sit tight. I’m going to put you on a conference call. I have an idea. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes. Secure our friend in another room out of earshot. And don’t hurt him.”

  “If you insist, ma’am.”

  The Czech sat back in his chair, satisfied he’d cheated death once again.

  Clark wanted to wipe the smile off the old man’s face with the back of his hand, but he had his orders. He had to admit, though, the gangster had pulled a fast one. The Czech told Foley about a man named CHIBI and a secret, silent auction being held in London tomorrow night. One bid only, in person, by an authorized representative. The winning bidder would receive a special algorithmic key that would unlock the entire IC Cloud—and the IC would never know about it.

  The Czech proposed that in exchange for his life, he would provide the encrypted passcode that allowed his representative to bid. “They don’t know who’s coming. The only ID needed is the passcode.”

  Clark was no security expert, but Gavin’s drop-jawed response told him it was all pretty serious.

  “You know, if you screw us on this, you’ll wish I’d let Jack blow your brains out,” Clark said.

  “I have no loyalties to anyone or anything other than to myself, Mr. Clark. My intense desire for self-preservation is your best guarantee.”

  * * *

  —

  Dom and Adara kept watch over The Czech in another room while Gavin, Clark, Jack, Mary Pat, and a couple NSA cyberwizards conferenced on Clark’s phone.

  The plan they came up with was rough around the edges, and more likely to fail than not.

  But it was their only shot.

  And it all depended on Gavin Biery.

  84

  LONDON, UK

  The TechWorld conference was held in a soaring glass tower hotel and convention center in the Canary Wharf section of London adjacent to the River Thames.

  Gavin was dressed in a hastily acquired Savile Row suit. He sat in the back of a rental van with Clark and Adara. Midas was at the wheel. Dom and Ding were still in Czechia, keeping the old gangster under wraps until the mission was completed, after which he was free to leave—a decision Clark couldn’t abide but didn’t argue, because it wasn’t his call to make.

  Jack and Foley were already in the hotel. Foley had flown a red-eye government jet with her hastily assembled team, arriving early that morning.

  “You’re sweating buckets,” Adara said, wiping Gavin’s portly face with his handkerchief. “You might short out the microphone.”

  “Really?”

  “Joking,” Adara said. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Look, Gav. This is a cakewalk for a guy like you,” Clark said, trying to calm the man down. “A tower full of computer geniuses jabbering about bits and bytes? And all the free cocktail weenies and soda pop you could ever want?”

  “But . . . I’m not really a field operative.”

  “But you’ve always wanted to be one. And you’ve been out with us a bunch of times now. You’ll do great,” Adara reassured him.

  “But this is really, really important. I’m not IT support for the mission this time. I am the mission.”

  “And you’ll kill it,” Clark said.

  Gavin blanched.

  “Figuratively speaking. This is all IT stuff and IT people. No guns, no goons. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll have eyes on you the whole time,” Adara said. She adjusted the tie clip with the embedded miniature video camera and microphone. “And no one more than one floor away.”

  Clark checked his watch. “It’s time.”

  * * *

  —

  Gavin paced inside the hotel room The Czech’s people had reserved for the conference, as per their instructions from CHIBI. At precisely eight p.m., CHIBI’s representative would arrive. Gavin would provide The Czech’s encrypted passcode to authenticate his false identity, and then hand over an envelope with The Czech’s bid.

  Gavin didn’t care about the technical side of this meeting. That was as difficult as pulling twenty dollars of cash out of an ATM. Playing it cool was the challenge. Like he was actually the bad guy, and not some sweaty, fat techie playacting like a spy.

  Gavin practiced his breathing exercises and tried to think about his favorite beach. When there was a knock at the door, he nearly fainted.

  “C’mon, Gav, you can do this,” he whispered to himself.

  He opened the door.

  He nearly wet himself.

  “Uh, please. Come in.”

  CHIBI smiled and entered. Gavin shut the door.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No, not at all.”

  “You have something for me?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled out The Czech’s thumb drive from his pants pocket and inserted it in the reader in CHIBI’s hand.

  “Excellent. And the bid?”

  “The bid? Sure.” Gavin reached into his pocket and handed over the sealed envelope.

  “I’ll be in touch. Good luck.”

  CHIBI turned to leave and pulled the door open.

  Mary Pat Foley stood in the doorway, furious.

  She slapped Amanda Watson hard across the face.

  “You treasonous bitch!”

  85

  Foley, Clark, Jack, and Gavin stood over Watson, seated in a chair, her face still beet red from Foley’s slap.

  “When and where’s the next meet?” Foley demanded.

  Watson checked her watch. “Ten minutes from now, two floors up.”

  “How many more are left?”

  “You got lucky. You were the first. Three to go.”

  “Here’s the deal, short and sweet. You’re going to do exactly as I say, and in exchange, I won’t toss your ass off the tenth-story balcony myself. Does that work for you?”

  “You can’t do that.”

  Foley leaned on the chair, got right in her face. “Just fucking try me.”

  Watson blanched.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Foley stood. “Do exactly what you planned to do. Meet the other three, collect their bids. But then tell them this: The winner will receive a text tonight to come to a London location at a specified time, and that’s when you’ll hand over the algorithmic key. Are we clear?”

  “Clear.”

  Foley called over her shoulder. “Jack?”

 
Jack stepped over and wired Watson up with a Bluetooth ear device that doubled as a video/audio unit.

  Jack touched his earpiece. “Say something.”

  “Something.”

  Jack nodded. “Loud and clear.”

  Foley said, “If the mic and camera go dead, you’re dead. Give us up, and you’re dead. Do anything stupid and give yourself away, you’re screaming-in-agony dead.”

  “I won’t screw it up. You’ll see.”

  “Yes, I will,” Foley said. “Now move your sorry ass.”

  * * *

  —

  An hour and a half later, Watson was back in Gavin’s room, seated in the same chair. The others were gathered around Gavin’s laptop, scrubbing through Watson’s first-person video. They’d seen it all live but wanted to review just to be sure Watson hadn’t pulled a fast one.

  “Well?” Watson asked.

  “You think you sold them?” Foley asked.

  “I sold you, didn’t I?”

  Foley’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, I guess you did. You sold a lot of us.”

  “I’m thirsty. Can I have a water or something?” Watson asked.

  Jack grabbed a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge and handed it to Watson. She cracked it open.

  “Why’d you do it?” Foley demanded.

  “Does it matter?” Watson took a swig.

  “Humor me.”

  “Multiple reasons.”

  “Starting with?”

  “First of all, because I could. The idea of outsmarting the entire western IC seemed like an immensely satisfying exercise.”

  “Was it? I mean, until we caught you red-handed?”

  “Yes, entirely.”

  Foley turned to Clark. “If I ask for your weapon, turn me down. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why else?” Foley demanded.

  “Elias Dahm.”

  “What about him?”

  “While he was out banging teenage interns on his boat, I was building his goddamn company. Everybody knew Elias Dahm. He was the rock star. I never got invited to an owner’s box at the Super Bowl or asked to toss out the first pitch at a Giants game, or hang out with Oprah in Maui. Instead, I got hit with questions all the time. ‘Where’s Elias? What’s he like?’ ‘Can you tell him “hi” for me?’ ‘Can you tell him I’m a big fan?’ Made me want to puke.”