Politika pp-1

by Tom Clancy

  Again, silence. Finally, the answer. “Thirty-eight?”

  “Subtract banquets, political functions, work-related functions, and parties.” Ashley knew this wasn’t fair, but she was fighting for time and life with the man she loved. “By my reckoning, the answer comes to eighteen — three meals a month.”

  “I know it’s hard for you, but it’s been tough for me, too.” Roger stopped for a moment, clearly picking his words with care. “I don’t always have the freedom to make my own choices.”

  “Why not? You own the company.”

  “Lately, with the ground stations going in, I’ve been so embroiled with politics worldwide that my time isn’t my own. Once this stage is over, things should get better.”

  “And how many times have you told yourself — and me — that before? Will they really get better, or will you just launch into the next big project once you get some breathing room?” Ashley wanted to cry, could hear in her voice the sound of tears too close to the surface. She could only hope that Roger was too preoccupied with his own pain to notice.

  “I know I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it.”

  “Roger,” Ashley said, “you mean it every time. I probably don’t tell you this enough, but I am so proud of you — of who you are and what you’ve done. I know that everything you’ve accomplished out in the world makes a huge difference to people everywhere. I know that it’s your calling, something you have to do. What I don’t know is if I’m strong enough to wait until you’re done.”

  “Ashley, all the success in the world doesn’t matter to me if you’re not by my side to share it.”

  “Do you mean that?” Ashley felt that faint, terrible thread of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they could work this out. “Can you come up here, spend some time with me, maybe go to a therapist with me until we find some common ground?”

  There was a long pause. Again she could hear Roger swallow, take a deep breath. “Honey, work is in a real uproar right now. There are global consequences if I leave at this exact moment… maybe in a week or two?”

  “And in a week or two some new hot spot will erupt, and you’ll be called in to deal with it — because you’re the best.” The tears she’d kept at bay through the whole conversation finally overflowed. “You’re the best,” she sobbed, “and I don’t know what I can do about it. I love you. Good-bye.” Before she could change her mind, she pushed the Disconnect button on the phone. Then she put her head in her hands and sobbed as though there were no tomorrow. Because for her and Roger, that might just be the case.

  THIRTY-ONE

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK JANUARY 26, 2000

  Anton Zachary was a solid believer in routine. In structure and regimentation. Without it, he felt, the minutes and hours of the day turned to sludge, the significance of actions paled, diligence turned to sloth, nothing meant anything, and everything fell apart. For him, life without margins was a valueless blur of inconsequential events.

  He hadn’t always held this outlook; it had grown and developed over many years, and more or less in tandem with his professional responsibilities. Zachary was a busy man, a man Nick Roma frequently called upon to perform impossible tasks within unimaginable deadlines. This was not done out of disrespect, not really, but, as with most overlords, Roma’s mind lacked the fine appreciation, so to speak, that would allow him to understand the hard work, the painstaking discipline and attention to detail, that went into the creation of a convincing fake, a successful lie, a counterfeit passport, visa, marriage license, or birth certificate that would deceive even the most careful and discerning eye. To Roma, Zachary was little more than a forger of papers, a duplicator of documents, a living stamp pad, a photocopy machine that happened to be made of flesh and blood, a tinkerer who did what anyone else could do if only he had the spare time. By Roma, craftsmanship was appreciated only insofar as it translated into instant results; fail to meet his demands just once and you were labeled incompetent, inept, a fool who could not perform a task that could have been assigned to any dilettante, perhaps even some drunk who had been dragged out of the gutter by his collar.

  Zachary knew and accepted this as the lot of the artist. What incomprehensible pressures must Michelangelo have faced under the demands of his patrons? Or Shakespeare? Paint that ceiling now! Finish that play by tonight and give us some damn good lines! Make us laugh, cry, gasp with awe and excitement, and hurry, hurry, hurry! Ah, how they must have despaired. Yet where would they have been without those financial supporters? What would they have done for a livelihood? The tension between art and commerce was a vital if maddening constant. The fuel of productivity. The yin and yang — yes, yes! — the yin and yang of the creative process.

  If only it didn’t result in insomnia, heart palpitations, ulcers, and premature hair loss.

  Now, as he walked across the boardwalk on Brighton Twelfth Street, the weathered wooden planks under his feet bare of snow due to some vagary of the ocean gusts, gulls wheeling and scissoring above his head, the roiling gray sea to his left, Brighton Beach Avenue to his right, his apartment building behind him, the newsstand where he bought his Russian-language newspaper two blocks ahead, the bakery where he would pick up his breakfast rolls two blocks farther on, his travel agency a block beyond that across from the elevated D train tracks… as he walked to work this morning along the route he took every morning at six o’clock on the dot, never a second shaved — never, never a second — Zachary told himself it was time to push these useless, egocentric musings, these petulant blips of dissatisfaction, out of his mind and get down to thinking about the important business of the day.

  Roma had placed an order for a half dozen student entry visas that were to go to some women a local pimp and strip club manager was bringing over from Moscow. For whatever reason, Roma needed to have these forgeries completed and delivered to the flesh peddler by one o’clock in the afternoon. Roma had placed the order late the previous night and had been in no mood to be negotiated with. In fact, Roma had been unusually excitable for weeks now, and he’d gotten worse in the past several days. Rumor had it that he’d been badly affected by something that had happened at his club some nights ago, though none of his closest men would say what the event was, or even confirm that it was.

  Well, Zachary told himself as he stepped off the boardwalk, Roma had his worries and responsibilities, and he had his own. He did not pretend to be interested in the nuts-and-bolts mechanics of Roma’s operation, had no time to be interested, no time to think, no time to do anything but what was required of him. Six entry visas, six hours to complete the order. That was all he—

  “Excuse me.”

  Zachary stopped short on the pavement, looking at the man who had stepped in front of him, actually bumped into him seemingly out of nowhere. Where had he come from?

  “Yes?” he said, startled. The man was thin, sinewy, with hair cut almost to the scalp. He wore a long trench coat and had his right hand in its pocket.

  “I want to talk to you, Mr. Zachary,” the man said. And dipped his head slightly to his left. “In there.”

  Zachary glanced over in that direction, saw a car sitting at the curb with its rear door ajar. There was someone huddled behind the wheel.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Shifting his gaze back to the man. To the bulge made by his right hand pressing against the inner lining of his pocket. Could he be holding a gun?

  “What do you want from—”

  “Get in the car,” the man said. He noticed where Zachary’s eyes had landed and jabbed whatever was in his pocket against his stomach. It felt hard. “This won’t take long. And nobody’s going to hurt you if you cooperate and answer some questions.”

  “But I have a schedule—”

  “In the car, now!” the man snapped, shoving the hard object against his belly again. “You go first.”

  Suddenly trembling all over, Zachary nodded and turned toward the partly open rear door of the vehicle, the trench-coate
d man falling in behind him, the thing in the man’s hand jabbing against his back.

  Climbing in the backseat after him, Nimec nodded for Noriko to drive off.

  He kept his hand on the roll of Certs in his pocket, kept pressing it against Zachary, wondering if he’d just given new definition to the term “non-lethal weapon.”

  * * *

  Sadov had made them as law enforcement agents moments after passing through the security check. FBI, he suspected, though it was just as easily possible they belonged to one of the other covert organizations. He was accustomed to keeping a wary eye out for stalkers and had recognized their colors and markings immediately.

  What first alerted him was the way they had positioned themselves. One by the magazine stand in the corridor, another beside the entry to the waiting area, a third near the gate. It was where they stood and how they stood: the lift of their chins, their straight postures, their discreetly observant eyes, taking everything in without seeming to move. It was their dark suits and overcoats, their pastel ties, the slight catches in the fabric of their pants several inches above the hemline, giveaway signs of ankle holsters. It was their scrubbed, clipped, efficient appearance.

  He lowered himself into a contoured plastic chair and glanced up at the bank of monitors displaying estimated arrival and departure schedules. His flight to Stockholm was to take off in half an hour, and he expected to hear the boarding announcement very shortly.

  Normally the surveillance wouldn’t have ruffled his calm. He had spent many years masking his trail across scores of countries, and was wise to the ways of eluding pursuit. And while the cast of the net was wider now than in the past, the spaces one could slip through remained as large as ever. Larger, in fact, than it had been in some previous instances. The national origin of the bombing suspects was unknown. What was more, their sponsor had not been identified, and even the connection to Russia remained uncertain. He should have felt secure in being a faceless, invisible presence, camouflaged like the mantis. And would have, had it not been for the photograph.

  It had appeared in the New York Daily News the very day after the explosion, and then had been splashed all over the media, a grainy image taken off an amateur videotape, made by someone who’d been high above the square on Seventh Avenue and Fifty-third Street. A circle had been drawn around the man that the headline declared was responsible for having left behind one of the secondary charges. In the picture, he was setting a nylon athletic bag on the sidewalk near an unmanned police barricade. While it was clear he had dark hair and wore a leather jacket, his features were shadowed and indistinct. Still, Sadov had recognized himself. He had feared the people who were looking for him would be able to sharpen the image with computer enhancements, and hesitated to enter a busy airport at a time when his photograph was being exhibited on every newsstand. It had meant staying in New York nearly a full week longer than Gilea and the others, laying low in Roma’s safehouses. During that week he had lightened and cut his hair, obtained a pair of stage eyeglasses, and traded his clothing for an expensive business suit. The disguise was satisfying, and he was confident he could make it through the airport despite the heightened state of alert. Nevertheless, he would be glad once he was up and walking through the jetway.

  Yes, he’d relax once he was on the plane. The undercover surveillance of key transit points had been expected, and well considered by Roma’s people when they plotted out his return to Russia. The route they had arranged would take him from Sweden into Finland by rail, then through the border crossing at Nuijaama to the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Though circuitous, and requiring some extra paperwork, this had been deemed the best way to go. The Finnish and Russian border guards were known for their laxity, and gave automobiles only perfunctory inspections. There would be a quick customs check afterward — an X-ray scan of his luggage, two steps through a metal detector, and that was all. He would be safe on familiar ground.

  Now Sadov sat flipping through a magazine without giving any attention to its contents, looking over the tops of the pages, carefully watching the agents who were watching the departure area. Had the red-haired man by the gate had his eye on him, glancing away just as he, Sadov, glanced up? Sadov turned another page. Almost certainly he was letting his nerves run away with him. It was the photograph, the extended period in New York.

  He waited.

  The announcement came over the speakers ten minutes later: flight 206 to Stockholm was now boarding, handicapped passengers and those with seating in rows A through L could enter the gate, please have your tickets ready.

  Sadov slowly closed his magazine and zipped it into a side compartment of his carry-on bag. Around him, other fliers rose off their chairs and got in line at the gate. He let his gaze skim over the redheaded agent. The man had his arms crossed over his chest and seemed focused on the waiting area. As Sadov stood to join the line the man bounced up and down on his toes. Once. Was that an indication of boredom and restlessness, a reflexive little stretch? Or an indication he might be preparing to make a move? For one small second, Sadov had thought he’d felt eyes on his face.

  He slung his travel bag over his shoulder and moved to the back of the line. He noticed the agent who had been posted at the entrance to the waiting area start walking in his approximate direction. The man had bristle-cut hair and a pointed, vigilant face. Like a fox.

  Sadov ground his teeth. He remembered the close call he’d had after the job in London. That had been a little over a year ago. A pair of bobbies had identified him, followed him for several blocks. He’d left both in an alley with bullets in their skulls. But now, here, he was unarmed. And with all these people around, he would be trapped.

  The line moved forward. He moved with it, his ticket in hand. The redhaired agent was now almost directly in front of him, to the right of the gate, scrutinizing the passengers as they stepped through. Sadov wondered to what extent the image of him could have been refined. There was a great deal of technology available to the authorities. And wasn’t it also possible they had been tipped off? There was a reward. New York City alone had offered fifty thousand dollars. And he did not fully trust Roma or his men. They might have been tempted. Think of the things he himself had done for money.

  Sadov continued toward the gate. There were only three passengers ahead of him. An elderly couple, and a well-dressed woman in her forties. The couple exchanged brief pleasantries with a flight attendant as she took their tickets, then disappeared into the jetway. The woman was next. The redheaded man gave her a cursory glance, looked past her at the shrinking line.

  Sadov squeezed his tension into a tight ball and pushed it somewhere deep inside him. He had no choice but to continue ahead toward the gate and hope he got through.

  He held out his ticket. The attendant’s mouth was smiling. He nodded, peeled his own lips back over his teeth to mimic the expression. The redhead was almost beside him now.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “would you please step off the line a moment?”

  Sadov kept his eyes on the stewardess’s teeth, peripherally glimpsed the fox-faced agent approaching from the right, joining the redheaded man. He did not yet see the third agent, the one he’d spotted at the magazine stand, but felt sure he would be closing in as well.

  “Sir, did you hear me? We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Sadov’s blood surged into his ears. He would have to comply, there was really nothing else to do.

  He looked over at the redhead.

  And realized the agent wasn’t speaking to him at all. Was in fact addressing someone in line behind him.

  He expelled a breath, spared a moment to glance over his shoulder.

  Three places down the line was a man about the same age and height as Sadov himself, wearing jeans and a short ski jacket. His hair was dark brown, the same color that Sadov’s had been before he dyed it. The agents had gently taken hold of his elbow, steered him aside, and asked to see his identification. He looked confused, a
gitated, and embarrassed as he reached into his shoulder bag.

  Sadov turned back to the flight attendant. He felt his smile transform into something authentic, like a stone sculpture that had suddenly become imbued with life.

  The agents had come close, but they were off by three. Pulling a sheep in wolf’s clothing, he thought with amusement.

  “Have a nice flight, sir,” the attendant said.

  His grin expanded.

  “Thank you,” he said, entering the gate. “I’m sure that I will.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  WASHINGTON, D.C. JANUARY 26, 2000

  “Balls,” the President said to his gathering of the National Security Council. “Colossal fucking balls.”

  He slammed his hand down on the classified CIA/FBI intelligence report on his desk, drawing looks from the men at the table in the conference room down the hall from the Oval Office. In an unprecedented show of inter-organizational cooperation, the two agencies had gotten together, combined their investigative researches into the Times Square bombing, and reached certain mutual assessments that likely spelled disaster for his Russian foreign policy agenda — shooting his self-image all to the moon in the process. What accounted for his multileveled chagrin and dismay was the understanding that, if those assessments were right, he would have to reexamine his commitment to prop up Starinov and his closest government associates. He’d always been quick to read popular currents of opinion, always recognized when they threatened to capsize him, and was nearly always willing and able to jump ship when his political survival was at stake. Criticism tended to roll off his hide unless there were polling numbers to make it stick, and he was especially unaccustomed to having that thick and famously lubricious epidermal layer pierced by straightforward jabs of morality.

  But it had happened when he’d read the intelligence reports. Happened in a big way. The presidential hide had been weakened, compromised from within. And the implications this presented about his own deepest nature were unexpected and jarring.