Tom Clancy's Power Plays 1 - 4

by Tom Clancy

  He looked into the oceanic greenness of Ashley’s eyes and smiled back at her.

  “I very well may have,” he said.

  NINE

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA / STRAITS OF SINGAPORE

  SEPTEMBER 20/21, 2000

  WHEN MAX BLACKBURN FIRST TOLD PETE NIMEC THAT he’d gotten a line deep into the working guts of Monolith, and that he was using it to trace what he’d described as ‘improper business practices and financial arrangements,” Nimec had listened with close interest—and by not ordering him to abandon his investigation posthaste, had tacitly okayed its continuance. Still, as Chief of Security at UpLink, he had cautioned that UpLink would under no circumstances be dragged into a situation that might be perceived as corporate spying; the potential liabilities were far too great. Nimec had also pointed out that it would be inadvisable for Max to provide any further details about the probe should he decide to move ahead with it on his own string … unless or until he turned up something of concrete significance.

  Max had gotten the gist without anything more having to be explained. Deniability had been established with a nod and a wink—as it always was. If his activities came to light, no one else at UpLink would be dragged into the consequent chocolate mess. Nimec wanted clean hands and fingernails from the level of clerk to upper management.

  Officially, that had been the end of his involvement in the fishing expedition. Unofficially, he had been eager to see what developed. And was becoming increasingly so as Marcus Caine’s public attacks on Gordian intensified.

  Their understanding kept very much in mind, Max had been exceedingly circumspect with his references to the matter in the three months since their initial phone conversation about it. . . when he mentioned it at all, that was. Nimec had gleaned that Blackburn’s conduit into Monolith was a female employee with whom he’d originally formed a—quote, unquote—social relationship and only later enrolled as an informant. That she held a high-level position in the office of Corporate Communications, Singapore. Beyond these two pieces of information, he knew little else.

  Of course there were other legitimate reasons for the men to stay in touch. Max had been sent to Malaysia for the purpose of emplacing security procedures at the Johor ground station, and many of his plans required Nimec’s input and advance approval. Which was why he’d tried phoning Blackburn from his home office at four o’clock Sunday afternoon, making it the first thing Monday morning Johor time. After reviewing an expensive upgrade Max had proposed to the bionetric scanners last week, he’d decided to give him the green light to begin installation—only to learn that he hadn’t yet arrived at the office.

  “Mr. Blackburn was in Singapore for the weekend, and it’s quite possible he’s run into delays getting back across the causeway,” his receptionist had said. “The causeway crossing has been awful lately .. . some sort of ship hijacking has Customs bollixed. Still, I’m certain he’ll be in soon. Would you like me to try contacting him on his mobile?”

  “No, it isn’t anything urgent, just tell him I called when he gets in,” Nimec said.

  That had been eight hours ago, and Max still hadn’t been in touch. Nor had he had a chance to give Max another ring; the child-custody arrangement Nimec had worked out with his ex-wife allowed him weekends with their son Jake, and he’d just returned from dropping the twelve-year-old off at home after taking him to a baseball game.

  Still, Nimec wondered if his message had somehow gotten lost or slipped Max’s mind, and wanted to try him one more time before turning in for the night. Blackburn‘s greatest weakness was a tendency to let curiosity lead him in too many directions at once, and he needed to be reminded that the ground station was his primary responsibility.

  Nimec went over to his desk, picked up his phone, and keyed in Max’s number.

  “UpLink International, Max Blackburn’s office.”

  “Joyce, it’s Pete Nimec again.”

  “Oh, hello, sir,” she said. Then hesitated a beat. “Mr. Blackburn hasn’t shown up yet.”

  Nimec raised his eyebrows. “Not all day?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Nor has he phoned in.”

  “Have you tried calling him?”

  “Well, yes. On his cell phone. I think I suggested it to you earlier—”

  “And?”

  “There was no answer, sir.”

  Nimec was silent a moment. There had been something odd about Joyce’s tone from the moment he’d identified himself, and now he suddenly realized what it was. She was covering. And had been right off the bat.

  Tom Clancy’s Power Plays

  “Joyce,” he said at last, “maybe its my imagination, but you’re sounding very protective.”

  She cleared her throat. “Sir, Mr. Blackburn was rather vague about his plans before he left. But…”

  “Yes?” he prompted

  “Well, to be truthful … I think they were of a personal nature.”

  “You think he’s cozied up somewhere with his girlfriend? Is that it?”

  “Um, perhaps … I mean, not that he specifically told me—”

  “Your loyalty to Max is admirable. But besides your suspicion that he’s gone off on an amorous toot, are you sure you’re not keeping anything from me?”

  “No, sir. Absolutely nothing.”

  “Then let me know soon as he materializes,” Nimec said, and hung up the phone.

  Seconds later he rose from behind his desk, switched off the light, and headed for the shower. If Max was deliberately trying to stay incommunicado, he was either having much too good a time accommodating his Monolith executive, or—to be fair—becoming overly preoccupied with the more substantial aspects of his investigation. Both possibilities left Nimec feeling annoyed and a little uneasy.

  When he finally got Blackburn on the horn, he intended to find out what he’d been doing, and if necessary remind him where he ought to be focusing his attention.

  Independence was acceptible within limits, but no information was worth the problems Max could cause by taking things too far.

  Its diesels purring quietly in the late-night fog and darkness, the twenty-six-foot pleasure boat was within fifteen kilometers of the northern Sumatran coastline when Xi-ang, gripping the foredeck rail, sighted the bright glow of a floodlight almost directly abeam.

  He remained still and calm at the foredeck rail, checking his wristwatch.

  The yacht was traveling with its cabin and running lights off, but there was a chance it had been picked up by the radar or thermal-imaging sweeps of a fast patrol boat. Only a very small and random chance, though. He was confident the vessel’s theft would not yet have been detected; his men had taken it out of its slip after midnight, stealing aboard when the landing had been nearly deserted, disconnecting its uncomplicated security alarms with a few clips of a wire cutter.

  Restrained and tranquilized, the American had been driven to the head of the landing in the panel truck his captors had used during his abduction, then been brought onto the ship while its motors were warming up.

  No one had been there to challenge the pirates. Investigators searching for the Kuan Yin’s hijackers had established tight controls at the airports, causeway, and commercial shipping docks—the obvious corridors of departure—but there hadn’t been any strengthening of surveillance and inspection efforts at the marinas where the wealthy berthed their yachts and sailboats.

  Xiang had counted on the improvised cordons being spotty, and planned from the beginning to exploit their inevitable holes. Singaporean authorities were used to chasing common smugglers, and tracking down illegal workers from Thailand and Malaysia whom they would herd into detention camps, flog with a cane, and send back to their native countries with their heads shaved in disgrace. They had no experience dealing with a manhunt of any scope, and even with the computerized IBIS command-and-control system they’d purchased from the Brits making it easier for field units to coordinate their efforts, they were far out of their league. Unlike the boat people washing u
p on their shoreline as if they were beached fish after a storm, Xiang and his outlaws were neither desperate nor docile.

  Now Xiang peered into the conical beam of light shining at a right angle to him and waited, his jacket flapping in the warm south breeze. He could hear the grunt of a small outboard above the slapping of wavelets against his keel. Good, he thought. The boats manned by naval task forces were sped along by turbocharged engines and water-jet drives. This was nothing so modem or formidable.

  As Xiang stood leaning over the rail, the floodlight suddenly went out and the heavy-hanging sea mist knitted water and sky into a screen of undivided blackness. He dropped his eyes to his wristwatch again, waited exactly five seconds, then looked back out at the water.

  The light blinked rapidly on, then off, then on.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Through the cabin windshield, he could see several of his men in the cockpit. Behind the wheel, Juara looked out at the searchlight, then lowered his head to study a compass and chart in the faint glow of the binnacle. After a moment Juara straightened up and nodded to Xiang, confirming that they were at the proper coordinates for their rendezvous.

  Pleased, Xiang undipped the high-intensity flashlight from his belt, held it out in front of him, and returned the hailing signal with his response. On, off, on, off. Then on and off again after a fifteen-second interval.

  He hung on the rail until he could see the outline of the pickup launch, then went quickly into the cabin and down the gangway to the lower deck, wanting to assure himself that the prisoner was ready to be brought ashore.

  TEN

  NEW YORK

  SEPTEMBER 20, 2000

  “SERIOUSLY, JASON, XRAS OUGHT TO BE CALLED ‘Cholesterol Corner’ or ‘Arterial Sclerosis Way’ or something,” Charles Kirby said, looking down at his Rudy Guiliani hero sandwich, which contained a precarious mountain of corned beef, pastrami, Muenster cheese, and Swiss cheese, with a dripping mantle of Russian dressing and coleslaw at its lofty summit. Altough he had been tempted by the Barbra Streisand, with its multiple strata of turkey and roast beef, he’d found himself incapable of reading its name off the menu, thinking it had a rather unmanly ring.

  “Why’s that?” Jason Weinstein said, and stretched his mouth to encompass a pastrami, corned beef, and liver-heaped Joe DiMaggio, which he’d chosen over a Tom Cruise only because he’d never been a big fan of the latter’s movies.

  Kirby pushed his chin at the window. “Well, with that Lindy’s Famous cheesecake place on the comer, and the Famous Ray’s pizza joint across the street, somebody could build a famously successful practice opening a walk-in cardiac center on the block, don’t you think?”

  Jason shrugged indifferently, bit into his food, and reached across the table to grab a half-sour dill off the pickle dish, visibly chagrined over its nearer proximity to Kirby. Why Jason hadn’t simply asked him to pass the pickles across the table rather than opting for the board-inghouse reach, as his grandmother would have called it, was something that Kirby couldn’t for the life of him understand. He was a Wall Street lawyer, for God’s sake. Where the hell were his dining manners?

  He reached for his knife and fork, cut a wedge off his sandwich, and ate it in silence, having decided that any attempt to raise it to his mouth would result in an unstoppable landslide of sliced meat and cheese—Jason’s ability to perform that gravity-defying task notwithstanding.

  Suppose you need to have grown up in Brooklyn, he thought.

  Jason chewed and swallowed with unfettered relish. “Better than sex, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe not for me,” Kirby said. “But pretty good, I admit.”

  Jason gave him a look that said there was no accounting for taste.

  “Okay, talk, Why’d you spring for lunch?”

  Kirby sat for a moment.

  “You represent the Spartus consortium. Or at least your firm does,” he said. “I want to know who’s buying its stake in UpLink.”

  ”Whom you happen to represent.”

  “There isn’t any conflict of interest,” Kirby said. “The sale’s a matter of public record—”

  “Or will be once the i‘s are dotted and the t’s are crossed,” Jason said. “To be accurate.”

  Kirby shrugged. “All I’m asking is that you save me some legwork.”

  Jason lowered his Joe DiMaggio to his plate and regarded it with a kind of lusting admiration.

  “You suppose they cure the meat themselves?” he said.

  “Come on, Jase,” Kirby said.

  Jason looked him. “Sure, why not, but you never got it from me,” he said. “The high bidder’s a firm in Michigan called Midwest Gelatin. I don’t guess I need to tell you its specialty.”

  Kirby scowled. “Some local jelly producer has the capital to buy up thousands of shares of UpLink? You’re shitting me.”

  “I speak the truth,” Jason said. “And that was gelatin, not jelly. It’s used in everything from home insulation to sneaker insoles to ballistic testing. There’s also a pharmaceutical variation which goes into the headache pills you gulp by the bottle. For your information. Midwest happens to be the largest chemical manufacturer of its type in the country.”

  “It public or private?”

  “Number one,” Jason said. “It’s a subsidiary of a canning company which is wholly owned by a public corporation that manufactures plexiglass sheeting. Or chinaware, I frankly forget which.”

  Kirby considered that while Jason dove into his sandwich.

  “Are you aware if there’s anyone, um, of note, in Midwest Gelatin’s upper management? Or that of its parent companies?”

  Jason was looking at him again.

  “You want to follow the paper trail, find out who’s behind the move on UpLink, I suggest you talk to Ed Burke when we get to the park,” he said.

  “Our Ed?” Kirby pointed to the front of his uniform shirt, on which the word STEALERS was printed in gold capital letters. “The first baseman?”

  “The canner’s one of his biggest clients,” Jason said, nodding. “Just please promise that my name won’t enter the conversation.”

  “Thought I already had.”

  Jason shook his head. “No, no, you didn’t.”

  Kirby made the scout’s honor sign with his index and middle fingers.

  “Promise,” he said.

  Satisfied, Jason turned to watch a thin, elderly-looking waiter scoot past the table with a tall stack of dishes expertly balanced on his arm.

  “He’s been working here since I was a kid,” he said. “Three decades hustling on his feet, can’t imagine how he does it.”

  “Could be he loves it here as much as you do,” Kirby said.

  Jason’s gaze continued following the waiter’s energetic trajectory down the aisle.

  “Bet that’s it,” he said very seriously, and took another huge bite of his improbable sandwich.

  Reynold Armitage’s twenty-two-room duplex was in a palacial landmark building with balustrades and cornices and an ornate iron-and-glass marquee shading its Fifth Avenue entry opposite Central Park. The trappings of status and wealth were as evident—some would say egregiously evident—within his apartment as they were without; passing through the front door, one entered a long, wainscoted reception hall leading into an octagonal salon and then a living room with a parquet floor, massive fireplace, and haughty oil portraits under a vaulted ceiling. Continental silver gleamed on antique tables, Venetian glass goblets and decanters winked diamond points of light from breakfront cabinets, and dynastic Chinese vases perched like fragile blooms atop finely wrought marble gueridons.

  Marcus Caine found it all very impressive, though not nearly so much as the scrupulous attention Armitage had payed to concealing the matrix of integrated electronic systems designed to compensate for his physical disabilities—most of which relied upon Monolith’s leading-edge voice-recognition technology.

  Ordinary men fit their homes with handicap access ramps, priviliged ones with lifts a
nd elevators, he’d once told Caine. I want you to give me something better than either,

  Caine sat sipping his vermouth as the parlor doors opened seemingly of their own volition, and the master of the house made his entrance… the grandiosity of which was unaffected by his wheelchair-bound condition. In a certain way, rather, it lifted him from the merely pretentious and gave him an air of solitary dauntlessness. Don Quixote stalking windmills, Ahab versus the white whale, persistance against any odds. It was the warp and woof of highest drama.

  “Close,” Armitage said in a barely audible undertone, his power wheelchair carrying him forward with the faintest mechanical hum. Behind him the double doors swung quietly shut. ‘*No interruptions, take messages.”

  He came up to his guest and halted the chair with a joystick on its left armrest. Once it had been on his right side, but over the past several years that hand had become too seriously atrophied to be of any use.

  ”Marcus,” he said, raising his voice to a normal level. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was on a call. Fortunately you look quite settled. Absorbed in meditation, even.”

  “Admiration,” Caine corrected. He indicated his surroundings with a slight flick of his hand. “This is a fascinating room.”

  An intense man of fifty with a narrow face, dark, watchful eyes, and a widow’s peak of straight black hair, Armitage appeared surprised.

  “And here I’ve always seen you as all business,” he said. “It seems you’re growing, Marcus. In fact, my estimate of you soared to new heights after your appearance at the U.N. I really want to compliment you on that one.”

  Caine gave him a cool glance. “Do you, now?”

  “Absolutely. You came across as very likeable, which is everything from a public relations standpoint. There are pollsters who measure that sort of thing, as you’re surely aware. How else would we know which celebrities to hire for product endorsements and situation comedies?” A sardonic grin crept across his lips. “I’d give you a clap on the back if I could.”