by Tom Clancy
It was Ryan’s turn to rebut. He forgot his happy face, but he took care not to look at Kealty, instead keeping his focus on the annoying reflections in the glasses of Joshua Ramirez. “First, I consider our fighting men and women to be just that, men and women. Many of them are young, a heck of a lot younger than President Kealty and I, but I bristle at the description of them as kids. Second, the men and women who work in those elite units of the military and intelligence communities who are tasked with the admittedly difficult and dangerous job of capturing our enemies in the field are professionals, and they go into harm’s way with regularity already. Often for the policies of my opponent, which, I believe, aren’t getting us anywhere.” Now he looked to Kealty with a polite nod. “You are absolutely right about that, Mr. President, that is a very, very difficult duty to give anyone”—then back to Ramirez—“but these men and women are the best in the world at this type of work. And to the last man, and the last woman, I truly believe that they know that their hard work saves American lives. They understand their duty, a duty they volunteer for, and a duty that they believe in. I have nothing but the most tremendous respect for our UAV crews.” He paused. “I’m sorry, unmanned aerial vehicles. It is an incredible resource operated by incredible people. I just feel that at the strategic level, we should be doing a better job directing our assets to exploit our intelligence successes to the highest possible degree, and I do not believe we are doing that under Ed Kealty’s administration.”
Ramirez started to say something else, but Ryan continued, “Joshua, your networa, ealk reported just the other day about the capture in Russia of the leader of one of the most deadly rebel groups in the Caucasus region by Russia’s FSB. Now, I will surprise no one in your audience tonight when I say I am not a huge fan of a lot of Russia’s recent decisions and policies.” Ryan smiled when he said this, but his face was no less intense when he was smiling. “Especially when it comes to some of their reported treatment of their own people in the Caucasus. But by capturing this man, Israpil Nabiyev, instead of just killing him, they can potentially learn so much about his organization. This can be a game changer in the region.” Jack Ryan paused, shrugged. “We could use a game changer or two in the Middle East, I think we can all admit that.”
Many in the crowd clapped.
Ramirez turned back to Kealty. “Thirty seconds’ rebuttal on this topic, Mr. President, and then we will need to move on.”
Ed Kealty nodded, leaned back in his chair. “Here is something you don’t hear too much, Josh. I actually agree with my opponent. We do need, as he put it, a game changer over there. I did not plan on revealing this tonight, but I just got the okay to do so from the Department of Justice. I am going to take this opportunity to announce the recent capture, by U.S. federal law enforcement agencies working with my administration, of Mr. Saif Rahman Yasin, better known as the Emir.”
Kealty waited for the gasps in the audience to subside. They did, eventually, and then he continued. “Yasin has killed dozens of Americans here at home, and he has killed hundreds of Americans and others around the world. He is now on U.S. soil, in U.S. custody, and I believe we will have a photograph made available to confirm this in the coming hours. I apologize for not bringing this to light before now, but, as you can imagine, there are a lot of security concerns involved, a lot of things to consider, so we have waited to—”
Thirty seconds was up, but Ed Kealty was just getting started.
“—bring this to the attention of the public. Now, Josh, I won’t be able to comment on any of the details of Yasin’s capture or his detainment or his whereabouts, this is all to keep the brave men and women involved in our operation safe, but I will say that I have spoken with the attorney general at length about the case, and we plan to bring Mr. Yasin to trial just as soon as is feasible. He will be indicted for the incidents he has been tied to here in the United States. In Colorado, in Utah, in Iowa, and in Virginia. Attorney General Brannigan will determine where the trial will take place, but clearly it will be in one of these locations.”
Jack Ryan did not lose his cool; he even smiled slightly, nodded pleasantly. Happy face, Jack, he said to himself, over and over. He knew this day would come. He knew the Emir was in custody. At first he thought his capture had been kept secret for security reasons, as Ed Kealty just now claimed. But Arnie van Damm had insisted from the beginning that Kealty was keeping the Emir on ice until he could “play” him for full advantage in the campaign. At the time, many months earlier, before the Ryan — Kealty battle had even begun in earnest, Jack did not believe his campaign manager. He thought Arnie was just being even more cynical than usual.
But not anymore. Van Damm had point-blank predicted that Ed Kealty would dump the Emir out onto the table during one of the debates; he even said it would be number two or number three.
Jack wanted to turn his head right now and make eye contact with van Damm, and it took every bit of willpower to keep from doing so. But he knew that “looke knt nte would be capitalized on by the media outlets in Kealty’s corner. The front page of The New York Times tomorrow would read “Ryan Looks for Cover.”
Unless they’d already used that headline once before. It was so hard to remember.
So Ryan sat there; he’d turned toward President Kealty as if Jack were hearing this for the first time. He’d groaned inwardly at the claim that Ed’s administration had had anything whatsoever to do with the capture of the most wanted man in the world. Ryan had no doubt that the offhanded inference Kealty had made was on purpose.
Ryan concentrated on his poker face while he thought about the capture of the Emir. What was it now, ten months since The Campus had taken him down in Nevada? What role his son played in Yasin’s capture Ryan had no idea. Surely he was not in on the ground operation. No, that would have been Chavez, Clark certainly, even Jack’s nephew Dominic. Jesus, the poor kid had to deal with all that just after the death of his own brother.
But Jack Sr. could not get his head around the fact that his son was involved in the capture of the Emir.
True, his oldest boy was changing, had changed. He’d grown into a man. That was to be expected, even though Jack Sr. did not like it one bit. But his role in the events of the capture of—
“Anything you would like to say to follow up, Mr. President?”
Ryan snapped out of it, chastised himself for letting his mind wander at just the wrong time. Jack caught a sly smile on Josh Ramirez’s face, but he knew the cameras had missed it. Every camera in the building was on Ryan. Hell, there was probably a shot halfway up his sinuses, they were so tightly focused on him right now. He wondered if he had a “deer in the headlights” look. The media would accuse him of it; this would be one hell of a gotcha moment unless he turned it around right now.
Happy face, Jack. “Well, this is certainly fantastic news. I would like to take this opportunity to extend my sincere and profound congratulations—”
Ed Kealty sat up straighter in his chair next to Ryan.
“—to the great men and women of our military, intelligence, and law enforcement organizations, and I would also like to thank any foreign nation or service involved in bringing this terrible human being to justice.”
Kealty glowered at Ryan now; Jack could see it in Ramirez’s glasses.
“This is a great day in America, but I also see this as an important crossroads for us. Because, as you all just heard, President Kealty and his administration plan to try the Emir in our federal court system, and I could not possibly disagree with this any more strongly. As much respect as I have for our system of laws, I think they should be reserved for our citizens and for those who have not made it their life’s work to make war on the United States of America. Putting Yasin on the witness stand is not justice; it would be the highest order of injustice.
“This moment is a fork in the road in our war on terrorism. If President Kealty wins the election in November, for the next couple of years the Umayyad Revolutionary Council, al
l its supporters, and its affiliated organizations will have the opportunity to own the bully pulpit. The Emir will use the courts to promote his brand of hate, he will use the courts to reveal the sources and methods of our intelligence services, and he will use the courts to create theater that will only draw attention to him and his cause. And you all, ladies and g, lds entlemen taxpayers, you all will be footing the bill for millions or tens of millions of dollars of increased security in our federal courtrooms.
“If you think that is a good idea… if you think giving the Emir this opportunity is the right call… well, then I’m sorry to say this, but you’d better go ahead and vote for my opponent.
“But if you think that is a bad idea, if you think the Emir should get his day in court, but in a military court, where he will have more rights than any prisoner he or those like him ever had in their custody, but still not the same set of rights of every law-abiding, taxpaying American citizen, then I hope you will vote for me.”
Ryan shrugged slightly, looked right at Josh Ramirez.
“Josh, I don’t make many campaign promises. I get kicked around in a lot of newspapers and the news shows, including yours, for the fact I campaign on my record and on my character, but not on what I promise to do at some later date.” Ryan smiled. “I just think most Americans are pretty smart, and they’ve seen enough campaign promises never come to fruition. It has always been my thinking that if I just show America who I am, what I stand for and believe in, and if I can show myself to be a guy that you can trust, then I’ll get some folks to vote for me. If it is enough to win, great. But if it’s not, well… America will pick who it thinks is best, and I’m okay with that.
“But I am going to make a campaign promise right here and now.” He turned to the camera. “If you see fit to put me in the White House, the first thing I’ll do, literally the first thing I do when I get back to 1600 Pennsylvania from the Capitol steps, is sit down at my desk and sign papers remanding Saif Yasin into military custody.” He sighed. “You will never see his face on television or hear his voice on the radio, nor the voice of his attorney. His trial will be fair, he will have a robust defense, but it will be behind a wall. Some people may not agree with that, but I have six weeks before election day, and I hope you will extend me the courtesy of trying to convince you that this is the right move for the United States of America.”
Many in the crowd applauded. Many did not.
The debate ended soon after, Kealty and Ryan shook hands for the cameras, then they kissed their wives at the front of the stage.
Jack leaned into Cathy’s ear. “How did I do?”
Dr. Cathy Ryan kept a wide smile on her face as she whispered back, “I’m proud of you. You kept your happy face through all that.” She kissed him again and then said with a grin, “I do love it when you listen to me.”
20
Newport, Rhode Island, sits on the southern tip of Aquidneck Island, some thirty miles south of Providence. As well as being the home of Naval Station Newport and more surviving colonial buildings than any other city in the United States, it also retains a number of gargantuan nineteenth-and early-twentieth-century mansions built by many of America’s wealthiest industrial and financial tycoons of that time period. John Jacob Astor IV, William and Cornelius Vanderbilt, Oliver Belmont, and Peter Widener of U.S. Steel and American Tobacco, as well as others, all constructed palatial summer retreats on the tony island during the Gilded Age of the post-Reconstruction period.
Most of the billionaires are gone; their homes now owned by trusts or by family estates or by museums or foundatio
This homeowner’s name was Paul Laska, he was seventy years old, he was currently number four on the Forbes list of wealthiest Americans, and he was of the opinion that a second presidential term of John Patrick Ryan would probably mean, within a couple of years, the end of the world.
Sitting alone in the library of his opulent mansion, Paul Laska watched Jack Ryan kiss his wife at the end of the debate. Then Laska stood, turned off the television, and walked alone to his bedroom. His pale, aged face flushed red with anger and his slumped shoulders reflected his sour mood.
He had hoped tonight’s debate would be the moment when Ed Kealty’s fortunes turned. Laska had hoped this, had all but expected this, because he knew something almost no one else in the world knew until thirty minutes ago.
The aging billionaire already knew that the Emir was in U.S. custody. This nugget of information had kept his spirits up while Ryan’s lead in the polls remained through the summer and into the early fall. He’d told himself that when Ed made the “big reveal” in the second presidential debate he would put to bed that tired adage about Jack Ryan that said he was the “tough on terror” candidate. Then, with a few weeks of heavy campaigning in key battleground states, Kealty would shoot ahead for the home stretch.
Now, as Laska took off his slippers and climbed into bed, he realized that his hopes had been fanciful.
Somehow Jack Ryan had still won the damned debate, even with the rabbit Kealty had pulled out of his hat.
“Hovno!” he shouted at the cold, dark house. It meant “shit” in Czech, and Paul Laska always fell back on his native tongue when cursing.
Paul Laska was born Pavel Laska in Brno, in the present-day Czech Republic. He grew up behind the iron curtain, but he’d not suffered particularly for this misfortune. His father had been a party member in good standing, which allowed young Pavel to go to good schools in Brno and then Prague, and then to university in Budapest and then Moscow.
After obtaining advanced degrees in mathematics, he returned to Czechoslovakia to follow his father into banking. A good communist, Laska had done well for himself in the Soviet satellite nation, but in 1968 he came out in support of the liberal reforms of First Party Secretary Alexander Dubček.
For a few short months in 1968, Laska and other Dubček supporters felt the reforms of the Czechoslovakian decentralization from Moscow. They were still communists but nationalized communists; their plan was to break away from the Soviets and apply Czech solutions to Czech problems. The Soviets didn’t like that plan, needless to say, and KGB operatives flooded into Prague to break up the party.
Pavel Laska and a radical girlfriend were picked up with a dozen others at a protest and held for questioning by the KGB. Both were beaten; the girlfriend was sent to prison, but somehow Laska returned to work with the leadership of the uprising, and he stayed with them until one night in August when Warsaw Pact tanks rolled into Prague, and the fledgling rebellion was crushed on orders from Moscow.
Unlike most of the leadership, Laska was not killed or imprisoned. He returned to hisetud o bank, but soon emigrated to the United States, taking with him, as he’d told the story thousands of times, only the clothes on his back and a dream.
And by most anyone’s standards his dream had been realized.
He moved to New York in 1969 to attend NYU. Upon graduation, he went into banking and finance. First he had a few good years, then he had a few great years, and by the early eighties he was one of the wealthiest men on Wall Street.
Though he bought properties including his homes in Rhode Island, Los Angeles, Aspen, and Manhattan, in the 1980s he and his wife used much of their money on their philanthropy, throwing their huge financial resources behind reformers in Eastern Europe in an attempt to enact the changes that had failed to materialize during the Prague Spring. After the fall of world communism, Paul started the Progressive Nations Institute to assist grassroots change in oppressed countries around the world, and he funded development projects across the globe from clean-water initiatives in Central America to land mine eradication efforts in Laos.
In the late 1990s Laska turned his sights inward, toward his adopted nation. He’d long felt the America of the post — Cold War period to be no better than the Soviet Union of the Cold War days; to him the United States was an oppressive brute in world affairs and a bastion of racism and bigotry. Now that the Soviet Union was no m
ore, he poured billions of dollars into causes to fight American evils as he perceived them and, along with spending enough effort engaging in the capitalistic shrine known as the New York Stock Exchange to benefit himself, Laska spent the rest of his time and money supporting the enemies of capitalism.
In 2000 he formed the Progressive Constitution Initiative, a liberal political action organization and law firm, and he staffed it with the best and the brightest radical lawyers from the ACLU, academia, and private practice. As well as taking on states and municipalities, the main function of the organization was to sue the U.S. government for what it considered to be overreaches of power. It also defended those prosecuted by the United States, and worked against any and all state or federal capital punishment cases, as well as many other causes célèbres.
Since the death of his wife seven years before, Laska had lived alone, save for a team of servants and a security detail, but his homes were rarely lonely places. He threw lavish parties attended by liberal politicians, activists, artists, and foreign movers and shakers. The Progressive Nations Institute was run out of midtown Manhattan, and the Progressive Constitution Initiative out of D.C., but ground zero for the overarching belief system of Paul Laska was his home in Newport. It was no joke when people claimed that more progressive punditry had been doled out on Paul Laska’s pool deck than in most liberal think tanks.
But his influence did not stop at his organizations or his garden parties. His foundation also financed many left-wing websites and media outlets, and even a confidential online clearinghouse for liberal journalists to gather and pass on story ideas and agree on a cohesive progressive message. Paul funded, sometimes covertly, sometimes not, many radio and television networks across the country, always with a quid pro quo that he and his causes would be given positive press. More than once an organization had had its financial spigot shut off, either temporarily or permanently, because its reporting did not match the political beliefs of the man who financed the entire operation from behind the scenes.