“Jesus said the meek shall inherit the earth, and that’s fine with me, but it’s still nice to have cops around.”
“You hear me arguing with you? Rock your seat back and have a glass of wine and get some sleep, Domingo.”
And if some asshole tries to hijack this airplane, we’ll deal with him, Clark didn’t add.
One could always hope. One last jolt of action before going out to pasture.
7
SO WHAT’S COOKING?” Brian Caruso asked his cousin.
“Same stew, different day, I expect,” Jack Ryan Jr. replied.
“‘Stew’?” Dominic, the other Caruso, replied. “Don’t you mean shit?”
“Trying to be optimistic.”
All three armed with their first cups of coffee of the day, they walked down the corridor to Jack’s office. It was 8:10 a.m., about time for another day to start at The Campus.
“Any word on our friend the Emir?” Brian asked, taking a gulp of coffee.
“Nothing firsthand. He’s not stupid. He even has his e-mails relayed through a series of cutouts now, some of them through ISP accounts that open and close within hours, and even then the account financials turn out to be dead ends. The Pakistan badlands is the best current guess. Maybe next door. Maybe wherever he can buy a safe spot. Hell, at this point I’m tempted to look in our own broom closet.”
It was frustrating, Jack thought. His first adventure into field operations had been a slam dunk. Or beginner’s luck, maybe? Or fate. He’d gone to Rome as Brian and Dominic’s intel support, nothing more, and had by sheer chance spotted MoHa in the hotel. From there things had moved fast, too damned fast, and then it’d been him and MoHa in the bathroom…
He wouldn’t be as frightened the next time, Jack told himself with enormous-and false-confidence. He remembered the killing of MoHa as clearly as the first time he’d gotten laid. Most vivid of all was the look on the man’s face when the succinylcholine had taken hold. Jack might have felt regret for the killing except for the adrenaline rush of the moment, and for what Mohammed had been guilty of. He’d found no regret in his soul for that action. MoHa had been a murderer himself, someone who had taken it upon himself to deliver death to innocent civilians, and Jack hadn’t missed a wink of sleep over it.
It had helped that he’d been among family. He and Dominic and Brian shared a grandfather, Jack Muller, his mom’s father. Their fraternal grandfather, now eighty-three, was first-generation Italian, having emigrated from Italy to Seattle, where for the past sixty years he’d lived and worked at the family-owned and -run restaurant.
Grandpa Muller, former Army veteran and Merrill Lynch VP, had a strained relationship with Jack Ryan Sr., having decided that his son-in-law’s abandonment of Wall Street for government service was sheer idiocy-idiocy that had eventually led to his daughter and granddaughter, Little Sally, nearly losing their lives in a car crash. But for his son-in-law’s ill-advised return to the CIA, the incident would have never happened. Of course, no one except Grandpa Muller believed that, including Mom and Sally.
It also helped, Jack Junior had decided, that Brian and Dominic were relatively new to this as well. Not new to the danger-Brian a Marine and Dominic an FBI agent-but to the “Wilderness of Mirrors,” as James Jesus Angleton had called it. They’d adapted well and quickly, having taken out three URC soldiers in short order-four at the Charlottesville Mall shooting and three in Europe with the Magic Pen. Still, Hendley hadn’t hired them because they were good triggers. “Smart shooters” was the phrase Mike Brennan, his USSS principal, had often used, and it sure as hell fit his cousins.
“Gimme your best guess,” Brian said now.
“Pakistan, but close enough that his people can hop across the border. Somewhere with plenty of evacuation routes. He’s in a place with electricity, but portable generators are easy to come by, so that doesn’t mean much. Maybe a phone line, too. They’ve gotten away from satellite phones. Learned that one the hard way-”
“Yeah, when they read about it in the Times,” Brian growled.
Journalists think they can print anything they want to; it was hard to see those kinds of consequences while sitting in front of a keyboard.
“Bottom line is we don’t know where His Highness is right now. Even my best guess is just a guess, but the truth be told, that’s usually all intelligence amounts to-a guess based on the available info. Sometimes it’s rock-solid, sometimes as thin as air. The good news is we’re reading a lot of mail.”
“How much?” Dominic asked.
“Maybe fifteen or twenty percent.” Still, the sheer volume was overwhelming, but with volume came opportunities. Kind of like Ryan Howard, Jack thought. Swing at a lot of pitches, strike out a lot, but hit a ton of home runs. Hopefully.
“So let’s go shake the trees and see what falls out.” Ever the Marine, Brian was always ready to charge a beachhead. “Snatch somebody up and sweat him.”
“Don’t want to tip our hand,” Jack said. “You save something like that for an op that’s worth blowing it all for.”
The one thing they both knew not to talk about was how cagily the intelligence community was playing with what data it had. A lot of it stayed in-house, not even forwarded to its own directors, who tended to be political appointees, loyal to the people who appointed them, if not always to the oath they’d taken on occupying their offices. The President-known in the community as NCA, for National Command Authority-had a staff that he trusted, though the trust must have been to leak things he wished to leak, and only those things, and only to reporters who could be trusted to accept the spin placed on a leak. The spook community was holding out on the President, a firing offense if anyone got caught. They withheld data from end-user field people, too, which was also something with a history behind it, and which also explained why special ops people rarely trusted the intelligence community. It was all about need-to-know. You could have the highest clearance level available, but if you didn’t need to know, you were still out of the loop. Same went for The Campus, which was officially out of all the loops, which was sort of the point. Still, they’d had a lot of success slipping themselves into the loop. Their hacker-in-chief, an übergeek named Gavin Biery who ran their IT section, had yet to meet an encryption system into which he couldn’t poke a hole.
A former IBM employee, he’d lost two brothers in Vietnam, and thereafter had come to work for the federal government, then to be talent-scouted and cherry-picked to the Fort Meade headquarters of the National Security Agency, the government’s premier center for communications and electronic security. His government salary had long since topped him out as a Senior Executive Service genius, and indeed he still collected his reasonably generous government pension. But he loved the action and had snapped up the offer to join The Campus within seconds of its being made. He was, professionally, a mathematician, with a doctorate from Harvard, where he’d studied under Benoit Mandelbrot himself, and he occasionally lectured at MIT and Caltech as well in his area of expertise.
Biery was a geek through and through, right down to the heavy black-rimmed glasses and doughy complexion, but he kept The Campus’s electronic gears oiled and the machines purring.
“Compartmentalization?” Brian said. “Don’t gimme that cloak-and-dagger shit.”
Jack held up his hands and shrugged. “Sorry.” Like his dad, Jack Ryan Jr. wasn’t one to break the rules. Cousin or not, Brian didn’t have the need to know. Period.
“You ever wonder about the name?” Dominic asked. “The URC? You know how much these guys love double meanings.”
Interesting idea, Jack thought.
The Umayyad Revolutionary Council had been the Emir’s own invention, they’d always guessed. Was it what it seemed-just another oblique reference to the tried-and-true Islamic symbol of jihad; namely, Saladin-or something more?
Born Salah Ad-din Yusuf Ibn Ayyub in about 1138 in Tikrit-current-day Iraq-Saladin had quickly risen to figurehead status during the Crusades, firs
t as the defender of Baalbek, then as the sultan of Egypt and Syria. The fact that Saladin’s battlefield record was by some accounts spotty at best was of little consequence in Muslim history, but as was the case with many historical figures, East and West alike, it was what Saladin came to represent that mattered. To Muslims he was the avenging sword of Allah standing against the flood of infidel crusaders.
If there was any insight to be gained from the URC’s name, it probably lay in the first word, Umayyad, after the Damascus mosque that housed Saladin’s final resting place, a mausoleum containing both a marble sarcophagus donated by Emperor Wilhelm II of Germany and a plain wooden coffin, in which Saladin’s body still remained. The fact that the Emir had chosen Umayyad as his organization’s operational word suggested to Jack that the Emir saw his jihad as a turning point, just as Saladin’s death had been a transition from this life of struggle and suffering to everlasting paradise.
“I’ll give it some thought,” Jack said. “Not a bad hunch, though.”
“It ain’t all sand up here, cuz,” Brian said, smiling, as he tapped his temple with his index finger. “So what’s your dad doing with all his spare time now?”
“Don’t know.” Jack didn’t spend much time at home. That would mean talking to his parents, and the more he talked about his “job,” the more likely his dad would be to get curious, and if his father found out what he was doing here, he might blow a gasket somewhere in his head. And how Mom would react didn’t bear contemplation. The thought grated on Jack. He wasn’t a mama’s boy, that was for sure, but did anyone ever really get past trying to impress their parents or seek their approval? What was that saying? A man isn’t truly a man until he kills his father-metaphorically, of course. He was an adult, on his own, doing some serious shit at The Campus. Time to step out from under Dad’s shadow, Jack reminded himself for the umpteenth time. And a damned big shadow it was.
Brian said, “Bet you he gets fed up and-”
“Runs?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve lived in the White House, remember? I had my fill. I’ll gladly take my cubicle here, hunting bad guys.”
Mostly on the computer so far, Jack thought, but maybe, if he played his cards right, more in the field. He was already rehearsing his pitch to The Campus’s head, Gerry Hendley. The MoHa thing had to count for something, didn’t it? His cousins were smart shooters. Did the term fit him? Jack wondered. Could it fit him? In comparison, his life had been a sheltered one, the well-protected son of President John Patrick Ryan, but that had come with benefits, hadn’t it? He’d learned to shoot from Secret Service agents, had played chess against the Secretary of State, had lived and breathed, albeit obliquely, the inner worlds of the intelligence and military communities. Had he, by osmosis, picked up some of the traits for which Brian and Dominic had trained so hard? Maybe. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Either way, he had to get past Hendley first.
“But you ain’t your dad,” Dominic reminded him.
“True enough.” Jack turned in his chair and powered up his PC for the morning news dose, public and classified. Too often, the latter was only three days in advance of the former. The first thing Jack logged in to was the Executive Intercept Transcript Summary from the NSA. Called EITS or XITS-and bearing the unfortunate moniker “zits”-it went only to high-level officers at the NSA and the CIA, and the National Security Council at the White House.
Speaking of the devil… There he was, the Emir himself, in the XITS again. An intercept. The message had been strictly administrative. The Emir wanted to know what someone-just an anonymous code name-was doing, whether he had made contact with some unknown foreign national, for some unknown purpose. That was the standard with most of these intercepts-a lot of unknowns, sort of like fill-in-the-blank, which was, in truth, what intelligence analysis was all about. The biggest and most complex jigsaw puzzle in the world. This particular piece had prompted a brainstorming meeting at the CIA.
The proposed agenda was the topic of a full single-spaced report (almost all of it speculation) by some middle-level analyst who probably wanted a better office and liked to spitball his speculation in the hopes that someday something would stick to the wall and so hike him to a supergrade’s salary. And maybe someday he would, but that wouldn’t make him any smarter, except maybe in the eyes of a superior who’d clawed his way up in similar fashion and liked having his back scratched.
Something was nagging at Jack’s brain, something about this particular query… He rolled his mouse’s pointer over the XITS folder on his hard drive, double-clicked it, and brought up the summary document he’d been keeping of XITS. And there it was, the same intercept reference number, this one attached to a trio of week-old e-mails, the first from an NSC staffer to the NSA. Seems somebody at the White House wanted to know how exactly the information had been obtained. The query was then forwarded to the DNSA-a billet for a three-star professional military intelligence officer, at the moment an Army officer named Lieutenant General Sam Ferren-who responded curtly: BACKPACK. DO NOT REPLY. WILL HANDLE AD-MINISTRATIVELY.
Jack had to smile at this. Currently “Backpack” was the NSA’s rotating, in-house code name for Echelon, the agency’s all-knowing, all-seeing electronic monitoring program. Ferren’s response was understandable. The NSC staffer was asking for “sources and methods,” the nuts and bolts of how the NSA worked its magic. Such secrets were simply not shared by intel consumers such as the White House, and for an NSC staffer to request them was idiotic.
Predictably, Ferren’s subsequent XITS summary for the NSC simply listed the intercept source as “overseas cooperative ELINT,” or electronic intelligence, essentially telling the White House that the NSA got the info from a friendly intelligence agency. In short, he lied.
There could be only one reason for this: Ferren suspected the White House was showing the XITS around. Jesus, Jack thought, must be quite a strain for a three-star to have to watch what he says to the sitting President. But if the spook world didn’t trust the President, who, then, was looking after the country? And if the system broke down, Jack further thought, whom the hell did you go to? That was a question for a philosopher, or a priest.
Deep thoughts for an early morning, Jack told himself, but if he was reading the XITS-supposedly the sanctum sanctorum of government documents-what was he not reading? What wasn’t being disseminated? And who the hell got that info? Was there an insulated communications link at the director level only?
Okay, so the Emir was talking again. NSA didn’t have the key to his personal encryption system, but The Campus had it-something Jack had bagged himself, by borrowing the data off MoHa’s personal computer and handing it over to Biery and his geeks, who’d transferred the data to a FireWire hard drive. Inside of a day they’d picked it apart for all its secrets-including passwords, which had cracked open all manner of encrypted communications, some of which had been read at The Campus for five months before being changed routinely. The opposition had been fairly careful about that, and/or had been properly trained by somebody who’d worked for a real spook shop. But not that carefully. The passwords were not changed daily or even weekly. The Emir and his people were very confident in their security measures, and that failing had destroyed whole nation-states. Crypto spooks were always for hire on the open market, and most of them spoke Russian and were poor enough that any offer looked good. The CIA had even dangled a few at the bad guys as consultants to the Emir. At least one of them had been found under a trash heap in Islamabad with his throat slit from earlobe to earlobe. It was a rough game being played out there, even for professionals. Jack hoped that Langley took proper care of whatever family the man had left behind. That didn’t always happen with agents. CIA case officers got plenty of death benefits, and their families were never forgotten by Langley, but agents were a different thing altogether. Usually unappreciated, and often quickly forgotten when a better asset came along.
It appeared the Emir was still wonde
ring about the people he’d lost on the streets of Europe-all at the hands of Brian and Dominic Caruso and Jack, though the Emir didn’t know that. Three heart attacks, the Emir speculated, seemed an inordinately large number for fit, young people. He’d had his agents delve carefully into the medical records, but those had been picked clean, overtly and covertly-the former by lawyers representing the estates of the deceased, and the latter by bribing petty bureaucrats for the original documents and further checking for evidence of a hidden addendum that might be filed separately, all to no avail. The Emir was writing to an operative evidently living in Vienna who’d been sent to look into an odd case, the man who’d apparently stumbled under a streetcar, because, the Emir said, he’d been such a spry boy as a youngster with horses-not the type to fall under a moving vehicle. But sure enough, the Emir’s man replied, fully nine people had seen the incident, and by all accounts he’d just slipped right in front of a tram, something that could have happened to anyone, however sure-footed he might have been at the age of eleven. The Austrian physicians had been thorough, and the official autopsy had been clear: Fa’ad Rahmin Yasin had been carved rather messily into half a dozen chunks by a streetcar. His blood had been checked for alcohol, but nothing was found but some residual traces from the previous night-so the pathologist assumed-certainly not enough to affect cognitive judgment. Nor were there any traces of narcotics of any sort in such blood as they’d managed to recover from the mangled body. Conclusion: He’d slipped and fallen and died of blunt-force trauma and exsanguination-a fancy way of saying he’d bled to death.
Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, Jack decided.
8
ONE THING Driscoll and his Rangers had long ago learned was that distances on a map of the Hindu Kush bore little semblance to the reality on the ground. In fairness, even digital-age cartographers had no way of calculating the spatial impact of every rise, fall, and switchback in the terrain. In planning the mission, he and Captain Wilson had multiplied all their estimates by two, a variable that seemed to generally work, and though this mathematical adjustment was never far from Driscoll’s mind, realizing that their hump to the LZ was not in fact three klicks but closer to six-almost four miles-was almost enough to bring a string of curses to his lips. He quashed the impulse. It wouldn’t do them any good. Might even do a little harm, showing a crack in front of the team. Even if their eyes weren’t on him every minute, each of his Rangers was taking his cues from him. Both shit and attitude did indeed roll downhill.
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