Without Remorse (1993)

by Tom - Jack Ryan 08 Clancy

  "Hello, Charles," a voice said beside him.

  "Hello, Sergey."

  "I do not know you," the rezident observed.

  "This conversation is unofficial," Ritter explained.

  "Aren't they all?" Sergey noted. He started walking. Any single place could be bugged, but not a whole zoo. For that matter, his contact could be wearing a wire, though that would not have been in accordance with the rules, such as they were. He and Ritter walked down the gentle paved slope to the next animal exhibit, with the rezident's security guard in close attendance.

  "I just returned from Vietnam," the CIA officer said.

  "Warmer there than here."

  "Not at sea. It's rather pleasant out there."

  "The purpose of your cruise?" the rezident asked.

  "A visit, an unplanned one."

  "I believe it failed," the Russian said, not tauntinaly, just letting "Charles" know that he knew what was going on.

  "Not completely. We brought someone home with us."

  "Who might that be?"

  "His name is Nikolay." Ritter handed over Grishanov's paybook. "It would be an embarrassment to your government if it were to be revealed that a Soviet officer was interrogating American POWs."

  "Not a great embarrassment," Sergey replied, flipping briefly through the paybook before pocketing it.

  "Well, actually it would be. You see, the people he's been interrogating have been reported as being dead by your little friends."

  "I don't understand." He was telling the truth, and Ritter had to explain for a few minutes. "I did not know any of that," Sergey said after hearing the facts of the matter.

  "It's true, I assure you. You will be able to verify it through your own means." And he would, of course. Ritter knew that, and Sergey knew that he knew.

  "And where is our colonel?"

  "In a safe place. He's enjoying better hospitality than our people are."

  "Colonel Grishanov hasn't dropped bombs on anyone," the Russian pointed out.

  "That is true, but he did take part in a process that will end with the death of American prisoners, and we have hard evidence that they are alive. As I said earlier, a potential embarrassment for your government."

  Sergey Voloshin was a highly astute political observer and didn't need this young CIA officer to tell him that. He could also see where this discussion was headed.

  "What do you propose?"

  "It would be helpful if your government could persuade Hanoi to restore these men to life, as it were. That is, to take them to the same prison where the other prisoners are, and make the proper notifications so that their families will know they are alive after all. In return for that, Colonel Grishanov will be returned unharmed, and uninterrogated."

  "I will forward that proposal to Moscow." With a favorable endorsement, his tone said clearly.

  "Please be quick. We have reason to believe that the Vietnamese may be contemplating something drastic to relieve themselves of the potential embarrassment. That would be a very serious complication," Ritter warned.

  "Yes, I suppose it would be." He paused. "Your assurance that Colonel Grishanov is alive and well?"

  "I can have you to him in ... oh, about forty minutes if you wish. Do you think I would lie about something as important as this?"

  "No, I do not. But some questions must be asked."

  "Yes, Sergey Ivan'ch. I know that. We have no wish to harm your colonel. He seems to have behaved rather honorably in his treatment of our people. He was also a very effective interrogator. I have his notes." Ritter added, "The offer to meet with him is open if you wish to make use of it."

  Voloshin thought about it, seeing the trap. Such an offer, if taken, would have to be reciprocated, because that was the way things were. To call Ritter's hand on this would commit his own government to something, and Voloshin didn't want to do that without guidance. Besides, it would be madness for CIA to lie in a case like this. Those prisoners could always be made to disappear. Only the goodwill of the Soviet Union could save them, and only the continuance of that goodwill would keep them healthy.

  "I will take you at your word, Mister--"

  "Ritter, Bob Ritter."

  "Ah! Budapest."

  Ritter grinned rather sheepishly. Well, after all he'd done to get his agent out, it was clear that he'd never go back into the field again, at least not in any place that mattered--which for Ritter started at the River Elbe. The Russian poked him in the chest.

  "You did well getting your man out. I commend you on your loyalty to your agent." Most of all Voloshin respected him for the risk he'd taken, something not possible in the KGB.

  "Thank you, General. And thank you for responding to my proposal. When can I call you?"

  "I'll need two days ... shall I call you?"

  "Forty-eight hours from now. I'll make the call."

  "Very well. Good day." They shook hands like the professionals they were. Voloshin walked back to his driver /bodyguard and headed back to the car. Their walk had ended up at the enclosure for the Kodiak bear, large, brown, and powerful. Had that been an accident? Ritter wondered.

  On the walk back to his car he realized that the whole thing had been an accident of sorts. On the strength of this play, Ritter would become a section chief. Failed rescue mission or not, he'd just negotiated an important concession with the Russians, and it had all happened because of the presence of mind of a man younger than himself, scared and on the run, who'd taken the time to think. He wanted people like that in the Agency, and now he had the clout to bring him in. Kelly had demurred and temporized on the flight back from Hawaii. Okay, so he'd need a little convincing. He'd have to work with Jim Greer on that, but Ritter decided on the spot that his next mission was to bring Kelly in from the cold, or the heat, or whatever you called it.

  "How well do you know Mrs. O'Toole?" Ryan asked.

  "Her husband's dead," the neighbor said. "He went to Vietnam right after they bought the house, and then he was killed. Such a nice young man, too. She's not in any trouble, is she?"

  The detective shook his head. "No, not at all. I've only heard good things about her."

  "It's been awful busy over there," the elderly lady went on. She was the perfect person to talk to, about sixty-five, a widow with nothing to do who compensated for the empty space in her life by keeping track of everyone else's. With a little reassurance that she wasn't hurting anyone, she'd relate everything she knew.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I think she had a houseguest a while back. She sure was shopping a lot more than usual. She's such a nice, pretty girl. It's so sad about her husband. She really ought to start dating again. I'd like to tell her, but I don't want her to think I'm nosy. Anyway, she was shopping a lot, and somebody else came almost every day, stayed overnight a lot, even."

  "Who was that?" Ryan asked, sipping his iced tea.

  "A woman, short like me, but heavier, messy hair. She drove a big car, a red Buick, I think, and it had a sticker-thing on the windshield. Oh! That's right!"

  "What's that?" Ryan asked.

  "I was out with my roses when the girl came out, that's when I saw the sticker-thing."

  "Girl?" Ryan asked innocently.

  "That's who she was shopping for!" the elderly lady said, pleased with herself for the sudden discovery. "She bought clothes for her, I bet. I remember the Hecht Company bags."

  "Can you tell me what the girl looked like?"

  "Young, like nineteen or twenty, dark hair. Kinda pale, like she was sick. They drove away, when was that ... ? Oh, I remember. It's the day my new roses came from the nursery. The eleventh. The truck came very early because I don't like the heat, and I was out there working when they came out. I waved at Sandy. She's such a nice girl. I don't talk to her very much, but when I do she always has a kind word. She's a nurse, you know, she works at Johns Hopkins, and--"

  Ryan finished off his tea without letting his satisfaction show. Doris Brown had returned home to Pittsburgh
on the afternoon of the eleventh. Sarah Rosen drove a Buick, and it undoubtedly had a parking sticker in the window. Sam Rosen, Sarah Rosen, Sandra O'Toole. They had treated Miss Brown. Two of them had also treated Miss Madden. They had also treated Mr. Kelly. After months of frustration, Lieutenant Emmet Ryan had a case.

  "There she is now," the lady said, startling him out of his private thoughts. Ryan turned and looked to see an attractive young lady, on the tall side. carrying a bag of groceries.

  "I wonder who that man was?"

  "What man?"

  "He was there last night. Maybe she has a boyfriend after all. Tall, like you, dark hair--big."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Like a football player, you know, big. He must be nice, though. I saw her hug him. That was just last night."

  Thank God, Ryan thought, for people who don't watch TV.

  For his long gun, Kelly had selected a bolt-action .22, a Savage Model 54, the lightweight version of that company's Anschutz match weapon. It was expensive enough at a hundred fifty dollars with tax. Almost as costly were the Leupold scope and mounts. The rifle was almost too good for its purpose, which was the hunting of small game, and had a particularly fine walnut stock. It was a shame that he'd have to scar it up. It would have been more of a shame to waste the lesson from that chief machinist's mate, however.

  The one bad thing about the demise of Eddie Morello was that sweetening the deal had required the loss of a large quantity of pure, uncut heroin, a six-kilogram donation to the police evidence locker. That had to be made up. Philadelphia was hungry for more, and his New York connections were showing increasing interest now that they'd had their first taste. He'd do one last batch on the ship. Now he could change over again. Tony was setting up a secure lab that was easier to reach, more in keeping with the burgeoning success he was enjoying, but until that was ready, one more time the old way. He wouldn't make the trip himself.

  "How soon?" Burt asked.

  "Tonight."

  "Fair enough, boss. Who goes with me?"

  "Phil and Mike." The two new ones were from Tony's organization, young, bright, ambitious. They didn't know Henry yet, and would not be part of his local distribution network, but they could handle out-of-town deliveries and were willing to do the menial work that was part of this business, mixing and packaging. They saw it, not inaccurately, as a rite of passage, a starting place from which their status and responsibility would grow. Tony guaranteed their reliability. Henry accepted that. He and Tony were bound now, bound in business, bound in blood. He'd accept Tony's counsel now that he trusted him. He'd rebuild his distribution network, removing the need for his female couriers, and with the removal of the need for them, so would end the reason for their lives. It was too bad, but with three defections, it was plain that they were becoming dangerous. A useful part of his operation in the growth phase, perhaps, but now a liability.

  But one thing at a time.

  "How much?" Burt asked.

  "Enough to keep you busy for a while." Henry waved to the beer coolers. There wasn't room for much beer in them now, but that was as it should be. Burt carried them out to his car, not casual, but not tense. Businesslike, the way things should be. Perhaps Burt would become his principal lieutenant. He was loyal, respectful, tough when he had to be, far more dependable than Billy or Rick, and a brother. It was funny, really. Billy and Rick had been necessary at the beginning since the major distributors were always white, and he'd taken them on as tokens. Well, fate had settled that. Now the white boys were coming to him, weren't they?

  "Take Xantha with you."

  "Boss, we're going to be busy," Burt objected.

  "You can leave her there when you're done." Perhaps one at a time was the best way to do it.

  Patience never came easy. It was a virtue he'd learned, after a fashion, but only from necessity. Activity helped. He set the gun barrel in the vise, damaging the finish even before he started to do anything substantive. Setting the milling machine on high-speed, rotating the control wheel, he started drilling a series of holes at regular intervals in the outermost six inches of the barrel. An hour later he had a steel can-body affixed over it, and the telescopic sight attached. The rifle, as modified, proved to be quite accurate, Kelly thought.

  "Tough one, Dad?"

  "Eleven months' worth, Jack," Emmet admitted over dinner. He was home on time for once, to his wife's pleasure--almost.

  "That awful one?" his wife asked.

  "Not over dinner, honey, okay?" he replied, answering the question. Emmet did his best to keep that part of his life out of the house. He looked over at his son and decided to comment on a decision his son recently made. "Marines, eh?"

  "Well, Dad, it pays for the last two years of school, doesn't it?" It was like his son to worry about things like that, about the cost of education for his sister, still in high school and away at camp for the moment. And like his father, Jack craved a little adventure before settling down to whatever place life would find for him.

  "My son, a jarhead," Emmet grumbled good-naturedly. He also worried. Vietnam wasn't over, might not be over when his son graduated, and like most fathers of his generation, he wondered why the hell he'd had to risk his life fighting Germans--so that his son might have to do the same, fighting people he'd never even heard about at his son's age.

  "What falls out of the sky, pop?" Jack asked with a college-boy grin, repeating something Marines like to say.

  Such talk worried Catherine Burke Ryan, who remembered seeing Emmet off, remembered praying all day in St. Elizabeth Church on June 6, 1944, and many days thereafter despite the regular letters and assurances. She remembered the waiting. She knew this kind of talk worried Emmet too, though not quite in the same way.

  Whut falls out of the sky? Trouble! the detective almost told his son, for the Airborne, too, were a proud group, but the thought stopped before it got to his lips.

  Kelly. We tried calling him. We had the Coast Guard look at that island he lives on. The boat wasn't there. The boat wasn't anywhere. Where was he? He was back now, though, if the little old lady was right. What if he was away? But now he's back. The killings just plain stopped after the Farmer-Grayson-Brown incident. The marina had remembered seeing the boat about that time, but he'd left in the middle of the night--that night--and just vanished. Connection. Where had the boat been? Where was it now? What falls out of the sky? Trouble. That's exactly what had happened before. It just dropped out of the sky. Started and stopped.

  His wife and son saw it again. Chewing on his food, his eyes focused on infinity, unable to turn his mind off as it churned his information over and over. Kelly's not really all that different from what I used to be, Ryan thought. One-Oh-One, the Screaming Eagles of the 101st Infantry Division (Airborne), who still swaggered in their baggy pants. Emmet had started off as a buck private, ended up with a late-war battlefield commission to the rank he still held, lieutenant. He remembered the pride of being something very special, the sense of invincibility that strangely came arm in arm with the terror of jumping out of an aircraft, being the first on enemy territory, in the dark, carrying light weapons only. The hardest men with the hardest mission. Mission. He'd been like that once. But no one had ever killed his lady ... what might have happened, back in 1946, perhaps, if someone had done that to Catherine?

  Nothing good.

  He'd saved Doris Brown. He'd given her over to people he trusted. He'd seen one of them last night. He knows she's dead. He saved Pamela Madden, she died, and he was in the hospital, and a few weeks after he got out people started dying in a very expert way. A few weeks ... to get in shape. Then the killings just stopped and Kelly was nowhere to be found.

  What if he's just been away?

  He's back now.

  Something's going to happen.

  It wasn't a thing he could take to court. The only physical evidence they had was the imprint of a shoe sole--a common brand of sneaker, of course, hundreds sold every day. Zilch. They had mot
ive. But how many murders happened every year, and how many people followed up on it? They had opportunity. Could he account for his time in front of a jury? No one could. How, the detective thought, do you explain this to a judge--no, some judges would understand, but no jury would, not after a brand-new law-school graduate had explained a few things to them.

  The case was solved, Ryan thought. He knew. But he had nothing for it but the knowledge that something was going to happen.

  "Who's that, you suppose?" Mike asked.

  "Some fisherman, looks like," Burt observed from the driver's seat. He kept Henry's Eighth well clear of the white cabin cruiser. Sunset was close. They were almost too late to navigate the tangled waters into their laboratory, which looked very different at night. Burt gave the white boat a look. The guy with the fishing rod waved, a gesture he returned as he turned to port--left, as he thought of it. There was a big night ahead. Xantha wouldn't be much help. Well, maybe a little, when they broke for meals. A shame, really. Not really a bad girl, just dumb, badly spaced out. Maybe that's how they'd do it, just give her a nice taste of real good stuff before they broke out the netting and the cement blocks. They were sitting right in the open, right in the boat, and she didn't have a clue what they were for. Well, that wasn't his lookout.

  Burt shook his head. There were more important things to consider. How would Mike and Phil feel about working under him? He'd have to be polite about it, of course. They'd understand. With the money involved, they ought to. He relaxed in his chair, sipping his beer and looking for the red marker buoy.