The Sum of All Fears jr-7

by Tom Clancy

  Fromm and the Bocks had met five years earlier. The Red Army Faction had come up with a plan to sabotage a West German reactor, and wanted technical advice on how to do so most efficiently. Though never revealed to the public, their plan had been thwarted only at the last minute. Publicity on the BND's intelligence success would conversely have threatened Germany 's own nuclear industry.

  “Less than a year until they shut us down for good. I only go in to work three days a week now. I've been replaced by a 'technical expert' from the West. He lets me 'advise' him, of course,” Fromm reported.

  “There must be more, Manfred,” Bock observed. Fromm had also been the chief engineer in Erich Honecker's most cherished military project. Though allies within the World Socialist Brotherhood, the Russians and the Germans could never have been true friends. The bad blood between the nations stretched back a thousand years, and while Germany had at least made a go of socialism, the Russians had failed completely. As a result, the East German military had never been anything like the much larger force in the West. To the last, the Russians had feared Germans, even those on their own side, before incomprehensibly allowing the country to be unified. Erich Honecker had decided that such distrust might have strategic ramifications, and had drawn plans to keep some of the plutonium produced at Greifswald and elsewhere. Manfred Fromm knew as much about nuclear bomb design as any Russian or American, even if he'd never quite been able to put his expertise into play. The plutonium stockpile secretly accumulated over ten years had been turned over to the Russians as a final gesture of Marxist fealty, lest the Federal German government get it. That last honorable act had resulted in angry recriminations — angry enough that one other cache of material had never been turned over. What connections Fromm and his colleagues had once had with the Soviets were completely gone.

  “Oh, I have a fine offer.” Fromm lifted a manila envelope on his cluttered desk. “They want me to go to Argentina. My counterparts in the West have been there for years, along with most of the chaps I worked with.”

  “What do they offer?”

  Fromm snorted. “One million D-Mark per year until the project is completed. No difficulties with taxes, numbered account, all the normal enticements,” Fromm said with an emotionless voice. And that, of course, was quite impossible. Fromm could no more work for Fascists than he could breathe water. His grandfather, one of the original Spartacists, had died in one of the first labor camps soon after Hitler's accession to power. His father had been part of the Communist underground and a player in a spy ring, had somehow survived the war despite the systematic hunting of the Gestapo and the Sicherheitsdienst, and been an honored local Party member to the day of his death. Fromm had learned Marxism-Leninism while he'd learned to walk, and the elimination of his profession had not enamored him of the new political system which he'd been educated to despise. He'd lost his job, had never fulfilled his prime ambition, and was now being treated like an office boy by some pink-cheeked engineer's assistant from Göttingen. Worst of all, his wife wanted him to take the job in Argentina and was making a further hell of his life so long as he refused to consider it. Finally he had to ask his question. “Why are you here, Günther? The entire country is looking for you, and despite that fine disguise, you are in danger here.”

  Bock smiled confidently. “Isn't it amazing what new hair and glasses can do for you?”

  “That does not answer my question.”

  “I have friends who need your skills.”

  “What friends might those be?” Fromm asked dubiously.

  They are politically acceptable to me and to you. I have not forgotten Petra," Bock replied.

  “That was a good plan we put together, wasn't it? What went wrong?”

  “We had a spy among us. Because of her, they changed the security arrangements at the plant three days before we were supposed to go in.”

  “A Green?”

  Günther allowed himself a bitter smile, “Ja. She had second thoughts about possible civilian casualties and damage to the environment. Well, she is now part of the environment.” Petra had done the shooting, her husband remembered. There was nothing worse than a spy, and it was fitting that Petra should have done the execution.

  “Part of the environment, you say? How poetic.” It was Fromm's first attempt at levity, and about as successful as all his attempts. Manfred Fromm was a singularly humorless man.

  “I cannot offer you money. In fact, I cannot tell you anything else. You must decide on the basis of what I have already said.” Bock didn't have a gun, but he did have a knife. He wondered if Manfred knew the alternatives he faced. Probably not. Despite his ideological purity, Fromm was a technocrat, and narrowly focused.

  “When do we leave?”

  “Are you being watched?”

  “No. I had to travel to Switzerland for the 'business offer.' Such things cannot be discussed in this country, even if it is united and happy,” he explained. “I made my own travel arrangements. No, I do not think I am being watched.”

  “Then we can leave at once. You need not pack anything.”

  “What do I tell my wife?” Fromm asked, then wondered why he'd bothered. It wasn't as though his marriage was a happy one.

  “That is your concern.”

  “Let me pack some things. It's easier that way. How long…?”

  “I do not know.”

  It took half an hour. Fromm explained to his wife that he was going to be away for a few days for further business discussions. She gave him a hopeful kiss. Argentina might be nice, and nicer still to be able to live well somewhere. Perhaps this old friend had been able to talk sense into him. He drove a Mercedes, after all. Perhaps he knew what the future really held.

  Three hours later, Bock and Fromm boarded a flight to Rome. After an hour's layover, their next stop was Turkey, and from there to Damascus, where they checked into a hotel to get some needed rest.

  If anything, Ghosn told himself, Marvin Russell was even more formidable-looking than he'd been before. What little excess weight he'd carried had sweated off, and his daily fitness exercises with the soldiers of the movement had only added to an already muscular physique, while the sun had bronzed him until he might almost have been mistaken for an Arab. The one discordant note was his religion. His comrades reported that he was a true pagan, an unbeliever, who prayed to the sun, of all things. It disquieted the Muslims, but people were working, gently, to show him the true faith of Islam, and it was reported that he listened respectfully. It was also reported that he was a dead shot with any weapon to any range; that he was the most lethal hand-to-hand fighter they'd ever encountered — he'd nearly crippled an instructor — and that he had field-craft skills that would impress a fox. A clever, cunning, natural warrior was the overall assessment. Aside from his religious eccentricities, the others liked and admired him.

  “Marvin, if you get any tougher, you will frighten me!” Ghosn chuckled at his American friend.

  “Ibrahim, this is the best thing I've ever done, coming here. I never knew that there were other folks who been fucked over like my people, man — but you guys are better at fighting back. You guys got real balls.” Ghosn blinked at that — this from a man who'd snapped a policeman's neck like a twig. “I really want to help, man, any way I can.”

  “There is always a place for a true warrior.” If his language skills improved, he'd make a fine instructor, Ghosn thought. “Well, I must be off.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “A place we have east of here.” It was to the north. “Some special work I must do.”

  That thing we dug up?" Russell asked casually. Almost too casually, Ghosn thought, but that was not possible, was it? Caution was one thing. Paranoia was another.

  “Something else. Sorry, my friend, but we must take our security seriously.”

  Marvin nodded. “It's cool, man. That's what killed my brother, fucking up security. See ya' when you get back.”

  Ghosn left for his car and
drove out of the camp. He took the Damascus road for an hour. Foreigners so often failed to appreciate how small the Middle East was — the important parts, at least. The drive from Jerusalem to Damascus, for example, would have been a mere two hours on decent roads, though the two cities were the proverbial worlds apart politically… or had been, Ghosn reminded himself. He'd heard of some ominous rumblings from Syria of late. Was even that government tiring of the struggle? It was easy to call that an impossibility, but that word no longer had its prior meaning.

  Five kilometers outside Damascus, he spotted the other car waiting at the prescribed place. He drove past it for two thousand meters, scanning for surveillance before he decided it was safe to turn around. A minute later, he pulled over close to it. The two men got out as they'd been directed to do, and their driver, a member of the Organization, simply drove away.

  “Good morning, Günther.”

  “And to you, Ibrahim. This is my friend, Manfred.” Both men got into the back of the car, and the engineer drove off at once.

  Ghosn eyed the newcomer in the mirror. Older than Bock, thinner, with deep-sunk eyes. He was poorly dressed for the environment and sweating like a pig. Ibrahim handed back a plastic water bottle. The newcomer wiped off the top with his handkerchief before drinking. Arabs not sanitary enough for you? Ghosn wondered. Well, that was not his concern, was it?

  The drive to the new location took two hours. Ghosn deliberately took a circuitous route despite the fact that the sun would keep a careful observer informed of their direction. He didn't know what sort of training this Manfred fellow had, and while it was prudent to assume he knew every skill there was, it was also prudent to employ every trick in the book. By the time they arrived at their destination, only a trained reconnaissance soldier would have been able to duplicate the route.

  Qati had chosen well. Until a few months earlier, it had been a command center for Hezbollah. Dug into the side of a steep hillside, the corrugated-iron roof was covered with earth and planted with the sparse local shrubbery. Only a skilled man who knew exactly what he was looking for could ever have spotted it, and that was unlikely. Hezbollah was particularly adept at routing out informers in its midst. A dirt track ran right past it to an abandoned farm whose land was too played-out even for opium and hashish production, which was the major cash crop in the area. Inside the structure was about a hundred square meters of concrete-floored shade, even with room to park a few vehicles. The only bad news was that this place would be a deathtrap in case of an earthquake, Ghosn told himself, not an unknown occurrence in the region. He pulled the car in between two posts, out of sight. On leaving the car, he dropped camouflage netting behind it. Yes, Qati had chosen well.

  The hardest balance, as always, was choosing between the two aspects of security. On the one hand, the more people who knew that anything was happening, the worse it was. On the other, some people were necessary just to provide a guard force. Qati had brought most of his personal guard, ten men of known loyalty and skill. They knew Ghosn and Bock by sight, and their leader came forward to meet Manfred.

  “This is our new friend,” Ghosn told the man, who looked closely at the German's face and walked away.

  “Was gibt's hier?” Fromm asked in tense German.

  “What we have here,” Ghosn answered in English, “is very interesting.”

  Manfred took his lesson from that.

  “Kommen Sie mit, bitte.” Ghosn led them to a wall with a door in it. A man with a rifle stood outside of it, which made much better sense than a lock. The engineer nodded to the guard, who nodded curtly back. Ghosn led them into the room and pulled a cord to turn on the fluorescent lighting. There was a large metal work table covered with a tarp. Ghosn removed the tarp without further comment. He was tiring of the drama in any case. It was time for real work.

  “Gott im Himmel!”

  “I've never seen it myself,” Bock admitted. “So that is what it looks like?”

  Fromm put on some glasses and peered over the mechanism for perhaps a minute before looking up. “American design, but not American manufacture.” He pointed. “Wrong sort of wiring. Crude device, thirty years — no, older than that in design, but not in fabrication. These circuit boards are… 1960s, perhaps early '7os. Soviet? From the cache in Azerbaijan, perhaps?”

  Ghosn merely shook his head.

  “Israeli? Ist das möglich?” That question got a nod.

  “More than possible, my friend. It is here.”

  “Gravity bomb. Tritium injection into the pit to boost yield — fifty to seventy kilotons, I'd guess — radar and impact fusing. It has actually been dropped, but did not go off. Why?”

  “Apparently it was never armed. Everything we recovered is before you,” Ghosn answered. He was already impressed with Manfred.

  Fromm ran his fingers inside the bombcase, searching for connectors. “You're correct. How interesting.” There was a long pause. “You know that it can probably be repaired… and even…”

  “Even what?” Ghosn asked, knowing the answer.

  “This design can be converted into a triggering device.”

  “For what?” Bock asked.

  “For a hydrogen bomb,” Ghosn answered. “I suspected that.”

  “Awfully heavy, nothing like the efficiency of a modern design. As they say, crude but effective…” Fromm looked up. “You want my help to repair it, then?”

  “Will you help?” Ghosn asked.

  “Ten years — more, twenty years I have studied and thought… How will it be used?”

  “Does that trouble you?”

  “It will not be used in Germany?”

  “Of course not,” Ghosn answered, almost in annoyance. What quarrel did the Organization really have with the Germans, after all?

  Something in Bock's mind, however, went click. He closed his eyes for a moment to engrave the thought in his memory.

  “Yes, I will help.”

  “You will be well paid,” Ghosn promised him. He saw a moment later that this was a mistake. But that didn't matter, did it?

  “I do not do such things for money! You think I am a mercenary?” Fromm asked indignantly.

  “Excuse me. I meant no insult. A skilled worker is someone to be rewarded for his time. We are not beggars, you know.”

  Neither am I, Fromm almost said, before his good sense intervened. These were not the Argentines, were they? They were not Fascists, not capitalists, they were revolutionary comrades who had also fallen upon bad political times… though he was sure their fiscal situation was highly favorable indeed. The Soviets had never given arms to the Arabs. It had all been sold for hard currency, even under Brezhnev and Andropov, and if that had been good enough for the Soviets when they still held the true faith… then…

  “Forgive me. I merely stated a fact, and I did not mean to insult you, either. I know you are not beggars. You are revolutionary soldiers, freedom fighters, and I will be honored to assist you in any way I can.” He waved his hand. “You may feel free to pay me whatever you think fair”—it would be plenty, more than a mere million D-Mark! — “but please understand that I do not sell myself for money.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet an honorable man,” Ghosn said, with a satisfied look.

  Bock thought they had both laid it on rather thick, but kept his peace. He already suspected how Fromm would be paid.

  “So,” Ghosn said next. “Where do we begin?”

  “First, we think. I need paper and pencil.”

  “And who might you be?” Ryan asked.

  “Ben Goodley, sir.”

  “ Boston?” Ryan asked. The accent was quite distinctive.

  “Yes, sir. Kennedy School. I'm a postdoctoral fellow and, well, now I'm a White House Fellow also.”

  “ Nancy?” Ryan turned to his secretary.

  “The Director has him on your calendar, Dr. Ryan.”

  “Okay, Dr. Goodley,” Ryan said with a smile, “come on in.” Clark took his seat after sizing the ne
w guy up.

  “Want some coffee?”

  “You have decaf?” Goodley asked.

  “You want to work here, boy, you'd better get used to the real stuff. Grab a seat. Sure you don't want any?”

  “I'll pass, sir.”

  “Okay.” Ryan poured his customary mug and sat down behind his desk. “So, what are you doing in this puzzle palace?”

  “The short version is, looking for a job. I did my dissertation on intelligence operations, their history and prospects. I need to see some things to finish my work at Kennedy, then I want to find out if I can do the real thing.”

  Jack nodded. That sounded familiar enough. “Clearances?”

  “TS, SAP/SAR. Those are new. I already have a 'secret', because some of my work at Kennedy involved going into some presidential archives, mainly in D.C., but some of the stuff in Boston is still sensitive. I was even part of the team that FOI'd a lot of stuff from the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

  “Dr. Nicholas Bledsoe, his work?”

  “That's right.”

  “I didn't buy all of Nick's conclusions, but that was a hell of a piece of research.” Jack raised his mug in salute.

  Goodley had written nearly half of that monograph, including the conclusions. “What did you take issue with — if I may ask?”

  “Khrushchev's action was fundamentally irrational. I think — and the record bears this out — that his placing the missiles there was impulsive rather than reasoned.”

  “I disagree. The paper pointed out that the principal Soviet concern was our IRBMs in Europe, especially the ones in Turkey. It seems logical to conclude that it was all a ploy to reach a stable situation regarding theater forces.”

  “Your paper didn't report on everything,” Jack said.

  “Such as?” Goodley asked, hiding his annoyance.

  “Such as the intel we were getting from Penkovskiy and others. Those documents are still classified, and will remain so for another twenty years.”