by Tom Clancy
“You know better than that, Ron. What's certain in this business?”
“Before I request a couple hundred million dollars” worth of funding, I need something better than this. It's happened before, and we've done it, too — if the other side has something you can't break, get them to change it. Make it appear that they're penetrated."
“That might have been true fifty years ago, but not anymore.”
“Repeat, I need better evidence before I go to see Trent. We can't slap something together as quickly as you can with MERCURY. We have to make thousands of the goddamned things. Supporting that is complex and costly as hell. I need hard evidence before I stick my neck out that far.”
“Fair enough, General. I've had my say.”
“Jack, we'll look into it. I have a tiger team that does that, and I'll have them examining the problem tomorrow morning. I appreciate your concern. We're friends, remember?”
“Sorry, Ron. Long hours.”
“Maybe you need some time off. You look tired.”
“That's what everybody tells me.”
Ryan's next stop was at the FBI.
“I heard,” Dan Murray said. “That bad?”
“I think so. Ron Olson isn't so sure.” Jack didn't have to explain. Of all the possible disasters for a government to face, short of war, none was worse than leaky communications links. Literally everything depended on secure methods of moving information from one place to another. Wars had been won and lost on the basis of a single message that had been leaked to the other side. One of America's most stunning foreign-policy coups, the Washington Naval Treaty, had been the direct result of the State Department's ability to read the cipher traffic between all of the participating diplomats and their governments. A government that had no secrets could not function.
“Well, there's the Walkers, Pelton, the others…” Murray observed. The KGB had been remarkably successful at recruiting people within the American communications agencies. Cipher clerks held the most sensitive jobs in the embassies, but were so poorly paid and regarded that they were still called “clerks,” not even “technicians.” Some resented that. Some resented it enough that they had decided that they could make money from what they knew. They all learned eventually that intelligence agencies pay poorly (except for CIA, which rewarded treason with real money), but by then it was always too late to turn back. From Walker the Russians had learned how American cipher machines were designed and how their keying systems worked. The basics of the cipher machines hadn't really changed all that much in the preceding ten years. Improved technology had made them more efficient and much more reliable than their stepping-switch and pin-disc ancestors, but they all worked on a mathematical area called Complexity Theory, which had been developed by telephone engineers sixty years earlier to predict the working of large switching systems. And the Russians had some of the best mathematical theorists in the world. It was believed by many that knowledge of the structure of cipher machines might enable a really clever mathematician to crack a whole system. Had some unknown Russian made a theoretical breakthrough? If so…
“We have to assume there are more we haven't caught. Add that to their technical expertise, and I'm really worried.”
“Doesn't affect the Bureau directly, thank God.” Most of the FBI encrypted communications were voice links, and though they could be broken, the data recovered was both too time-sensitive and further disguised by the use of code-names and slang that mostly concealed what agents were up to. Besides which, the opposition had real limits on how many things they could examine.
“Can you have your people do some scratching around?”
“Oh, yeah. You're going up the chain on this?”
“I think I have to, Dan.”
“You're bucking a couple of major bureaucracies.”
Ryan leaned against the doorframe. “My cause is just, isn't it?”
“You never learn, do you?” Murray shook his head and laughed.
Those bastard Americans!" Narmonov raged.
“What's the problem now, Andrey Il'ych?”
“Oleg Kirilovich, have you any idea what it is like dealing with a suspicious foreign country?”
“Not yet,” Kadishev answered. “I only deal with suspicious domestic elements.” The effective abolition of the Politburo had perversely eliminated the apprenticeship period during which an up-and-coming Soviet political figure might learn the international version of statecraft. Now they were no better off than Americans were. And that, Kadishev reminded himself, was something to keep in mind. “What seems to be the problem?”
“This must be kept absolutely secret, my young friend.”
“Understood.”
“The Americans have circulated a memorandum around their embassies to make discreet inquiries concerning my political vulnerability.”
“Indeed?” Kadishev did not allow himself to react beyond the single word. He was immediately struck by the dichotomy of the situation. His report had had the proper effect on the American government, but the fact that Narmonov knew of it made his discovery as an American agent possible. Wasn't that interesting? he asked himself in a moment of clear objectivity. His maneuvers were now a genuine gamble, with a downside as enormous as the upside. Such things were to be expected, weren't they? He was not gambling a month's wages. “How do we know this?” he asked, after a moment's reflection.
“That I cannot reveal.”
“I understand.” Damn! Well, he is confiding in me… though that might be a clever ploy on Andrey Il'ych's part, mightn't it? “But we are sure of it?”
“Quite sure.”
“How can I help?”
“I need your help, Oleg. Again, I ask for it.”
This business with the Americans concerns you greatly, then?"
“Of course it does!”
“I can understand that it is something to be considered, but what real interest do they have in our domestic politics?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“True.”
“I need your help,” Narmonov repeated.
“I must discuss this with my colleagues.”
“Quickly, if you please.”
“Yes.” Kadishev took his leave and walked out to his car. He drove himself, which was unusual for a senior Soviet politician. Times had changed. Such officials now had to be men of the people, and that meant that the reserved center lanes of the broad Moscow streets were gone, along with most of the other traditional perks. That was too bad, Kadishev thought, but without the other changes that made it necessary, he'd still be a lonely voice in some distant oblast instead of the leader of a major faction in the Congress of People's Deputies. So, he was willing to do without the dacha in the woods east of Moscow, and the luxury apartment, and the chauffeur-driven, hand-made limousine, and all the other things that had once attached to the rulers of this vast and unhappy country. He drove to his legislative office, where at least he had a reserved parking place. Once behind the closed door of his office, he composed a brief letter on his personal typewriter. This he folded into a pocket. There was work to do this day. He walked down the street to the immense lobby of the Congress, and checked his coat. The attendant was female. She took his coat and handed him a numbered token. He thanked her politely. As she took the coat to its numbered hook, the attendant removed the note from the inside pocket and tucked it into the pocket of her own jacket. Four hours later, it arrived in the American Embassy.
“Panic attack?” Fellows asked.
“You might call it that, gentlemen,” Ryan said.
“Okay, tell us about the problem.” Trent sipped at his tea.
“We've had more indications that our communications links may be penetrated.”
“Again?” Trent rolled his eyes.
“Come on, Al, we've heard that song before,” Fellows grumbled. “Details, Jack, details.”
Ryan went through the data.
“And what's the White House think?”
>
“I don't know yet. I'm heading up the street after I leave here. Frankly, I'd rather discuss it with you guys first, and I had to come down on some other stuff anyway.” Jack went on to describe the SPINNAKER report on Narmonov's problems.
“How long have you had this?”
“A couple of weeks—”
“Why haven't we heard it?” Trent demanded.
“Because we've been running around in circles trying to confirm it,” Jack answered.
“And?”
“Al, we've been unable to confirm directly. There are indications that the KGB is up to something. There seems to be a very discreet operation in Germany, looking for some lost tactical nukes.”
“Good Lord!” Fellows noted. “What do you mean by 'lost'?”
“We're not sure. If it ties in with SPINNAKER, well, maybe there's been some creative accounting on the part of the Soviet Army.”
“Your opinion?”
“I don't know, guys, I just don't know. Our analysis people are about evenly divided — those that are willing to offer an opinion.”
“We know their army isn't real happy,” Fellows said slowly. “The loss of funding, loss of prestige, loss of units and billets… but that unhappy?”
“Pleasant thought,” Trent added. “A power-struggle in a country with all those nukes… How reliable has SPINNAKER been?”
“Very. Five years of devoted service.”
“He's a member of their parliament, right?” Fellows asked.
“Correct.”
“Evidently a very senior one to get stuff like this… that's okay, I don't think either one of us wants to know his name,” Fellows added.
Trent nodded. “Probably somebody we've met.” Good guess, Al, Jack didn't say. “You're taking this seriously also?”
“Yes, sir, and also trying very hard to confirm it.”
“Anything new on NIITAKA?” Trent asked.
“Sir, I—”
“I heard from up the street that there's something to do with Mexico,” Al Trent said next. “The President evidently wants my support on something. You are cleared to tell us. Honest, Jack, the President has authorized it.”
It was a technical rules violation, but Ryan had never known Trent to break his word. He went through that report also.
“Those little bastards!” Trent breathed. “You know how many votes it cost me to roll over on that trade deal, and now they're planning to break it! So, you're saying we've been rolled again?”
“A possibility, sir.”
“Sam? The farmers in your district use all those nasty agricultural chemicals. Might cost 'em.”
“Al, free trade is an important principle,” Fellows said.
“So's keeping your goddamned word!”
“No argument, Al.” Fellows started thinking about how many of his farmers might lose expected export income from a flip-flop on the deal that he'd fought for on the floor of the House. “How can we confirm this one?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Bug his airplane?” Trent suggested with a chuckle. “If we can confirm this, I'd like to be there when Fowler shoves it up his ass! God damn it! I lost votes over this!” That he'd carried his district 58–42 was, for the moment, beside the point. “Well, the President wants us to back him up on this one. Problems from your side of the aisle, Sam?”
“Probably not.”
“I'd just as soon stay clear of the political side of this, gentlemen. I'm just here as a messenger, remember?”
“Jack Ryan, last of the virgins.” Trent laughed. “Good report, thanks for coming down. Let us know if the President wants us to authorize the new and improved TAPDANCE.”
“He'll never try. You're looking at two or three hundred million bucks, and bucks are tight,” Fellows noted. “I want to see better data before we spring for it. We've dropped too much money down these black holes.”
“All I can say, Congressman, is that I'm taking it very seriously. So is the FBI.”
“And Ron Olson?” Trent asked.
“He's circling his wagons.”
“You'll have a better chance if he asks,” Fellows told Ryan.
“I know. Well, at least we'll have our system up and running in three more weeks. We've started turning out the first set of discs and doing preliminary tests now.”
“How so?”
“We use a computer to look for non-randomness. The big one, the Cray YMP. We brought in a consultant from MIT's Artificial Intelligence Laboratory to do a new kind of type-token program. In another week — ten days, call it — we'll know if the system is what we expect it to be. Then we'll start sending the hardware out.”
“I really hope you're wrong on this,” Trent said, as the meeting closed.
“So do I, man, but my instincts say otherwise.”
“And how much is it going to cost?” Fowler asked over lunch.
“From what I gather, two or three hundred million.”
“No. We've got budget problems enough.”
“I agree,” Liz Elliot said. “But I wanted to discuss it with you first. It's Ryan's idea. Olson at NSA says he's full of it, says the systems are secure, but Ryan's really crazed about this new encoding system. You know he pushed the same thing through for the Agency — even went to Congress directly.”
“Oh, really?” Fowler looked up from his plate. “He didn't go through OMB? What gives?”
“Bob, he delivered his pitch for the new NSA system to Trent and Fellows before he came to see me!”
“Who the hell does he think he is!”
“I keep telling you, Bob.”
“He's out, Elizabeth. Out. O-U-T. Get moving on it.”
“Okay, I think I know how to do it.”
Circumstances made it easy. One of Ernest Wellington's investigators had been staking out the 7-Eleven for a week. The Zimmer family business was just off U.S. Route 50 between Washington and Annapolis, and was adjacent to a large housing development, from which it drew much of its business. The investigator parked his van at the end of a street that gave him both a view of the business building and the family house which was only fifty yards away from it. The van was a typical covert-surveillance vehicle, custom-built by one of several specialty firms. The roof vent concealed a sophisticated periscope, whose two lenses were connected respectively to a TV camera and a 35mm Canon. The investigator had a cooler full of soft drinks, a large Thermos of coffee and a chemical toilet. He thought of the cramped van as his own personal space vehicle, and some of its high-tech gadgetry was at least as good as NASA had installed on the Shuttle.
“Bingo!” the radio crackled. “Subject vehicle is taking the exit. Breaking off now.”
The man in the van lifted his own microphone. “Roger, out.”
Clark had noticed the Mercury two days earlier. One of the problems with commuting was that the same vehicles kept showing up from time to time, and he'd decided that's all it was. It never got close, and never followed them off the main road. In this case, as he took the exit, it didn't follow. Clark shifted his attention to other matters. He hadn't noticed that the guy was using a microphone… but those new cellular things had you talking into the visor, and — wasn't technology wonderful? A good chase car need not tip himself off anymore. He pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot, his eyes scanning for trouble. He saw none. Clark and Ryan exited the car at the same instant. Clark's topcoat was unbuttoned, as was his suit jacket, the easier to allow access to the Beretta 10mm pistol riding on his right hip. The sun was setting, casting a lovely orange glow in the western sky, and it was unseasonably warm, shirt-sleeve weather that made him regret the raincoat he was wearing. D.C.-area weather was as predictably unpredictable as anywhere in the world.
“Hello, Dr. Ryan,” one of the Zimmer kids said. “Mom's over at the house.”
“Okay.” Ryan walked back outside, and headed for the flagstone walk to the Zimmer residence. He spotted Carol in the back, with her youngest on the new swing seat. Clark trailed,
alert as ever, seeing nothing but still-green lawns and parked cars, a few kids throwing a football. Such temperate weather in the beginning of December worried Clark. He believed it heralded a bastard of a winter.
“Hi, Carol!” Jack called. Mrs. Zimmer was closely observing her youngest in the swing seat.
“Doc Ryan, you like the new swing seat?”
Jack nodded a little guiltily. He should have helped get it together. He was an expert on assembling toys. He leaned over. “How's the little munchkin?”
“She won't get out, and it's dinnertime,” Carol said. “You help?”
“How's everyone else?”
“Peter accepted in college, too! Full scholarship MIT.”
“Great!” Jack gave her a congratulatory hug. What's the old joke? “The doctor is five and the lawyer is three?” God, wouldn't Buck be proud of how these kids are turning out? It was little more than the normal Asian obsession with education, of course, the same thing that had stood Jewish Americans in such good stead. If an opportunity presents itself, grab it by the throat. He bent down to the newest Zimmer, who held her arms up for her Uncle Jack.
“Come on, Jackie.” He picked her up, and got a kiss for his trouble. Ryan looked up when he heard the noise.
“Gotcha.” It's a simple trick, and an effective one. Even if you know it's coming, you can't do much to prevent it. The van had several buttons which, when pressed, beeped the horn. It was a sound the human brain recognized as a danger signal, and one instinctively looked towards whatever direction it had come from to see if there was any cause for concern. The investigator hit the nearest one, and, sure enough, Ryan looked up towards the sound, with an armful of kid. He'd caught the hug for the woman, and the kiss from the kid, and now he had a full-face shot on the 12oo-speed film in his camera to backup the videotape. That simple. He had the goods on this Ryan guy. Amazing that a man with such a lovely wife would feel the need to screw around, but that was life, wasn't it? A CIA bodyguard to keep everything nice and secure. A kid involved, too. What a shit, the man thought, as the motor-drive whirred away on the Canon.
“You stay for dinnah! This time you stay. We celebrate Peter scholarship.”