The Sum of All Fears jr-7

by Tom Clancy

  “It would appear that — no!” Fromm swore. He'd thought he'd gotten it perfect. The spindle slowed back down, and a tiny adjustment was made. Fromm took his time checking the balance, then powered it up again. This time it was perfect. He took the RPMs all the way to twenty-five thousand and there was no jitter at all.

  “You men did the first machining very nicely,” Fromm said over his shoulder.

  “How much mass did we lose?” Ghosn asked.

  “Eighteen-point-five-two-seven grams.” Fromm switched the spindle off and stood. “I can scarcely praise our workers enough. I suggest that we wait until tomorrow to begin final polishing. It is foolish to rush about. We're all tired, and I think dinner is called for.”

  “As you say, Herr Fromm.”

  “Manfred,” the German said, surprising the younger man. “Ibrahim, we must talk.”

  “Outside?” Ghosn led the German out the door. Night was falling.

  “We mustn't kill these men. They are too valuable. What if this opportunity presents itself again?”

  “But you agreed…”

  “I never expected things would go this well. The schedule I worked up assumed that you and I — no, I shall be honest, that I would have to supervise everything. You, Ibrahim, have astounded me with your skill. What we have done here is to have assembled a superb team. We must keep this team together!”

  And where else will we get ten kilos of plutonium? Ghosn wanted to ask.

  “Manfred, I think you are correct. I will discuss this with the Commander. You must remember—”

  “Security. Ich weiss es schon. We can take no chances at this stage. I merely entreat you, as a matter of justice — of professional recognition, ja? — that consideration must be given. Do you understand?”

  “Quite well, Manfred, I agree with you.” The German was acquiring humanity, Ghosn thought. A pity it came so late. In any case, I also agree with your desire for a decent dinner before we begin the final phase. Tonight there is fresh lamb, and we've obtained some German beer. Bitberger, I hope you like it."

  “A good regional lager. A pity, Ibrahim, that your religion denies it to you.”

  “On this night,” Ghosn said, “I hope Allah will forgive me for indulging.” Just as well, Ibrahim thought, to earn the infidel's confidence.

  “Jack, it would appear that you are working too hard.”

  “It's the commute, sir. Two or three hours a day in a car.”

  “Find a place closer?” His Royal Highness suggested gently.

  “Give up Peregrine Cliff?” Ryan shook his head. “Then what about Cathy and Johns Hopkins? Then there's the kids, taking them out of school. No, that's no solution.”

  “You doubtless recall that the first time we met, you commented rather forcefully on my physical and psychological condition. I rather doubt that I looked as dreadful as you do now.” The Prince had received more than one bit of information from Sir Basil Charleston, Jack noted, as a result of which there was no alcohol being served with dinner.

  “It blows hot and cold at work. At the moment, it's blowing rather hot.”

  “Truman, then? 'If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen'?”

  “Yes, sir, something like that, but it'll cool off. Just that we have some things happening now. It's like that. When you were driving your ship, it was like that, too, wasn't it?”

  That was much healthier work. I also had a far shorter distance to commute. About fifteen feet, as a matter of fact," he added with a chuckle.

  Ryan laughed rather tiredly. “Must be nice. For me it's that far to see my secretary.”

  “And the family?”

  There was no sense in lying. “Could be better. My work doesn't help.”

  “Something is troubling you, Jack. It's quite obvious, you know.”

  “Too much stress. I've been hitting the booze too hard, not enough exercise. The usual. it'll get better, just I've had a longer than usual stretch of bad times at the office. I appreciate your concern, sir, but I'll be all right.” Jack almost convinced himself that it was true. Almost.

  “As you say.”

  “And I must say that's the best dinner I've had in a very long time. So, when's the next time you're coming over to our side of the pond?” Ryan asked, grateful for the chance to change subjects.

  “Late spring. A breeder in Wyoming will have some horses for me. Polo ponies, actually.”

  “You gotta be crazy to play that game. Lacrosse on horses.”

  “Well, it gives me a chance to enjoy the countryside. Magnificent place, Wyoming. I plan to tour Yellowstone also.”

  “Never been there,” Jack said.

  “Perhaps you could come with us, then? I might even teach you how to ride.”

  “Maybe,” Jack allowed, wondering how he'd look on a horse, and wondering how the hell he'd be able to get away from the office for a week. “Just so you don't wave one of those hammers at me.”

  “Mallet, Jack, mallet. I shan't try to involve you in polo. You'd probably end up killing some unfortunate horse. I presume you'll be able to find the time.”

  “I can sure try. If I'm lucky, the world will settle down a little by then.”

  “It's settled down quite a bit, thanks in large part to your work.”

  “Sir, Basil may have placed a little too much emphasis on what I did. I was just one cog in the machine.”

  “Modesty can be overdone. I find it disappointing that you failed to receive any recognition,” the Prince observed.

  “That's life, isn't it?” Jack was surprised at how it came out. For once, he'd been unable to hide his feelings completely.

  “I thought as much. Yes, Jack, that's life, and life is not always fair. Have you thought perhaps about changing your line of work — take leave, perhaps?”

  Jack grinned. “Come on, I don't look all that bad. They need me at the office.”

  His Royal Highness became very serious. “Jack, are we friends?”

  Ryan sat upright in his chair. “I don't have all that many, but you're one of them.”

  “Do you trust my judgment?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Get out. Leave. You can always come back to it. A person of your talents never really leaves. You know that. I don't like the way you look. You've been at it too long. Have you any idea how lucky you are that you can leave? You have a degree of freedom I do not. Use it.”

  “Nice try, man. If you were in my position, you wouldn't leave. Same reason, even. I'm not a quitter. Neither are you. It's that simple.”

  “Pride can be a destructive force,” the Prince pointed out.

  Jack leaned forward. “It's not pride. It's fact. They do need me. I wish they didn't, but they do. Problem is, they don't know it.”

  “Is the new director that bad?”

  “Marcus is not a bad person, but he's lazy. He likes his position better than he likes his duties. I don't suppose that's a problem limited to the American government, is it? I know better. So do you. Duty comes first. Maybe you're stuck with your job because you were born into it, but I'm just as stuck with mine because I'm the guy best able to do it.”

  “Do they listen to you?” His Highness asked sharply.

  Jack shrugged. “Not always. Hell, sometimes I'm wrong, but there has to be somebody there who does the right thing, at least tries to. That's me, sir. That's why I can't bug out. You know that just as well as I do.”

  “Even if it harms you?”

  “Correct.”

  “Your sense of duty is admirable, Sir John.”

  “I had a couple of good teachers. You didn't run and hide when you knew you were a target. You could have done that—”

  “No, I could not have done so. If I had —”

  “The bad guys would have won,” Jack finished the thought. “My problem isn't very different, is it? I learned part of this from you. Surprised?” Jack asked.

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “You don't run away from things. Ne
ither do I.”

  “Your verbal maneuvering is as skillful as ever.”

  “See? I haven't lost it yet.” Jack was rather pleased with himself.

  “I will insist that you bring the family out to Wyoming with us.”

  “You can always go over my head — talk to Cathy.” His Highness laughed. “Perhaps I will. Flying back tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. I'm going to hit Hamley's for some toys.”

  “Get yourself some sleep, Jack. We'll have this argument again next year.”

  It was five hours earlier in Washington. Liz Elliot stared across her desk at Bob Holtzman, who covered the White House. Like the permanent staffers here, Holtzman had seen them come and go, outlasting them all. His greater experience in the building was something of a paradox. Though necessarily cut out of the really good stuff — Holtzman knew that there were some secrets he'd never see until years too late to make a story of them; that was the work of historians — his skill at reading nuances and catching whiffs would have earned him a senior place at any intelligence agency. But his paper paid much better than any government agency, especially since he'd also penned a few best-selling books on life at the highest levels of government.

  “This is deep background?”

  “That's right,” the National Security Advisor said.

  Holtzman nodded and made his notes. That set the rules. No direct quotes. Elizabeth Elliot could be referred to as an “administration official,” or in the plural as “sources within.” He looked up from his notebook — tape recorders were also out for this sort of interview — and waited. Liz Elliot liked her drama. She was a bright woman, somewhat elitist — not an uncommon trait in White House officialdom — and definitely the person closest to the President, if he was reading the signals right. But that was none of the public'sbusiness. The probable love affair between the President and his National Security Advisor was no longer a complete secret. The White House staffers were as discreet as ever — more, in fact. He found it odd that they should be so. Fowler was not the most lovable of men. Perhaps they felt sympathy for what had to be a lonely man. The circumstances of his wife's death were well-known, and had probably added a percentage point of sympathy votes in the last election. Maybe the staffers thought he'd change with a steady romance in his life. Maybe they were just being good professionals. (That distinguished them from political appointees, Holtzman thought. Nothing was sacred to them.) Maybe Fowler and Elliot were just being very careful. In any case, the White House press had discussed it off and on at The Confidential Source, the bar at the National Press Club building, just two blocks away, and it had been decided that Fowler's love life was not properly a matter of public interest, so long as it did not injure his job performance. After all, his foreign-policy performance was pretty good. Euphoria from the Vatican Treaty and its stunningly favorable aftermath had never gone away. You couldn't slam a president who was doing so fine a job.

  “We may have a problem with the Russians,” Elliot began.

  “Oh?” Holtzman was caught by surprise for once.

  “We have reason to believe that Narmonov is having considerable difficulty dealing with his senior military commanders. That could have effects on final compliance with the arms treaty.”

  “How so?”

  “We have reason to believe that the Soviets will resist elimination of some of their SS-18 stocks. They're already behind in destruction of the missiles.”

  Reason to believe. Twice. Holtzman thought about that for a moment. A very sensitive source, probably a spy rather than an intercept. “They say that there's a problem with the destruct facility. The inspectors we have over there seem to believe them.”

  “Possibly the factory was designed with — what do you call it? Creative incompetence.”

  “What's the Agency say?” Holtzman asked, scribbling his notes just as fast as he could.

  “They gave us the initial report, but so far they've been unable to get us a real opinion.”

  “What about Ryan? He's pretty good on the Soviets.”

  “Ryan's turning into a disappointment,” Liz said. “As a matter of fact — and this is something you can't say, you can't use his name — we have a little investigation going that's turned up some disturbing data.”

  “Like?”

  “Like, I think we're getting skewed data. Like, I think a senior Agency official is having an affair with a person of foreign birth, and there may be a child involved.”

  “Ryan?”

  The National Security Advisor shook her head. “Can't confirm or deny. Remember the rules.”

  “I won't forget,” Holtzman replied, hiding his annoyance. Did she think she was dealing with Jimmy Olsen?

  “The problem is, it looks like he knows we don't like what he's telling us, and as a result he's trying to put a spin on the data to please us. This is a time when we really need good stuff from Langley, but we're not getting it.”

  Holtzman nodded thoughtfully. That was not exactly a new problem at Langley, but Ryan wasn't that sort, was he? The reporter set that aside. “And Narmonov?”

  “If what we're getting is in any way correct, he may be on the way out, whether from the right or the left, we can't say. It may be that he's losing it.”

  “That's solid?”

  “It appears so. The part about blackmail from his security forces is very disturbing. But with our problems at Langley…” Liz held up her hands.

  “Just when things were going so well, too. I guess you're having problems with Cabot?”

  “He's learning his job pretty well. If he had better support, he'd be okay.”

  “How worried are you?” Holtzman asked.

  “Very much so. This is a time when we need good intel, but we're not getting it. How the hell can we figure out what to do about Narmonov unless we get good information? So, what do we get?” Liz asked in exasperation. “Our hero is running around doing stuff that really doesn't concern his agency — he's gone over people's heads to the Hill on some things — doing a Chicken Little act on one thing while at the same time he's not getting Cabot good analysis on what appears to be a major issue. Of course, he has his distractions…”

  Our hero, Holtzman thought. What an interesting choice of words. She really hates the guy, doesn't she. Holtzman knew the fact, but not the reason. There was no reason for her to be jealous of him. Ryan had never shown great ambition, at least not in a political sense. He was a pretty good man, by all accounts. The reporter remembered his one public faux pas, a confrontation with Al Trent which, Holtzman was certain, must have been staged. Ryan and Trent got along very well now by all accounts. What could possibly have been important enough to stage something like that? Ryan had two intelligence stars — what for, Holtzman had never been able to find out. Just rumors, five different versions of four different stories, probably all of them false. Ryan wasn't all that popular with the press. The reason was that he had never really leaked anything. He took secrecy a little too seriously. On the other hand, he didn't try to curry favor either, and Holtzman respected anyone who avoided that. Of one thing he was sure: he had gravely underestimated the antipathy for Ryan in the Fowler Administration.

  I'm being manipulated. That was as obvious as a peacock in a barnyard. Very cleverly, of course. The bit about the Russians was probably genuine. The Central Intelligence Agency's inability to get vital information to the White House wasn't exactly new either, was it? That was probably true also. So, where was the lie? Or was there a lie at all? Maybe they just wanted to get truthful but sensitive information out… in the normal way. It wasn't the first time he'd learned things in the northwest-corner office of the White House West Wing.

  Could Holtzman not do a story on this?

  Not hardly, Bobby boy, the reporter told himself.

  * * *

  The ride home was smooth as silk. Ryan caught as much sleep as he could, while the sergeant who took care of the cabin read through assembly instructions for some of the toys Ja
ck had picked up.

  “Yo, Sarge.” The pilot was back in the cabin for a stretch. “Whatcha doin'?”

  “Well, Maj, our DV here picked up some stuff for the kiddies.” The NCO handed over a page of directions. Tab-1 into Slot-A, use 7/8ths bolt, tighten with a wrench, using…

  “I think I'd rather tinker with broke engines.”

  “Roger that,” the sergeant agreed. “This guy's got some bad times ahead.”

  24

  REVELATION

  “I don't like being used,” Holtzman said, leaning back with his hands clasped at the base of his neck.

  He sat in the conference room with his managing editor, another long-term Washington-watcher who'd won his spurs in the feeding frenzy that had ended the presidency of Richard Nixon. Those had been heady times. It had given the entire American media a taste for blood that had never gone away. The only good part about it, Holtzman thought, was that they didn't cozy up to anyone now. Any politician was a potential target for the righteous wrath of America 's investigatorial priesthood. The fact of it was healthy, though the extent of it occasionally was not.

  “That's beside the point. Who does? So, what do we know is true?” the editor asked.

  “We have to believe her that the White House isn't getting good data. That's nothing new at CIA, though it's not as bad as it used to be. The fact of the matter is that Agency performance has improved somewhat — well, there is the problem that Cabot has lopped off a lot of heads. We also have to believe what she says about Narmonov and his military.”

  “And Ryan?”

  “I've met him at social functions, never officially. He's actually a fairly nice guy, good sense of humor. He must have a hell of a record. Two Intelligence Stars — what for, we do not know. He fought Cabot on downsizing the Operations Directorate, evidently saved a few jobs. He's moved up very fast. Al Trent likes him, despite that run-in they had a few years ago. There's gotta be a story in that, but Trent flatly refused to discuss it the only time I asked him. Supposedly they kissed and made up, and I believe that like I believe in the Easter Bunny.”