by Tom Clancy
“Geology,” Dr. Lowell said. “The Golan Heights are volcanic, lots of basaltic rock, makes for a high background count, and that means it's hard to track in on a hot spot — but you still should have told us. We have some tricks at Livermore we might have used, stuff not too many people know about.”
“I am sorry, but it is done,” General Ben Jakob said. “You fly to Damascus, then?”
* * *
They used Prince Ali's plane for that, a personal Boeing 727 whose flight crew, Jack learned, was exclusively composed of former drivers from the President's Wing. It was nice to travel first class. The mission was covert, and the Syrians cooperated. Representatives from the U.S., Soviet, and Saudi embassies attended a brief meeting at the Syrian Foreign Ministry, and then they went off to the hospital.
He'd been a powerful man, Jack could see, but he was wasting away like dead, rotting meat. Despite the oxygen line under his nose, his skin was almost blue. All his visitors had to wear protective gear, and Ryan was careful to keep back. Ali handled the interrogation.
“You know why I am here?”
The man nodded.
“As you hope to see Allah, you will tell me what you know.”
* * *
The armored column of the 10th Armored Cavalry Regiment ran from the Negev to the border of Lebanon. Overhead was a full squadron of F-16s, and another of Tomcats from the USS Theodore Roosevelt. The Syrian army was also deployed in force, though its air force was staying out of the way. The Middle East had taken its lesson on American air power. The display of force was massive and unequivocal. The word was out: nobody would get in the way. The vehicles drove deep into the small, abused country, and finally onto a valley road. The spot had been marked on the map by a dying man anxious to save what remained of his soul, and only an hour's work was needed to determine the exact location. Army engineers found the entrance and checked for booby-traps, then waved the others in.
“God Almighty,” Dr. Lowell said, swinging a powerful light around the darkened room. More engineers swept the room, checking for wires on the machines, and carefully checking every drawer of every table before the rest were allowed farther than the door. Then Lowell went to work. There was a set of plans that he took outside to read in the light.
“You know,” he said after fifteen minutes of total silence, “I never really appreciated how easy this was. We've had this illusion that you really needed to—” He stopped. “Illusion, that's the right word.”
“What are you telling me?”
“It was supposed to be a five-hundred-kiloton device.”
“If it had gone off right, we would have known it had to be the Russians,” Jack said. “No one could have stopped it. We wouldn't be here now.”
“Yeah, I think we have to adjust our threat estimate some.”
“Doc, we think we found something,” an Army officer said. Dr. Lowell went inside, then returned to don protective clothing.
“So large as that?” Golovko asked, staring at the plans.
“Clever people. Do you know how hard it was for me to persuade the President that — excuse me. I didn't, did I? If this had been a big one, I would have believed the report.”
“And what report is that?” Golovko asked.
“Can we conduct a little business?”
“If you wish.”
“You're holding someone we want,” Jack said.
“Lyalin?”
“Yes.”
“He betrayed his country. He will suffer for it.”
“Sergey, first, he gave us nothing that we could use against you. That was his deal. We only got the take from THISTLE, his Japanese network. Second, except for him and what he gave us, we might not be here now. Turn him loose.”
“In return for what?”
“We have an agent who told us that Narmonov was being blackmailed by your military, and that your military was using some missing tactical nuclear weapons to make it stick. That's why we suspected that the weapon might have been yours.”
“But that's a lie!”
“He was very convincing,” Ryan replied. “I almost believed it myself. The President and Dr. Elliot did believe it, and that's why things got so bad on us. I'll gladly hang this bastard out to dry, but it's betraying a confidence… remember our conversation in my office, Sergey? If you want that name, you have to pay.”
“That man we will shoot,” Golovko promised.
“No, you can't.”
“What do you mean?”
“We've cut him off, and all I said was that he lied to us. He gave us stuff that wasn't true, even in your country it does not constitute espionage, does it? Better not to kill him. You'll understand, if we can make this deal.”
The First Deputy Chairman considered that for a moment. “You can have Lyalin — three days. You have my word, Jack.”
“Our man has the codename of SPINNAKER. Oleg Kirilovich—”
“Kadishev? Kadishev!”
“You think you're disappointed? You ought to see it from my side.”
“This is the truth — no games now, Ryan?”
“On that, sir, you have my word of honor. I wouldn't mind seeing him shot, but he's a politician, and in this case he really didn't commit espionage, did he? Do something creative with him. Make him dogcatcher somewhere,” Jack suggested.
Golovko nodded. “It will be done.”
“A pleasure doing business with you, Sergey. A shame about Lyalin.”
“What do you mean?” Golovko asked.
“The stuff he was giving us — both of us — it's really too valuable to lose…”
“We do not do business to that degree, Ryan, but I admire your sense of humor.”
Dr. Lowell emerged from the structure just then, carrying a lead bucket.
“What's in there?”
“I think it's some plutonium. Want to take a closer look? You could end up like our friend in Damascus.” Lowell handed the bucket to a soldier, and to the engineer-commander he said, “Move everything out, box it, ship it. I want to examine everything. Make sure you move everything out.”
“Yes, sir,” the colonel said. “And the sample?”
* * *
Four hours later, they were in Dimona, the Israeli nuclear “research” facility, where there was another gamma-ray spectrometer. While technicians ran the test, Lowell went over the plans again, shaking his head. To Ryan, the drawings looked like the diagram of a computer chip or something similarly incomprehensible.
“It's big, clunky. Ours are less than a quarter this size… but you know how long it took us to build something of this size and yield?” Lowell looked up. “Ten years. They did it in a cave in five months. How's that for progress, Dr. Ryan?”
“I didn't know. We always figured a terrorist's device — but what went wrong?”
“Probably something with the tritium. We had two fizzles back in the fifties, helium contamination. Not too many people know about that. That's my best guess. The design needs some further looking at — we'll computer-model it — but on gross examination, it looks like a fairly competent — oh, thank you.” Lowell took the spectrometry print-out from the Israeli technician. He shook his head and spoke very softly:
“ Savannah River, K Reactor, 1968—it was a very good year.”
“This is the one? You're sure?”
“Yeah, this is the one. The Israelis told me the type of weapon they lost, the mass of plutonium — except for the scraps, it's all here.” Lowell tapped the design sheets. “That's it, that's all of it,” he said.
“Until the next time,” Lowell added.
* * *
Always a student of the law and its administration, Deputy Assistant Director Daniel E. Murray observed the proceedings with interest. Rather odd that they used priests instead of lawyers, of course, but damn if it didn't work. The trial took just a day. It was scrupulously fair and admirably swift. The sentence didn't bother Murray, either.
* * *
They flew
to Riyadh aboard Prince Ali's aircraft, leaving the USAF transport at Beersheba. There would be no indecent haste in the administration of sentence. There had to be time for prayer and reconciliation, and no one wanted to treat this any differently from a more pedestrian case. It also gave time for people to sit and reflect, and in Ryan's case to meet with another surprise. Prince Ali brought him in to Ryan's accommodations.
“I am Mahmoud Haji Daryaei,” the man said, unnecessarily. Jack knew his face well enough from the CIA file. He also knew that the last time Daryaei had spoken with an American, the ruler of Iran had been Mohammed Reza Pahlavi.
“What can I do for you?” Ryan asked. Ali handled the translation for both of them.
“Is it true? What I have been told, I wish to know that it is true.”
“Yes, sir, it is true.”
“Why should I believe you?” The man was approaching seventy years of age, with a deeply-lined face and black, angry eyes.
“Then why did you ask the question?”
“Insolence does not please me.”
“Attacks against American citizens do not please me,” Ryan answered.
“I had nothing to do with this, you know that.”
“I do now, yes. Will you answer a question? If they had asked for your help, would you have given it?”
“No,” Daryaei said.
“Why should I believe that?”
“To slaughter so many people, even unbelievers, is a crime before God.”
“Besides,” Ryan added, “you know how we would react to such a thing.”
“You accuse me of the ability to do such a thing?”
“You accuse us of such things regularly. But in this case, you were mistaken.”
“You hate me.”
“I have no love for you,” Jack admitted readily. “You are the enemy of my country. You have supported those who kill my fellow citizens. You have taken pleasure in the deaths of people whom you have never met.”
“And yet you refused to allow your President to kill me.”
“That is incorrect. I refused to allow my President to destroy the city.”
“Why?”
“If you truly think yourself a man of God, how can you ask such a question?”
“You are an unbeliever!”
“Wrong. I believe, just as you do, but in a different way. Are we so different? Prince Ali doesn't think so. Does peace between us frighten you so much as that? Or do you fear gratitude more than hate? In any case, you asked why, and I will answer. I was asked to assist in the deaths of innocent people. I could not live with that on my conscience. It was as simple as that. Even the deaths of those I should perhaps consider unbelievers. Is that so hard for you to understand?”
Prince Ali said something that he didn't bother to translate, perhaps a quote from the Koran. It sounded stylized and poetic. Whatever it was, Daryaei nodded and spoke one last time to Ryan.
“I will consider this. Goodbye.”
* * *
Durling settled into the chair for the first time. Arnold van Damm sat across the room.
“You handled matters well.”
“Was there anything else we could have done?”
“I suppose not. It's today, then?”
“Right.”
“Ryan's handling it?” Durling asked, looking through the summary sheets.
“Yes, it seemed the best thing to do.”
“I want to see him when he gets back.”
“Bidn't you know? He resigned. As of today, he's out,” van Damm said.
“The hell you say!”
“He's out,” Arnie reiterated.
Durling shook his finger at the man. “Before you leave, you tell him that I want him in my office.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
* * *
The executions were at noon on Saturday, six days after the bomb exploded. The people gathered, Ghosn and Qati were led out into the market square. They were given time to pray. It was a first for Jack, being a spectator at something like this. Murray just stood, his face set. Clark and Chavez, along with a gaggle of security personnel, were mainly watching the crowd.
“It just seems so inconsequential,” Ryan said as the event got underway.
“It is not! The world will learn from this,” Prince Ali said solemnly. “Many will learn. This is justice happening. That is the lesson.”
“Some lesson.” Ryan turned to look at his companions atop the building. He'd had time to reflect, and all he saw was — what? Ryan didn't know. He'd done his job, but what had it all meant? “The deaths of sixty thousand people who never should have died put an end to wars that need never have been? Is that how history is made, Ali?”
“All men die, Jack. Insh-Allah, never again in numbers so great. You stopped it, you prevented something worse. What you did, my friend… the blessings of God go with you.”
“I would have confirmed the launch order,” Avi said, his voice uncomfortable in its frankness. “And then? I would have blown my brains out, perhaps? Who can say? Of this I am certain: I would not have had the courage to say no.”
“Nor I,” Golovko said.
Ryan said nothing as he looked back down at the square. He'd missed the first one, but that was all right.
Even though Qati knew it was coming, it didn't matter. As with so many things in life, it was all controlled by reflex. A soldier prodded his side with a sword, barely enough to break the skin. Instantly, Qati's back arched, his neck extended itself in an involuntary flinch. The captain of the Saudi Special Forces already had his sword moving. He must have practiced, Jack realized a moment later, because the head was removed with a single stroke as deceptively powerful as a ballet master's. Qati's head landed a meter or so away, and then the body flopped down, blood spraying from the severed vessels. He could see the arms and legs tightening against the restraints, but that, too, was mere reflex. The blood pumped out in a steady rhythm as Qati's heart continued to work, striving to preserve a life already departed. Finally, that, too, stopped, and all that was left of Qati were separated parts and a dark stain on the ground. The Saudi captain wiped the sword clean on what looked like a bolt of silk, replaced it in the golden scabbard, and walked into a path the crowd made for him.
The crowd did not exult. In fact, there was no noise at all. Perhaps a collective intake of breath, a few murmured prayers from the more devout among those present; for whose souls the prayers were offered only they and their God could say. At once, those in the front row began to depart. A few from inside the crowd who'd been denied a view came to the fence line, but they stayed there for only a moment before going about their business. After the prescribed interval, the body parts would be collected and given a proper burial in accordance with the religion that each of them had defiled.
Jack didn't know what emotion he was supposed to feel. He'd seen enough death. He knew that much. But these deaths did not touch his heart at all, and now he wondered and worried a little about that.
“You asked me how history is made, Jack,” Ali said. “You have just seen it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You do not need us to tell you,” Golovko said.
The men who started a war, or tried to, executed like criminals in the market square, Jack thought. Not a bad precedent.
“Maybe you're right, maybe it will make people think twice before the next time.” That's an idea whose time has come.
“In all our countries,” Ali said, “the sword is the symbol of justice… an anachronism, perhaps, from a time when men acted as men. But a sword still has a use.”
“Certainly it is precise,” Golovko observed.
“So, Jack, you have fully left government service?” Ali asked, after a moment. Ryan turned away from the scene, just as everyone else had done.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And those foolish 'ethics' laws no longer apply. Good.” Ali turned. The Special Forces officer appeared as though by magic. The salute he
gave Prince Ali was the sort to impress Kipling. The sword came next. The scabbard was wrought gold encrusted with jewels. The hilt was gold and ivory, and you could see where parts of it had been worn down by generations of strong hands. Manifestly the weapon of a king.
“This is three hundred years old,” Ali said, turning to Ryan. “It has been carried in peace and war by my ancestors. It even has a name — Breeze of Evening is the best I can do in English. It means more than that, of course. We wish you to have it, Dr. Ryan, as a reminder of those who died — and those who did not, because of you. It has killed many times. His Majesty believes that the sword has killed enough.”
Ryan took the scimitar from the Prince's hand. The gold scabbard was nicked and abraded by generations of sandstorms and battles, but Ryan saw that his reflection was not so terribly distorted as he might have feared. The blade, he saw, on drawing it partway, was mirror-bright, still rippled from the Damascus smith who'd shaped the steel into its fearful and effective purpose. Such a dichotomy, Ryan thought, smiling without knowing it, that something so beautiful could have so terrible a purpose. Such irony. And yet—
He'd keep the sword, hang it in a place of honor, look at it from time to time to remind himself of what it and he had done. And just maybe—
“Killed enough?” Ryan slid the sword back into its sheath and let it fall to his side. “Yes, Your Highness. I think we all have.”
AFTERWORD
Now that the tale is told, a few things need to be made clear. All of the material in this novel relating to weapons technology and fabrication is readily available in any one of dozens of books. For reasons which I hope will be obvious to the reader, certain technical details have been altered, sacrificing plausibility in the interests of obscurity. This was done to salve my conscience, not in any reasonable expectation that it matters a damn.
The Manhattan Project of World War II still represents the most remarkable congregation of scientific talent in human history, never equalled, and perhaps never to be exceeded. The vastly expensive project broke new scientific ground and produced many additional discoveries. Modern computer theory, for example, largely grew from bomb-related research, and the first huge main-frame computers were mainly used for bomb-design.