Executive Orders (1996)

by Clancy, Tom - Jack Ryan 07

  “No, not that. Holtzman’s going to write about the Moscow thing. Ryan didn’t even set that up. It was Judge Arthur Moore, when he was DCI. Ryan was the front man. It’s bad enough anyway. It interfered with the inner workings of the old Soviet Union, and it never occurred to anyone that maybe that wasn’t such a great idea—I mean, what the hell, right, screwing around with the government of a country with ten thousand warheads pointed at us—you know, people, that’s called an act of war, like? And why? To rescue their head thug from a purge for stepping over the line so that we could crack a spy ring inside CIA. I bet he didn’t tell Holtzman that, did he?”

  “I haven’t seen the story,” the Post reporter admitted. “I’ve only heard a few things.” It was almost worthy of a smile. Kealty’s sources inside the paper were better than those of the senior political reporter. “Okay, you say Ryan has killed people like James Bond. Support that,” he said in a flat voice.

  “Four years ago, remember the bombs in Colombia, took out some cartel members?” Kealty waited for the nod. “That was a CIA operation. Ryan went to Colombia—and that was another act of war, people. That’s two that I know about.”

  It was amusing to Kealty that Ryan was so skillfully conniving at his own destruction. The PLAN BLUE move within CIA was already rippling through the Directorate of Intelligence, many of whose senior people faced either early retirement or the diminution of their bureaucratic empires, and many of those enjoyed walking the corridors of power. It was easy for them to think that they were vital to the security of their country, and thinking that, they had to do something, didn’t they? More than that, Ryan had stepped on a lot of bureaucratic toes at Langley, and now it was payback time, all the better that he was a higher target than ever before, that the sources were, after all, merely talking to the former Vice President of the United States—maybe even the real President, they could say—and not to the media, which was, after all, against the law, as opposed to a legitimate discussion of vital national policy.

  “How sure of that are you?” the Globe asked.

  “I have dates. Remember when Admiral James Greer died? He was Ryan’s mentor. He probably set up the operation from his deathbed. Ryan didn’t attend the funeral. He was in Colombia then. That’s a fact, and you can check it,” Kealty insisted. “Probably that’s why James Cutter committed suicide—”

  “I thought that was an accident,” the Times said. “He was out jogging, and—”

  “And he just happened to step in front of a transit bus? Look, I’m not saying that Cutter was murdered. I am saying that he was implicated in the illegal operation that Ryan was running, and he didn’t want to face the music. That gave Jack Ryan the chance to cover his tracks. You know,” Kealty concluded, “I’ve underestimated this Ryan fellow. He’s as slick an operator as this town has seen since Allen Dulles, maybe Bill Donovan—but the time for that is past. We don’t need a CIA with three times as many spies. We don’t need to pile more dollars into defense. We don’t need to redraft the tax code to protect the millionaires Ryan hangs out with. For sure we don’t need a President who thinks the 1950s were just great. He’s doing things to our country which we cannot allow to happen. I don’t know”—another gesture of frustration—“maybe I have to go it all alone on this. I‘m—I know I risk ruining my reputation for all history, standing up like this ... but, damn it, once I swore an oath to the Constitution of our country ... first time,” he went on in a quiet, reflective voice, “when I won my first House scat ... then into the Senate ... and then when Roger asked me to step up and be his Vice President. You know, you don’t forget that sort of thing ... an’, an’, an’ maybe I’m not the right guy for this, okay? Yes, I’ve done some pretty awful things, betrayed my wife, lived in a bottle for so many years. The American people probably deserve somebody better than me to stand up and do what’s right ... but I’m all there is, and I can’t—I can’t break faith with the people who sent me to this town, no matter what it costs. Ryan is not the President of the United States. He knows that. Why else is he trying to change so many things so fast? Why is he trying to bully the senior people at State into lying? Why is he playing with abortion rights? Why is he playing with the tax code through this plutocrat Winston? He’s trying to buy it. He’s going to continue to bully Congress until the fat cats try to have him elected king or something. I mean, who represents the people right now?”

  “I just don’t see him that way, Ed,” the Globe responded, after a few seconds. “His politics are pretty far to the right, but he comes across as sincere as hell.”

  “What’s the first rule of politics?” the Times asked with a chuckle. Then he continued: “I tell you, if this stuff about Russia and Colombia is true ... whoa! It is the ’50s, fucking around with other governments that way. We’re not supposed to do that anymore, sure as hell not at that level.”

  “You never got this from us, and you can’t reveal the source at Langley.” The chief of staff handed out tape cassettes. “But there are enough verifiable facts here to back up everything we’ve told you.”

  “It’s going to take a couple of days,” the San Francisco Examiner said, fingering the cassette and looking at his colleagues. The race started now. Every reporter in the room would want to be the first to break the story. That process would start with them playing their tapes in their cars during the drive to their homes, and the one with the shortest drive had the advantage.

  “Gentlemen, all I can say is, this is an important story, and you have to apply your best professional conduct to it. It’s not for me,” Kealty said. “I wish I could pick someone else to do this, someone with a better record—but I can’t. Not for me. It’s for the country, and that means you have to play it as straight as you can.”

  “We will, Ed,” the Times promised. He checked his watch. Almost three in the morning. He’d work all day to make the ten P.M. deadline. In that time he’d have to verify, re-verify, and conference in with his assistant managing editor to make sure that he got the front page, above the fold. The West Coast papers had the advantage—three more hours because of time zones—but he knew how to beat them to the punch. The coffee cups went down on the table, and the journalists rose, tucking their personal mini-tape machines in their jacket pockets, and each holding his personal cassette in the left hand while the right fished for the car keys.

  “TALK TO ME, BEN,” Jack commanded barely four hours later.

  “Still nothing on the local TV, but we’ve caught microwave stuff transmitted for later broadcast.” Goodley paused as Ryan took his seat behind the desk. “Quality is too poor to show you, but we have the audio tracks. Anyway, they spent all day consolidating power. Tomorrow, they go public. Probably the word’s out on the street, and the official stuff will be for the rest of the world.”

  “Smart,” the President observed.

  “Agreed.” Goodley nodded. “New wild card. The Premier of Turkmenistan bit the big one, supposedly an automobile accident. Golovko called me about—just after five, I think to let us know. He ain’t a real happy camper at the moment. He thinks that Iraq and Turko-land are part of the same play—”

  “Do we have anything to support that?” Ryan asked, tying his necktie. It was a dumb question.

  “You kidding, boss? We don’t have crap, not even overheads in this case.”

  Jack looked down at his desktop for a second. “You know, for all the things people say about how powerful CIA is—”

  “Hey, I work there, remember? Thank God for CNN. Yeah, I know. Good news, the Russians are telling us at least some of what they know.”

  “Scared,” the President observed.

  “Very,” the national intelligence officer agreed.

  “Okay, we have Iran taking over Iraq. We have a dead leader in Turkmenistan. Analysis?” Jack asked.

  “I won’t contradict Golovko on this one. He doubtless does have agents in place, and it sounds like he’s in the same situation we’re in. He can watch and worry, but he does
n’t have any real operational possibilities. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but spooks aren’t supposed to believe in such things. Damned sure Sergey doesn’t. He thinks it’s all one play. I think that’s a definite possibility. I’ll be talking to Vasco about that, too. What he says is shaping up is starting to look a little scary. We’ll be hearing from the Saudis today.” And Israel could not be far behind, Ryan knew.

  “China?” the President asked next. Maybe the other side of the world was a little better. It wasn’t.

  “Major exercise. Surface and sub-surface combatants, no air yet, but the overheads show the fighter bases are tooling up—”

  “Wait a minute—”

  “Yes, sir. If it’s a planned exercise, why weren’t they ready for it? I’ll be talking to the Pentagon about that one at eight-thirty. The ambassador had a little talk with a foreign ministry type. Feedback is, no big deal, the ministry didn’t even know about it, routine training.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Maybe. Taiwan is still low-keying it, but they’ll be sending some ships out today—well, tonight over there. We have assets heading to the area. The Taiwanese are playing ball, full cooperation with our observers in their listening posts. Soon they will ask us what we will do if ‘A’ or ‘B’ happens. We need to think about that. The Pentagon says that the PRC doesn’t have the assets to launch an invasion, same as back in ‘96. The ROC air force is stronger now than it was. So, I don’t see that this is likely to lead anywhere. Maybe it really is just an exercise. Maybe they want to see how we—you, that is—will react.”

  “What’s Adler think?”

  “He says to ignore it. I think he’s right. Taiwan is playing low-key. I think we do the same. We move ships, especially subs, but we keep them out of sight. CINCPAC seems to have a handle on it. We let him run it for the time being?”

  Ryan nodded. “Through SecDef, yes. Europe?”

  “Nice and quiet, ditto our hemisphere, ditto Africa. You know, if the Chinese are just being their usual obnoxious selves, then the only real problem is the Persian Gulf—and the truth of the matter is that we’ve been there and done that, sir. We’ve told the Saudis that we’re not going to back off of them. That word will get to the other side in due course, and it ought to make the other side stop and think before making any plans to go farther. I don’t like the UIR thing, but I think we can deal with it. Iran is fundamentally unstable; the people in that country want more freedom, and when they get a taste, that country will change. We can ride it out.”

  Ryan smiled and poured himself a cup of decaf. “You’re getting very confident, Dr. Goodley.”

  “You pay me to think. I might as well tell you what’s moving around between the ears, boss.”

  “Okay, get on with your work and keep me posted. I have to figure a way to reconstitute the Supreme Court today.” Ryan sipped his coffee and waited for Arnie to come in. This job wasn’t all that tough, was it? Not when you had a good team working for you.

  “IT’S ABOUT SEDUCTION,” Clark said to the shiny new faces in the auditorium, catching Ding’s grin in the back of the room and cringing. The training film they’d just watched had gone over the history of six important cases. There were only five prints of the film, and this one was already being rewound for the walk back to the vault. Two of the cases he’d worked himself. One of the agents had been executed in the basement of 2 Dzerzhinskiy Square after being burned by a KGB mole inside Langley. The other had a small farm in the birch country of northern New Hampshire, probably still wishing that he could go home—but Russia was still Russia, and the narrow view their culture took of high treason wasn’t an invention of the previous regime. Such people were forever orphans ... Clark turned the page and continued from his notes.

  “You will seek out people with problems. You will sympathize with those problems. The people with whom you will work are not perfect. They will all have beefs. Some of them will come to you. You don’t have to love them, but you do have to be loyal to them.

  “What do I mean by seduction? Everyone in this room has done it once or twice, right? You listen more than you talk. You nod. You agree. Sure, you’re smarter than your boss—I know about him, we have the same sort of jerk in our government. I had a boss like that once myself. It’s hard to be an honest man in that kind of government, isn’t it? You bet, honor really is important.

  “When they say that, you know they want money. That’s fine,” Clark told them. “They never expect as much as they ask for. We have the budget to pay anything they want—but the important thing is getting them on the hook. Once they lose their virginity, people, they can’t get it back.

  “Your agents, the people you recruit, will get addicted to what they do. It’s fun to be a spy. Even the most ideologically pure people you recruit will giggle from time to time because they know something nobody else knows.

  “They will all have something wrong with them. The most idealistic ones are often the worst. They experience guilt. They drink. Some might go to their priest, even—I’ve had that happen to me. Some break the rules for the first time and figure no rules matter anymore. Those kind will start boffing every girl that crosses their path and taking all sorts of chances.

  “Handling agents is an art. You are mother, father, priest, and teacher to them. You have to settle them down. You have to tell them to look after their families, and look after their own ass, especially the ‘good’ ideological recruits. They’re dependable for a lot of things, but one of them is to get too much into it. A lot of these agents self-destruct. They can turn into crusaders. Few of the crusaders,” Clark went on, “died of old age.

  “The agent who wants money is often the most reliable. They don’t take too many chances. They want out eventually, so they can live the good life in Hollywood and get laid by a starlet or something. Nice thing about agents who work for money—they want to live to spend it. On the other hand, when you need something done in a hurry, when you need somebody to take a risk, you can use a money guy—just be ready to evac him the next day. Sooner or later he’ll figure that he’s done enough, and demand to be got out.

  “What am I telling you? There are no hard and fast rules in this business. You have to use your heads. You have to know about people, how they are, how they act, how they think. You must have genuine empathy with your agents, whether you like them or not. Most you will not like,” he promised them. “You saw the film. Every word was real. Three of those cases ended with a dead agent. One ended with a dead officer. Remember that.

  “Okay, you now have a break. Mr. Revell will have you in the next class.” Clark assembled his notes and walked to the back of the room while the trainees absorbed the lessons in silence.

  “Gee, Mr. C., does that mean seduction is okay?” Ding asked.

  “Only when you get paid for it, Domingo.”

  ALL OF GROUP Two was sick now. It was as though they’d all punched in on some sort of time clock. Within ten hours, they’d all complained of fever and aches—flu symptoms. Some knew, Moudi saw, or certainly suspected what had happened to them. Some of them continued to help the sicker subjects to whom they were assigned. Others called for the army medics to complain, or just sat on the floor in the treatment room and did nothing but savor their own illness in fear that they would become what they saw. Again the conditions of their prior imprisonment and diet worked against them. The hungry and debilitated are more easily controlled than the healthy and well fed.

  The original group was deteriorating at the expected rate. Their pain grew worse, to the point that their slow writhing lessened because it hurt more to move than to remain still. One seemed very close to death, and Moudi wondered if, as with Benedict Mkusa, this victim’s heart was unusually vulnerable to the Ebola Mayinga strain—perhaps this sub-type of the disease had a previously unsuspected affinity for heart tissue? That would have been interesting to learn in the abstract, but he’d gone well beyond the abstract study of the disease.

  “We gain nothing
by continuing this phase, Moudi,” the director observed, standing beside the younger man and watching the TV monitors. “Next step.”

  “As you wish.” Dr. Moudi lifted the phone and spoke for a minute or so.

  It took fifteen minutes to get things moving, and then the medical orderlies entered the picture, taking all of the nine members of the second group out of that room, then across the corridor to a second large treatment room, where, on a different set of monitors, the physicians saw that each was assigned a bed and given a medication which, in but a few minutes, had them all asleep. The medics then returned to the original group. Half of them were asleep anyway, and all the others stuporous, unable to resist. The wakeful ones were killed first, with injections of Dilaudid, a powerful synthetic narcotic into whatever vein was the most convenient. The executions took but a few minutes and were, in the end, merciful. The bodies were loaded one by one onto gurneys for transport to the incinerator. Next the mattresses and bedclothes were bundled for burning, leaving only the metal frames of the beds. These, along with the rest of the room, were sprayed with caustic chemicals. The room would be sealed for several days, then sprayed again, and the collective attention of the facility’s staff would transfer to Group Two, nine condemned criminals who had proven, or so it would seem, that Ebola Zaire Mayinga could be transmitted through the air.

  THE HEALTH DEPARTMENT official took a whole day to arrive, doubtless delayed, Dr. MacGregor suspected, by a pile of paperwork on his desk, a fine dinner, and a night with whatever woman spiced up his daily life. And probably the paperwork was still there on his desk, the Scot told himself.

  At least he knew about the proper precautions. The government doctor barely entered the room at all he had to come an additional, reluctant step so that the door could be closed behind him, but moved no farther than that, standing there, his head tilting and his eyes squinting, the better to observe the patient from two meters away. The lights in the room were turned down so as not to hurt Saleh’s eyes. Despite that the discoloration of his skin was obvious. The two hanging units of type-O blood and the morphine drip told the rest, along with the chart, which the government official held in his gloved, trembling hands.