Line of Sight - Mike Maden

by Tom Clancy

  “Thank you.”

  “But trust me, Aida. I’ll get to the bottom of all of this, one way or another.”

  “I know you will, and I’m grateful.”

  Aida turned off the asphalt and onto a hard-packed dirt road that led through a copse of trees, opening up to a clearing. She slowed to a stop in front of her place. She nodded at the house.

  “Let’s forget about everything we talked about and just enjoy our last night together, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  —

  The main house was big by Bosnian standards, a two-story chalet style with steeply slanting rooflines, matching the pine-covered slopes it was planted against.

  Inside, the chalet was as cozy as Jack expected, a real mountain retreat with heavy leather furniture, woolen rugs on the hardwood floors, and old wooden skis and snowshoes on the walls. She asked Jack to make them a fire while she cooked, handing him a glass of The Macallan single-malt whiskey.

  Thirty minutes later they sat at a thick wooden dining table, eating pan-fried sausages, onions, and potatoes flavored with a mix of spices that reminded Jack of the ćevapi, only hotter. The ice-cold beer matched it perfectly.

  “I wish I wasn’t leaving tomorrow.”

  “I hate it, too. Are you sure you have to?”

  “Only if I want to keep my job.” He took a swig of beer. “I checked my flight schedule while you were cooking and I reserved another ticket for you.”

  She took a drink of beer, smiling. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but it’s too soon, I’m afraid. Another group of refugees is coming in five days, and another a week after that.”

  “So you’re open to the idea?”

  “Open? Yes.”

  “Then come out in three weeks. You’ll like Washington, and we’ll figure this stuff out together.”

  She popped the last bite of sausage into her mouth. The fat glistened on the curve of her lower lip. “I’ve always wanted to visit America.” She smiled as she chewed.

  Jack had a few pieces of sausage on his plate.

  Aida stabbed one of them and held it up in front of his mouth. “Hurry up and finish your dinner. You’ll need your energy.”

  Jack bit the sausage off the fork. “Energy for what?”

  She touched his hand, flashing a come-hither smile.

  Jack didn’t bother asking about dessert.

  BRODARICA, CROATIA

  Dom, Adara, and Midas stood with the operative from the Croatian Security and Intelligence Agency (SOA) a discreet distance away from the modest stone and red-tiled-roof home overlooking the dazzling blue Adriatic Sea. It was currently occupied by an Irish family on vacation.

  “Zvezdev’s remains were found here,” the operative said. “Fermenting in a kimchi jar. But you already knew that.”

  “And no evidence of any kind was found?” Dom asked.

  “Nothing useful. The few fingerprints we found were Zvezdev’s, and those were mostly smudged. Someone definitely cleaned the place, but we think he wasn’t here for very long, because he was on the run. I’m sorry you traveled all this way for nothing. Too bad you let your suspect in Slovenia get away.”

  “She wasn’t our suspect,” Dom said. “And she didn’t get away. She was killed.”

  “By this so-called Iron Syndicate you referred to, yes?”

  “With your permission, we’d like to stay a few days, ask around town. Maybe we can turn up something.”

  “I am instructed to extend to you every courtesy. However, I must be present at all times, especially in the event you question Croatian national citizens.”

  Adara frowned. “That’s not how we like to operate.”

  Dom’s phone rang. It was Gerry’s ringtone.

  “Hi, Gerry. What’s shaking?”

  “Change of plans.”

  56

  NEAR SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  Jack woke from a troubled sleep a half hour before the alarm and stared at the ceiling.

  “What time is it?” Aida asked sleepily.

  “Four-fifteen. Go back to sleep.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Still thinking about yesterday.”

  Aida sat up, spilling out of her sheet. She brushed the chestnut hair out of her startling blue eyes and smiled. “Only the good stuff, I hope.”

  She touched him.

  He was ready.

  She climbed on top of him.

  He forgot his troubles.

  * * *

  —

  After they finished, she pulled on a plush robe and padded into the kitchen to make a pot of strong Bosnian coffee and fry some ham while Jack checked his phone for messages. The one that caught his eye was from Gerry.

  Be at the airport at 8 am sharp. No excuses.

  Jack wondered what that was all about. Just a reminder for him to get there on time for his flight?

  They ate, then showered. Drying off, Jack said, “Can you drop me off at the airport at eight?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have a meeting scheduled at eight-fifteen with a UN delegate, but I have to stop by my office first. Emir can take you.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just grab a cab.”

  She crossed over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Emir is a good man, Jack. I trust him. You should, too.”

  “Yeah, sure. But he’s also a busy man. A cab is easy.”

  “And expensive.”

  “But I’m a rich American, remember?”

  “Hurry, then. We need to go if you want to get packed.”

  SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  His orders came from the Czech directly just five days ago, confirming Jack Ryan’s identity as well as his location in Sarajevo. The orders were explicit: Acquire the man’s head, and do it without being detected.

  It was the most insane hit he’d ever been assigned, but the bonus offered was irresistible.

  Failure to fully comply with instructions would void the bonus. Worse, it meant he would be put on someone else’s kill list.

  It had been hell to actually locate Ryan because he was on the move, and harder still to track him, even when he was just in the city. He suspected Ryan was practicing SDRs, but if so, he did it so effortlessly that it was difficult to tell.

  There had been only two prior opportunities to grab Ryan, and both would have resulted in collateral damage. But the assassin was infamously patient, and his patience paid off. Today presented an ideal opportunity. Probably the last one, too.

  Ryan was his.

  All he had to do was wait.

  * * *

  —

  Aida pulled up in front of Jack’s apartment building twenty minutes later than they had planned. The traffic pouring into town was the worst she had ever seen.

  She didn’t kill the engine.

  “Good-byes are difficult, yes?”

  “Yeah.” He had a hard time holding her gaze. “You’re not coming out in three weeks, are you?”

  “I said I would try.”

  “Then I’ll come back.”

  She touched his face with her hand. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you, but you won’t listen. Things are more complicated here than you can possibly realize.”

  “Then help me understand.”

  “Okay. Here is the most important fact. By being with me, you are endangering my work, and even my life.”

  Jack’s eyes widened. “How?”

  “You distract me, Jack. Others have noticed, including Kolak. The longer you are here, the harder they will work to use you, and to hurt me and the work I am doing, which is my life. The people that hate us will do anything, including kidnapping you, or w
orse. You saw what happened the other day. I care for you too much. I can’t allow that to happen.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m sure you can. But I’m not willing to risk it, or the work we’re doing for the refugees. Do you understand?”

  “No, but I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  She leaned over and kissed him softly on the mouth.

  “Good-bye, my love.”

  “Yeah. Bye,” was all Jack could manage.

  He stood in the street and watched her pull away, knowing he would never see her again. It hurt like hell.

  Worse, he knew she was in trouble, and that he wouldn’t be here to help her.

  * * *

  —

  Jack jogged up the stairs, ignoring the stink of the garbage chute, and dashed into his apartment, running through a mental checklist of things to do before he left, starting with packing. The clock was ticking. But he wanted to clean the place up, too. Sweep, vacuum, put the dishes away, strip his sheets and toss them in the laundry. He didn’t want to leave the apartment in worse shape than he’d found it in, partly because that was the way he was raised, and partly because he really liked the landlords.

  He also needed the distraction. Helpless despair was crouching at his door. Better to forget everything and get the hell out of Dodge.

  He headed for the bedroom to start packing. He flung the closet door open, glancing at the floor where his bag was stored. Instead, he saw a scuffed leather Oxford that wasn’t his—

  The heel of a hand bludgeoned Jack between the eyes. The blow was blunted slightly when the man’s arm crashed into the partly opened closet door, but it still hit home.

  Bright lights flashed in Jack’s eyes just as the pain exploded in the front of his brain.

  He staggered backward a few steps as a dark-haired man in a janitor’s uniform lunged out of the closet with an old-school leather garrote strung between his hands. As tall as Jack but thinner, the charging man thrust both balled fists into Jack’s chest, knocking him backward against the far wall, stunning him again, and sending the hanging picture frames crashing to the floor in a shower of glass.

  Reeling from the blows, Jack struggled to focus on the wiry man, who suddenly grabbed Jack’s shoulders and spun him around with a powerful twist. Before Jack could catch his footing, he felt the thick leather thong wrap around his neck. The sharp spike of a knee against his spine corresponded to the vise grip of leather choking off his windpipe.

  Years of CQC training dulled the panic welling in Jack’s gut. He was just moments away from blacking out and certain death, but the limbic-system dump of pure adrenaline cleared his brain.

  With his arms out of reach of his attacker’s face, Jack’s only recourse was to grab the leather thong and drop his body weight to the floor. The man’s grip didn’t falter, which Jack had counted on. The man stumbled forward as Jack’s back hit the floor.

  But now the man’s head was just above Jack’s, the perfect place for Jack to thrust his knee into the top of the man’s skull with a sickening thud.

  The man grunted, but his grip didn’t loosen at the first blow. Jack kept pummeling his skull with a series of bicycle kicks, alternating his left and right knees, battering the man into semiconsciousness. His grip finally loosened enough that Jack could breathe a little.

  Jack grabbed the leather garrote and pulled the man down to the ground next to him, where he rained a series of well-aimed elbow strikes just behind the man’s temple, cracking the pterion, the weakest part of the human skull, where the frontal, parietal, temporal, and sphenoid bones all joined.

  The man lost consciousness entirely, finally releasing his iron grip.

  Jack unwrapped the garrote from his throat, struggling to breathe. He stared at the sudden swelling on the side of the man’s head. The broken bones had ruptured the middle meningeal artery, exactly the outcome Clark’s training had told him to expect. Jack was fighting for his life, and his training took over.

  He stumbled into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. That’s when he saw the ice chest sitting in the bathtub next to a stainless-steel bone saw, a bottle of bleach, and a box of heavy-duty garbage bags.

  A cold chill ran down his sore spine. Bad enough that someone had just tried to kill him, but the vision of his own head in that cooler made him shudder, and the idea that more than one killer—first the woman in Slovenia, now this guy—was trying to behead him and transport his skull to someone else made him realize his life really was in danger.

  Who the fuck was this Iron Syndicate, anyway? And what had he done to earn their hate?

  Jack splashed cold water on his face and checked his throat. Definitely red and a little swollen. If that guy had used piano wire, it probably would’ve cut his head off right then and there. To judge from the bone saw and heavy-duty garbage bags, the man was planning on doing his wet work inside the bathtub, and cutting up Jack’s body into pieces and hauling it away in the bags, then cleaning up the DNA evidence with bleach.

  Strange that he launched out of the closet the way he did, Jack thought. Normally you come after a guy from behind with a garrote. He must have surprised the shitbird when he opened the closet door.

  Now what?

  Well, he still had to pack.

  But what to do with the asshole in his bedroom?

  * * *

  —

  Jack stuck his head out of the front door to make sure no one was around, then hauled the wiry man by the shoulders onto the landing and heaved his slim frame headfirst into the garbage chute.

  The man’s body clanged inside the fetid metal tube as it hurtled toward the dumpster three stories below. The man was still breathing, but in the reeking filth he was about to land in, that might not be to his advantage.

  Jack rushed back into the apartment and, having wiped the items clean of his fingerprints, went back into the hall and tossed the man’s ice chest, bone saw, bleach bottle, and garbage bags in after him. He tossed the broken picture frames into a separate bag. The sound of their tumbling and crashing echoed in the tube.

  Jack shrugged. Given the beaten assassin he’d tossed into the dumpster, the busted closet door, and the broken picture frames, Jack figured his Airbnb guest rating would probably suffer a few hits.

  Time to go.

  57

  TEN MILES SOUTHWEST OF THE OLYMPIC SOCCER STADIUM, SARAJEVO, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA

  Tarik Brkić stroked his wide, bushy beard out of nervous habit as he approached the camouflaged launch area.

  He’d just received a phone call from the brother stationed at the Olympic soccer stadium. The roads this morning were still jammed with cars and buses streaming into Sarajevo. According to the brother, a former Bundeswehr scout, there were already fifty thousand people in the stands. That was nearly double the number they had originally planned for.

  But according to the news reports, today’s event could draw as many as seventy thousand Orthodox, which the stadium in the past had accommodated for the visits of the kafir popes John Paul II and Francis.

  Seventy thousand!

  He scarcely could take it in. Such a gift from Allah. Was this His plan all along? To ensnare such a host? Was He not Al Mumit—the Deathbringer? Was this not in accordance with the will of Al Muntaqim—the Retaliator?

  Still, Brkić worried. A hundred battles had taught him that some plans never come to pass because of the changing fortunes of men, weather, or circumstance. If there were already fifty thousand Orthodox in place, why be greedy? Why not launch now?

  Brkić entered the launch area where Captain Walib was sitting in the cab of the BM-21, checking and rechecking his electronics.

  “Brother, a question,” Brkić asked.

  Walib glanced up from his tablet. “Sir?”

  “Tell me again of your rockets. How accurate will they
be?”

  “We have the exact GLONASS coordinates of both the launch vehicle and the target. The targeting computer is functioning as designed, and has acquired the coordinates. But it is the laser-targeting provided by the drone that will easily put our strike within one meter of our intended target. Our kill box—the stadium—is approximately three hundred meters by three hundred meters. We can’t possibly miss.”

  “And if we launched right now, with fifty thousand on site already, what casualties do you anticipate?”

  Open air, no place to hide. Perfect weather. It was a simple math problem. “Nine to twelve thousand dead, twelve to fifteen thousand wounded, many of whom will die of complications later. Many survivors will suffer permanent injuries—blindness, loss of hearing, loss of limbs, respiratory defects. It would be a decisive blow.”

  “And if that number should rise to seventy thousand?”

  Walib shrugged. “Twelve to eighteen thousand dead, twenty to twenty-four thousand wounded. And I am being conservative.”

  Brkić paced in front of Walib, stroking his beard, calculating. His organization, Al-Qaeda in the Balkans, or AQAB, would broadcast live video of the launch and blast social media with it, along with footage of the carnage afterward, mocking the Orthodox Serb heathen and their impotent Russian puppet masters. The worse the carnage, the more the Russians would be provoked.

  And the more provoked, the more likely to intervene.

  And with the forces of the Slavic Sword and Shield exercises just across the border, they had the means to do so.

  Nine thousand dead would surely be enough to provoke them. But if he waited a few more minutes, it was possible that as many as eighteen thousand would perish.

  But then again, planners like Walib always assumed the best-case scenario. What if there were misfires? Or a sudden gust of wind? If his casualty numbers were off by half? Two-thirds?

  Yes, better to wait, especially if there were contingencies, Brkić decided. The more slaughter, the more likely the Russians were to intervene, and NATO to respond. The blood of the Orthodox would fuel the hellish fire that would be the next world war, and save the Umma from their suffering in Muslim lands at the hands of the kuffar. This would lead to the uprising of all brothers across Europe, and the final conquest of the world under the banner of Islam.