Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  Ed took up the explanation. “You see, sure, we think we know the political varsity over there, but we’ve never had a real handle on the second-string players. The dynamic is simple when you think about it, but it took us long enough to twig to it. We’re talking elderly folks over there. They can’t get around all that well. They need mobile eyes and ears, and over the years those gofers have accumulated a lot of power. Who’s really calling the shots? We don’t know for sure, and without ID’ing people, we can’t find out.”

  “I can dig it, guys.” Murray grunted, and reached for his beer. “When I was working OC—organized crime sometimes we ID’d Mafia capi by who held the car door open for whom. Hell of a way to do business.” It was the friendliest thing the Foleys remembered hearing from the FBI about CIA. “Operational security really isn’t all that hard if you think about it a little.”

  “Makes a good case for PLAN BLUE,” Jack said next.

  “Well, then you might be pleased to know the first fifteen are in the pipeline even as we speak. John should have given them their welcoming speech a few hours ago,” the DCI announced.

  Ryan had gone over Foley’s reduction-in-force plan for CIA. Ed planned to swing a mean ax, ultimately reducing the Agency budget by $500 million over five years while increasing the field force. It was something to make people on the Hill happy, though with much of CIA’s real budget in the black part of federal expenditures, few would ever know. Or maybe not, Jack thought. That was likely to leak.

  Leaks. He’d hated them over his entire career. But now they were part of statecraft, weren’t they? the President reflected. But what was he supposed to think? That leaks were okay now that he was the one doing it or allowing it? Damn. Laws and principles weren’t supposed to work that way, were they? What exactly, what idea or ideal or principle or rock was he supposed to hold on to?

  THE BODYGUARD’S NAME was Saleh. He was a physically robust individual, as his work demanded, and, as such, one who tried to deny illness or discomfort of any sort. A man of his station in life simply did not admit to difficulty. But when discomfort didn’t go away as he’d expected and as the doctor had told him—Saleh knew that all men were vulnerable to stomach problems—and then he saw blood in the toilet... it was that, really. The body isn’t supposed to issue blood except from a shaving cut or a bullet wound. Not in any case from moving one’s bowels, and it was the sort of indicator certain to shake any man, all the more so a strong and otherwise confident one. Like many, he delayed somewhat, asking himself if it might be a temporary problem that would go away, that the discomfort would peak and abate, as flu symptoms always did. But these kept getting worse, and finally his fear got the better of him. Before dawn he left the villa, taking the car and driving to the hospital. Along the way he had to stop the car to vomit, deliberately not looking to see what he’d left on the street before heading on, his body weakening with every minute, until the walk from the car to the door seemed to take every bit of energy he had. In what passed here for an emergency room, he waited while people searched for his records. It was the smell of hospitals which frightened him, the same disinfectant odor which makes a dog stop dead and strain backward at the leash and whimper and pull away, because the smell is associated with pain, until finally a black nurse called his name, and then he rose, assembled his dignity and composure, and walked into the same examining room he’d visited before.

  THE SECOND GROUP often criminals was little different from the first, except that in this one there was not a condemned apostate. It was easy to dislike them, Moudi thought, looking at the group with their sallow faces and slinking mannerisms. It was their expressions most of all. They looked like criminals, never quite meeting his eyes, glancing this way and that, always, it seemed, searching for a way out, a trick, an angle, something underhanded. The combination of fear and lingering brutality on their faces. They were not just men, and while that seemed to the doctor a puerile observation, it did mark them as different from himself and the people he knew, and therefore as the bearers of lives which were unimportant.

  “We have some sick people here,” he told them. “You have been assigned to look after them. If you do this job well, you will be trained as hospital aides for work at your prisons. If not, you will be returned to your cells and your sentences. If any of you misbehaves, your punishment will be immediate and severe.” They all nodded. They knew about severe treatment. Iranian prisons were not noted for their amenities. Nor, it would seem, for good food. They all had pale skin and rheumy eyes. Well, what solicitude did such people merit? the physician asked himself. Each of them was guilty of known crimes, all of them serious, and what unknown crimes lay in their pasts only the criminals and Allah knew. What pity Moudi felt for them was residual, a result of his medical training, which compelled him to view them as human beings no matter what. That he could overcome. Robbers, thieves, pederasts all, they’d violated the law in a country where law was a thing of God, and if it was stern, it was also fair. If their treatment was harsh by Western standards—Europeans and Americans had the strangest ideas about human rights; what of the rights of the victims of such people?—that was just too bad, Moudi told himself, distancing himself from the people before him. Amnesty International had long since stopped complaining about his country’s prisons. Perhaps they could devote their attention to other things, like the treatment of the Faithful in other lands. There was not a Sister Jean Baptiste among them, and she was dead, and that was written, and what remained was to see if their fates had been penned by the same hand in the book of life and death. He nodded to the head guard, who shouted at the new “aides.” They even stood insolently, Moudi saw. Well, they’d all see about that.

  They’d all been pre-processed, stripped, showered, shaved, disinfected, and dressed in surgical greens with single-digit numbers on the back. They wore cloth slippers. The armed guards led them off to the air-lock doors, inside of which were the army medics, supplemented by a single armed guard, who kept his distance, a pistol in his gloved hands. Moudi returned to the security room to watch on the TV system. On the black-and-white monitors he watched them pad down the corridor, eyes shifting left and right in curiosity—and doubtless looking for a way out. All the eyes lingered on the guard, who was never less than four meters distant. Along the way, each of the new arrivals was handed a plastic bucket with various simple tools inside—the buckets also were numbered.

  They’d all started somewhat at seeing the medics in their protective suits, but shuffled along anyway. It was at the entrance of the treatment room that they stopped. It must have been the smell, or perhaps the sight. Slow to pick up on the situation, one of their number had finally realized that whatever this was—

  On the monitor, a medic gestured at the one who froze in the doorway. The man hesitated, then started speaking back. A moment later, he hurled his bucket down at the floor and started shaking his fist, while the others watched to see what would result. Then the security guard appeared out of the corner of the picture, his arm coming up and his pistol extended. At a range of two meters, he fired—so strange to see the shot but not hear it—straight into the criminal’s face. The body fell to the tile floor, leaving a pattern of black spots on the gray wall. The nearest medic pointed to one of the prisoners, who immediately retrieved the fallen bucket and went into the room. There would be no more disciplinary trouble with this group. Moudi shifted his gaze to the next monitor.

  This one was a color camera. It had to be. It could also be panned and zoomed. Moudi indicated the corner bed, Patient 1. The new arrival with 1 on his back and bucket just stood there at the foot of the bed at first, bucket in his hand, not knowing what he beheld. There was a sound pickup for this room, but it didn’t work terribly well because it was a single nondirectional mike, and the security staff had long since turned it down to zero, because the sound was so piteous as to be debilitating to those who listened-moans, whimpers, cries from dying men who in their current state did not appear so sinister.
The apostate, predictably, was the worst. He prayed and even tried to comfort those he could reach from his bed. He’d even attempted to lead a few in prayer, but they’d been the wrong prayers, and his roommates were not of the sort to speak to God under the best of circumstances.

  Aide 1 continued to stand for a minute or so, looking down at Patient 1, a convicted murderer, his ankle chained to the bed. Moudi took control of the camera and zoomed it in further to see that the shackles had worn away the skin. There was a red stain on the mattress from it. The man—the condemned patient, Moudi corrected himself—was writhing slowly, and then Aide 1 remembered what he’d been told. He donned his plastic gloves, wet his sponge, and rubbed it across the patient’s forehead. Moudi backed the camera off. One by one, the others did the same, and the army medics withdrew.

  The treatment regime for the patients was not going to be a serious one. There was no point in it, since they’d already fulfilled their purpose in the project. That made life much easier on everyone. No IV lines to run, no needles to stick—and no “sharps” to worry about. In contracting Ebola, they’d confirmed that the Mayinga strain was indeed airborne, and now all that was left was to prove that the virus had not attenuated itself in the reproductive process... and that it could be passed on by the same aerosol process which had infected the first grouping of criminals. Most of the new arrivals, he saw, did what they’d been told to do—but badly, crassly, wiping off their charges with quick, ungentle strokes of the sponges. A few seemed genuinely compassionate. Perhaps Allah would notice their charity and show them mercy when the time came, less than ten days from now.

  “REPORT CARDS,” CATHY said when Jack came into the bedroom.

  “Good or bad?” her husband asked.

  “See for yourself,” his wife suggested.

  Uh-oh, the President thought, taking them from her hand. For all that, it wasn’t so bad. The attached commentary sheets—every teacher did a short paragraph to supplement the letter grade—noted that the quality of the homework turned in had improved in the past few weeks ... so, the Secret Service agents were helping with that, Jack realized. At one level, it was amusing. At another—strangers were doing the father’s job, and that thought made his stomach contract a little. The loyalty of the agents merely illustrated something that he was failing to do for his own kids.

  “If Sally wants to get into Hopkins, she’s going to have to pay more attention to her science courses,” Cathy observed.

  “She’s just a kid.” To her father she’d always be the little girl who—

  “She’s growing up, and guess what? She’s interested in a young soccer player. Name of Kenny, and he’s way cool,” SURGEON reported. “Also needs a haircut. His is longer than mine.”

  “Oh, shit,” SWORDSMAN replied.

  “Surprised it took this long. I started dating when I was—”

  “I don’t want to hear about it—”

  “I married you, didn’t I?” Pause. “Mr. President ...”

  Jack turned. “It has been a while.”

  “Any way we can get to the Lincoln Bedroom?” Cathy asked. Jack looked over and saw a glass on her night-stand. She’d had a drink or two. Tomorrow wouldn’t be a surgery day.

  “He never slept there, babe. They call it that because—”

  “The picture. I know. I asked. I like the bed,” she explained with a smile. Cathy set her patient notes down and took off her reading glasses. Then she held her arms up, almost like a toddler soliciting a pickup and a hug. “You know, I’ve never made love to the most powerful man in the world before—at least not this week.”

  “What about the timing?” Cathy had never used the pill.

  “What about the timing?” she replied. And she’d always been as regular as a metronome.

  “You don’t want another—”

  “Maybe I don’t especially care.”

  “You’re forty,” POTUS objected.

  “Well, thank you! That’s well short of the record. What are you worried about?”

  Jack thought about that for a moment. “Nothing, I guess. Never did get that vasectomy, did I?”

  “Nope, you never even talked to Pat about it like you said you would—and if you do it now,” FLOTUS went on with a positively wicked grin, “it’ll be in all the papers. Maybe even on live TV. Arnie might tell you that it’ll set a good example for the Zero Population Growth people, and you’ll cave on that. Except for the national security implications ...”

  “What?”

  “President of the United States has his nuts cut, and they won’t respect America anymore, will they?”

  Jack almost started laughing, but stopped himself. The Detail people in the corridor might hear and—

  “What got into you?”

  “Maybe I’m finally getting comfortable with all this—or maybe I just want to get laid,” she added.

  That’s when the phone next to the bed rang. Cathy’s face made a noiseless snarl as she reached for it. “Hello? Yes, Dr. Sabo. Mrs. Emory? Okay ... no, I don’t think so ... No, definitely not, I don’t care if she’s agitated or not, not till tomorrow. Get her something to help her sleep ... whatever it takes. The bandages stay on till I say otherwise, and make sure that’s on her chart, she’s too good at whining. Yes. Night, Doctor.” She replaced the phone and grumbled. “The lens replacement I did the other day. She doesn’t like being blindfolded, but if we take the coverings off too soon—”

  “Wait a minute, he called—”

  “They have our number at Wilmer.”

  “The direct residence?” That one even bypassed Signals, though it, like all White House lines, was bugged. Or probably was. Ryan hadn’t asked, and probably didn’t want to know.

  “They had it for home, didn’t they?” Cathy asked. “Me surgeon, me treat patients, me professor, always on call when me have patients—especially the pain-in-the-ass ones.”

  “Interruptions.” Jack lay down next to his wife. “You don’t really want another baby, do you?”

  “What I want is to make love to my husband. I can’t be picky about timing anymore, can I?”

  “Has it been that bad?” He kissed her gently.

  “Yes, but I’m not mad about it. You’re trying very hard. You remind me of my new residents—older, though.” She touched his face and smiled. “If something happens, it happens. I like being a woman.”

  “I rather like it myself.”

  27

  RESULTS

  SOME OF THEM HAD DEGREES in psychology. It was a common and favored degree for law-enforcement officers. Some even had advanced degrees, and one member of the Detail had a doctorate, having done his dissertation on the sub-specialty of profiling criminals. All were at the least gifted amateurs in the science of reading minds; Andrea Price was one of these. SURGEON had a spring in her step as she walked out to her helicopter. SWORDSMAN walked her out to the ground-floor door and kissed her good-bye—the kiss was routine, the walk-out and the hand-holding were not, or hadn’t been lately. Price shared a glance with two of her agents, and they read one another’s minds, as cops can do, and they judged it to be good, except for Raman, who was as smart as the rest of them, but rather more straitlaced. He devoted more passion to sports than anything else, and Price imagined him in front of his TV every night. He probably knew even how to program his VCR. Well, there were many personality types in the Service.

  “What’s today look like?” POTUS asked, turning away when the Black Hawk lifted off.

  “SURGEON is airborne,” Andrea heard in her earpiece. “Everything’s clear,” the overwatch people reported from their perches on the government buildings around the White House. They’d been scanning the perimeter for the last hour, as they did every day. There were the usual people out there, the “regulars,” known by sight to the Detail members. These were people who seemed to turn up a lot. Some were just fascinated by the First Family, whichever family it might be. For them, the White House was America’s real soap opera, Dalla
s writ large, and the trappings, the mechanics, really, of life in this most famous of dwellings drew them for some reason that Service psychologists struggled to understand, because for the armed agents on the Detail, “regulars” were dangerous by their very existence. And so the snipers on the Old Executive Office Building—OEOB—and Treasury knew them all by sight through their powerful spotting glasses, and knew them all by name, too, because Detail members were out there, too, disguised as street rats or passersby. At one time or another, the “regulars” had all been trailed to whatever homes they might have, and identified, and investigated, quietly. Those with irregularities were profiled for personality type—they all had a few kinks—and then they’d be carefully scanned by the Detail members who worked outside for weapons—up to and including being bumped into by a “jogger” and expertly groped while being helped to their feet during the embarrassed apology. But that danger was past, for now.