Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “Stay in the city for a few days. I will call you when I need you.”

  “As you say, sir.” Popov stood and left the office and caught the next elevator to street level. Once there, he decided to walk south to the library with the lions in front. The exercise might clear his head, and he still had a little thinking to do. “When I need you” could mean another mission, and soon.

  “Erwin? George. How are you, my friend?”

  “It has been an eventful week,” Ostermann admitted. His personal physician had him on tranquilizers, which, he thought, didn’t work very well. His mind still remembered the fear. Better yet, Ursel had come home, arriving even before the rescue mission, and that night—he’d gotten to bed just after four in the morning, she’d come to bed with him, just to hold him, and in her arms he’d shaken and wept from the sheer terror that he’d been able to control right up to the moment that the man Fürchtner had died less than a meter to his left. There was blood and other tissue particles on his clothing. They’d had to be taken off for cleaning. Dengler had had the worst time of all, and wouldn’t be at work for at least a week, the doctors said. For his part, Ostermann knew that he’d be calling that Britisher who’d come to him with the security proposal, especially after hearing the voices of his rescuers.

  “Well, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you got through it okay, Erwin.”

  “Thank you, George,” he said to the American Treasury Secretary. “Do you appreciate your bodyguards more today than last week?”

  “You bet. I expect that business in that line of work will be picking up soon.”

  “An investment opportunity?” Ostermann asked with a forlorn chuckle.

  “I didn’t mean that,” Winston replied with an almost-laugh. It was good to laugh about it, wasn’t it?

  “George?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They were not Austrian, not what the television and newspapers said—and they told me not to reveal this, but you can know this. They were Americans and British.”

  “I know, Erwin, I know who they are, but that’s all I can say.”

  “I owe them my life. How can I repay such a debt?”

  “That’s what they are paid to do, my friend. It’s their job.”

  “Vielleicht, but it was my life they saved, and those of my employees. I have a personal debt to pay them. Is there any way I might do something for them?”

  “I don’t know,” George Winston admitted.

  “Could you find out? If you ‘know about’ them, could you find out? They have children, do they not? I can pay for their education, set up a fund of some sort, could I not?”

  “Probably not, Erwin, but I can look into it,” the SecTreas said, making a note on his desk. This would be a real pain in the ass for some security people, but there might well be a way, through some D.C. law firm, probably, to double-blind it. It pleased Winston that Erwin wanted to do this. Noblesse oblige was not entirely dead. “So, you sure you’re okay, pal?”

  “Thanks to them, yes, George, I am.”

  “Great. Thanks. Good to hear your voice, pal. See you next time I come over to Europe.”

  “Indeed, George. Have a good day.”

  “You, too. Bye.” Winston switched buttons on his phone. Might as well check into this right away. “Mary, could you get me Ed Foley over at the CIA?”

  CHAPTER 10

  DIGGERS

  Popov hadn’t done this in ages, but he remembered how. His employer had been written about more than many politicians—which was only just, Popov thought, as this man did far more important and interesting things for his country and the world—but these articles were mainly about business, which didn’t help Popov much beyond a further appreciation of the man’s wealth and influence. There was little about his personal life, except that he’d been divorced. A pity of sorts. His former wife seemed both attractive and intelligent, judging by the photos and the appended information on her. Maybe two such intelligent people had difficulty staying together. If so, that was too bad for the woman, the Russian thought. Maybe few American men liked having intellectual equals under their roof. It was altogether too intimidating for the weak ones—and only a weak man would be troubled by it, the Russian thought.

  But there was nothing to connect the man with terrorists or terrorism. He’d never been attacked himself, not even a simple street crime, according to the New York Times. Such things did not always make the news, of course. Perhaps an incident that had never seen the light of day. But if it had been so major as to change the course of his life—it would had to have become known, wouldn’t it?

  Probably. Almost certainly, he thought. But almost was a troubling qualifier for a career intelligence officer. This was a man of business. A genius both in his scientific field and in running a major corporation. There, it seemed, was where his passions went. There were many photos of the man with women, rarely the same one twice, while attending various charity or social functions—all nice women, to be sure, Popov noted, like fine trophies, to be used and mounted on the wall in the appropriate empty space, while he searched after another. So, what sort of man was he working for?

  Popov had to admit that he really didn’t know, which was more than troubling. His life was now in pawn to a man whose motivations he didn’t understand. In not knowing, he could not evaluate the operational dangers that attached to himself as a result. Should the purpose be discerned by others, and his employer discovered and arrested, then he, Popov, was in danger of arrest on serious charges. Well, the former KGB officer thought, as he returned the last of the periodicals to the clerk, there was an easy solution to that. He’d always have a bag packed, and two false identities ready to be used. Then, at the first sign of trouble, he’d get to an international airport and be off to Europe as quickly as possible, there to disappear and make use of the cash he’d banked. He already had enough to ensure a comfortable life for a few years, perhaps longer if he could find a really good investment counselor. Disappearing off the face of the earth wasn’t all that hard for one with proper training, he told himself, walking back out on Fifth Avenue. All you needed was fifteen or twenty minutes of warning. . . . Now how could he be sure to get that? . . .

  The German federal police were as efficient as ever, Bill Tawney saw. All six of the terrorists had been identified within forty-eight hours, and while detailed interviews of their friends, neighbors, and acquaintances were still underway, the police already knew quite a lot and had forwarded it to the Austrians, from there to the British Embassy in Vienna, and from there to Hereford. The package included a photo and blueprints of the home owned by Fürchtner and Dortmund. One of the couple, Tawney saw, had been a painter of moderate talent. The report said that they’d sold paintings at a local gallery, signed, of course, with a pseudonym. Perhaps they’d become more valuable now, the Six man thought idly, turning the page. They’d had a computer there, but the documents on it were not very useful. One of them, probably Fürchtner, the German investigators thought, had written long political diatribes, appended but not yet translated—Dr. Bellow would probably want to read them, Tawney thought. Other than that, there was little remarkable. Books, many of them political in character, most of them printed and purchased in the former DDR. A nice TV and stereo system, and plenty of records and CDs of classical music. A decent middle-class car, properly maintained, and insured through a local company, under their cover names, Siegfried and Hanna Kolb. They’d had no really close friends in their neighborhood, had kept largely to themselves, and every public aspect of their lives had been in Ordnung, thus arousing no comment of any kind. And yet, Tawney thought, they’d sat there like coiled springs . . . awaiting what?

  What had turned them loose? The German police had no explanation for that. A neighbor reported that a car had visited their house a few weeks before—but who had come and to what purpose, no one knew. The tag number of the car had never been noted, nor the make, though the interview transcript said that it had been a G
erman-made car, probably white or at least light in color. Tawney couldn’t evaluate the importance of that. It might have been a buyer for a painting, an insurance agent—or the person who had brought them out of cover and back into their former lives as radical left-wing terrorists.

  It was not the least bit unusual for this career intelligence officer to conclude that there was nothing he could conclude, on the basis of the information he had. He told his secretary to forward Fürchtner’s writings to a translator for later analysis by both himself and Dr. Bellow, and that was about as far as he could go. Something had roused the two German terrorists from their professional sleep, but he didn’t know what. The German federal police could conceivably stumble across the answer, but Tawney doubted it. Fürchtner and Dortmund had figured out how to live unobtrusively in a nation whose police were pretty good at finding people. Someone they’d known and trusted had come to them and persuaded them to set off on a mission. Whoever it had been had known how to contact them, which meant that there was some sort of terror network still in existence. The Germans had figured that out, and a notation on their preliminary report recommended further investigation through paid informants—which might or might not work. Tawney had devoted a few years of his life to cracking into the Irish terrorist groups, and he’d had a few minor successes, magnified at the time by their rarity. But there had long since been a Darwinian selection process in the terrorist world. The dumb ones died, and the smart ones survived, and after nearly thirty years of being chased by increasingly clever police agencies, the surviving terrorists were themselves very clever indeed—and the best of them had been trained at Moscow Centre itself by KGB officers . . . was that an investigative option? Tawney wondered. The new Russians had cooperated somewhat . . . but not very much in the area of terrorism, perhaps because of embarrassment over their former involvement with such people . . . or maybe because the records had been destroyed, which the Russians frequently claimed, and Tawney never quite believed. People like that destroyed nothing. The Soviets had developed the world’s foremost bureaucracy, and bureaucrats simply couldn’t destroy records. In any case, seeking cooperation from the Russians on such an item as this was too far above his level of authority, though he could write up a request, and it might even percolate a level or two up the chain before being quashed by some senior civil servant in the Foreign Office. He decided that he’d try it anyway. It gave him something to do, and it would at least tell the people at Century House, a few blocks across the Thames from the Palace of Westminster, that he was still alive and working.

  Tawney slid all the papers, including his notes, back into the thick manila folder before turning to work on the foredoomed request. He could only conclude now that there still was a terror network, and that someone known to its members still had the keys to that nasty little kingdom. Well, maybe the Germans would learn more, and maybe the data would find its way to his desk. If it did, Tawney wondered, would John Clark and Alistair Stanley be able to arrange a strike of their own against them? No, more likely that was a job for the police of whatever nation or city was involved, and that would probably be enough. You didn’t have to be all that clever to bag one. The French had proven that with Carlos, after all.

  Il’ych Ramirez Sanchez was not a happy man, but the cell in the Le Sante prison was not calculated to make him so. Once the most feared terrorist in the world, he’d killed men with his own hand, and done it as casually as zipping his fly. He’d once had every police and intelligence service in the world on his trail, and laughed at them all from the security of his safe houses in the former Eastern Europe. There, he’d read press speculation on who he really was and for whom he’d really worked, along with KGB documents on what the foreign services were doing to catch him . . . until Eastern Europe had fallen, and with it the nation-state support for his revolutionary acts. And so he’d ended up in Sudan, where he’d decided to take his situation a little more seriously. Some cosmetic surgery had been in order, and so he’d gone to a trusted physician for the surgery, submitted to the general anesthesia—

  —and awakened aboard a French business jet, strapped down to a stretcher, with a Frenchman saying, “Bonjour, Monsieur Chacal,” with the beaming smile of a hunter who’d just captured the most dangerous of tigers with a loop of string. Tried, finally, for the murder of a cowardly informant and two French counterintelligence officers in 1975, he’d defended himself with panache, he thought, not that it mattered except to his own capacious ego. He’d proclaimed himself a “professional revolutionary” to a nation that had had its own revolution two hundred years before, and didn’t feel the need for another.

  But the worst part of it was being tried as a . . . criminal, as though his work hadn’t had any political consequences. He’d tried hard to set that aside, but the prosecutor hadn’t let go, his voice dripping with contempt in his summation—actually worse than that, because he’d been so matter-of-fact in the presentation of his evidence, saving his contempt for later. Sanchez had kept his dignity intact throughout, but inwardly he’d felt the pain of a trapped animal, and had to call on his courage to keep his mien neutral at all times. And the ultimate result had hardly been a surprise.

  The prison had already been a hundred years old on the day of his birth, and was built along the lines of a medieval dungeon. His small cell had but a single window, and he was not tall enough to see out the bottom of it. The guards, however, had a camera and watched him with it twenty-four hours a day, like a very special animal in a very special cage. He was as alone as a man could be, allowed no contact with other prisoners, and allowed out of his cage only once per day for an hour of “exercise” in a bleak prison yard. He could expect little more for the remainder of his life, Carlos knew, and his courage quailed at that. The worst thing was the boredom. He had books to read, but nowhere to walk beyond the few square meters of his cage—and worst of all, the whole world knew that the Jackal was caged forever and could therefore be forgotten.

  Forgotten? The entire world had once feared his name. That was the most hurtful part of all.

  He made a mental note to contact his lawyer. Those conversations were still privileged and private, and his lawyer knew a few names to call.

  “Starting up,” Malloy said. Both turbo-shaft engines came to life, and presently the four-bladed rotor started turning.

  “Crummy day,” Lieutenant Harrison observed over the intercom.

  “Been over here long?” Malloy asked.

  “Just a few weeks, sir.”

  “Well, sonny, now you know why the Brits won the Battle of Britain. Nobody else can fly in this shit.” The Marine looked around. Nothing else was up today. The ceiling was less than a thousand feet, and the rain was coming down pretty hard. Malloy checked the trouble-board again. All the aircraft systems were in the green.

  “Roge-o, Colonel. Sir, how many hours in the Night Hawk?”

  “Oh, about seven hundred. I like the Pave Low’s capabilities a little better, but this one does like to fly. About time for us to see that, sonny.” Malloy pulled up on the collective, and the Night Hawk lifted off, a little unevenly in the gusting thirty-knot winds. “Y’all okay back there?”

  “Got my barf bag,” Clark replied, to Ding’s amusement. “You know a guy named Paul Johns?”

  “Air Force colonel, down at Eglin? He retired about five years ago.”

  “That’s the man. How good is he?” Clark asked, mainly to get a feel for Malloy.

  “None better in a helo, ’specially a Pave Low. He just talked to the airplane, and it listened to him real nice. You know him, Harrison?”

  “Only by reputation, sir,” the copilot replied from the left seat.

  “Little guy, good golfer, too. Does consulting now, and works on the side with Sikorsky. We see him up at Bragg periodically. Okay, baby, let’s see what you got.” Malloy reefed the chopper into a tight left turn. “Humph, nothing handles like a -60. Damn, I love these things. Okay, Clark, what’s the mission here?�
�

  “The range building, simulate a zip-line deployment.”

  “Covert or assault?”

  “Assault,” John told him.

  “That’s easy. Any particular spot?”

  “Southeast corner, if you can.”

  “Okay, here we go.” Malloy shoved the cyclic left and forward, dropping the helo like a fast elevator, darting for the range building like a falcon after a pheasant—and like a falcon, pulling up sharply at the right spot, transitioning into hover so quickly that the copilot in the left seat turned to look in amazement at how fast he’d brought it off. “How’s that, Clark?”

  “Not too bad,” Rainbow Six allowed.

  Next Malloy applied power to get the hell out of Dodge City—almost, but not quite, as though he hadn’t stopped over the building at all. “I can improve that once I get used to your people, how fast they get out and stuff, but a long-line deployment is usually better, as you know.”