Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “You part of the team that took down the bad guys at the hospital over in England?”

  “I’m the boss of it,” Clark told them. “But don’t go spreading that around, okay?”

  “No problem,” Sullivan replied.

  “You’re working the case on Mr. Serov?”

  “That’s one of them we’ve got on the desk, yes.”

  “What do you got on it?” John asked.

  “Passport photo—I guess you have that.”

  “Better, I have his official KGB photo. Better than the passport one, it’s like a mug shot full face and profile, but it’s ten years old. What else you have?”

  “Bank accounts, credit-card records, post-office box, but no address yet. We’re still working on that.”

  “What’s he wanted for?” John asked next.

  “Conspiracy mainly,” Sullivan answered. “Conspiracy to incite terrorism, conspiracy to traffic in illegal drugs. Those statutes are pretty broad, so that’s what we use in cases where we don’t have much of a clue as to what’s really happening.”

  “Can you arrest him?”

  “You bet. On sight,” Chatham said in the back. “Do you want us to do that?”

  “I’m not sure.” Clark settled into the uncomfortable seat, and watched the approach of the New York skyline, still wondering what the hell this was all about. He’d find out soon enough, John told himself, thinking that it couldn’t be soon enough to meet the fucker who’d sent armed men out after his wife and daughter. He managed a scowl at the approaching city that the FBI agents didn’t notice.

  Popov thought that he had two FBI types spotted, not to mention a pair of uniformed police officers who might or might not be part of the surveillance that had to be assembling here. There was nothing for it, however. He had to meet with this Clark fellow, and that meant that the meet had to be in a public place, else he’d have to walk right into the lion’s den, something he could not bring himself to do. Here he’d have some chance, just a matter, really, of walking south toward the subway station and racing down to catch a train. That would shake a lot of them off, and give him options. Dump his suit coat and change his appearance, put on the hat he had tucked into a pants pocket. He figured he had about an even chance of evading contact if he had to, and there was little danger that anyone would shoot him, not in the heart of America’s largest city. But his best chance was to communicate with Clark. If he were the professional Popov believed him to be, then they could do business. They had to. There was no choice for either of them, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich told himself.

  The van crossed the East River and proceeded west through crowded streets. John checked his watch.

  “No problem, sir. We’ll be about ten minutes early,” Sullivan told him.

  “Good,” John replied tensely. It was coming soon now, and he had to get his emotions totally under control. A passionate man, John Terence Clark had more than once let them loose on a job, but he couldn’t allow this now. Whoever this Russian was, he had invited him to the meeting, and that meant something—what, he could not yet know, but it had to mean that something unusual was afoot. And so he had to set aside all thoughts of past dangers to his immediate family. He had to be stone cold at this meeting, and so, sitting there in the front seat of the Con Ed truck, Clark told himself to breathe deeply and relax, and slowly he managed to accomplish that. Then his curiosity took over. This Russian had to know that Clark knew what he’d done, and still he’d asked for this meeting, and insisted on having it done speedily. That had to mean something, John told himself, as they broke through traffic and turned left onto Fifth Avenue. He checked his watch again. They were fourteen minutes early. The van eased over to the right and stopped. Clark stepped out and headed south on the crowded sidewalk, past people selling used books and other gimcracks from what appeared to be portable wooden closets. Behind him the FBI agents moved the van forward, stopped it close to the meet-building and got out, carrying papers and looking around rather too obviously like Con Ed employees, John thought. Then he turned right and walked down the stairs and looked up at the redbrick building that had been someone’s idea of a castle a hundred years or so before. It didn’t take long.

  “Good morning, John Clark,” a man’s voice said behind him.

  “Good morning, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich,” John replied, without turning at first.

  “Very good,” the voice said approvingly. “I congratulate you on learning one of my names.”

  “We have good intelligence support,” John went on, without turning.

  “You had a pleasant flight?”

  “A fast one. I’ve never done the Concorde before. It was not unpleasant. So, Dmitriy, what can I do for you?”

  “I must first of all apologize to you for my contacts with Grady and his people.”

  “What about the other operations?” Clark asked as a dangle, something of a gamble, but he was in a gambling mood.

  “Those did not concern you directly, and only one person was killed.”

  “But that one was a sick little girl,” John observed too quickly.

  “No, I had nothing to do with Worldpark. The bank in Bern, and the stock-trader outside Vienna, yes, those were my missions, but not the amusement park.”

  “So, you have implicated yourself in three terrorist operations. That is against the law, you know.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that,” the Russian replied dryly.

  “So, what can I do for you?” John asked again.

  “It is more what I can do for you, Mr. Clark.”

  “And that is?” Still he didn’t turn. But there had to be half a dozen FBI agents watching, maybe one with a shotgun microphone to record the exchange. In his haste to come over, Clark hadn’t been able to get a proper recording system for his suit.

  “Clark, I can give you the reason for the missions, and the name of the man who instigated it all—it is quite monstrous. I only discovered yesterday, not even twenty-four hours ago, what the purpose for all of this is.”

  “So, what is the objective?” John asked.

  “To kill almost every human being on the planet,” Popov replied.

  That made Clark stop walking and turn to look at the man. The KGB file mug shot was pretty good, he saw. “Is this some sort of movie script?” he asked coldly.

  “Clark, yesterday I was in Kansas. There I learned the plan for this ‘project.’ I shot and killed the person who told me so that I could escape. The man I killed was Foster Hunnicutt, a hunter-guide from Montana. I shot him in the chest with his own Colt forty-four pistol. From there I went to the nearest highway and managed to beg a ride to the nearest regional airport, from there to Kansas City, and from there to New York. I called you from my hotel room less than eight hours ago. Yes, Clark, I know you have the power to arrest me. You must have security watching us right now, presumably from your FBI,” he said as they walked into the area with the animal cages. “And so you need only wave your hand and I will be arrested, and I have just told you the name of the man I shot, and the location where it was done. Plus you have me for inciting terrorist incidents, and I presume for drug-trafficking as well. I know this, yet I have asked for this meeting. Do you suppose that I am joking with you, John Clark?”

  “Perhaps not,” Rainbow Six answered, looking closely at the man.

  “Very well, and in that case I propose that you have us taken to the local FBI office or some other secure place, so that I can give you the information you need under controlled circumstances. I require only your word that I will not be detained or arrested.”

  “You would believe me if I were to say that?”

  “Yes. You are CIA, and you know the rules of the game, do you not?”

  Clark nodded. “Okay, you have my word—if you’re telling me the truth.”

  “John Clark, I wish I were not,” Popov said. “Truly I wish I were not, tovarich.”

  John looked hard into his eyes, and in them he saw fear . . . no, something deeper than fe
ar. This guy had just called him comrade. That meant something, particularly under these circumstances.

  “Come on,” John told him, turning around and heading for Fifth Avenue.

  “That’s our subject, guys,” a female agent said over the radio circuit. “That is subject Serov all gift-wrapped like a toy from F.A.O. Schwarz. Wait. They’re turning around, heading east to Fifth.”

  “No shit?” Frank Chatham asked. Then he saw them walking very quickly to where the van was parked.

  “You got a safe house around here?” Clark asked.

  “Well, yeah, we do, but—”

  “Get us there, right now!” Clark ordered. “You can terminate your cover operation at once, too. Get in, Dmitriy,” he said, opening the sliding door.

  The safe house was only ten blocks away. Sullivan parked the van, and all four men went inside.

  CHAPTER 37

  DYING FLAME

  The safe house was a four-story brownstone that had been given to the federal government decades before by a grateful businessman whose kidnapped son had been recovered alive by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was used mainly for interviewing UN diplomats who worked in one way or another for the U.S. government, and had been one of the places used by Arkady Schevchenko, still the highest-ranking Soviet defector of all time. Outwardly unremarkable, inside it had an elaborate security system and three rooms outfitted with recording systems and two-way mirrors, plus the usual tables, and more comfortable chairs than normal. It was manned around the clock, usually by a rookie agent in the New York field division whose purpose was merely that of doorman.

  Chatham took them to the top-floor interview room and sat Clark and Popov down in the windowless cubicle. The microphone was set up, and the reel-to-reel tape recorder set to turning. Behind one of the mirrors, a TV camera and attendant VCR was set up as well.

  “Okay,” Clark said, announcing the date, time, and place. “With me is Colonel Dmitriy Arkadeyevich Popov, retired, of the former Soviet KGB. The subject of this interview is international terrorist activity. My name is John Clark, and I am a field officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. Also here are—”

  “Special Agent Tom Sullivan—”

  “And—”

  “Special Agent Frank Chatham—”

  “Of the FBI’s New York office. Dmitriy, would you please begin?” John said.

  It was intimidating as hell for Popov to do this, and it showed in the first few minutes of his narrative. The two FBI agents showed total incredulity on their faces for the first half hour, until he got to the part about his morning rides in Kansas.

  “Maclean? What was his first name?” Sullivan asked.

  “Kirk, I think, perhaps Kurt, but I think it ended with a K,” Popov replied. “Hunnicutt told me that he’d kidnapped people here in New York to be used as guinea pigs for this Shiva sickness.”

  “Fuck,” Chatham breathed. “What does this guy look like?”

  Popov told them in very accurate terms, down to hair length and eye color.

  “Mr. Clark, we know this guy. We’ve interviewed him in the disappearance of a young woman, Mary Bannister. And another woman, Anne Pretloe, disappeared under very similar circumstances. Holy shit, you say they were murdered?”

  “No, I said they were killed as test subjects for this Shiva disease that they plan to spread at Sydney.”

  “Horizon Corporation. That’s where this Maclean guy works. He’s out of town now, his coworkers told us.”

  “Yes, you will find him in Kansas,” Popov told them, with a nod.

  “You know how big Horizon Corporation is?” Sullivan asked.

  “Big enough. Okay, Dmitriy,” Clark said, turning back, “exactly how do you think they will spread this virus?”

  “Foster told me it was part of the air-cooling system at the stadium. That is all I know.”

  John thought about the Olympics. They were running the marathon today, and that was the last event, to be followed by the closing ceremonies that evening. There wasn’t time to think very much further than that. He turned, lifted the telephone, and dialed England. “Give me Stanley,” he told Mrs. Foorgate.

  “Alistair Stanley,” the voice said next.

  “Al, this is John. Get hold of Ding and have him call me here.” John read the number off the phone. “Right now—immediately, Al. I mean right the hell now.”

  “Understood, John.”

  Clark waited four and a half minutes by his watch before the phone rang.

  “You’re lucky he got me, John. I was just getting dressed to leave and watch the mara—”

  “Shut the hell up and listen to me, Domingo,” Clark said harshly.

  “Yeah, John, go ahead,” Chavez answered, getting out a pad to take some notes. “Is this for real?” he asked after a few seconds.

  “We believe it to be, Ding.”

  “It’s like something from a bad movie.” Was this something concocted by SPECTRE? Chavez wondered. What was the potential profit in it for anybody?

  “Ding, the guy giving this to me is named Serov, Iosef Andreyevich. He’s here with me now.”

  “Okay, I hear you, Mr. C. When is this operation supposed to take place?”

  “Around the time of the closing ceremonies, supposedly. Is there anything else today besides the marathon?”

  “No, that’s the last major event, and we ought not to be too busy ’til the race ends. We expect the stadium to start filling up around five this afternoon, and then they have the closing ceremonies, and everybody goes home.” Including me, he didn’t have to add.

  “Well, that’s their plan, Ding.”

  “And you want us to stop it.”

  “Correct. Get moving. Keep this number. I’ll be here all day on the STU-4. From now on, all transmissions will be secure. Okay?”

  “You got it. Let me get moving, John.”

  “Move,” the voice told him. “Bye.”

  Chavez hung up, wondering how the hell he’d do this. First he had to assemble his team. They were all on the same floor, and he went into the corridor, knocked on each door, and told the NCOs to come to his suite.

  “Okay, people, we got a job to handle today. Here’s the deal,” he began, then spun the tale for about five minutes.

  “Christ,” Tomlinson managed to say for all of them. The story was quite incredible, but they were accustomed to hearing and acting upon strange information.

  “We have to find the control room for the fogging system. Once we do that, we’ll put people in there. We’ll rotate the duty. George and Homer, you start, then Mike and I will relieve you. Call it two-hour rotation inside and outside. Radios will be on at all times. Deadly force is authorized, people.”

  Noonan had heard the briefing, too. “Ding, this whole thing sounds kinda unlikely.”

  “I know, Tim, but we act on it anyway.”

  “You say so, man.”

  “Let’s move, people,” Ding told them, standing.

  “This is the day, Carol,” John Brightling told his ex-wife. “Less than ten hours from now, the Project starts.”

  She dropped Jiggs on the floor and came to embrace him. “Oh, John!”

  “I know,” he told her. “It’s been a long time. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Henriksen was there, too. “Okay, I talked with Wil Gearing twenty minutes ago. He’ll be hooking up the Shiva dispenser right before they start the closing ceremonies. The weather is working for us, too. It’s going to be another hot one in Sydney, temperature’s supposed to hit ninety-seven degrees. So, people’ll be camping out under the foggers.”

  “And breathing heavily,” Dr. John Brightling confirmed. That was another of the body’s methods for shedding excess heat.

  Chavez was in the stadium now, already sweating from the building heat and wondering if any of the marathon runners would fall over dead from this day’s race. So Global Security, with whose personnel he’d interfaced briefly, was part of the mission. He wondered
if he could remember all the faces he’d seen in the two brief conferences he’d had, but for now he had to find Colonel Wilkerson. Five minutes later, in the security-reaction hut, he found the man.

  “G’day, Major Chavez.”

  “Hey, Frank. I got a question for you.”

  “What’s that, Ding?”

  “The fogging system. Where’s it come from?”

  “The pumping room’s by Section Five, just left of the ramp.”

  “How do I get in there?”

  “You get a key to the door and the alarm code from me. Why, old boy?”

  “Oh, well, I just want to see it.”

  “Is there a problem, Ding?” Wilkerson asked.

  “Maybe. I got to thinking,” Chavez went on, trying to formulate a persuasive lie for the moment. “What if somebody wanted to use it to dispense a chemical agent, like? And I thought I might—”

  “Check it out? One of the Global people beat you to that one, lad. Colonel Gearing. He checked out the entire installation. Same concern as you, but a bit earlier.”

  “Well, can I do it, too?”

  “Why?”

  “Call it paranoia,” Chavez replied.

  “I suppose.” Wilkerson rose from his chair and pulled the proper key off the wall. “The alarm code is one-one-three-three-six-six.”

  Eleven thirty-three sixty-six, Ding memorized.

  “Good. Thanks, Colonel.”

  “My pleasure, Major,” the SAS lieutenant colonel replied.

  Chavez left the room, rejoined his people outside, and headed rapidly back to the stadium.

  “Did you tell ’em about the problem?” Noonan asked.

  Chavez shook his head. “I wasn’t authorized to do that. John expects us to handle it.”

  “What if our friends are armed?”

  “Well, Tim, we are authorized to use necessary force, aren’t we?”

  “Could be messy,” the FBI agent warned, worried about local laws and jurisdictions.