Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “Roger that. We’re standing by on Channel Zero Six.”

  “Zero Six, Pete,” Wise told his cameraman, who also ran the uplink.

  Nichols was kneeling by the control panels. “Standing by ... tape’s in ... setting up for Six ... transmitting ... now!” And with that, the Ku-band signal went racing upward through the atmosphere to the satellite hovering 22,800 miles directly over the Admiralty Islands in the Bismarck Sea.

  CNN doesn’t bother encrypting its video signals. To do so is technically inconvenient, and few people bother pirating signals they could just as easily get off their cable systems for free in a few minutes, or even get live just four seconds later.

  But this one was coming in at an awkward hour, which was, however, good for CNN Atlanta, because some headquarters people would want to go over it. A shooting death was not what the average American wanted with his Rice Krispies in the morning.

  It was also downloaded by the American intelligence community, which holds CNN in very high regard, and doesn’t distribute its news coverage very far in any case. But this one did go to the White House Office of Signals, a largely military operation located in the basement of the West Wing. There a watch officer had to decide how important it was. If it ranked as a CRITIC priority, the President had to know about it in fifteen minutes, which meant waking him up right now, which was not something to be done casually to the Commander-in-Chief. A mere FLASH could wait a little longer, like—the watch officer checked the wall clock—yeah, like until breakfast. So, instead, they called the President’s National Security Adviser, Dr. Benjamin Goodley. They’d let him make the call. He was a carded National Intelligence Officer.

  “Yeah?” Goodley snarled into the phone while he checked the clock radio next to his bed.

  “Dr. Goodley, this is Signals. We just copied something off CNN from Beijing that the Boss is going to be interested in.”

  “What is it?” CARDSHARP asked. Then he heard the reply. “How certain are you of this?”

  “The Italian guy looks like he might possibly have survived, from the video—I mean if there was a good surgeon close—but the Chinese minister had his brains blowed right out. No chance for him at all, sir.”

  “What was it all about?”

  “We’re not sure of that. NSA might have the phone conversation between this Wise guy and Atlanta, but we haven’t seen anything about it yet.”

  “Okay, tell me what you got again,” Goodley ordered, now that he was approximately awake.

  “Sir, we have a visual of two guys getting shot and a baby being born in Beijing. The video comes from Barry Wise of CNN. The video shows three gunshots. One is upwards into the ceiling of what appears to be a hospital delivery room. The second shot catches a guy in the back. That guy is identified as the Papal Nuncio to Beijing. The third shot goes right into the head of a guy identified as a Baptist minister in Beijing. That one appears to be a Chinese national. In between, we have a baby being born. Now we—stand by a minute, Dr. Goodley, okay, I have FLASH traffic from Fort Meade. Okay, they got it, too, and they got a voice transmission via their ECHELON system, reading it now. Okay, the Catholic cardinal is dead, according to this, says Cardinal Renato DiMilo—can’t check the spelling, maybe State Department for that—and the Chinese minister is a guy named Yu Fa An, again no spelling check. They were there to, oh, okay, they were there to prevent a late-term abortion, and looks like they succeeded, but these two clergy got their asses killed doing it. Third one, a monsignor named Franz Schepke—that sounds pretty German to me—was there, too, and looks like he survived—oh, okay, he must be the tall one you see on the tape. You gotta see the tape. It’s a hell of a confused mess, sir, and when this Yu guy gets it, well, it’s like that video from Saigon during the Tet Offensive. You know, where the South Vietnamese police colonel shot the North Vietnamese spy in the side of the head with a Smith Chief’s Special, you know, like a fountain of blood coming out the head. Ain’t something to watch with your Egg McMuffin, y’know?” the watch officer observed. The reference came across clearly enough. The news media had celebrated the incident as an example of the South Vietnamese government’s bloodthirstiness. They had never explained—probably never even knew—that the man shot had been an officer of the North Vietnamese army captured in a battle zone wearing civilian clothing, therefore, under the Geneva Protocols was a spy liable to summary execution, which was exactly what he’d received.

  “Okay, what else?”

  “Do we wake the Boss up for this? I mean, we got a diplomatic team over there, and this has some serious implications.”

  Goodley thought about that for a second or two. “No. I’ll brief him in in a few hours.”

  “Sir, it’s sure as hell going to be on CNN’s seven o’clock morning report,” the watch officer warned.

  “Well, let me brief him when he has more than just pictures.”

  “Your call, Dr. Goodley.”

  “Thanks. Now, I think I’ll try to get one more hour before I drive over to Langley.” The phone went down before Goodley heard a reaction. His job carried a lot of prestige, but it denied him sleep and much of a social or sex life, and at moments like this he wondered what the hell was so goddamned prestigious about it.

  CHAPTER 25

  Fence Rending

  The speed of modem communications makes for curious disconnects. In this case, the American government knew what had happened in Beijing long before the government of the People’s Republic did. What appeared in the White House Office of Signals appeared also in the State Department’s Operations Center, and there the senior officer present had decided, naturally enough, to get the information immediately to the U.S. Embassy in Beijing. There Ambassador Carl Hitch took the call at his desk on the encrypted line. He forced the caller from Foggy Bottom to confirm the news twice before making his first reaction, a whistle. It wasn’t often that an accredited ambassador of any sort got killed in a host country, much less by a host country. What the hell, he wondered, was Washington going to do about this?

  “Damn,” Hitch whispered. He hadn’t even met Cardinal DiMilo yet. The official reception had been planned for two weeks from now in a future that would never come. What was he supposed to do? First, he figured, get off a message of condolence to the Vatican mission. (Foggy Bottom would so notify the Vatican through the Nuncio in Washington, probably. Maybe even Secretary Adler would drive over himself to offer official condolences. Hell, President Ryan was Catholic, and maybe he would go himself, Hitch speculated.) Okay, Hitch told himself, things to do here. He had his secretary call the Nuncio’s residence, but all he got there was a Chinese national answering the phone, and that wasn’t worth a damn. That would have to go on the back burner ... what about the Italian Embassy? he thought next. The Nuncio was an Italian citizen, wasn’t he? Probably. Okay. He checked his card file and dialed up the Italian ambassador’s private line.

  “Paulo? This is Carl Hitch. Thanks, and you? I have some bad news, I’m afraid ... the Papal Nuncio, Cardinal DiMilo, he’s been shot and killed in some Beijing hospital by a Chinese policeman ... it’s going to be on CNN soon, not sure how soon ... we’re pretty certain of it, I’m afraid ... I’m not entirely sure, but what I’ve been told is that he was there trying to prevent the death of a child, or one of those late-term abortions they do here ... yeah ... say, doesn’t he come from a prominent family?” Then Hitch started taking notes. “Vincenzo, you said? I see ... Minister of Justice two years ago? I tried to call over there, but all I got was some local answering the phone. German? Schepke?” More notes. “I see. Thank you, Paulo. Hey, if there’s anything we can help you with over here ... right. Okay. Bye.” He hung up. “Damn. Now what?” he asked the desk. He could spread the bad news to the German Embassy, but, no, he’d let someone else do that. For now ... he checked his watch. It was still short of sunrise in Washington, and the people there would wake up to find a firestorm. His job, he figured, was to verify what had happened so that he could make su
re Washington had good information. But how the hell to do that? His best potential source of information was this Monsignor Schepke, but the only way to get him was to stake out the Vatican Embassy and wait for him to come home. Hmm, would the Chinese be holding him somewhere? No, probably not. Once their Foreign Ministry found out about this, they’d probably fall all over themselves trying to apologize. So, they’d put extra security on the Nuncio’s place, and that would keep newsies away, but they’re not going to mess with accredited diplomats, not after killing one. This was just so bizarre. Carl Hitch had been a foreign-service officer since his early twenties. He’d never come across anything like this before, at least not since Spike Dobbs had been held hostage in Afghanistan by guerrillas, and the Russians had screwed up the rescue mission and gotten him killed. Some said that had been deliberate, but even the Soviets weren’t that dumb, Hitch thought. Similarly, this hadn’t been a deliberate act either. The Chinese were communists, and communists didn’t gamble that way. It just wasn’t part of their nature or their training.

  So, how had this happened? And what, exactly, had happened ?

  And when would he tell Cliff Rutledge about it? And what effect might this have on the trade talks? Carl Hitch figured he’d have a full evening.

  The People’s Republic will not be dictated to,” Foreign Minister Shen Tang concluded.

  “Minister,” Rutledge replied, “it is not the intention of the United States to dictate to anyone. You make your national policy to suit your nation’s needs. We understand and respect that. We require, however, that you understand and respect our right to make our national policy as well, to suit our country’s needs. In this case, that means invoking the provisions of the Trade Reform Act.”

  That was a big, sharp sword to wave, and everyone in the room knew it, Mark Gant thought. The TRA enabled the Executive Branch to replicate any nation’s trade laws as applied to American goods, and mirror-image them against that nation’s own goods. It was international proof of the adage that the shoe could sure pinch if it was on the other foot. In this case, everything China did to exclude American manufactured goods from the Chinese marketplace would simply be invoked in order to do the same to Chinese goods, and with a trade surplus of seventy billion dollars per year, that could well mean seventy billion dollars—all of it hard currency. The money to buy the things the PRC government wanted from America or elsewhere wouldn’t be there anymore. Trade would become trade, one of mine for one of yours, which was the theory that somehow never became reality.

  “If America embargoes Chinese trade, China can and will do the same to America,” Shen shot back.

  “Which serves neither your purposes nor our own,” Rutledge responded. And that dog ain’t gonna hunt, he didn’t have to say. The Chinese knew that well enough without being told.

  “And what of most-favored-nation status for our country? What of entry into the World Trade Organization?” the Chinese foreign minister demanded.

  “Mr. Minister, America cannot look favorably upon either so long as your country expects open export markets while closing your import markets. Trade, sir, means trade, the even exchange of your goods for ours,” Rutledge pointed out again—about the twelfth time since lunch, he reckoned. Maybe the guy would get it this time. But that was unfair. He already got it. He just wasn’t acknowledging the fact. It was just domestic Chinese politics projected into the international arena.

  “And again you dictate to the People’s Republic!” Shen replied, with enough anger, real or feigned, to suggest that Rutledge had usurped his parking place.

  “No, Minister, we do no such thing. It is you, sir, who tried to dictate to the United States of America. You say that we must accept your trade terms. In that, sir, you are mistaken. We see no more need to buy your goods than you do to buy ours.” Just that you need our hard cash a damned sight more than we need your chew toys for our fucking dogs!

  “We can buy our airliners from Airbus just as easily as from Boeing.”

  This really was getting tiresome. Rutledge wanted to respond: But without our dollars, what will you pay for them with, Charlie? But Airbus had excellent credit terms for its customers, one more way in which a European government-subsidized enterprise played “fair” in the marketplace with a private American corporation. So, instead he said:

  “Yes, Mr. Minister, you can do that, and we can buy trade goods from Taiwan, or Korea, or Thailand, or Singapore, just as easily as we can buy them here.” And they’ll fucking well buy their airplanes from Boeing! “But that does not serve the needs of your people, or of ours,” he concluded reasonably.

  “We are a sovereign nation and a sovereign people,” Shen retorted, continuing on as he had before, and Rutledge figured that the rhetoric was all about taking command of the verbiage. It was a strategy that had worked many times before, but Rutledge had instructions to disregard all the diplomatic theatrics, and the Chinese just hadn’t caught on yet. Maybe in a few more days, he thought.

  “As are we, Minister,” Rutledge said, when Shen concluded. Then he ostentatiously checked his watch, and here Shen took the cue.

  “1 suggest we adjourn until tomorrow,” the PRC foreign minister said.

  “Good. I look forward to seeing you in the morning, Minister,” Rutledge responded, rising and leaning across the table to shake hands. The rest of the party did the same, though Mark Gant didn’t have a counterpart to be nice to at the moment. The American party shuffled out, downstairs toward their waiting cars.

  “Well, that was lively,” Gant observed, as soon as they were outside.

  Rutledge actually had himself a nice grin. “Yeah, it was kind of diverting, wasn’t it?” A pause. “I think they’re exploring how far bluster can take them. Shen is actually rather a sedate kind of guy. He likes it nice and gentle most of the time.”

  “So, he has his instructions, too?” Gant wondered.

  “Of course, but he reports to a committee, their Politburo, whereas we report to Scott Adler, and he reports to President Ryan. You know, I was a little mad about the instructions I had coming over here, but this is actually turning into fun. We don’t get to snarl back at people very often. We’re the U.S. of A., and we’re supposed to be nice and calm and accommodating to everybody. That’s what I’m used to doing. But this—this feels good.” That didn’t mean that he approved of President Ryan, of course, but switching over from canasta to poker made an interesting change. Scott Adler liked poker, didn’t he? Maybe that explained why he got along so well with that yahoo in the White House.

  It was a short drive back to the embassy. The Americans in the delegation rode mainly in silence, blessing the few minutes of quiet. The hours of precise diplomatic exchange had had to be attended to in the same way a lawyer read a contract, word by goddamned word, seeking meaning and nuance, like searching for a lost diamond in a cesspool. Now they sat back in their seats and closed their eyes or looked mutely at the passing drab scenery with no more than an unstifled yawn, until they pulled through the embassy gate.

  About the only thing to complain about was the fact that the limousines here, like those everywhere, were hard to get in and out of, unless you were six years old. But as soon as they alighted from their official transport, they could see that something was wrong. Ambassador Hitch was right there, and he hadn’t bothered with that before. Ambassadors have high diplomatic rank and importance. They do not usually act as doormen for their own countrymen.

  “What’s the matter, Carl?” Rutledge asked.

  “A major bump in the road,” Hitch answered.

  “Somebody die?” the Deputy Secretary of State asked lightly.

  “Yeah,” was the unexpected answer. Then the ambassador waved them inside. “Come on.”

  The senior delegation members followed Rutledge into the ambassador’s conference room. Already there, they saw, were the DCM—the Deputy Chief of Mission, the ambassador’s XO, who in many embassies was the real boss—and the rest of the senior staff, inclu
ding the guy Gant had figured was the CIA station chief. What the hell? TELESCOPE thought. They all took their seats, and then Hitch broke the news.

  “Oh, shit,” Rutledge said for them all. “Why did this happen?”

  “We’re not sure. We have our press attaché trying to track this Wise guy down, but until we get more information, we really don’t know the cause of the incident.” Hitch shrugged.

  “Does the PRC know?” Rutledge asked next.

  “Probably they’re just finding out,” the putative CIA officer opined. “You have to assume the news took a while to percolate through their bureaucracy.”

  “How do we expect them to react?” one of Rutledge’s underlings asked, sparing his boss the necessity of asking the obvious and fairly dumb question.

  The answer was just as dumb: “Your guess is as good as mine,” Hitch said.

  “So, this could be a minor embarrassment or a major whoopsie,” Rutledge observed. “Whoopsie” is a term of art in the United States Department of State, usually meaning a massive fuckup.

  “I’d lean more toward the latter,” Ambassador Hitch thought. He couldn’t come up with a rational explanation for why this was so, but his instincts were flashing a lot of bright red lights, and Carl Hitch was a man who trusted his instincts.

  “Any guidance from Washington?” Cliff asked.

  “They haven’t woken up yet, have they?” And as one, every member of the delegation checked his watch. The embassy people already had, of course. The sun had not yet risen on their national capital. What decisions would be made would happen in the next four hours. Nobody here would be getting much sleep for a while, because once the decisions were made, then they’d have to decide how to implement them, how to present the position of their country to the People’s Republic.

  “Ideas?” Rutledge asked.

  “The President won’t like this very much,” Gant observed, figuring he knew about as much as anyone else in the room. “His initial reaction will be one of disgust. Question is, will that spill over into what we’re here for? I think it might, depending on how our Chinese friends react to the news.”