by Tom Clancy
All three Mexicans headed for the kitchen to get beers, but Zarif walked straight down the hallway to the bathroom in the back. He hadn’t taken the time to piss since he’d left hours earlier, and the TV would have to wait while he took care of business. He didn’t even take off his backpack before he unzipped his fly, but as soon as he did this, he heard a shout from the living room, and then a second shout, this time from Emilio.
He leaned out of the bathroom and looked up the hallway into the living room. Three Asian men in the blue coveralls of sanitation workers had entered the apartment right behind Zarif and the Maldonado men. In their hands were black pistols with long silencers. While Emilio and the other two stood by the television with beers in their hands, the three men opened fire, shooting each Mexican several times.
Their bodies spasmed and spun and dropped to the blood-spattered carpet.
Zarif leapt back into the bathroom, he shut and locked the door, then he climbed into the bathtub. Above the tub was a window high on the wall. He reached up and pulled it open, and then he struggled to heft himself up to it.
Behind him the bathroom door splintered with a dozen bullet holes. Zarif pushed through the window as hard as he could, then fell outside onto a small overhang. He rolled to the edge, then tipped over the side and dropped down one floor to a dusty parking lot.
As he looked back over his shoulder he heard scuffling in the bathroom, and then more gunfire erupted from the window, pocking the parking lot around him. Zarif dove between a parked Ford Bronco and an old Winnebago and crawled as fast as he could to the other side.
He then rose to a crouch and sprinted into the street, racing through moving traffic. On the far side he ran along the sidewalk for blocks.
And as he ran, his dream of the Asian girls and the beach house evaporated. He had no idea where to go or what to do, so he just ran on through the city, still in disbelief that he had done everything asked of him and the infidel North Koreans had sent killers anyway.
—
In his Pyongyang office, General Ri sat patiently waiting for the call from his RGB director in Mexico. Once the word finally came that the Iranian bomber had been killed, he would go home and sleep for a few hours before returning to work. He expected to be contacted by the office of the Dae Wonsu, invited to the Ryongsong Residence and congratulated personally, and he wanted to be fresh for this event.
While he bided his time he had the woman with him keep up the running translations from CNN, and he watched the feed with rapt fascination. There was footage now of a burning limousine, and although the image had been obscured to cover burning bodies in the middle of the wreckage, his translator said the reporter was claiming the dead to be the President and the ambassador.
The translator kept talking over with the English words: “. . . devastating attack on the motorcade carrying President Jack Ryan. We have been told there are casualties, a significant number of casualties. Perhaps in the dozens, perhaps many, many more.”
Ri had tuned out. Now he was thinking about how to pay quiet honor to Zarif. The bomb maker was likely already dead, killed under his instruction. Still, something was in order for the man’s contribution to the North Korean people. There could be no official announcement, of course. If ever word made it back to the United States that North Korea was complicit in the assassination of their leader, then the Americans would fire every last one of their nuclear missiles. They were a warlike people who had been looking for the right time, and the right excuse, for seventy years.
Ri worried any mistake in his operation would give them that excuse, but he had confidence in his plan, and as the TV screen in front of him now showed an overhead view, from a helicopter, perhaps, of an entire city block of wrecked and burning vehicles, shattered shop windows, and debris in the streets, General Ri allowed himself to feel even more confident.
The television feed switched to the White House now. The translator said a press secretary was due to make a statement. Ri smiled. This would be the announcement he had waited for. The man who walked out was in his sixties and bald, and he wore small glasses that made him look like a professor. Ri could tell the man had never served in his nation’s military, and to the general that alone was reason for derision.
Never mind that he was American.
The translator said, “Comrade General, this man’s name is Arnold Van Damm. He is the principal adjutant to the President, and his closest adviser.”
Ri chuckled. “If he was his closest adviser, he would have been in the car with him.”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
The American appeared somewhat rushed and irresolute, and he took a moment to control his emotion, looking down at a small sheet of paper in front of him. Finally he looked into the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen. Approximately forty minutes ago, at twelve thirty-five local time in Mexico City, one thirty-five here in Washington, a vicious and cowardly attack was perpetrated not just against the United States of America but also against the entire free world. The motorcade carrying the President was ambushed by unknown individuals using explosives, rifles, and rockets. President Ryan was traveling in an armored vehicle that was disabled by the initial explosion, and several other vehicles were also disabled or destroyed.”
A male reporter all but screamed: “Is the President alive?”
Arnie Van Damm nodded instantly. “The President is very much alive. He is currently on Air Force One and returning to Washington.”
Ri snatched the translator by her arm and yanked her closer. “Alive?”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
A female reporter on television shouted now, and the translator spoke in Korean. “Is he injured?”
“The President was slightly wounded, it appears he has some fractures. He is in good spirits. His injuries were tended to on the aircraft by his personal doctor.”
“Can he speak to the press?”
“Due to the security situation at the airport, the press pool was either not able or not allowed to board the aircraft. I understand he will record an audio message, and as soon as I get that I will send it out to all the media contacts.”
A young male reporter from MSNBC called out now. “Why not a video message?”
Arnie said, “Honestly, we don’t have the time to set up a secure video conference with Air Force One.”
“Arnie, how can we confirm it’s really Ryan talking if we can’t even see him?”
Arnie looked at the man for a long time. “You just announced to your viewership that the Taliban has accepted responsibility. Did you confirm that, or did you just run with it?”
“Well, we—”
“I don’t care if you believe it’s Jack Ryan on the audio. Just run it. He’ll be back in Washington in a few hours, and I’m sure we’ll prove any skeptics wrong.”
Another question came from the front row. “Who is in charge?”
Van Damm said, “John Patrick Ryan is the President of the United States. That has not changed.”
In the office in Pyongyang, General Ri looked at the uniformed woman next to him now, not at the television. “He is alive and on his airplane?”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
Ri shook his head. Slowly at first, and then more quickly. “It’s a lie. His body is on the airplane. They are buying themselves a few hours. Once the plane lands in Washington, and they all have their stories straight, they will claim the President died in flight.”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
Ri stood and began pacing his office. Within seconds his phone rang, and he stormed over and snatched it up. “Yes?” He nodded. “What? Zarif is alive? Damn you! Find him now, or your family will be in Chongjin by the end of the week!” He slammed the phone down so hard the translator cried out.
—
In New York City, the entire Campus team had just arrived to help Sam Dris
coll with his surveillance on Veronika Martel. She had not left her apartment yet today, but the team expected movement soon because it was already early afternoon.
Clark had gone out to rent a second vehicle, but the rest of the men had been sitting in the living room on a conference call with Gavin Biery. Suddenly Clark came through the door, almost in a run. Ding, Dom, Sam, and Jack stood quickly, confused and concerned by his manner. He shut the door, then he looked at the television. When he saw it was turned off he headed straight through the living room toward the hall to the bedrooms. On the way he said, “Ryan, follow me.”
Ryan stood, looked around at the other guys. “What the hell did I do?” Clark had already stormed down the hall.
Ryan entered the bedroom seconds later. Clark moved close to him. Jack had been concerned he was in trouble, but he could see something else in Clark’s eyes, something that gave him even more reason to fear.
“What is it?”
“Son, your dad’s motorcade was attacked in Mexico City. It’s all over the news.”
Ryan’s mouth opened slightly, but he did not speak.
“Nobody knows anything yet. I called Gerry and he’s on it, but we’re going to learn more from the media that was down there.”
Clark didn’t mention that one of the cable outlets had already announced the assassination of the President. Instead, he said, “You need to call your mom.”
Just then Ryan’s phone rang in the living room. He raced back in and stared at it for a moment, then he picked it up and looked at the number.
It was his mother.
His hand shook. “Is he dead?”
“He’s hurt, but Maura says he’ll be okay.”
Jack felt his knees weaken, and he gave in to it, dropping onto the couch and leaning forward. Quickly he held a thumbs-up for Clark, but the other men still had no idea what had happened.
Clark grabbed the TV remote.
“Who did it?” Jack asked.
“He doesn’t know.”
“If it was in Mexico it had to be Santiago Maldonado and those psychos under him.”
“Can you come to George Washington Hospital this afternoon? I know he’ll want to see you when he gets home.”
Ryan turned his head away from the phone when an ambulance siren raced up the street, and when the ambulance stopped in front of the small apartment building directly across from them, he walked to the window. The other Campus operators followed.
“Jack?” his mother said. “Are you there?”
“I have to call you back.”
“Are you coming to the hospital?”
“I’ll be there.” He hung up the phone as two paramedics ran up the steps to the building and were let in by one of the residents.
Clark looked to Sam, and Sam moved without being asked. He ran down the stairs and crossed the street. Already two neighbors walking their dogs had stopped by the ambulance. A woman came down from the apartment building a few seconds later, and they started chatting.
Sam stood back, but he was close enough to hear.
Five minutes later he was back in the apartment across the street.
“The super found the body of a woman in three-A. The tenant.”
Ryan was back on the couch. CNN was on TV, Arnie Van Damm had just spoken. He couldn’t take his eyes from the images on the screen, but he also couldn’t believe Veronika was dead, just one hundred feet from where he sat.
Sam Driscoll did not hesitate to place blame for Martel’s murder. “It wasn’t the North Koreans. If you go through the back door of that building you have to pass up the alley next to it, and you can see that from here. I’ve had cams running twenty-four-seven and the only person who came or left since the last time I saw Martel alive was Edward Riley.”
Chavez said, “Riley murdered his own agent? Why?”
No one knew.
Ryan sat alone with his face in his hands for a minute, suddenly tired and overwhelmed. Finally, he stood. “Sorry, guys, I’ve got to get back to D.C.”
Clark stood as well. “I’ll drive you to the airport.” He turned to the rest of the crew. “I want the rest of you guys looking for Riley. Sharps knows about us, so it’s going to be a challenge to operate back on these streets, but I don’t think Sharps was involved in this. He’s way too slick to be whacking his own people in New York. This, whatever it is, is something else.” He looked to the TV for a moment. He wished he was down in Mexico on the hunt for the perpetrators of the ambush, and he knew his crew was thinking the same thing. He needed to keep them on mission. “Stay focused. Ryan . . . let’s go.”
62
President Jack Ryan asked those around him in the presidential suite in the nose of the aircraft to help him up. Even though this recording would be audio only, he couldn’t give a speech lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. The import of the moment required him to, at the very least, sit upright. His doctor and the Air Force nurse first tried to talk him out of sitting, but they saw the determination in his eyes, and they quickly became his confederates in the endeavor, helping him up and into one of two chairs by a tiny desk.
Once Ryan was in the chair, his right arm cinched across his chest and his left arm wrapped with compresses, Dr. Handwerker and the Air Force nurse stepped back and sat down on the bed he had just vacated, and David Detmer, assistant to the chief of staff, entered the room. He had a small digital recorder he’d borrowed from a secretary, and he held it up to the President, kneeling in front of him.
At first Jack struggled to concentrate. Any adrenaline that had helped mute his pain had dissipated, the discomfort was increasing by the minute, and the intense dull ache in his shoulder and neck now felt like a million pins and needles, with intermittent quick jolts of sharper pain.
—
But he fought through. To Detmer he said, “Needless to say, I don’t have a prepared statement for this. It’s going to be off-the-cuff a little, so I hope the historical record will cut me some slack.”
“Be yourself, Mr. President. That will be fine.”
Ryan cleared his throat and said, “This is President Jack Ryan. Right now I am speaking to you from Air Force One. We are flying with fighter escort and are minutes from U.S. airspace.”
In truth, they were a lot of minutes from U.S. airspace, actually over an hour, but he assumed by the time this was disseminated to the media it would be accurate, and the entire focus of his speech now was to quell the fervor of America’s more opportunistic enemies.
“I was banged up a little bit in the attack, but much more important, some colleagues and dear friends of mine have been killed, and many others have been injured. I do not know the full scope of the loss of life yet, but if you pray, I hope you will join me in praying for those who died needlessly today, and for those who were hurt.”
He felt tired suddenly. He took a moment to force strength into his voice.
“I want to stress to the American people that although I don’t yet know who is responsible for this, I personally witnessed many Mexican citizens, members of their Federal Police and other law enforcement agencies, risk their lives to protect the presidential motorcade. I am sure the loss of life among the innocent Mexicans will be as great or greater than ours. Whoever perpetrated the attack today, and I remind everyone that that has not yet been determined, remember that good Mexican men and women fought and died to protect the . . . the continuity of the United States government. As soon as I can I will call President Lopez personally and thank him and his fellow countrymen. His nation has been going through some difficult times, and I want him to know I’m going to go home to get patched up, and then I’m going to come back to Mexico City and see him as planned.
“And now, to the people responsible for today’s action. Your objective was the decapitation of the U.S. government. Hearing my voice, you now realize that you have failed. I
suspect you will do what your kind always does. You will run, and you will hide.” Ryan took a calming breath. “Just as you failed today, you will fail in that endeavor, because we will find you. And whatever quarrel you thought you had with America will seem like nothing, because you have made a true enemy today, and America will not rest until you have been dealt what you deserve.
“I look forward to a video press conference as soon as I get back to Washington. In the meantime . . . God bless the United States of America.”
Ryan nodded to Detmer, who ended the recording.
A digital camera was brought into the room, Ryan’s face was framed in the lens in front of the presidential seal on the wall of the suite, and a picture was taken. There would be no record of the fact he’d just made one of the most important speeches of his career in his underwear.
As soon as he was prostrate on the bed again, Ryan called for Detmer. When he appeared over him, Ryan said, “David, as soon as you get that recording to Arnie, you have one job, and one job only. I want you to find out the condition of Andrea Price O’Day. If she’s at a hospital in Mexico I want those doctors to know they can have anything they want or need from us. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Jack closed his eyes and tried to think of anything but the pain in his right shoulder.
—
Arnie got the recording to the news media within a half-hour of its being made. The Dow had dropped 1,000 points in the first hour after the attack, stopping trading for an hour. After Ryan’s “proof of life” went out, trading was restarted, and the Dow rebounded 619 points. It would still be rocked for the day, but not nearly as bad as Wall Street had feared initially.
—
Adel Zarif found a bus station within an hour of the attack by the North Koreans at the safe house, and with little understanding of where he was going, he boarded a coach for Toluca. It was about forty miles away, west of the capital, so he arrived in the afternoon, just as the daily shower began.