by Tom Clancy
Now he thought back. Tobias Gabler had been killed five days earlier. Ryan ran a finger quickly down the date column, flipped through page after page, and finally found the date of Gabler’s death.
He started looking at the numbered accounts, and the in-house transfers, and he searched for multiple transfers leaving the same account. There were dozens of cases of this, so soon he began looking at high-value transfers, or cases where the same account had made many transfers into a single second account.
He used a legal pad to calculate how much had been moved out of each account. It was slow, laborious, and boring, but after an hour and a half he began to focus on two particular numbered accounts. Beginning on the day before the death of Tobias Gabler and continuing for three days, there had been several large transfers out of account number 62775.001 and into account number 48235.003.
It took two more hours to finish his work. All in all, since the day before the death of Tobias Gabler, there had been 704 in-house transfers of funds. Twelve of them came from 62775.001, and the total of all twelve transfers was 461 million Swiss francs. Jack checked the exchange rate in a financial newspaper he found on the desk; then he pulled his calculator closer, and keyed in some numbers.
The amount of the transfer was $204 million. Penright had told him the account being investigated by the suspected KGB men contained exactly that amount. Looking over the 704 transactions, Jack saw that no other account had moved a tenth of the money around as had account 62775.001.
Jack felt certain this was the account in question and all its money had been moved out of it and into another account in the same bank. Jack had no way of knowing if this was simply a poor attempt to hide the funds from the first account, or if it represented some sort of payment to another entity who had an account at RPB.
But whatever was going on here, Jack knew it was important, and knew he needed to find out who owned numbered account 48235.003, the receiver of the $204 million.
Jack put the dot-matrix printout to the side and spent the next hour reading everything else available about Morningstar and the Penright death investigation. There was lots and lots of mundane data: meeting places and times for Marcus Wetzel and David Penright, protocols established for setting up a dead drop, makes and models of vehicles seen in the area. Jack did not learn much from any of this.
But he did discover something interesting. In a meeting three days before the death of Tobias Gabler, Penright had pressured Marcus Wetzel to try to get more information about the account holder of the two hundred million. To do this, it appeared from the documentation, Morningstar had spoken directly to Tobias Gabler at a meeting between the two of them in a park near Lake Zug.
Jack wondered if that conversation set in motion the death of all three men. It seemed possible that once Gabler knew Wetzel was fishing around for information about the account, he might have gone to the Russians directly to warn them a bank executive was asking questions.
Then, it was conceivable to Ryan, the Russians might have decided to move their money to safety and to kill both Wetzel, the man asking the questions, and Gabler, the man in possession of the answers. And then, it was a stretch, but it was possible, the Russians killed the British agent managing the operation against them.
Ryan rubbed exhaustion from his eyes.
Just after nine p.m., Jack called Sir Basil at his home in Belgravia, London. “I don’t know what I found, but at least I have a place for us to start.”
“Where?”
“First things first. Thank you for letting me take a look at the files.”
“Of course.”
Jack explained that he’d worked through the in-house transfers, and he was near certain that the money Morningstar had flagged as suspicious had all been moved into another account.
Jack said, “We need to dig into the new numbered account. If we can find out who owns this, we can continue to monitor these funds.”
Charleston said, “As usual, Jack, you have done impressive work. But I am afraid what you are asking for cannot just be ordered up. Getting information on the new account would involve finding a new inside man at this particular bank. A bloody rare thing, indeed. I’m afraid Morningstar was a one-off.”
“We have to go to the bank. Either SIS or Langley. We can pressure them.”
“Pressuring a Swiss bank will not succeed without going through the Swiss legal system, and even if we did receive permission to get information on the account it would take months. Whoever controls that account can move the money out in days, if not hours.
“I’m sorry, Jack. We had an inside man, we lost him, and now we have lost the access he provided us.”
Jack knew Basil was correct. Morningstar had worked as an asset only because he had come willingly to the British. Any attempts to pressure RPB for information on the accounts would take a lot longer to bear fruit than it would take the Russians to move their money from the bank.
Ryan’s work of the past several hours had been, if not a waste of time, certainly nothing that would create actionable intelligence anytime in the near future.
Dejected, Ryan told Charleston he would fly back to the UK the next day, and he wished him a good evening. Then he gathered up all the files and left the little office.
The SIS courier named Mr. Miles had been waiting in the cafeteria the entire time Jack had worked, and now he went through every page of every document, checking the physical files with a printout he had with him. Then he put them back in his case, handcuffed it to his wrist, bid Jack good evening, and headed out to his car.
The CIA staff still in the building offered Jack a bed in a portion of the Army barracks used for CIA personnel, but they warned him there would be no hot shower tonight and that the cafeteria had closed for the evening.
Jack wasn’t a Marine any longer; he had no interest in austerity and he wanted to clear his head with a meal and a hot shower. He grabbed his suitcase and walked out the front gate of Clay Headquarters, and flagged down a taxi. The driver did not speak much English, but he understood when Jack said he wanted to go to a hotel.
“What hotel?” the driver asked.
It was certainly a reasonable question, but Ryan didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know Berlin well at all. He thought back to the area he had been in the evening before. He said, “Wedding? Is there a hotel in Wedding?”
The driver looked up in the rearview, shrugged, and said, “Alles klar.”
Fifteen minutes afterward, Ryan climbed out of the cab on Luxemburger Strasse, in front of a chain hotel that overlooked Leopoldplatz, a concrete square ringed by buildings all erected since the area had been flattened in World War Two. Jack checked in for one night, then went up to his room. He wanted to call Cathy, but he realized he was starving. Without even taking off his coat or his scarf, he headed back down to the lobby, where he took a map from the desk clerk, borrowed an umbrella from the doorman, and then headed out into the cold rain, looking for a beer and a quick bite to eat.
72
Present day
Sandy Lamont lived in the Tower Hill neighborhood of London in a ninth-floor flat that gave him a spectacular view of the Thames as well as the Tower of London. His place was right in the middle of some of the best nightlife in the city, and Sandy, a bachelor, enjoyed spending his evenings in the pubs with his mates. This evening had been no different, and as usual, Sandy hoped to end the night with some female companionship.
Also as on most nights, Sandy thoroughly struck out, so around midnight he walked alone up the steps of his building to his lobby and then stepped into the empty elevator.
A minute later he entered his flat, then tossed his keys on the table in his entryway and put his jacket on the rack by the door. He flipped on the TV, turned to a sports channel, and sat down on the sofa.
Just as he began checking football scores, a light flicked on in the far corner of the living room, causing him to jump a full foot off the sofa.
Sandy saw a man there, sitti
ng by the window over the street in a chair that he’d obviously moved in from the kitchen.
“Bloody hell!” Lamont shouted in surprise.
The Englishman leaned forward, his hand on his pounding heart, and he said, “Ryan?”
Jack Ryan looked out the window for a moment before speaking. Finally he said, “I might be making a mistake.”
Lamont needed another moment to get over the shock of the intrusion, then replied, “I guarantee you’re making a mistake! What are you doing in my flat?”
“I mean, I might be making a mistake by trusting you.”
“This is a show of trust? How the fuck did you get in? Did you pick the bloody lock?”
“No. He did.” Ryan nodded to the opposite corner of the room. There, in the dark, Sandy could just make out the silhouette of a heavyset man leaning against the wall as if bored.
“Who . . . Who the fuck is that?”
Ryan continued as if he hadn’t heard him: “I wouldn’t trust you at all, except you were there in Saint John’s. You had no idea that we were in any danger, I could see it on your face.”
“What are you on about?”
“If you knew about the men after me, you wouldn’t have reacted like that. And even though you pressured me to drop Gazprom, that was only after you took heat from Castor. You were as gung ho as I was in the beginning, weren’t you?”
“You are freaking me out, Jack. Either you tell me what is going on or I call the police.”
The big man in the corner spoke in a gravelly voice: “You won’t make it anywhere near your phone, mate.”
Jack walked over and sat next to Sandy now. “I trust you,” Jack said, almost to himself. “I don’t believe you are part of what Castor is doing.”
“Castor? What’s Castor doing?”
“Hugh Castor is working for the Russians.”
Sandy laughed. It seemed nervous, Jack recognized, but he did not detect deceit. He saw more confusion. Incomprehension.
“Bollocks.”
“Think about everything going on at Castor and Boyle. We are part of the system the Kremlin is using to pummel its enemies. All of our successful cases are against oligarchs who oppose Volodin. All of the cases against holdings of the siloviki, like the Galbraith case, are slow-walked or left in limbo.”
“That’s preposterous. We’ve won cases against members of the siloviki.”
“I researched it on my own. The only siloviki cases we’ve worked on that had a positive resolution for our clients were ones against siloviki who’ve had a falling-out with Volodin and his top men.”
Lamont thought about that for a moment. He slowly shook his head. “You’ve lost your mind.” He seemed uncertain.
Jack looked out the window at the blackness of the Thames. “Castor met with a Russian in his home. A man named Lechkov.”
“Okay. So? He knows heaps of Russians.”
“Do you know Lechkov?”
“No. Who is he?”
“We think he is an agent for the Seven Strong Men. He sent some goons to beat the shit out of me, and to kill this man.”
Lamont seemed genuinely stunned. “Why?”
“Oxley here used to be MI5. Castor was his handler. I went to meet with Oxley at his home in Corby, and as soon as I did that, everything changed. The Russians who had been passively tailing me attacked me. They attacked Oxley as well.”
Lamont looked back and forth at the two of them. “Right. It’s on the news. The murders in Corby.”
Ryan just said, “It wasn’t murder. It was self-defense.”
Sandy Lamont leaned forward now; Jack thought he was going to vomit. Eventually he mumbled something, but Jack could not understand.
“What?”
Sandy repeated himself, louder: “Nesterov.”
“What about Nesterov?”
“When Hugh found out you’d zeroed in on Dmitri Nesterov, he went bloody mental. He wanted to fire you for continuing the Gazprom investigation when I warned you away twice. He wanted to fire me for not pushing you harder off it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He told you he found out from SIS that Nesterov was FSB, but that wasn’t true—he knew the name immediately, I could tell. I suspected he had some knowledge of the man. There was something off about the way he acted. I knew it at the time but couldn’t pin it down.”
Ryan said, “So Castor knows Nesterov somehow. The Kremlin passed well over a billion dollars to him. Why?”
Sandy said, “I don’t know.”
It was quiet in the room for a moment. Then Jack said, “I need to talk to Castor about this.”
“Why not just go to the police?”
“I don’t need him arrested. I need answers.”
Sandy said, “Castor left town this afternoon.”
“Where did he go?”
“I haven’t got a clue. He’s got property all over the world. He could be anywhere.”
Shit, Jack thought. If Castor left town after he learned that Jack and Oxley had escaped, it was probably because he was on the run.
—
Ryan and Oxley left a very shaken Sandy Lamont alone in his flat, and then they drove to Stansted Airport. Here they met the Hendley Associates G550 in its slot at a fixed-base operator. When the door opened and the stairs came down, Adara Sherman looked out onto the tarmac and eyed the two men standing there by the car. Jack saw her hand move behind her back slightly.
Ryan knew she kept a SIG Sauer pistol in a holster there.
He raised his hands. “Adara. It’s me. Jack.”
She cocked her head, then relaxed. “I’m sorry, Jack. You’ve changed, haven’t you?”
Jack smiled, pleased his efforts to disguise himself had worked.
Ding, Dom, and Sam stepped off the plane, and each man ran their hands over Ryan’s short hair, pulled on his beard, and commented on all the bulk he’d put on in the past few months.
Ryan felt a powerful sense of relief when he boarded the aircraft. Being back with some of his colleagues gave him new energy. As he gave Ding, Dom, Sam, and Adara each a hug, he wondered why the hell he’d come to the UK by himself in the first place.
The team introduced themselves to Oxley without knowing much of anything about who he was. For Ox’s part, he was more bemused than anything about sitting in a $25 million Gulfstream with a bunch of Yanks who seemed to be a special operations outfit, but he interacted with the son of the President of the United States as if he were some sort of long-lost colleague.
Adara asked Jack where he wanted to go. She helpfully explained that they could head over to France or Belgium without fueling, but if Ryan wanted to travel much farther they’d need to gas up, and if he was ready to go back to the United States they would need to obtain departure clearances.
He told her he wanted to go to Edinburgh. Now that Castor had run, Jack knew he’d have to find answers some other way. He needed to meet with Galbraith.
They were wheels-up in less than fifteen minutes.
73
To judge from enemy losses alone, the first forty-eight hours of Operation Red Coal Carpet had been a success. Twelve American and British special operations teams and eight scout helicopters had been deployed into the combat zone, each equipped with laser markers that could be linked to Ukrainian Air Force assets. These targeting forces, along with the lone armed Kiowa Warrior and the four armed Reaper UAVs, had registered 109 kills of enemy armor and weaponry. Among the destroyed equipment were nearly thirty of Russia’s main battle tank, the T-90, and two massive BM-30 MLRVs.
The 109 kills represented nearly fifty percent of all the targets destroyed by the Ukrainians, a remarkable number, considering that the United States was fielding less than one percent of all the forces in the fight.
Even though Russia completely occupied the Crimean peninsula by the second day of the invasion, after taking the border oblasts of Luhansk and Donetsk, their losses had mounted to the west, and by the end of the day they were effe
ctively stalled by bad weather that grounded most Russian helicopters. The cloud cover also caused problems for Russian jets, as the majority of the ordnance used was general-purpose bombs and unguided rockets, both of which required good visibility to be effective.
But the Americans and British had taken significant losses themselves. Four MH-6 Little Bird lift helos used for transporting ground teams had been damaged or shot down, as well as one Black Hawk and one Kiowa Warrior. Five more helos of different types had been destroyed while on the ground.
Nine Americans and two British SAS soldiers had been killed, and another twenty had been wounded.
The JOC at Cherkasy Army Base had operated twenty-four hours a day since the opening hours of the conflict. The base had been bombed, but the Americans were in a hardened bunker that could survive everything short of the largest bunker buster or a nuclear detonation, and the bombs that had hit the base had been far enough away to be no major concern to Midas.
Even though the enemy was stalled tonight, good weather was forecast for the next three days, and everyone involved in the operation realized this meant the Russians would inevitably push west again.
Some had hoped that, after taking the Crimea, the Russians’ will to fight would wane, but so far no one in the U.S. defense and intelligence community had seen any real evidence of that.
The Russians were coming, and it looked like they were planning on moving all the way to Kiev.
Midas knew he couldn’t keep his operation here for much longer; there was even talk of moving the JOC to the west immediately, but he quashed the talk quickly. All the forward operating units still in the field had fallen back several times over the past two days, yet they were all still dozens of miles east. Midas determined he would move his JOC only if there was some compromise due to an intelligence failure or if there was a real risk his deployed assets might leapfrog past his position as they continued falling back in order to stay just ahead of the Russian advance.