Commander-In-Chief

by Tom Clancy

  “Can you come in?”

  “Why?”

  A pause. “I need you to see something.”

  The prince sighed to the others in the Mercedes. “I’ll be right back.”

  His close protection agent called back from the front seat, “I’ll go with you.”

  “No need.”

  But the guard insisted and climbed out and opened the door for the prince, and the two men crossed the sidewalk.

  The prince pressed the button for the door to be unlocked, and he entered the exclusive shop when he heard the click of the lock disengaging. With no attempt to hide his impatience, he climbed the steps up to the sales floor, his bodyguard at his side, and looked around for his wife.

  Quickly he realized the little store was empty other than his wife, a single doorman in a dark suit, and a tall, attractive salesclerk standing on the other side of a glass counter from his wife.

  The two Saudis passed the security guard standing along the wall.

  The prince said, “I told you to get whatever you wanted. Why do I have to see it?”

  She stood over a case of necklaces, so his eyes scanned down the merchandise.

  Next to him, his guard spoke to his wife as well. “Where is Faisal?”

  When she did not immediately answer either man, the prince looked up at her for the first time, and he noticed the terror in her eyes.

  “What is it?”

  • • •

  Braam Jaeger drew his silenced .22-caliber pistol and shot the prince’s bodyguard in the back of the head, just behind the ear, at a distance of three feet. The big man pitched forward along with the snap of the round, and he dropped to his knees. Braam stepped closer behind him and shot him execution-style where he knelt, and by the time he lifted his weapon to train it on the prince, he saw the prince was already beginning to run in his direction, back toward the door.

  The prince lurched forward, stumbling as he passed by Braam, and slid across the cold marble floor.

  Martina Jaeger stood behind the counter, and she held out her own silenced .22. She had shot the man between the shoulder blades from behind.

  Braam fired his weapon twice more at the man writhing on the ground at his feet, then he turned and left the showroom, heading down to cover the entrance in case more of the prince’s guards tried to enter. As he walked he holstered his pistol, and from a shoulder holster he drew a Brügger & Thomet machine pistol. It was not a suppressed weapon like the .22, but was fully automatic, fired a larger, heavier nine-millimeter round, and was much more suitable for a real gunfight with multiple attackers than the little .22.

  • • •

  The prince’s wife had dropped to the floor the moment the shooting began, and now she cowered there. “Please! No!”

  Martina walked around the showcase slowly, taking her time, her high heels rhythmic on the marble. She stood over the trembling ex-model from the Czech Republic for several seconds, enjoying her fear.

  “If you are a smart woman, then you know that I must kill you.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. We just spent ten minutes talking about platinum bracelets. I have a striking face, perhaps not as beautiful as your own, but certainly you will be able to provide a detailed description of me if I let you walk out of here.”

  “I swear to you. I will say nothing!”

  “And I saw the way you looked at my brother when you came in. You wanted him for yourself. Pity that won’t happen.” She smiled. “It would be something to see.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  Martina pushed the muzzle of the .22 into the woman’s blond hair. “Stop lying! Stop sniveling! Can’t you die with dignity?”

  The Czech woman began to sob loudly.

  Martina said, “When I die, I will make my death as graceful as my life. I have self-respect. Honor.”

  Just then, Braam Jaeger called out in Dutch from the stairs. “They are coming!”

  Martina cleared her head quickly, and she took two steps back from the woman on her knees in front of her.

  She was thinking about the inevitable splatter and her ivory blouse.

  Just as the prince’s wife looked up at the movement, Martina Jaeger fired four times into her heart. The Czech woman cried out, grabbed at the wounds for an instant, then slumped over dead.

  Martina knelt and picked up her tiny hot brass, giving no more thought to the dead bodies lying around her.

  Braam walked up to the counter next to Martina and shattered the glass with the butt of his pistol. He and Martina pulled out several trays of rings and necklaces, taking no real time to distinguish specific pieces.

  The pair left via the rear of the boutique seconds later, stowing their weapons out of sight and stepping over the two employees of the store and the wife’s bodyguard, all of whom were piled on the floor behind the counter. Even before the Saudi guards were able to break down the front door and rush onto the small sales floor, Braam was behind the wheel of an Aston Martin, and he and his sister were pulling out of the loading area, heading toward Wilshire Boulevard.

  Within an hour they would be in the air, leaving Van Nuys Airport, and within fifteen hours they would be back in Holland, waiting for their next operation. They doubted they had long to wait, because it sure seemed like the Russians were really picking up the intensity of their operations.

  27

  It was Saturday afternoon, and President Jack Ryan was supposed to be with his wife and two youngest kids enjoying the beautiful fall day at their home in Peregrine Cliff. He’d been looking forward to the getaway all week, anticipating looking out over the waters of the Chesapeake Bay surrounded by autumn colors, the leaves floating down all around him.

  Instead he looked at a stack of white papers on the table in front of him. A National Intelligence Estimate was a poor substitute for blowing fall leaves. He was stuck here at work, sitting at the conference table in the Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing.

  This meeting could have been held in the Oval Office; there were just a half-dozen in attendance, and this wasn’t an imminent national security situation, but the White House staff had chosen today to clean the carpets in the West Wing, the President’s secretary’s office, and the Cabinet Room. Jack had been told this in advance, but it was only a young uniformed Secret Service guard with an awkward expression on his face standing in the West Colonnade who called out to the President as he opened the door, one step away from entering and trampling all over wet carpet.

  That would have made his dark mood even darker, but the moment was saved, and now he was here facing the secretary of energy, the attorney general, and the secretary of state, along with a couple staff members for each of them.

  The President sat at the end of the conference table, his head in his hands and his glasses on the papers in front of him. Slowly he rubbed his eyes. The director of the CIA and the director of the Office of National Intelligence were supposed to be here as well, but they hadn’t made it in yet, so his questions about the international intelligence ramifications of the current situation went unanswered, and Ryan wasn’t pleased about this at all.

  Ryan slipped his eyeglasses back on and sighed.

  “The heir apparent to be the next Saudi minister of petroleum and mineral resources. A prince of the nation, a friend of our government. Where does this assassination take place? Riyadh? Jeddah? London? Istanbul? Nope. Beverly fucking Hills!”

  No one spoke.

  Ryan shook away a measure of his anger and said, “Dan . . . who did it?”

  Attorney General Dan Murray shrugged his broad shoulders. “LAPD says it looks like a very professional, but very ruthless contract hit dressed up to look like a smash-and-grab robbery. Obviously the perpetrators had intelligence on the security setup, that’s how they knew how to swipe the video footage, as well as get in
and get out without being picked up on any cameras in neighboring shops.”

  “Where did they get the intel?”

  “It’s a chain store. Chain stores use the same equipment, same security protocols. They might have cased one of these shops anywhere in the world, then when they walked into the one on Rodeo Drive they knew what to do.”

  “Go on.”

  “Lots of stuff was taken, a couple million in missing jewels, but it doesn’t smell like robbery to LAPD. Our agents just arrived on scene this afternoon, so maybe we’ll get a better picture later today.”

  Ryan said, “I’ll state the obvious. This will hurt our relations with the Saudis and the prince’s loss will affect the world energy markets, at least in the short term.” He turned to the secretary of energy, Lester Birnbaum. “Any idea how much, Les?”

  “I hate to be crass, Mr. President, by converting the prince’s death to a dollar figure.”

  Ryan nodded. “I feel bad for the guy, and for his wife, same as I would for anyone who is murdered. But we’re not here to grieve for them, Les. We have another job.”

  Birnbaum nodded. “I’d say a dollar a barrel, at least for the next ninety days.” After he said this, he added, “And what about the assassination of the federal prosecutor in Venezuela last week?”

  Ryan cocked his head. “What about it?”

  “I’m just pointing out another event that took place recently that is having an effect on the oil markets. Not as big a deal as the Beverly Hills assassination, but if that Venezuelan prosecutor had managed to pass down some indictments it would have negatively affected world markets. He died before he revealed his information, and the price stayed flat.”

  Ryan turned back to AG Murray now. “Dan? What do you know about the Caracas murder?”

  Murray said, “We’re on the outside looking in. Our liaison relationship with Venezuelan federal law enforcement is effectively nil, but that killing appeared to be very professionally done. Everyone down there we’ve talked to asserts this couldn’t have been a local hit, not even something arranged by the government. It was too slick.”

  Ryan said, “Vilar was working on indictments against the Venezuelan government, right?”

  “That’s right. He claimed to have evidence of bribes given by the Russian state-owned gas industry to Venezuelan oil and gas officials, paying them off to release low Venezuelan production numbers to keep prices higher.”

  Ryan was intrigued. “So if the Venezuelan government didn’t have him killed, that leaves the Russian government, although it doesn’t seem to me like it would be that easy for a group of Spetsnaz gunmen to roll into Caracas and kill a top federal prosecutor. Any ID of the killers at all?”

  Dan Murray said, “Caracas is tight-lipped about the investigation. We wondered if they were putting a lid on it because the killer came from within. But considering their good relationship with Moscow . . . it could just be the case that they suspect the Russians, too. Both governments would benefit if the assassin or assassins got away scot-free.”

  Mary Pat Foley and Jay Canfield entered the conference room together, their pace indicating they knew they were running late. Jack looked up at them long enough for them to know he was annoyed. “We’ve been spitballing theories around here without you two. Take a seat and help us out.”

  Mary Pat said, “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but there is a situation under way in Nigeria that required our attention.”

  “Nigeria?”

  Canfield said, “It looks like a well-armed force of over one hundred, presumably Boko Haram fighters, attacked and took over an oil rig near Lagos. Unknown number of dead, you can bet many will be foreign contractors. The Nigerian Army is prepping an op to retake the oil rig. I asked my counterpart over there to allow us to consult with them, at least on the intel side. Burgess is talking to them about allowing American military advisers from JSOC to come down and give advice.”

  Scott Adler asked, “Have any Americans been taken hostage?”

  “None, surprisingly. Ocean Oil Services out of Houston owns the rig, but it’s run by the French and staffed mostly by Nigerians. Still, it’s a U.S.-owned company, so we’re asking for a seat at the table.”

  “Christ,” Ryan said, and the glasses came off again.

  Lester Birnbaum muttered under his breath. “There’s another buck right there.”

  Ryan started to ask more questions of his intelligence advisers, but instead he turned to the secretary of energy. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, Mr. President. Sorry.” Ryan kept his eyes on him until Lester Birnbaum realized he had to explain himself. “It’s just that . . . the assassination in Caracas of the prosecutor investigating government price rigging of Venezuelan oil, the explosion of the LNG plant in Lithuania, the assassination of the Saudis’ number-two fossil fuels man in Beverly Hills, and an attack on a rig in Nigeria. All happening within a week and a half. Each one of these separate events will have an effect on energy prices. Add that to the general conflagration in the Baltic . . . and I can’t even predict where prices will rise to. Honestly, Mr. President, my ability to foretell oil and gas futures becomes a lot shakier every time you throw another crisis into the equation.”

  Ryan stared at his reflection in the polished table. “Jay, when has Boko Haram attacked an offshore oil rig?”

  “Well,” Jay Canfield said, “they’ve attacked the fields and the processing facilities. But out at sea? No, they haven’t. First time for everything, I guess.”

  Ryan next asked, “Why would they do something that’s exponentially more difficult than hitting a refinery on land? I mean, what’s in it for Boko Haram?”

  Mary Pat said, “They are showing their power and reach.”

  “Right, but can’t they do that by hitting other targets? They could even hit oil targets. Why put a hundred guys in boats and conduct a completely different type of mission, for no more obvious gain?”

  Birnbaum chanced another comment, although he was not directly in the intelligence loop. “Well . . . Mr. President, if they wanted to really affect the markets, they would do just this very thing. It conveys the fragility in Nigerian energy. The foreign energy companies’ facilities were already at slight risk for a refinery attack every couple of years, so that risk is already priced into the market, more or less. But this? This is a new level of danger to the supply out of Nigeria. It will have a market effect equal to or more than the death of the Saudi prince, I should think.”

  Ryan looked to Jay Canfield. “Is Boko Haram sophisticated enough to take this into consideration?”

  Canfield shook his head. “Hell, no. Not in a million years.” Mary Pat shook her head in agreement with Canfield’s dismissal of the strategic thinking of the Nigerian rebel force.

  Ryan said, “Then maybe someone is doing their thinking for them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ryan said, “Think about it. Every percentage point oil or natural gas goes up means billions in the coffers of the Russians, and millions in the personal accounts of Valeri Volodin.”

  Scott Adler said, “Wait. I know you suggested Russia was possibly responsible for the Independence explosion, and the train attack in Vilnius. But now you are suggesting they murdered a Saudi prince in California?”

  Jay Canfield was equally skeptical. “And a prosecutor in Venezuela? And they encouraged Boko Haram to go big against the local energy sector? Sorry, Mr. President, but that’s one heck of a conspiracy theory.”

  Ryan held his hands up. “It’s not a theory, Jay. It’s a hunch. I can’t back it up enough to raise it up to theory status. But what if Russia is using its reach through the FSB to orchestrate all these events?”

  Adler cocked his head. “To make money?”

  Ryan shook his head. “No, to increase their power. Look how bad the energy sector has fallen. If Russia recoups ten to twen
ty percent of that, it makes them ten to twenty percent stronger. And if they reach out into Lithuania, or into Poland . . . it’s only going to cost Europe that much more to confront them.”

  Adler wasn’t buying it. “They are sending FSB out around the world to boost oil prices, so when they attack Lithuania NATO won’t respond, because that would be too expensive? I don’t know, Mr. President.”

  Ryan just shrugged now. “I don’t know, either. Maybe I’m reaching. But the shooting in Germany showed us an FSB officer and a group of armed unknown operators in cahoots with a Spanish eco-terrorist. We know Russia has done false-flag ops in the past.”

  His conclusions were met by stares around the room.

  He looked to Mary Pat Foley.

  Mary Pat knew this look well. “Yes, Mr. President. As details from these events come out, we’ll look into your hunch.” She didn’t sound any more convinced than Canfield or Adler had.

  Jack said, “I know you will. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to call an angry and grief-stricken sultan in Saudi Arabia and then run off six hours late to see an angry and disappointed wife in Maryland.” He stood. With a slight bow he said, “Thanks for coming in on your Saturday. I sincerely wish you all a better weekend than I have in store for myself.”

  28

  The DataPlanet truck sat on the loose shoulder of a winding gravel road to the east of the town of Pabradė, Lithuania. Within fifty feet of the road both to the north and south, tall, ramrod-straight pine trees shot up seventy-five feet into the air. While Herkus Zarkus pulled rolls of fiber-optic cable out of the back of his vehicle and set them up in neat stacks, Ding Chavez attached a toaster-sized optical laser surveying station to an already positioned tripod, turned it on, and pointed it along the road to the east.

  Twelve miles beyond the next bend was the nation of Belarus, and just beyond that was Russia. There, Russia’s Western Military District, numbering thousands of tanks and tens of thousands of men, could be in position to attack Lithuania within days. There was no notice from the CIA that the Russians were on their way here, but the two Campus operators not so far from the border of Russia’s closest ally were taking the events there seriously, to say the least. They knew at any point they might be relying on that little DataPlanet van on the side of the road to outrun tanks and Mi-24 attack helicopters.