Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Jimmy, remember the good old days when we hunted bank bandits who were just in the business for a fast buck?”

  “I’ve never done any of those. I was mainly concerned with ordinary thievery until they sent me to handling murders. But terrorism does make one nostalgic for the day of the common thug. I can even remember when they were fairly civilized.” Owens refilled his glass with port. A growing problem for the Metropolitan Police was that the criminal use of firearms was no longer so rare as it had once been, this new tool made more popular by the evening news reports on terrorism within the U.K. And while the streets and parks of London were far safer than their American counterparts, they were not as safe as they’d only recently been. The times were changing in London, too, and Owens didn’t like it at all.

  The phone rang. Murray’s secretary had just left for the night, and the agent lifted it.

  “Murray. Hi, Bob. Yeah, he’s right here. Bob Highland for you, Jimmy.” He handed the phone over.

  “Commander Owens here.” The officer sipped at his port, then set the glass down abruptly and waved for a pen and pad. “Where exactly? And you’ve already—good, excellent. I’m coming straightaway.”

  “What gives?” Murray asked quickly.

  “We’ve just had a tip on a certain Dwyer. Bomb factory in a flat on Tooley Street.”

  “Isn’t that right across from the river from the Tower?”

  “Too bloody right. I’m off.” Owens rose and grabbed for his coat.

  “You mind if I tag along?”

  “Dan, you must remember—”

  “To keep out of the way.” Murray was already on his feet. One hand unconsciously checked his left hip, where his service revolver would be, had the agent not been in a foreign country. Owens had never carried a gun. Murray wondered how you could be a cop and not be armed with something. Together they left Murray’s office and trotted up the corridor, turning left for the elevators. Two minutes later they were in the Embassy’s basement parking garage. The two officers from Owens’ chase car were already in their vehicle, and the Commander’s driver followed them out.

  Owens was on the radio the instant the car hit the street, with Murray in the back seat.

  “You have people rolling?” Murray asked.

  “Yes. Bob will have a team there in a few minutes. Dwyer, by God! The description fits perfectly.” As much as he tried to hide it, Owens was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Who tipped you?”

  “Anonymous. A male voice, claimed to have seen wiring, and something that was wrapped up in small blocks, when he looked in the window.”

  “I love it! Peeping Tom cues the cops—probably afraid his wife’ll find out what he’s been up to. Well, you take what you get.” Murray grinned. He’d had cases break on slimmer stuff than this.

  The evening traffic was curb-to-curb, and the police siren could not change that. It took fully twenty frustrating minutes to travel the five miles to Tooley Street, with Owens listening to the radio, his fist beating softly on the front door’s armrest while his men arrived at the suspect house. Finally the car darted across the Tower Bridge and turned right. The driver parked it on the sidewalk alongside two other police cars.

  It was a three-story building of drab, dirty brick, in a working class neighborhood. Next door was a small pub with its daily menu scrawled on a blackboard. Several patrons were standing at the door, pints in their fists as they watched the police, and more stood across the street. Owens ran to the door. A plainclothes detective was waiting for him.

  “All secure, sir. We have the suspect in custody. Top floor, in the rear.”

  The Commander trotted up the stairs with Murray on his heels. Another detective met him on the top-floor landing. Owens proceeded the last thirty feet with a cruel, satisfied smile on his face.

  “It’s all over, sir,” Highland said. “Here’s the suspect.”

  Maureen Dwyer was stark naked, spread-eagled on the floor. Around her was a puddle of water, and a trail of wet footprints coming from the adjacent bathroom.

  “She was taking a bath,” Highland explained. “And she’d left her pistol on the kitchen table. No trouble at all.”

  “Do you have a female detective on the way?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m surprised she’s not here already.”

  “Traffic is bloody awful,” Owens noted.

  “Any evidence of a companion?”

  “No, sir. None at all,” Highland answered. “Only this.”

  The bottom drawer of the only bureau in the shabby apartment was lying on the floor. It contained several blocks of what looked like plastic explosive, some blasting caps, and what were probably electronic timers. Already a detective was doing a written inventory while another was busily photographing the entire room with a Nikon camera and strobe. A third was breaking open an evidence kit. Everything in the room would be tagged, dropped in a clear plastic bag, and stored for use in yet another terrorist trial in the Old Bailey. There were smiles of satisfaction everywhere—except for Maureen Dwyer’s face, which was pressed to the floor. Two detectives stood over the girl, their service revolvers holstered as they watched the naked, wet figure without a trace of sympathy.

  Murray stood in the doorway to keep out of everyone’s way while his eyes took in the way Owens’ detectives handled the scene. There wasn’t much to criticize. The suspect was neutralized, the area secured, and now evidence was being collected; everything was going by the book. He noted that the suspect was kept stationary. A woman officer would perform a cavity search to ensure that she wasn’t “holding” something that might be dangerous. This was a little hard on Miss Dwyer’s modesty, but Murray didn’t think a judge would object. Maureen Dwyer was a known bomber, with at least three years’ work behind her. Nine months before, she’d been seen leaving the site of a nasty one in Belfast that minutes later had killed four people and maimed another three. No, there wouldn’t be all that much sympathy for Miss Dwyer. After another several minutes, a detective took the sheet off the bed and draped it over her, covering her from her knees to her shoulders. Through it all, the suspect didn’t move. She was breathing rapidly, but made no sound.

  “This is interesting,” one man said. He pulled a suitcase from under the bed. After checking it for booby traps, he opened it and extracted a theatrical makeup case complete with four wigs.

  “Goodness, I could use one of those myself.” The female detective squeezed past Murray and approached Owens. “I came as fast as I could, Commander.”

  “Carry on.” Owens smiled. He was too happy to let something this minor annoy him.

  “Spread ’em, dearie. You know the drill.” The detective put on a rubber glove for her search. Murray didn’t watch. This was one thing he’d always been squeamish about. A few seconds later, the glove came off with a snapping sound. A detective handed Dwyer some clothes to put on. Murray watched the suspect dress herself as unselfconsciously as if she’d been alone—no, he thought, alone she’d show more emotion. As soon as her clothes were on, a police officer snapped steel handcuffs on her wrists. The same man informed Dwyer of her rights, not very differently from the way American cops did it. She did not acknowledge the words. Maureen Dwyer looked about at the police, no expression at all on her face, not even anger, and was taken out without having said a single word.

  That’s a cold piece of work, Murray told himself. Even with her hair wet, with no makeup, she was pretty enough, he thought. Nice complexion. It wouldn’t hurt her to knock off eight or ten pounds, but in nice clothes that wouldn’t matter very much. You could pass her on the street, or sit next to her in a bar and offer to buy her a drink, and you’d never suspect that she was carrying two pounds of high explosives in her purse. Thank God we don’t have anything like that at home.... He wondered how well the Bureau would do against such a threat. Even with all their resources, the scientific and forensic experts who back up the special agents in the field, this was no easy crime to deal with.
For any police force, the name of the game was wait for the bad guys to make a mistake. You had to play for the breaks, just like a football team waited for a turnover. The problem was, the crooks kept getting better, kept learning from their mistakes. It was like any sort of competition. Both sides became increasingly sophisticated. But the criminals always had the initiative. The cops were always playing catchup ball.

  “Well, Dan, any critique? Do we measure up to FBI standards?” Owens inquired with the slightest amount of smugness.

  “Don’t give me that crap, Jimmy!” Murray grinned. Things were settled down now. The detectives were fully engaged in cataloging the physical evidence in the confidence that they already had a solid criminal case. “I’d say you have this one pretty cold. You know how lucky you are not to have our illegal-search-and-seizure rules?” Not to mention some of our judges.

  “Finished,” the photographer said.

  “Excellent,” replied Sergeant Bob Highland, who was running the crime scene.

  “How’d you get here so fast, Bob?” Murray wanted to know. “You take the tube, or what?”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Highland laughed. “Perhaps we caught the traffic right. We were here within eleven minutes. You weren’t that far behind us. We booted the door and had Dwyer in custody in under five seconds. Isn’t it amazing how easy it can be—if you have the bloody information you need!”

  “Can I come in now?”

  “Certainly.” Owens waved him into the apartment.

  Murray went right to the bureau drawer with the explosives. The FBI man was an expert on explosive devices. He and Owens crouched over the collection.

  “Looks like Czech,” Murray muttered.

  “It is,” another detective said. “From Skoda works, you can tell from the wrapping. These are American, though. California Pyronetics, model thirty-one electronic detonator.” He tossed one—in a plastic bag—to Murray.

  “Damn! They’re turning up all over the place—a shipment of these little babies got hijacked a year and a half ago. They were heading for an oil field in Venezuela, and got taken outside Caracas,” Murray explained. He gave the small black device a closer look. “The oil field guys love ’em. Safe, reliable, and damned near foolproof. This is as good as the stuff the Army uses. State of the art.”

  “Where else have they turned up?” Owens asked.

  “We’re sure about three or four. The problem is, they’re so small that it’s not always possible to identify what’s left. A bank in Puerto Rico, a police station in Peru—those were political. The other one—maybe two—were drug related. Until now they’ve all been on the other side of the Atlantic. As far as I know, this is the first time they’ve showed up here. These detonators have lot numbers. You’ll want to check them against the stolen shipment. I can get a telex off tonight, have you an answer inside an hour.”

  “Thank you, Dan.”

  Murray counted five one-kilo blocks of explosive. The Czech plastique had a good reputation for quality. It was as potent as the stuff Du Pont made for American military use. One block, properly placed, could take a building down. With the Pyronetics timers, Miss Dwyer could have placed five separate bombs, set them for delayed detonation—as much as a month—and been a thousand miles away when they went off.

  “You saved some lives tonight, gentlemen. Good one.” Murray looked up. The apartment had a single window facing to the rear. The window had a pull-down blind that was all the way down, and some cheap, dirty curtains. Murray wondered what this flat cost to rent. Not much, he was sure. The heat was turned way up, and the room was getting stuffy. “Anybody mind if I let some air in here?”

  “Excellent idea, Dan,” Owens answered.

  “Let me do it, sir.” A detective with gloves on put up the blind and then the window. Everything in the room would be dusted for fingerprints also, but opening the window wouldn’t harm anything. A breeze cooled things off in an instant.

  “That’s better.” The FBI representative took a deep breath, scarcely noticing the smell of diesel exhaust from the London cabs....

  Something was wrong.

  It hit Murray as a surprise. Something was wrong. What? He looked out the window. To the left was a—probably a warehouse, a blank four-story wall. Past it on the right, he could see the outline of the Tower of London, standing over the River Thames. That was all. He turned his head to see Owens, also staring out the window. The Commander of C-13 turned his head and looked at Murray, a question on his face also.

  “Yes,” Owens said.

  “What was it that guy on the phone said?” Murray muttered.

  Owens’ head bobbed. “Exactly. Sergeant Highland?”

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “The voice on the phone. What exactly did it say, and what exactly did it sound like?” Owens kept looking out the window.

  “The voice had... a Midlands accent, I should think. A man’s voice. He said that he was looking in the window, and saw explosives and some wires. We have it all on tape, of course.”

  Murray reached through the open window and ran a finger along the outside surface of the glass. It came back dirty. “It sure wasn’t a window-washer who called in.” He leaned out the window. There was no fire escape.

  “Someone atop the warehouse, perhaps—no,” Owens said at once. “The angle isn’t right, unless she had the material spread out on the floor. That is rather odd.”

  “Break-in? Maybe someone got in here, saw the stuff, and decided to call in like a good citizen?” Murray asked. “That doesn’t sound very likely.”

  Owens shrugged. “No telling, is there? A boyfriend she dumped—I think for the moment we can be content with counting our blessings, Dan. There are five bombs that will never hurt anyone. Let’s get out of everyone’s way and send that telex off to Washington. Sergeant Highland, gentlemen, this was well done! Congratulations to you all for some splendid police work. Carry on.”

  Owens and Murray left the building quietly. Outside they found a small crowd being restrained by about ten uniformed constables. A TV news crew was on the scene with its bright lights. These were enough to keep them from seeing across the street. This block had three small pubs. In the doorway of one stood a soft-looking man with a pint of bitter in his hand. He showed no emotion, not even curiosity, as he looked across the street. His memory recorded the faces he saw. His name was Dennis Cooley.

  Murray and Owens drove to New Scotland Yard headquarters, where the FBI agent made his telex to Washington. They didn’t discuss the one anomaly that the case had unexpectedly developed, and Murray left Owens to his work. C-13 had broken yet another bomb case—and done so in the best way, without a single casualty. It meant that Owens and his people would have a sleepless night of paperwork, and preparing reports for the Home Office bureaucracy, and press releases for Fleet Street, but that was something they would gladly accept.

  Ryan’s first day back at work was easier than he had expected. His prolonged absence had forced the History Department to reassign his classes, and in any case it was almost time for Christmas break, and nearly all of the mids were looking forward to being home for the holidays. Class routine was slightly relaxed, and even the plebes enjoyed a respite from the upperclassmen’s harassment in the wake of the win over Army. For Ryan, the result was a fairish collection of letters and documents piled on his In tray, and a quiet day with which to deal with them. He’d arrived in his office at 7:30; by quarter to five he’d dealt with most of his paperwork, and Ryan felt that he’d delivered an honest day’s work. He was finishing a series of test questions for the semester’s final exam when he smelled cheap cigar smoke and heard a familiar voice.

  “Did you enjoy your vacation, boy?” Lieutenant Commander Robert Jefferson Jackson was leaning against the door frame.

  “It had a few interesting moments, Robby. The sun over—or under—the yardarm yet?”

  “Damn straight!” Jackson set his white cap on top of Ryan’s filing cabinet and collaps
ed unceremoniously into the leather chair opposite his friend’s desk.

  Ryan closed the file folder on his draft exam and shoved it into a desk drawer. One of the personal touches in his office was a small refrigerator. He opened it and took out a two-liter bottle of 7-Up, along with an empty bottle of Canada Dry ginger ale, then removed a bottle of Irish whiskey from his desk. Robby got two cups from the table by the door and handed them to Jack. Ryan mixed two drinks to the approximate color of ginger ale. It was against Academy policy to have liquor in one’s office—a stance Ryan found curious, given the naval orientation of the institution—but drinking “ginger ale” was a winked-upon subterfuge. Besides, everyone recognized that the Officer and Faculty Club was only a minute’s walk away. Jack handed one drink over and replaced everything but the empty ginger ale bottle.

  “Welcome home, pal!” Robby held his drink up.

  “Nice to be back.” The two men clicked their cups together.

  “Glad you made it, Jack. You kind of worried us. How’s the arm?” Jackson gestured with his cup.

  “Better than it was. You oughta see the cast I started out with. They took it off at Hopkins last Friday. I learned one thing today, though, driving a stick shift through Annapolis with one arm is a bitch. ”

  “I’ll bet,” Robby chuckled. “Damn if you ain’t crazy, boy.”

  Ryan nodded agreement. He’d met Jackson the previous March at a faculty tea. Robby wore the gold wings of a naval aviator. He’d been assigned to the nearby Patuxent River Naval Air Test Center, Maryland, as an instructor in the test pilot school until a faulty relay had unexpectedly blasted him clear of the Buckeye jet trainer he’d been flying one fine, clear morning. Unprepared for the event, he’d broken his leg badly. The injury had been serious enough to take him off flight status for six months, and the Navy had assigned him to temporary duty as an instructor in Annapolis, where he was currently in the engineering department. It was an assignment which Jackson regarded as one step above pulling oars in a galley.