Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “I know this kid. I’ve driven him around Washington myself, when he came east to brief us ...” It’s your fault, Jack. It was your move that caused this to happen ... wasn’t it? He asked a few questions.

  “Yeah, that’s a virtual certainty,” Candela said. “They screwed things up, looks like. That sounds like an over-nighter. Hey, the KGB officers aren’t supermen either, pal, but they follow their orders, just like we do.”

  “You have some ideas?”

  “Not much we can do from this end but hope the local cops can straighten things out.”

  “But if it goes public—”

  “Show me some evidence. You don’t accuse a foreign government of something like this without evidence. Hell, there’s half a dozen engineers in Europe who’ve been murdered by left-wing terrorist gangs in the last two years, all working on the fringes of the SDI program, not to mention a few ‘suicides.’ We haven’t made a public issue of that, either.”

  “But this breaks the rules, damn it!”

  “When you get down to it, there’s only one rule, doc: Win.”

  “Does USIA still have that global TV operation going?”

  “Worldnet, you mean? Sure. It’s a hell of a program.”

  “If we don’t get him back, I will personally break the Red October story world-wide, and fuck the consequences!” Ryan swore. “If it costs my career, I’ll do it.”

  “Red October?” Candela had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Trust me, it’s a good one.”

  “Tell your KGB friends—hell, it might even work.”

  “Even if it doesn’t,” Ryan said, more in control now. It’s your fault, Jack, he told himself again. Candela agreed; Jack could see it.

  The funny part, the state police thought, was that the press wasn’t given the real meat of the case. As soon as the FBI team arrived, the rules were established. For the moment, this was a simple case of a police shooting. The federal involvement was to be kept secret, and if it broke, the word would be that an international drug-trafficker was on the loose and that federal assistance had been requested. The Oklahoma authorities were told to tell any inquiring journalist that they’d merely provided identification help to a fellow police force. Meanwhile, the FBI took over the case, and federal assets began to flood the area. Citizens were told that nearby military bases were conducting routine exercises—special search-and-rescue drills—which explained the abnormal helicopter activity. People at Project Tea Clipper were briefed on what had happened and told to keep this secret as close as all of the others.

  Gregory’s car was located in a matter of hours. No fingerprints were found—Bisyarina had worn gloves, of course—nor was any other useful evidence, though the placement of his car and the location of the shooting merely confirmed the professionalism of the event.

  Gregory had been the Washington guest of men more important than Ryan. The President’s first appointment of the morning was with General Bill Parks, FBI Director Emil Jacobs, and Judge Moore.

  “Well?” the President asked Jacobs.

  “These things take time. I’ve got some of our best investigative minds out there, Mr. President, but looking over their shoulder only slows things down.”

  “Bill,” the President asked next, “how important is the boy?”

  “He’s priceless,” Parks answered simply. “He’s one of my top three men, sir. People like that cannot be replaced very easily.”

  The President took this information seriously. Next he turned to Judge Moore. “We caused this, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, in a manner of speaking. Obviously, we hit Gerasimov in a very tender spot. My estimate agrees with the General’s. They want what Gregory knows. Gerasimov probably thinks that if he can get information of this magnitude, he can overcome the political consequences of the Red October disclosure. That’s a hard call to make from this side of the ocean, but certainly there’s a good chance that his evaluation is correct.”

  “I knew we shouldn’t have done this ...” the President said quietly, then shook his head. “Well, that’s my responsibility. I authorized it. If the press ...”

  “Sir, if the press gets wind of this, it sure as hell won’t be from CIA. Second, we can always say that this was a desperate—I’ d prefer to say ‘vigorous’—attempt to save the life of our agent. It doesn’t have to go any further than that, and such action is expected of intelligence services. They go to great lengths to protect their agents. So do we. That’s one of the rules of the game.”

  “Where does Gregory fit into the rules?” Parks asked. “What if they think we might have a chance of rescuing him?”

  “I don’t know,” Moore admitted. “If Gerasimov succeeds in saving himself, he’ll probably get word to us that we forced him into it, he’s sorry, and it won’t happen again. He’d expect us to retaliate once or twice, but it would probably stop at that, because neither KGB nor CIA wants to start a war. To answer your question directly, General, my opinion is that they may have orders to eliminate the asset entirely.”

  “You mean murder him?” the President asked.

  “That is a possibility. Gerasimov must have ordered this mission very quickly. Desperate men make for desperate orders. It would be incautious of us to assume otherwise.”

  The President considered that for a minute. He leaned back in his chair and sipped at his coffee. “Emil, if we can find where he is ... ?”

  “The Hostage Rescue Team is standing by. I have the men in place. Their vehicles are being flown out by the Air Force, but for the moment all they can do is sit and wait.”

  “If they move in, what are the chances that they’ll save him?”

  “Pretty good, Mr. President,” Jacobs replied.

  “‘Pretty good’ doesn’t cut it,” Parks said. “If the Russians have orders to take him out—”

  “My people are as well trained as anyone in the world,” the FBI Director said.

  “What are their rules of engagement?” Parks demanded.

  “They are trained to use deadly force in the protection of themselves or any innocent person. If any subject appears to be threatening a hostage, he’s a dead man.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Parks said next.

  “What do you mean?” the President asked.

  “How long does it take to turn around and blow somebody’s head off? What if they’re willing to die to accomplish their mission? We expect our people to be, don’t we?”

  “Arthur?” Heads turned to Judge Moore.

  The DCI shrugged. “I can’t predict the dedication of Soviets. Is it possible? Yes, I suppose it is. Is it certain? I don’t know that. Nobody does.”

  “I used to drive fighter planes for a living. I know what human reaction times are,” Parks said. “If a guy does decide to turn and shoot, even if your man has a gun on him, he might not be fast enough to keep Al alive.”

  “What do you want me to do, tell my people just to kill everybody in sight?” Jacobs asked quietly. “We don’t do that. We can’t do that.”

  Parks turned to the President next. “Sir, even if the Russians don’t get Gregory, if we lose him, they win. It might be years before we can replace him. I submit, sir, that Mr. Jacobs’ people are trained to deal with criminals, not folks like this, and not for this situation. Mr. President, I recommend that you call in the Delta Force from Fort Bragg.”

  “They don’t have jurisdiction,” Jacobs noted at once.

  “They have the right kind of training,” the General said.

  The President was quiet for another minute. “Emil, how good are your people at following orders?”

  “They will do what you say, sir. But it will have to be your order, in writing.”

  “Can you get me in touch with them?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Jacobs picked up the phone and routed a call through his own office in the Hoover Building. Along the way it was scrambled.

  “Agent Werner, please ... Agent Wern
er, this is Director Jacobs. I have a special message for you. Stand by.” He handed the phone over. “This is Gus Werner. He’s been the team leader for five years. Gus passed on a promotion to stay with the HRT.”

  “Mr. Werner, this is the President. Do you recognize my voice? Good. Please listen closely. In the event that you are able to attempt the rescue of Major Gregory, your only mission is to get him out. All other considerations are secondary to that objective. The arrest of the criminals in question is not, I repeat, not a matter of concern. Is that clear? Yes, even the possibility of a threat to the hostage is sufficient grounds for the use of deadly force. Major Gregory is an irreplaceable national asset. His survival is your only mission. I will put that in writing and hand it to the Director. Thank you. Good luck.” The President replaced the phone. “He says that they’ve considered this possibility.”

  “He would.” Jacobs nodded. “Gus has a good imagination. Now the note, sir.”

  The President took a small sheet of writing paper from his desk and made the order official. It wasn’t until he was finished that he realized what he’d done. This was not an intellectual exercise. He’d just handwritten a death warrant. It turned out to be a depressingly easy thing to do.

  “General, are you satisfied?”

  “I hope these people are as good as the Director says,” was all Parks was willing to say.

  “Judge, any repercussions from the other side?”

  “No, Mr. President. Our Soviet colleagues understand this sort of thing.”

  “Then that’s it.” And may God have mercy on my soul.

  No one had slept. Candi hadn’t gone to work, of course. With the arrival of the investigative team from Washington, Jennings and Perkins were baby-sitting her. There was the remote possibility that Gregory would escape, and in this event, it was deemed that he’d call here first. There was another reason, of course, but that wasn’t official yet.

  Bea Taussig was a veritable tornado of energy. She’d spent the night straightening the house and brewing coffee for everyone. Odd as it seemed, it gave her something to do besides sitting with her friend. She did a lot of that, too, which no one thought especially odd. It was one of the things friends do.

  Jennings took several hours to note that she was wearing an outfit that actually looked feminine. She had, in fact, gone to the trouble the previous day to make herself look rather nice. Most of that was wreckage now. Once or twice she’d shed tears herself when she and Candi cried together, and what had been a properly decorated face now showed streaks. Her clothes were wrinkled and the paisley scarf was in the closet, wrapped around the same hanger that held her coat. But the most interesting thing about Taussig, Jennings thought from her chair, was her mental state. There was tenseness there. The bustling activity of the long night had alleviated it to some degree, but ... there was more to it than just being helpful, the agent thought. She didn’t say this to Perkins.

  Taussig didn’t notice or care about what the agent thought. She looked out the window, expecting to see the sun rising for the second time since she’d last slept, and wondered where all her energy was coming from. Maybe the coffee, she thought to herself with an inward smile. It was always funny when you lied to yourself. She wondered at the danger that she herself might face, but put that worry aside. She trusted Ann’s professionalism. One of the first things she’d been told on starting her second career was that she would be protected, even to the death. Such promises had to be real, Ann had said, because they had a practical dimension. It was a business, Bea thought, and she felt confident that those in it knew how to handle themselves. The worst thing that could happen was that the police and FBI would rescue Al, but they were probably already gone, she told herself. Or maybe they’d kill him, despite what Ann had told her the previous night. That would be too bad. She wanted him out of the way. Not dead, just out of the way. She remembered the table talk at the project about how some German, Italian, and British people working in SDI-related projects had died mysteriously. So there was a precedent, wasn’t there? If Al got back alive ... well, that was that, wasn’t it? She had to trust her controller to run things. Too late now. She turned her attention to her friend.

  Candi was staring blankly at the far wall. There was a picture there, a laser-print of the space shuttle lifting off from Cape Canaveral. Not a proper picture, but something Al had picked up for free from one contractor or another and decided to hang on the wall. Bea’s thoughts returned to Candace. Her eyes were puffy from all the tears.

  “You have to get some rest,” Bea told her. Candace didn’t even turn her head, hardly reacted at all, but Bea put her arm around her friend’s shoulder and lifted her from the couch. “Come on.”

  Candi rose as though in a dream, and Bea guided her out of the living room and up the steps toward the bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door.

  “Why, Bea? Why did they do it?” Candi sat on the bed, and her stare was merely at a different wall.

  “I don’t know,” Bea said, more honestly than she knew. She really didn’t know, but then, she really didn’t care.

  The tears started again, and the gasping breaths, and the running nose as she watched her friend contemplate a world that someone else had torn apart. She felt momentary guilt that she was one of those who’d done it, but knew that she would make it whole again. A timid person despite all her flamboyance, Bea had found unexpected courage in herself by working for a foreign government, and more courage still in doing something that she had never expected them to ask. One more thing remained. She sat down next to her friend and held her close, bringing her head down on the offered shoulder. It was so hard for Bea. Her previous experiences had been passing college affairs. She’d tried to find in herself something different, but the men she’d dated had not satisfied. Her first sexual experience at the clumsy hands of a teenage football player had been so awful ... but she wasn’t one to psychoanalyze herself. With strangers or mere acquaintances it was one thing, but now she had to face herself, to face her own image in the eyes of a friend. A friend in pain. A friend who needed. A friend, she reminded herself coldly, whom she’d betrayed. It wasn’t that she hated Gregory any the less, but she could not ignore the fact that he meant something to her friend, and in that sense he was still between them even here, alone in the bedroom. That worthless little caricature of a man who had on this very bed ...

  Will you ever replace him? she asked herself.

  Will you even try?

  If you were willing to remove him, and hurt her, and then not even take the risk ... what does that make you?

  She wrapped her arms tight around her friend, and was rewarded with a returning grasp. Candi was merely trying to hold on to part of her shattering world, but Bea didn’t know that. She kissed her friend on the cheek, and Candi’s grip grew stronger still.

  She needs you.

  It took all of Bea’s courage. Already her heart was beating fast, and she ridiculed herself as she had for years. Bea the Confident. Bea the Tough, who snarled back at whomever she wished, who drove her kind of car, and wore her kind of clothes, and to hell with what anyone thought. Bea the Coward, who even after she had risked everything lacked the courage to reach out to the one person in all the world who mattered. One more hesitant step. She kissed her friend again, tasting the salt of her tears and feeling the desperate need in the arms that wrapped around her chest. Taussig took a deep breath and moved one hand down to her friend’s breast.

  Jennings and Perkins came through the door less than five seconds after hearing the scream. They saw the horror on Long’s face, and something both similar and very different on Taussig’s.

  23.

  Best-Laid Plans

  “It is the position of the United States government,” Ernest Allen said from his side of the table, “that systems designed to defend innocent civilians from weapons of mass destruction are neither threatening nor destabilizing, and that restrictions on the development of such systems serve no useful p
urpose. This position has been consistently stated for the past eight years, and we have absolutely no reason to change it. We welcome the initiative of the government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to reduce offensive weapons by as much as fifty percent, and we will examine the details of this proposal with interest, but a reduction of offensive weapons is not relevant to defensive weapons, which are not an issue for negotiation beyond their applicability to existing agreements between our two countries.

  “On the question of on-site inspections, we are disappointed to note that the remarkable progress made only so recently should be ...”

  You had to admire the man, Ryan thought. He didn’t agree with what he was saying, but it was the position of his country, and Ernie Allen was never one to let personal feelings out of whatever secret compartment he locked up before beginning these sessions.

  The meeting officially adjourned when Allen finished his discourse, which had just been delivered for the third time today. The usual courtesies were exchanged. Ryan shook hands with his Soviet counterpart. In doing so, he passed over a note, as he’d been taught to do at Langley. Golovko gave no reaction at all, which earned him a friendly nod at the conclusion of the handshake. Jack had no particular choice. He had to continue with the plan. He knew that he’d learn in the next few days just how much of a high-roller Gerasimov was. For him to run the risk of the CIA disclosures, especially with the threat of a few even more spectacular than Jack had promised ... But Ryan could not admire the man. His view was that Gerasimov was the chief thug in the main thug agency of a country that allowed itself to be controlled by thugs. He knew that it was a simplistic, dangerous way to think, but he was not a field officer, though he was now acting like one, and hadn’t yet learned that the world which he ordinarily viewed from the air-conditioned safety of his desk on CIA’s seventh floor was not so well defined as his reports about it. He’d expected that Gerasimov would cave in to his demand—after taking time to evaluate his position, of course, but still cave in. It hit him that he’d thought like a chess master because that’s how he’d expected the KGB Chairman to think, only to be confronted with a man who was willing to throw the dice—as Americans were wont to do. The irony should have been entertaining, Jack told himself in the marble lobby of the Foreign Ministry. But it wasn’t.