Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Going to Japan,” the dispatcher observed, going over the trucker’s manifest.

  “So, what here ain’t?”

  “Something special. They’re paying to have those logs kept that way, renting the trailers and everything. I hear the logs are being made into beams for a church or temple or something. Look close—they’re chained together. Tied with a silk rope, too, but chains to make sure they stay together. Something about the tradition of the temple or something. Going to be a bitch of a rigging job to load them on the ship that way.”

  “Renting the trailers just to keep the logs in a special place? Chaining them together. Jeez! They got more money’n brains, don’t they?”

  “What do we care?” the dispatcher asked, tired of answering the same question every time a driver came through his office.

  And they were sitting there. The idea, the dispatcher thought, was to let the logs season some. But whoever had thought that one up hadn’t been thinking very clearly. This was the wettest summer on record in an area known for its precipitation, and the logs, which had been heavy with moisture when their parent tree had been felled, were merely soaking up more rain as it fell down across the yard. The stubs of branches trimmed off in the field hadn’t helped much either. The rain just soaked into the exposed capillaries and proceeded into the trunk. The logs were probably heavier now than when they had been cut. Maybe they should throw a tarp over them, the dispatcher thought, but then they’d just be trapping the moisture in, and besides, the orders were to let them sit on the trailers. It was raining now. The yard was turning into a damned swamp, the mud churned by every passing truck and loading machine. Well, the Japanese probably had their own plans for seasoning and working the logs. Their orders precluded doing any real seasoning here, and it was their money. Even when they were loaded on the ship, they were supposed to be carried topside, the last items loaded on the MV George McReady for shipment across the Pacific. Sure as hell they’d get wet that way, too. If they got much wetter, the dispatcher thought, someone would have to be careful with them. If they got dropped into the river, they would scarcely float.

  The farmer knew that his grandchildren were embarrassed by his backwardness. They resisted his hugs and kisses, probably complained a little before their father brought them out here, but he didn’t mind. Children today lacked the respect of his generation. Perhaps that was a price for their greater opportunities. The cycle of the ages was breaking. His life had been little different from ten generations of ancestors, but his son was doing better despite his injuries, and his children would do better still. The boys were proud of their father. If their schoolmates commented adversely on their Druse religion, the boys could point out that their father had fought and bled against the hated Israelis, had even killed a few of the Zionists. The Syrian government was not totally ungrateful to its wounded veterans. The farmer’s son had his own modest business, and government officials did not harass him, as they might otherwise have done. He’d married late, which was unusual for the area. His wife was pretty enough, and respectful—she treated the farmer well, possibly in gratitude for the fact that he had never shown an interest in moving into her small household. The farmer showed great pride in his grandchildren, strong, healthy boys, headstrong and rebellious as boys should be. The farmer’s son was similarly proud, and was prospering. He and his father walked outside after the noon meal. The son looked at the garden that he’d once weeded, and felt pangs of guilt that his father was still working there every day. But hadn’t he offered to take his father in? Hadn’t he offered to give his father a little money? All such offers had been rejected. His father didn’t have much, but he did have his stubborn pride.

  “The garden looks very healthy this year.”

  “The rain has been good,” the farmer agreed. “There are many new lambs. It has not been a bad year. And you?”

  “My best year. Father, I wish you did not have to work so hard.”

  “Ah!” A wave of the hand. “What other life have I known? This is my place.”

  The courage of the man, the son thought. And the old man did have courage. He endured. Despite everything. He had not been able to give his son much, but he had passed along his stoic courage. When he’d found himself lying stunned on the Golan Heights, twenty meters from the smoking wreckage of the personnel carrier, he could have just lain down to die, the son knew, his eye put out, and his left hand a bloody mess that doctors would later have to remove. He could have just lain there on the ground and died, but he’d known that giving up was not something his father would have done. And so he’d risen and walked six kilometers to a battalion aid station, arriving there still carrying his rifle and accepting treatment only after making his report. He had a decoration for that, and his battalion commander had made life a little easier for him, giving him some money to start his little shop, making sure that local officials knew that he was to be treated with respect. The Colonel had given him the money, but his father had given him the courage. If only he would now accept a little help.

  “My son, I need your advice.”

  That was something new. “Certainly, Father.”

  “Come, I will show you.” He led his son into the garden, where the carrots were. With his foot, he scraped dirt off the—

  “Stop!” the son nearly screamed. He took his father by the arm and pulled him back. “My God—how long has that been there?”

  “Since the day you were hurt,” the farmer answered.

  The son’s right hand went to his eyepatch, and for one horrid moment the terror of the day came back to him. The blinding flash, flying through the air, his dead comrades screaming as they burned to death. The Israelis had done that. One of their cannons had killed his mother, and now—this?

  What was it? He commanded his father to stay put and walked back to see. He moved very carefully, as though he were traversing a minefield. His assignment in the Army had been with the combat engineers; though his unit had been committed to battle with the infantry, their job was supposed to have been laying a minefield. It was big, it looked like a thousand-kilo bomb. It had to be Israeli; he knew that from the color. He turned to look at his father.

  “This has been here since then?”

  “Yes. It made its own hole, and I filled it in. The frost must have brought it up. Is there danger? It is broken, no?”

  “Father, these things never truly die. It is very dangerous. Big as it is, if it goes off it could destroy the house and you in it!”

  The farmer gestured contempt for the thing. “If it wanted to explode, it would have done so when it fell.”

  “That is not true! You will listen to me on this. You will not come close to this cursed thing!”

  “And what of my garden?” the farmer asked simply.

  “I will find a way to have this removed. Then you can garden.” The son considered that. It would be a problem. Not a small problem, either. The Syrian Army did not have a pool of skilled people to disarm unexploded bombs. Their method was to detonate them in place, which was eminently sensible, but his father would not long survive the destruction of his house. His wife would not easily tolerate having him in their own home, and he could not help his father rebuild, not with only one hand. The bomb had to be removed, but who would do that?

  “You must promise me that you will not enter the garden!” the son announced sternly.

  “As you say,” the farmer replied. He had no intention of following his son’s orders. “When can you have it removed?”

  “I don’t know. I need a few days to see what I can do.”

  The farmer nodded. Perhaps he’d follow his son’s instructions after all, at least about not approaching this dead bomb. It had to be dead, of course, despite what his son had said. The farmer knew that much of fate. If the bomb had wanted to kill him, it would have happened by now. What other misfortune had avoided him?

  The newsies finally got something to sink their teeth into the next day. Dimitrios Stavarkos, Patri
arch of Constantinople, arrived by car—he refused to fly in helicopters—in broad daylight.

  “A nun with a beard?” a cameraman asked over his hot mike as he zoomed in. The Swiss Guards at the door rendered honors, and Bishop O’Toole conducted the new visitor inside and out of view.

  “Greek,” the anchorman observed at once. “Greek Orthodox, must be a bishop or something. What’s he doing here?” the anchor mused.

  “What do we know about the Greek Orthodox Church?” his producer asked.

  “They don’t work for the Pope. They allow their priests to marry. The Israelis threw one of them in prison once for giving arms to the Arabs, I think,” someone else observed over the line.

  “So the Greeks get along with the Arabs, but not the Pope? What about the Israelis?”

  “Don’t know,” the producer admitted. “Might be a good idea to find out.”

  “So now there are four religious groups involved.”

  “Is the Vatican really involved or did they just offer this place as neutral ground?” the Anchor asked. Like most anchormen, he was at his best when reading copy from a TelePrompTer.

  “When has this happened before? If you want ‘neutral,’ you go to Geneva,” the cameraman observed. He liked Geneva.

  “What gives?” One of the researchers entered the booth. The producer filled her in.

  “Where’s that damned consultant?” the Anchor growled.

  “Can you run the tape back?” the researcher asked. The control-room crew did that, and she freeze-framed the monitor.

  “Dimitrios Stavarkos. He’s the Patriarch of Constantinople—Istanbul to you, Rick. He’s the head of all the Orthodox churches, kind of like the Pope. The Greek, Russian, and Bulgarian Orthodox churches have their own heads, but they all defer to the Patriarch. Something like that.”

  “They allow their priests to marry, don’t they?”

  “Their priests, yes ... but as I recall, if you become a bishop or higher, you have to be celibate—”

  “Bummer,” Rick observed.

  “Stavarkos led the battle with the Catholics over the Church of the Nativity last year—won it, too, as I recall. He really pissed a few Catholic bishops off. What the hell is he doing here?”

  “You’re supposed to tell us that, Angie!” the Anchor noted crossly.

  “Hold your water, Rick.” Angie Miriles was tired of dealing with the airheaded prima donna. She sipped at her coffee for a minute or two and made her announcement. “I think I have this figured out.”

  “You mind filling us in?”

  “Welcome!” Cardinal D’Antonio kissed Stavarkos on both cheeks. He found the man’s beard distasteful, but that could not be helped. The Cardinal led the Patriarch into the conference room. There were sixteen people grouped around a table, and at the foot of it was an empty chair. Stavarkos took it.

  “Thank you for joining us,” said Secretary Talbot.

  “One does not reject an invitation of this sort,” the Patriarch replied.

  “You’ve read the briefing material?” That had been delivered by messenger.

  “It is very ambitious,” Stavarkos allowed cautiously.

  “Can you accept your role in the agreement?”

  This was going awfully fast, the Patriarch thought. But—“Yes,” he answered simply. “I require plenipotentiary authority over all Christian shrines in the Holy Land. If that is agreed to, then I will gladly join your agreement.”

  D’Antonio managed to keep his face impassive. He controlled his breathing and prayed rapidly for divine intervention. He’d never quite be able to decide whether he got it or not.

  “It is very late in the day for such a sweeping demand.” Heads turned. The speaker was Dmitriy Popov, First Deputy Foreign Minister of the Soviet Union. “It is also inconsiderate to seek unilateral advantage when everyone here has conceded so much. Would you stand in the way of the accord on that basis alone?”

  Stavarkos was not accustomed to such direct rebukes.

  “The question of Christian shrines is not of direct significance to the agreement, Your Holiness,” Secretary Talbot observed. “We find your conditional willingness to participate disappointing.”

  “Perhaps I misunderstood the briefing material,” Stavarkos allowed, covering his flanks. “Could you perhaps clarify what my status would be?”

  “No way,” the Anchor snorted.

  “Why not?” Angela Miriles replied. “What else makes sense?”

  “It’s just too much.”

  “It is a lot,” Miriles agreed, “but what else fits?”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “You might not see it. Stavarkos doesn’t much like the Roman Catholic Church. That battle they had last Christmas was a nasty one.”

  “How come we didn’t report it, then?”

  “Because we were too damned busy talking about the downturn in Christmas sales figures,” you asshole, she didn’t add.

  “A separate commission, then?” Stavarkos didn’t like that.

  “The Metropolitan wishes to send his own representative,” Popov said. Dmitriy Popov still believed in Marx rather than God, but the Russian Orthodox Church was Russian, and Russian participation in the agreement had to be real, however minor this point might appear. “I must say that I find this matter curious. Do we hold up the agreement on the issue of which Christian church is the most influential? Our purpose here is to defuse a potential flashpoint for war between Jews and Muslims, and the Christians stand in the way?” Popov asked the ceiling—a little theatrically, D’Antonio thought.

  “This side issue is best left to a separate committee of Christian clerics,” Cardinal D’Antonio finally allowed himself to say. “I pledge you my word before God that sectarian squabbles are at an end!”

  I’ve heard that before, Stavarkos reminded himself—and yet. And yet, how could he allow himself to be so petty? He reminded himself also of what the Scriptures taught, and that he believed in every word of it. I am making a fool of myself, and doing it before the Romans and the Russians! An additional consideration was that the Turks merely tolerated his presence in Istanbul—Constantinople!—and this gave him the chance to earn immense prestige for his churches and his office.

  “Please forgive me. I have allowed some regrettable incidents to color my better judgment. Yes, I will support this agreement, and I will trust my brethren to keep their word.”

  Brent Talbot leaned back in his chair and whispered his own prayer of thanks. Praying wasn’t a habit with the Secretary of State, but here, in these surroundings, how could one avoid it?

  “In that case, I believe we have an agreement.” Talbot looked around the table, and one after another the heads nodded, some with enthusiasm, some with resignation. But they all nodded. They had reached an agreement.

  “Mr. Adler, when will the documents be ready for initialing?” D’Antonio asked.

  “Two hours, Your Eminence.”

  “Your Highness,” Talbot said as he rose to his feet, “Your Eminences, Ministers—we have done it.”

  Strangely, they scarcely realized what they had done. The process had lasted for quite some time, and as with all such negotiations, the process had become reality, and the objective had become something separate from it. Now suddenly they were at the place they all intended to reach, and the wonder of the fact gave to them a sense of unreality that, for all their collective expertise at formulating and reaching foreign-policy goals, overcame their perceptions. Each of the participants stood, as Talbot did, and the movement, the stretch of legs, altered their perceptions somewhat. One by one they understood what they had done. More importantly, they understood that they had actually done it. The impossible had just happened.

  David Askenazi walked around the table to Prince Ali, who had handled his country’s part in the negotiations, and extended his hand. That wasn’t good enough. The Prince gave the Minister a brotherly embrace.

  “Before God, there will be peace between us, D
avid.”

  “After all these years, Ali,” replied the former Israeli tanker. As a lieutenant, Askenazi had fought in the Suez in 1956, again as a captain in 1967, and his reserve battalion had reinforced the Golan in 1973. Both men were surprised by the applause that broke out. The Israeli burst into tears, embarrassing himself beyond belief.

  “Do not be ashamed. Your personal courage is well known, Minister,” Ali said graciously. “It is fitting that a soldier should make the peace, David.”

  “So many deaths. All those fine young boys who—on both sides, Ali. All those boys.”

  “But no more.”

  “Dmitriy, your help was extraordinary,” Talbot told his Russian counterpart at the other end of the table.

  “Remarkable what can happen when we cooperate, is it not?”

  What occurred to Talbot had come already to Askenazi: “Two whole generations pissed away, Dmitriy. All that wasted time.”

  “We cannot recover lost time,” Popov replied. “We can have the wit not to lose any more.” The Russian smiled crookedly. “For moments like this, there should be vodka.”

  Talbot jerked his head toward Prince Ali. “We don’t all drink.”

  “How can they live without vodka?” Popov chuckled.

  “One of the mysteries of life, Dmitriy. We both have cables to send.”

  “Indeed we do, my friend.”

  To the fury of the correspondents in Rome, the first to break the story was a Washington Post reporter in Washington. It was inevitable. She had a source, an Air Force sergeant who did electronic maintenance on the VC-25A, the President’s new military version of the Boeing 747. The sergeant had been prepped by the reporter. Everyone knew that the President was heading to Rome. It was just a question of when. As soon as the sergeant learned that she’d be heading out, she’d ostensibly called home to check that her good uniform was back from the cleaners. That she had called the wrong number was an honest mistake. It was just that the reporter had the same gag message on her answering machine. That was the story she’d use if she ever got caught, but she didn’t in this case, and didn’t ever expect to be.