by Tom Clancy
“Destroying the Global Islamic Media Front would be an incredible hit to the international reach of this sick cult known as ISIS.
“And less than three hours ago, we did just that. American warplanes, helicopters, and special operations troops were involved in an operation in Raqqa, Syria, that severely degraded the GIMF’s ability to wage war through propaganda.
“During this operation, U.S. Army Chief Warrant Officer Troy David Oakley of Pawtucket, Rhode Island, was tragically killed in combat. Our hearts and prayers go out to this brave American hero. His sacrifice will not be forgotten by the grateful nation he served.
“Please remember . . . those seeking freedom and peace have no greater friend than the United States of America. At home we have successfully assimilated more disparate groups than any other nation in the history of the world. And abroad we have helped our friends, supported our allies, led coalitions against evil from the front.
“But those who would commit terrorism and other atrocities will find no peace from us. Ever. The capture of al-Matari, and the breakup of the plot to use stolen intelligence files against the United States, should indicate this fact to those in the world who are thinking about doing us harm.”
Ryan looked hard into the camera now. “Believe me, if your cause involves fighting America, we will find you, and you will find no safe haven from American justice.”
—
After the bright lights turned off in the Oval Office, Jack Ryan waited for his lapel mic to be removed, then stood and walked around the desk. He noticed Mary Pat Foley had made her way into the room, and he was surprised to see her. Arnie was there with her, but Arnie was no surprise at all. He would always be there looming during a media event as big as an Oval Office live broadcast. Jack pictured his chief of staff standing there with a hook in his hand as if Ryan were an old vaudevillian and Arnie the stage manager, ready to yank the act off the stage if he did something wrong.
Mary Pat leaned close to the President as the camera and audio people began breaking down the set. “I thought you’d want to know immediately. Stuart Collier, the CIA operative held by the Iranians for the past few months, has been released to the Swiss. He’s out of Iranian airspace.”
Ryan nodded. “What was the ultimate price?”
“Time will tell, Mr. President. We didn’t offer anything other than threats of reprisals against Iran. Ultimately I think they see the fact we revealed the Saudis’ tangential involvement in the ISIS attacks as a good thing for them, and they are rewarding us.”
“Christ,” Ryan said. “That’s the Middle East. There are enough enemies there that you can’t hurt someone you don’t like without helping someone you like even less.”
Mary Pat was about to say something, but Ryan put a hand on her arm. “Mary Pat. It is terrific Collier is out. Good work, and pass that on to Jay for me, too, please. We need to protect Collier for life, of course.”
“Absolutely. Thanks.”
She left the room along with the network media people, then Jack and Arnie sat alone.
“Did you come to rate my performance?” Ryan asked.
“You were fine, but that’s not why I’m here. It’s official. Homeland Security Secretary Andy Zilko will hand in his resignation in the morning. He doesn’t want you to accept it, but he is making the gesture.”
Ryan shrugged. “He’s not the only fall guy for the mistakes that have happened, but it would show character in Zilko if he left. I’ll accept his resignation.”
Arnie nodded. “I’ll let him know. He’ll probably run for senator or governor in Indiana next election. I’m sure he’ll call on you for your support.”
Ryan thought this over a second, though the last thing he ever wanted to think about again was an election of any kind.
He said, “I think he should try working in the private sector for a change. Someplace where he’s held accountable for his actions. If he makes it back into government in a few years that will give him the perspective he needs. We’re here for the country, not the other way around.”
Arnie just laughed. “We’ve got to get you out of here quick, Jack. People will think you’ve gone senile with that kind of talk.”
Ryan chuckled. “Soon, Arnie. Soon.”
EPILOGUE
Sami bin Rashid couldn’t sleep, not even on the Egyptian cotton sheets, not even with the soft mood lighting, and not even in the cool silk pajamas.
It didn’t really make sense to him. Though he normally had trouble sleeping on aircraft, tonight should have been different because he was flying on Etihad Airlines and staying in the Residence, the most opulent commercial airline experience on earth. It wasn’t a seat; it was two rooms with an en suite bathroom/shower, private concierge service, and gourmet meals created by the onboard chef.
This flight from Dubai to Sydney, Australia, was fourteen hours long, and for the first three hours he’d dined well and read distractedly, but after that he’d had nothing but time to sit and ponder his predicament.
Overtly, at least, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia considered bin Rashid a pariah; dangerous, toxic. If Riyadh even admitted they knew his location it would be problematic with the Americans, so he’d used a cover legend and documents and enacted a long-arranged but never seriously considered plan to flee somewhere safe.
He’d chosen Australia. Far away and unknown, the last place anyone would look for him.
Of course members of Saudi intelligence knew he was going; he was doing it with their blessing, in fact. He had been more than pleased to hear through back channels that the kingdom just wanted him to lie low for a time; perhaps a few years, and then they would consider working with him again quietly and at arm’s reach.
He didn’t know what he’d do in Australia, but he had money to do it with, and now he had nothing but time.
So why couldn’t he sleep?
He sat up in the bedroom of the Residence, pulled off his sleep mask, and rubbed his eyes.
Al-Matari. That’s why. The son of a bitch. Somehow he’d fucked up and failed bin Rashid’s American operation. President Jack Ryan had crippled the Islamic State by eviscerating their ability to make slick propaganda pieces to draw in new recruits, and by linking the oil-rich states to the Islamic State, giving off the false impression that the whole fucking caliphate was just part of some evil Saudi oil-business scheme.
Ridiculous.
Sami bin Rashid tossed his eye mask on the bed, stormed out of his little bedroom, through his sitting room, and stepped out of the Residence, still in his silk pajamas.
His personal concierge was on him in an instant, a beautiful woman half a head taller than bin Rashid. She was ready to bring him food or drinks, but bin Rashid waved the woman away, and looked around.
He was glad to see the little bar was open; the bartender stood there with only one patron leaning against the half-moon-shaped surface in the center of the first-class cabin.
Bin Rashid stepped up, still wearing his black silk pajamas. “Give me a drink.”
“Of course, sir. What would you like?”
Bin Rashid did not drink in Dubai, or in Riyadh, but he’d consumed alcohol working in cover as an intel operator in his younger days. He’d turned down offers of champagne from the concierge when he boarded, but now he wanted a drink more than anything in the world, because he did not want to think about al-Matari, and the failed plan to save Saudi Arabia from domestic rot and international Shiite attack.
He looked to the man leaning next to him. A Westerner in his shirtsleeves, pushing seventy. His white hair was thin, and he had a smile on his face.
The man lifted his glass. In English he said, “If you want to keep it simple and effective, you can’t do much better than a vodka on the rocks.”
Bin Rashid nodded, and the bartender started making the drink.
The American reached out a hand. “I�
��m Carl, from Denver, Colorado.”
“Mohammed, from Dubai.”
The older American nodded toward the Residence. “Hell, pal, I spent a big chunk of my retirement on a seat up here in first class, but you got yourself a condo for the night. What kind of work do you do?”
“Consulting,” bin Rashid said. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, least of all a chatty old American.
“Yeah? I do a bit of consulting myself. Thought I’d come down and look around Australia, see what that’s all about.”
The vodka on ice was placed in front of the Saudi, along with a tray of salty snacks. He took the drink and sipped it. It burned going down, and he made a face.
The American smiled. “Let the ice melt a second, softens the blow.”
Bin Rashid nodded, and he left the drink on the bar. The bartender stepped away to talk to passengers who had just sat at one of the small cocktail tables nearby.
“Is that as nice as they say? The Residence?” The man pointed again to the open door to the space.
Bin Rashid said, “Yes, it is quite nice.”
“Your concierge sure is a looker.”
Bin Rashid turned to regard the woman as she knelt in his sitting room, straightening the pillows on the sofa.
“Yeah,” Carl from Denver said. “A little young for me, but a guy like you, why not?”
The Saudi looked at the woman a long time. She was, indeed, beautiful. He wondered if perhaps Australia would have women who looked like that. He was a wealthy man . . . maybe he could make things happen there that hadn’t happened for him in Dubai, because of his work.
After a full minute of regarding the concierge while she faced away from him, standing in first class, the American said, “I bet it’s just about perfect.”
Bin Rashid was still looking at the woman’s ass. Slowly he turned back around to the American. “I’m sorry?”
“Your drink. Should be nice and cold by now.”
“Ah, yes.” Bin Rashid drank it down.
The American sipped his own. “How ’bout another? We can drink to new beginnings.”
The Saudi shook his head. “No, thank you. I must rest.”
He turned and walked away, back toward the Residence.
“Sleep well, then,” the American called out from behind.
Bin Rashid lay back down a minute later, pulled the sleeping mask over his eyes, and tried to think about something other than his failure in the American operation.
Thirty minutes later he was still trying.
And thirty-one minutes later, his failure in the American operation no longer mattered to him.
The heart attack was sudden, and it was massive. He’d not even managed to sit up. He just lurched there in the bed, let out a short gasp, then dropped back dead, his hands across his chest.
—
John Clark still could feel the effects of his two vodkas thirty minutes later, but as he looked at his watch, he doubted his effects were anything like what Sami bin Rashid was feeling right about now. Squirting the eyedropper of advanced neurotoxin into the vodka when the Saudi looked at the woman had taken speed, dexterity, and some luck, but nothing like the luck of having the Saudi step up to the bar when Clark assumed the man was sleeping.
The original plan had involved slipping into the Residence unseen and injecting him with a fast-acting heart-stopper, holding a hand over his mouth while he thrashed for several seconds.
That had been no one’s first choice, but it would have been preferable to losing him in Sydney.
To make this work Ding Chavez would have had to do the hit while Clark distracted the concierge and the bartender, and this looked like it would have been a tough op in the small and quiet confines of first class, so both Clark and Chavez were happy that bin Rashid made it easy, and the next eight hours of their flight could be spent in utter relaxation here in the opulence of first class.
Sure, an hour or so before landing there would be a shriek from the Residence, stress from the flight crew, and perhaps some delays in deplaning. But flying to Sydney meant there really was no place for the aircraft to divert to on the way, so no one on the flight would be terribly inconvenienced by Clark’s actions.
Except for Sami bin Rashid.
Clark looked away from his watch, confident the job was done, and he looked across the width of the darkened cabin and saw Ding checking his own watch. The two men made eye contact for a moment, Clark winked, and Ding smiled back, and then both men reclined their seats as far as they could and closed their eyes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Greaney has a degree in international relations and political science. He is the author of Commander in Chief and Full Force and Effect, and with Tom Clancy he coauthored Locked On, Threat Vector, and Command Authority. He has written five books in his own Gray Man series: The Gray Man, On Target, Ballistic, Dead Eye, and Back Blast. In his research for these novels, he traveled to fifteen countries, and trained alongside military and law enforcement in the use of firearms, battlefield medicine, and close-range combat tactics.
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