by Tom Clancy
“Fine. He’s going to be the new chancellor for the University of Ohio. He ought to be good at it, and he needs a calm sort of job, Dad thinks. I think he’s right. How that guy managed not to have a heart attack is beyond me and Mom both. Maybe some people really do thrive on the action.” His eyes never left Hendley’s through the entire discourse. “I learned a lot talking to Arnie.”
“What about from your father?”
“Oh, a thing or two. Mainly, I learned things from the rest of the bunch.”
“Who do you mean?”
“Mike Brennan for one. He was my Principal Agent,” Jack Jr. explained. “Holy Cross graduate, career Secret Service. Hell of a pistol shot. He’s the guy who taught me to shoot.”
“Oh?”
“The Service has a range on the Old Post Office Building, couple of blocks from the White House. I still get to go there occasionally. Mike’s an instructor in the Secret Service Academy now, up at Beltsville. Really good guy, smart and laid-back. Anyway, you know, he was my baby-sitter, like, and I used to ping on him about stuff, ask him what Secret Service people do, how they train, how they think, the things they look for while they’re protecting Mom and Dad. I learned a lot from him. And all the other people.”
“Like?”
“FBI guys, Dan Murray, Pat O’Day—Pat’s the Major Case Inspector for Murray. He’s getting ready to retire. Can you believe it, he’s going to raise beef cattle up in Maine. Funny damned place to punch cattle. He’s a shooter, too, like Wild Bill Hickock with an attitude, but it’s too easy to forget he’s a Princeton grad. Pretty smart guy, Pat is. He taught me a lot about how the Bureau runs investigations. And his wife, Andrea, she’s a mind reader. Ought to be, she ran Dad’s detail during a very scary time, master’s degree in psychology from University of Virginia. I learned a shitload from her. And the Agency people, of course, Ed and Mary Pat Foley—God Almighty, what a pair they are. But you know who the most interesting one of all was?”
He did. “John Clark?”
“Oh yeah. The trick was getting him to talk. I swear, compared to him, the Foleys are Desi and Lucy. But once he trusts you, he will open up some. I cornered him when he got his Medal of Honor—it was on TV briefly, retired Navy chief petty officer gets his decoration from Vietnam. About sixty seconds of videotape on a slow news day. You know, not one reporter asked what he did after he left the Navy. Not one. Jesus, they are thick. Bob Holtzman knew part of it, I think. He was there, standing in the corner, across the room from me. He’s pretty smart for a newsie. Dad likes him, just doesn’t trust him as far as he can sling an anchor. Anyway, Big John—Clark, I mean—he’s one serious honcho. He’s been there, and done that, and he has the T-shirt. How come he isn’t here?”
“Jack, my boy, when you come to the point, you do come to the point,” Hendley said, with a touch of admiration in his voice.
“When you knew his name, I knew I had you, sir.” A briefly triumphant look in the eyes. “I’ve been checking you out for a couple of weeks.”
“Oh?” And with that, Hendley felt his stomach contract.
“It wasn’t hard. It’s all on the public record, just a question of mix and match. Like the connect-the-dots things they give to little kids in their activity books. You know, it amazes me that this place never made the news—”
“Young man, if that’s a threat—”
“What?” Jack Jr. was surprised by the interruption. “You mean, blackmail you? No, Senator, what I meant to say is that there’s so much raw information lying around out there, that you have to wonder how reporters miss it. I mean, even a blind squirrel will find an acorn once in a while, y’know?” He paused for a moment before his eyes lit up. “Oh, I get it. You handed them what they expected to find, and they ran with it.”
“It’s not that hard, but it’s dangerous to underestimate them,” Hendley warned.
“Just don’t talk to them. Dad told me a long time ago: ‘A closed mouth gathers no foot.’ He always let Arnie do the leaks. Nobody else said anything to the press without Arnie’s guidance. I swear, I think the media was scared of that guy. He’s the one who lifted a Times reporter’s White House pass and made it stick.”
“I remember that,” Hendley responded. There had been quite a stink about it, but soon enough even the New York Times realized that having no reporter in the White House Press Room hurt in a very tender spot. It had been an object lesson in manners which had lasted for almost six months. Arnie van Damm had a longer and nastier memory than the media, which was quite something in and of itself. Arnold van Damm was a serious player of five-card-draw poker.
“What’s your point, Jack? Why are you here?”
“Senator, I want to play in the bigs. This here, I think, is the bigs.”
“Explain,” Hendley commanded. Just how much had the boy put together?
John Patrick Ryan, Jr., opened his briefcase. “For starters, this is the only building taller than a private residence on the sight line from NSA Fort Meade to CIA Langley. You can download satellite photos off the Internet. I printed them all up. Here.” He handed a small binder across. “I checked with the zoning offices, and I found out that three other office buildings were planned for this area, and all were denied construction permits. The records didn’t say why, but nobody made a fuss about it. The medical center down the road, however, got really nice finance terms from Citibank on their revised plans. Most of your personnel are former spooks. Your security people are all former military police, rank E-7 or higher. The electronic security system here is better than they have at Fort Meade. How the hell did you manage that, by the way?”
“Private citizens have a lot more freedom negotiating with contractors. Go on,” the former senator said.
“You never did anything illegal. That conflict-of-interest charge that killed your Senate career was a crock of shit. Any decent lawyer could have had it tossed right out of court on a summary judgment, but you rolled over and played dead on it. I remember how Dad always liked you for your brains, and he always said you were a straight shooter. He didn’t say that about all that many people on The Hill. The senior people at CIA liked working with you, and you helped with funding for a project some other folks on The Hill had a conniption fit over. I don’t know why it is, but a lot of people there hate the intelligence services. Used to drive Dad nuts, how every time he had to sit down with senators and congressmen over that stuff, had to bribe them with pet projects for their districts and stuff. Jeez, Dad hated that. Whenever he did it, he’d grumble for a week before and after. But you helped him a lot. You used to be pretty good working inside the Capitol Building. But when you had your political problem, you just caved in. I thought it was pretty hard to believe. But what I really had trouble swallowing was how Dad never talked about it at all. He never said a single word. When I asked, he changed the subject. Even Arnie never talked about it—and Arnie answered every question I ever hit him with. So, the dogs didn’t bark, y’know?” Jack leaned back, keeping his eyes on his host at all times. “Anyway, I never said anything either, but I sniffed around during my senior year at Georgetown, and I kept talking to people, and those folks taught me how to look into things quietly. Again, it’s not all that hard.”
“And so, what conclusion did you reach?”
“You would have been a good president, Senator, but losing your wife and kids was a big hit. We were all busted up about that. Mom really liked your wife. Please excuse me for bringing it up, sir. That’s why you left politics, but I think you’re too much of a patriot to forget about your country, and I think Hendley Associates is your way of serving your country—but off the books, like. I remember Dad and Mr. Clark talking over drinks upstairs one night—my senior year of high school, it was. I didn’t catch much of it. They didn’t want me there, and so I went back to watching the History Channel. Coincidence, they had a show about SOE that night, the British Special Operations Executive from World War Two. They were mostly bankers. ‘Wild Bill’ Donova
n recruited lawyers to start up the OSS, but the Brits used bankers to screw over people. I wondered why, and Dad said bankers are smarter. They know how to make money in the real world, whereas lawyers aren’t quite as smart—that’s what Dad said, anyway. I guess he figured that’s what he did. With his trading background, I mean. But you’re a different sort of pirate, Senator. I think you’re a spook, and I think Hendley Associates is a privately funded spook shop that works off the books—completely outside the federal budget process. So, you don’t have to worry about senators and congress-critters snooping around and leaking stuff because they think you do bad things. Hell, I did a Google search and there’s only six mentions of your company on the Internet. You know, there’s more pieces than that about my mom’s hairstyle. Women’s Wear Daily used to like clobbering her. Really pissed Dad off.”
“I remember.” Jack Ryan, Sr., had once cut loose in front of reporters on that issue, and paid the price of being laughed at by the chattering classes. “He talked to me about how Henry VIII would have given the reporters some special haircuts for that.”
“Yeah, with an ax at the Tower of London. Sally used to laugh about it some. She needled Mom about her hair, too. I guess that’s one nice thing about being a man, eh?”
“That and shoes. My wife didn’t like Manolo Blahniks. She liked sensible shoes, the sort that didn’t make her feet hurt,” Hendley said, remembering, and then running into a concrete wall. It still hurt to talk about her. It probably always would, but at least the pain did affirm his love for her, and that was something. Much as he loved her memory, he could not smile in public about her. Had he remained in politics, he’d have had to do that, pretend that he’d gotten over it, that his love was undying but also unhurtful. Yeah, sure. One more price of political life was giving up your humanity along with your manhood. And it was not worth that price. Even to be President of the United States. One of the reasons why he and Jack Ryan, Sr., had always gotten along was that they were so alike.
“You really think this is an intelligence agency?” he asked his guest as lightly as the situation allowed.
“Yes, sir, I do. If NSA, say, pays attention to what the big central banks are doing, you are ideally located to take advantage of the signals-intelligence they gather and cross-deck to Langley. Must give your currency-trading troops the best sort of insider information, and if you play your cards carefully—that is, if you don’t get greedy—you can make a ton of long-term money without anybody really noticing. You do that by not attracting investors. They’d talk way too much. So, that activity funds the things you do here. Exactly what it is you do, that I have not speculated on very much.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, sir, that is a fact.”
“You haven’t talked to your father about this?”
“No, sir.” Jack Jr. shook his head. “He’d just blow it off. Dad told me a lot when I asked, but not stuff like this.”
“What did he tell you?”
“People stuff. You know, dealing with politicians, which foreign president likes little girls or little boys. Jeez, a lot of that going around, especially overseas. What sort of people they were, how they think, what their individual priorities and eccentricities are. Which country took good care of its military. Which country’s spook services were good, and which ones were not. A lot of things about the people on The Hill. The sort of stuff you read in books or the papers, except what Dad told me was the real shit. I knew not to repeat it anywhere,” the young Ryan assured his host.
“Even in school?”
“Nothing I didn’t see in the Post first. The papers are pretty good about finding stuff out, but they’re too quick to repeat damaging things about people they don’t like, and they frequently don’t publish stuff about people they do like. I guess the news business is pretty much the same as women trading gossip over the phone or the card table. Less a matter of hard facts than sniping at people you don’t care for.”
“They’re as human as everybody else.”
“Yes, sir, they are. But when my mom operates on somebody’s eyes, she doesn’t care if she likes the person or not. She swore an oath to play her game by the rules. Dad’s the same way. That’s how they raised me to be,” John Patrick Ryan, Jr., concluded. “Same thing every dad tells every son: If you’re going to do it, do it right or don’t do it at all.”
“Not everybody thinks that way anymore,” Hendley pointed out, though he’d told his two sons, George and Foster, exactly the same thing.
“Maybe so, Senator, but that’s not my fault.”
“What do you know about the trading business?” Hendley asked.
“I know the basics. I can talk the talk, but I haven’t learned the nitty-gritty enough to walk the walk.”
“And your degree from Georgetown?”
“History, strong minor in economics, kinda like Dad. Sometimes I’d ask him about his hobby—he still likes to play the market, and he has friends in the business, like George Winston, his Secretary of the Treasury. They talk a lot. George has tried and tried to get Dad to come inside his company, but he won’t do anything more than go in and schmooze. They’re still friends, though. They even hack away at golf together. Dad’s a lousy golfer.”
Hendley smiled. “I know. Ever try it yourself?”
Little Jack shook his head. “I already know how to swear. Uncle Robby was pretty good. Jeez, Dad really misses him. Aunt Sissy still comes to the house a lot. She and Mom play piano together.”
“That was pretty bad.”
“That redneck racist fuck,” Junior observed. “Excuse me. Robby was the first guy I ever knew who got murdered.” The amazing thing was that his murderer had been taken alive. The Secret Service detail had been half a second behind the Mississippi State Police in getting to him, but some civilian had tackled the bastard before anyone could get a round off, and so he’d gone to jail alive. That fact had at least eliminated any conspiracy nonsense. It had been a Ku Klux Klan member, sixty-seven years old, who just couldn’t abide the thought that Ryan’s retirement had brought his black Vice President to the position of President of the United States. His trial, conviction, and sentencing had gone off with startling speed—the assassination had all been on videotape, not to mention there’d been six witnesses all within two yards of the killer. Even the Stars and Bars atop the State House in Jackson had flown at half-staff for Robby Jackson, to the dismay and disgust of some. “Sic volvere Parcas,” Jack observed.
“What’s that?”
“The Fates, Senator. One spins the thread. One measures the thread. And one cuts the thread. ‘So spin the Fates,’ the Roman adage is. I never saw Dad so broken up about anything. Mom handled it better, really. I guess docs are used to people dying. Dad—well, he just wanted to whack the guy himself. It was pretty tough.” The news cameras had caught the President weeping at the funeral service at the Naval Academy Chapel. Sic volvere Parcas. “So, Senator, how does my fate spin out here?”
It didn’t catch Hendley short. He’d seen this question coming a quarter mile away, but it was not an especially easy question even so. “What about your father?”
“Who says he has to know? You have six subsidiary corporations that you probably use to hide your trading activities.” Finding that out hadn’t been all that easy, but Jack knew how to dig.
“Not ‘hide,’” Hendley corrected. “‘Disguise,’ maybe, but not ‘hide.’”
“Excuse me. As I told you, I used to hang out with spooks.”
“You learned a lot.”
“I had some pretty good teachers.”
Ed and Mary Pat Foley, John Clark, Dan Murray, and his own father. Damned Skippy, he’s had some pretty good teachers, Hendley thought.
“What exactly do you think you’d do here?”
“Sir, I’m pretty smart, but not that smart. I’ll have to learn a lot. I know that. So do you. What do I want to do? I want to serve my country,” Jack said evenly. “I want to help get things done t
hat need doing. I don’t need money. I have trust funds set up from Dad and Granddad—Joe Muller, Mom’s dad, I mean. Hell, if I wanted, I could get a law degree and end up like Ed Kealty, working my way toward the White House on my own, but my dad isn’t a king and I’m not a prince. I want to make my own way and see how things play out.”
“Your dad can’t know about this, at least not for a while.”
“So? He kept a lot of secrets from me.” Jack thought that was pretty funny. “Turnabout is fair play, isn’t it?”
“I’ll think about it. You have an e-mail address?”
“Yes, sir.” Jack handed across a card.
“Give me a couple of days.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks for letting me in to see you.” He stood, shook hands, and made his way out.
The boy had grown up in a hurry, Hendley thought. Maybe having a Secret Service detail helped with that—or hurt, depending on what sort of person you happened to be. But this boy had come from good stock, as much from his mother as his father. And clearly he was smart. He had a lot of curiosity, usually a sign of intelligence.
And intelligence was the only thing there was never enough of, anywhere in the world.
“SO?” Ernesto asked.
“It was interesting,” Pablo replied, lighting a Dominican cigar.
“What do they want of us?” his boss asked.
“Mohammed began by talking about our common interests, and our common enemies.”
“If we tried to do business over there, we would lose our heads,” Ernesto observed. With him, it was always business.
“I pointed that out. He replied that theirs is a small market, hardly worth our time. They merely export raw materials. And that is true. But he can help us, he said, with the new European market. Mohammed tells me that his organization has a good base of operations in Greece, and with the demise of international borders in Europe that would be the most logical point of entry for our consignments. They will not charge us for their technical assistance. They say they wish to establish goodwill only.”
