Tom Clancy Enemy Contact

by Mike Maden

  “I wish I could.”

  “Call me when you land so I know you’re okay.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  She rang off, a tinge of sadness and longing in her voice. Exactly as Elias desired. He forgot about her as soon as the call ended.

  Elias grabbed his padded fighting gloves, peppering his sensei with a dozen technical questions about suburi in faultless Japanese as they both geared up. He couldn’t wait for their next round to begin, each strike of his bamboo sword a blow against the mountain of worries looming over him.

  10

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  HENDLEY ASSOCIATES

  Jack Ryan, Jr., sat in his cubicle, staring at the Excel spreadsheet and scratching behind his ear, a nervous habit. It wasn’t really itchy. But ever since it had been nearly torn off that night in Afghanistan by the sticky-bomb explosion and sewn back on with nine stitches of catgut by an ISIS drug smuggler, Jack couldn’t shake the feeling it was going to fall off. His finger kept gravitating to the stitch line the same way his tongue would automatically float to the empty space where a tooth fell out when he was a kid. Or the way it did now, touching the capped tooth that had been chipped in the same explosion.

  He’d fully recovered from the aches, pains, and sprains of one of the hairiest ops he’d ever been on, grateful to be alive. He was even more grateful that Ysabel Kashani was in his life again.

  Sort of.

  She was back in London with her family, partly recovering from their operation together in Afghanistan and Iran, and partly to figure out where she was with everything, including Jack. She had been working with the United Nations Office on Drug and Crime when he found her again in Afghanistan, but after everything that happened over there, she couldn’t possibly return to either the land of her birth, Iran, or Afghanistan.

  “I just need some time, Jack,” she’d said, and in truth, so did Jack. He thought she’d been married and had a kid—a clever cover he’d stumbled across on social media, and, like an idiot, he’d swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. He figured he’d lost her forever, and now she was back. But neither of them was exactly sure what that meant or what the future held.

  Just one of the many reasons he was glad for the current assignment.

  Jack rubbed his tired face. It was getting late. The numbers swarmed on the screen like ants on a candy bar. He’d been staring at the electronic spreadsheet for hours, trying to puzzle out this company’s Rubik’s Cube of international bank accounts, wire transfers, and conflicting calendar dates against the data presented in the 10-K annual filing. Something just wasn’t adding up.

  Jack was a financial analyst with the “white side” Hendley Associates but also a field operative with the “black side” Campus. The Campus was an off-the-books intelligence agency designed to carry out missions on behalf of the United States when traditional security agencies couldn’t be called upon.

  But when Jack was back home, he was still responsible for helping Hendley Associates accomplish its mission as one of the world’s premier private equity management firms. After all, it was the money Hendley Associates earned that paid the bills for all Campus operations.

  Jack had started out as a financial analyst and he loved the work, though if he had to choose between the two jobs, he would prefer being an operator for The Campus. But in truth, he enjoyed the downtime as a financial analyst, using that part of his brain to decompress from the high-adrenaline stress of close-quarters combat and large-caliber gunfights.

  In fact, he needed it. Jack had no problem carrying his share of the load on a mission. Thanks to John Clark’s training, Jack liked to think he handled himself well in tactical situations—though there was still much more for him to learn—and he was proficient with small arms, CQB, and even knife fighting.

  But like his dad, Jack’s mind was his best weapon.

  Jack ran a hand over his neatly trimmed beard absentmindedly as his eyes scanned the screen, searching for clues. He needed to crack this nut before he could move on with the project, an investment opportunity in Dubai that as of now was looking more and more like a shady deal.

  He and his dad shared a lot of qualities, but lately Jack had been taking stock. At just about his age, his father had already been medically discharged as a lieutenant from the Marines, married his mom, had two kids, earned a fortune as a trader at Merrill Lynch, completed a Ph.D. in history, taught at the Naval Academy, and joined the CIA.

  If life was a race between him and his dad, his dad was lapping him badly. Heck, Jack felt like he was still stuck in the starting blocks. He pulled off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away the headache boiling up behind his blue eyes. His desk phone rang. Surprising, given the hour. It was Gerry Hendley, his boss. His dad had persuaded Gerry to found Hendley Associates and The Campus years ago.

  “Hello, Gerry.”

  “Jack, I was wondering if you could spare a few moments.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  * * *

  —

  Gerry Hendley, the former senator from South Carolina, clapped Jack on his broad back as he stepped into the fourth-floor office. He pointed him to one of the two chairs in front of his spotless desk and took the other one himself.

  “Thanks for coming up, son,” Hendley said, in his honey-baked southern drawl. “I know you’re on a deadline on that Dubai deal. How’s that squaring up?”

  “Dad always said when something looks too good to be true, it probably is. I just can’t quite put my finger on it yet.”

  “I know you’re as stubborn as your father, which is a virtue in this line of work. Coffee?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. What can I do for you?”

  Hendley’s tailored shirt with French cuffs and diamond links was as immaculate as his mane of silver hair. The former senator was a shrewd financial expert in his own right, and Hendley Associates was one of the most profitable firms in its industry. But the ex-senator’s passion was still national security. Like Jack’s father, Hendley was an old-fashioned patriot, and unashamed to say so. More important, he was willing to back up his sentiment with something more than words. The one hundred presigned presidential pardons sitting in his office safe were for the protection of his employees, not himself.

  “I just had a long and interesting conversation with Arnie van Damm. Did you hear about what happened on Dixon’s committee today?”

  “No, sorry. I’ve been buried in reports.”

  “I won’t bore you with the details, but the long and the short of it is our shared concern that Senator Dixon might be playing ball for the Red Chinese.”

  Jack frowned. “That’s quite an accusation.”

  “More of a hunch, actually.”

  Jack nodded. If his father had actual proof, the woman would already be in jail awaiting trial, senator or not.

  “She’s probably not the only one. There’s a lot of Chinese money floating around D.C. these days.”

  “But few are as powerful as Senator Deborah Dixon. If it’s true, it’s a real problem.”

  “How do I fit in?”

  “I know your plate is full right now, and you’ve got a leave of absence coming up in a few days, but I’m asking you to put everything aside and take a look at Senator Dixon’s financial situation.”

  Jack shifted in his chair. Finishing the Dubai project was a high priority for him, but his leave of absence was essential. He’d made a promise to Cory and he was determined to keep it.

  “We have a deep bench of financial analysts who are every bit as good or better than I am. Can’t one of them take this on?”

  Hendley flashed a wide smile. His perfectly aligned teeth sparkled with porcelain veneers. The effect was a cross between a kindly grandfather and a great white shark. “You have a unique skill set in this regard, my boy. You have a doggedness to you that ca
n’t be taught, and, more important, the political savvy to know when to tread lightly, if you catch my drift.”

  “In other words, snoop inside her sock drawers, but don’t get caught doing it.”

  “Not even a whiff of suspicion. Especially after the Chadwick fiasco. We need to keep as low a profile as possible.”

  Nobody in the Ryan family was particularly fond of Chadwick. Her irrationally unjustified personal animus toward the President had been expressed frequently in private and public venues until just recently. Her accusation that the President maintained a “personal assassination squad” was almost comically stupid and unbelievable to all but the most intractable Ryan haters, but it had struck perilously close to the truth. The Campus was, indeed, a secret weapon available for rapid deployment by his father to defend the national interest when normal security resources couldn’t be used. The Campus was only as effective as it was unknown. They needed to keep it that way.

  Jack sighed, frustrated. “Understood.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t of the utmost importance, or if there was someone else I could trust with the assignment. And you know your father. He won’t countenance the thought of deploying the FBI against an elected official without probable cause.”

  “And it’s up to me to find it.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “It just comes at a really bad time.”

  “So do most things that matter.”

  Jack nodded. “Then I’d better get after it. Any ideas about where to start?”

  “Senator Dixon won’t leave any low-hanging fruit and sure as hell won’t even come close to breaking any laws. If anything, I’d take a look at her husband, Aaron Gage. He’s done a lot of business with the Chi-Coms over the years, and he’s tied in with the Belt and Road Initiative.”

  “Chinese trade pushed through global infrastructure projects financed with Chinese money.”

  “Exactly. The senator’s husband owns a private equity firm that invests heavily in infrastructure. I’d say that would be a good place to start.”

  Jack stood. “I’ll get right on it.”

  11

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The elegant two-story Tudor-style home stood on a hill in leafy Kalorama Heights, bordering the park below. The sturdy, hand-cut stone walls and antique wrought-iron gate were more decorative than functional but perfectly complemented the $5 million residence. Senator Dixon and her husband, Aaron Gage, relied instead upon the discreet services of a private contractor employing former spec ops personnel for 24/7 security.

  After their Guatemalan housekeeper cleared away the plates from a late dinner of Chilean sea bass and mint-pea puree, Dixon poured fingers of scotch rocks for both of them in the privacy of her husband’s library.

  “Long day.” Dixon sighed as she fell back into the sofa. She plopped her bare feet on his legs and took a sip of her drink.

  “Must have gotten a little longer after van Damm showed up,” Gage said, chuckling, rubbing her feet with his powerful hands.

  He was sixteen years her senior, but the seventy-two-year-old financial guru kept fit by submitting himself to a daily torture routine on his fifteen-thousand-dollar ROM total body workout machine. He kept one in each of their several homes around the country.

  They first met when she was a freshly minted Wharton MBA and the vice president of marketing in a small firm his company had just acquired. Still smarting from a nasty divorce, Gage wasn’t looking for a new relationship at the time, but Dixon was single, attractive, and whip-smart, and the chemistry between them was obvious from the start. They found they enjoyed each other as much in the boardroom as the bedroom, and from day one had formed an incredibly strong partnership that proved mutually beneficial.

  “You were smart not to get into politics,” Dixon said over the top of her glass.

  “Everything is politics,” Gage said, driving his thumbs into her arches. “Especially finance. I just get paid better. Anything you want to talk about?” He reached for his glass.

  “Arnie was pissed—I mean, really fired up. Which means Ryan is fired up, and that scares the hell out of me.”

  “You? Scared? Since when?”

  “Since I decided I wanted to be the next POTUS.”

  “Ryan is a lame duck and he has his share of enemies. We’ve talked about this.”

  “But Ryan isn’t distracted by retirement plans. He’s laser-focused on his job and I don’t want to be his next target.”

  “Why would you be? You’ve dotted your i’s and crossed your t’s. A dozen lawyers from the best firms here and overseas have signed off on everything. We’re watertight and ironclad. Let Ryan rage against the night. What the fuck do we care?”

  Dixon took another sip. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

  The silence hung in the air like a fog.

  Gage darkened. An old wound. “I wouldn’t worry about Christopher.”

  “I didn’t say anything about him.”

  “You didn’t have to.” Gage gulped the rest of his scotch.

  After his divorce from his alcoholic ex-wife, Gage retained custody of his only son. Dixon understood that marrying Gage was a package deal, but being a stepmom taxed her nominal maternal instinct. The chore eased considerably after Christopher Gage was carted off to boarding school.

  Despite his high IQ and athletic promise, the young man had a penchant for bad decisions and worse friends, both of which got him expelled from several elite prep schools. Thanks to pricey attorneys and thick wads of cash, the troubled boy avoided well-deserved jail time.

  Seemingly “scared straight” after a near-death DUI incident in his freshman year in college, Christopher eventually graduated from Stanford Graduate School of Business with high honors. Within a decade he had joined his father’s firm, Gage Capital Partners, and become the CEO of its public infrastructure and transportation subsidiary, Gage Group International. Currently, Christopher was operating in Poland with his own venture, Baltic General Services.

  But Dixon remained suspicious. The boy—a thirty-eight-year-old man, she had to remind herself—had too many close calls, and she had a long memory.

  But her husband, Aaron, had a short fuse. He was not a man to be crossed, not even by her.

  Dixon pulled her feet off her husband’s lap, stood up, grabbed his glass, and headed for the bar. “How’s Poland shaping up?”

  “Christopher is doing a good job. Still scouting things out, making connections.”

  Dixon poured another drink for them both. “He’s a smart boy. I don’t doubt he’ll make you proud.” She crossed back to the couch and handed him his glass.

  “I just wish he’d settle down and get married. I’d like a grandson to play ball with while I still have my marbles.”

  “Maybe he’ll find one of those beautiful, long-legged Polish girls.”

  “I’m sure he’s looking as hard as he can.” Gage chuckled, taking another sip.

  Like father, like son.

  “I’m just asking him to be careful over there. I’m sure you understand my position.” She smiled. “Our position.”

  Gage took another sip. “He knows the lines he can’t cross.”

  Dixon remained standing over him. “Even when the lines keep moving?” she said over her glass.

  “So long as we’re the ones moving the lines, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Does he understand what’s at stake?”

  “He’s my son, isn’t he?”

  “Thank God for that.” Dixon smiled. “Thanks for letting me vent. It’s been a long day.” She finished her drink.

  “Trust me,” Gage said, finishing his scotch. “He’s fine.” He stood, yawning. “I’m off to bed. You?”

  “I have some committee work to read, but I’ll be up soon.”

  Gage le
aned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Good night.”

  He headed for the stairs leading toward their bedroom, making a mental note to call his son first thing in the morning.

  Before it was too late.

  12

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  The carmine red Porsche 911 Targa 4S slid into its designated five-hundred-dollar-a-month parking space in the basement of the glass-and-steel building near the Embarcadero.

  Lawrence Fung, a lean, handsome thirty-year-old, dashed from his vehicle to the elevator, clutching his laptop case. He stabbed the up button furiously, willing the doors to open. He checked the time on the oversized TAG Heuer watch strapped to his narrow wrist.

  Shit!

  The doors finally opened, and the fast elevator whisked him to his expansive Bay-view condo on the thirteenth floor. Fung punched the keypad on his keyless door, but the lock beeped. He cursed his clumsiness and punched the code again. The door clicked open and he pushed his way through, kicking off his calf-leather loafers and dropping the Porsche key fob into a sterling-silver bowl on the hand-carved entryway desk, along with his polycarbonate slim wallet.

  Fung sped barefoot across the bamboo floor toward the kitchen, conscious of the precious few minutes remaining. He was starving, but there wasn’t time to make anything, not even a cup of tea. He yanked open the Viking refrigerator and pulled out a bottled organic protein shake, cracked it open, and guzzled it before heading for his bedroom.

  He fell down into his chair just as his timer beeped, and powered up his desktop, ignoring the stunning view of the Bay Bridge lit in the low fog on the dark water below. He opened up Skype, scrolled down to his contacts list, and selected the video button. His face popped up in a small window on the screen. Not liking what he saw, he brushed his hair with his fingers and wiped his lips to make himself more presentable as the international phone line chirped and buzzed. An image popped up.