by Tom Clancy
Connor shook his head. “No, Ed. We know of no particular threat.”
“I can bring the backup bird here, but it means exposing it to the weather. We can take better care of it down at Anacostia. That’s your call, sir.”
“You can leave it down there.”
“The Boss still wants to watch the game up here, right?”
“Correct. We all get a day off. Lift off for D.C. tomorrow about six-thirty. Problem with that?”
“No, ought to be fixed before then.”
“Okay.” Connor left and walked back to his cabin.
“What’s it like out there?” Daga asked.
“About how it looks,” Pete said. “The chopper’s broke.”
“I wish they’d be more careful,” Special Agent Helen D’A-gustino observed as she brushed her hair.
“Not their fault.” Connor lifted the phone to the Secret Service command center, located a few blocks west of the White House. “This is Connor. The chopper is down with a mechanical problem. Backup is being kept at Anacostia because of weather conditions. Anything on the board I need to know about?”
“No, sir,” the junior agent responded. On his status board, in LED characters he could see that the President of the United States—designated POTUS on his display—was shown to be at Camp David. The First Lady of the United States—FLO—TUS—space was blank. The Vice President was at his official residence on the ground of the U.S. Naval Observatory off Massachusetts Avenue, Northwest, along with his family. “Everything’s nice and calm, far as we know.”
“How are the roads down there?” Pete asked.
“Bad. Every Carryall we have is out retrieving people.”
“Thank God for Chevrolet.” Like the FBI, the Secret Service used the big Chevy four-wheel-drive trucks to get around. Heavily armored and with roughly the fuel-efficiency of a tank, the Carryall was able to do things that only a tank could excel. “Okay, it’s nice and snug up here.”
“I bet the Marines are freezing their cojones off.”
“What about Dulles?”
“The Prime Minister is due in at eighteen hundred. The guys say Dulles has one runway open now. They expect to have everything clear by afternoon. Storm’s slacking off a little here, finally. You know, the funny thing ...”
“Yeah.” Connor didn’t need to hear the rest. The funny thing was that weather like this made the job of the Secret Service easier. “Okay, you know where to reach us.”
“Right. See ya tomorrow, Pete.”
Connor looked outside when he heard the noise. A Marine was driving a snowplow, trying to clear the paths between the cabins. Two more were working on the roads. It seemed rather odd. The equipment was painted in the Pentagon’s woodland camouflage pattern of greens and browns, but the Marines were in their whites. There were even white pullover covers for their M-16A2 rifles. Anyone who tried to get in here today would find, too late, that the perimeter guard force was totally invisible, and these Marines were all combat veterans. At times like this, even the Secret Service could relax, and that came rarely enough. There came a knock on the door. Daga got it.
“Morning papers, ma’am.” A Marine corporal handed them over.
“You know,” D’Agustino observed after she closed the door, “sometimes I think the guys who deliver these things are the only people you can really depend on.”
“What about the Marines?” Pete asked with a laugh.
“Oh, them, too.”
“Aspect change in Sierra-16!” the sonarman called. “Target is coming left.”
“Very well,” Dutch Claggett replied. “Mr. Pitney, you have the conn.”
“Aye aye, sir, I have the conn,” the navigator said as the XO went into the sonar room. The fire-control tracking party perked up, waiting to restart their calculations.
“Right there, sir.” The sonarman tapped the screen with his pencil. “Looks like a beam aspect now. Conn, sonar, bearing is now one-seven-zero, target is coming left. Radiated noise level is constant, estimate target speed is unchanged.”
“Very well, thank you.”
It was the third such turn they had tracked. Claggett’s estimation appeared to be correct. The Russian was conducting a very methodical, very conservative—and very smart—search pattern of this patrol area, just like the 688s did in looking for Russian subs. The interval between the rungs of this ladder seemed to be about forty thousand yards.
“X, that new feed pump they have is a beaut,” the sonarman observed. “His plant noise is way the hell down, and the sucker’s doing ten knots according to the tracking party.”
“Couple more years and we’re going to have to worry about these guys.”
“Transient, transient—mechanical transient on Sierra-16, bearing is now one-six-four, still drifting left. Speed constant.” The petty officer circled the noise blip on the screen. “Maybe, sir, but they still got a lot to learn.”
“Range to target is now four-eight thousand yards.”
“Mr. Pitney, let’s open the range some. Bring her right,” the executive officer commanded.
“Aye, helm, left five degrees rudder, come to new course two-zero-four.”
“Turning for another leg?” Captain Ricks asked as he entered sonar.
“Yeah, looks like the legs are pretty regular, Cap’n.”
“Methodical son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
“Turned within two minutes of our estimate,” Claggett replied. “I just ordered us right to maintain distance.”
“Fair enough.” Ricks was actually enjoying this. He hadn’t been aboard a fast-attack boat since his first assistant-department-head tour. Playing tag with Russian submarines was something he had not done in the past fifteen years. On the rare occasions he’d heard them at all, his action had always been the same: track long enough to determine the other sub’s course, then turn perpendicular to it and head away until it faded back to random noise.
Necessarily, the game was changing somewhat. It wasn’t as easy as it used to be. The Russian subs were getting quieter. What had been an annoying trend a few years ago was rapidly turning into something genuinely troubling. And maybe we just had to change the way we do business....
“You know, X, what if this becomes the standard tactic?”
“What do you mean, Cap’n?”
“I mean, as quiet as these guys are getting, maybe this is the smart move.”
“Huh?” Claggett was lost.
“If you’re tracking the guy, at least you always know where he is. You can even launch a SLOT buoy and call in assets to help you dispose of him. Think about it. They’re getting pretty quiet. If you break off as soon as you detect the guy, what’s to say you don’t blunder into him again? So instead, we track at a nice, safe distance and just keep an eye on him.”
“Uh, Captain, that’s fine as far as it goes, but what if the other guy gets a sniff of us, or what if he just reverses course and boogies backwards at high speed?”
“Good point. So we trail on his quarter instead of just off his stern ... that will make an accidental closure less likely. Banging straight aft for a trailer is a logical defensive measure, but he can’t go punching holes all over the ocean, can he?”
Jesus, this guy is trying to develop tactics.... “Sir, let me know if you sell that one to OP-02.”
“Instead of trailing dead aft, I’m going to hold off his northern quarter now. It gives us better performance off the tail anyway. It should actually be safer.”
That part of it made sense, Claggett thought. “You say so, Cap’n. Maintain fifty-K yards?”
“Yes, we still want to be a little cautious.”
The second storm, as predicted, hadn’t done very much, Ghosn saw. There was a light dusting—that seemed to be the term they used—on the vehicles and parking lot. Hardly enough to bother with, it duplicated the most severe winter storm he’d ever seen in Lebanon.
“How about some breakfast?” Marvin asked. “I hate to work on an empty stomach
.”
The man was remarkable, Ibrahim thought. He was completely free of jitters. Either very brave or ... something else. Ghosn considered that. He’d killed the Greek policeman without a blink, had taught a brutal lesson to one of the organization’s combat instructors, shown his prowess with firearms, and been completely contemptuous of danger when they’d uncovered the Israeli bomb. There was something missing in this man, he concluded. The man was fearless, and such men were not normal. It wasn’t that he was able to control his fear as most soldiers learned to do. Fear simply wasn’t there. Was it merely a case of trying to impress people? Or was it real? Probably real, Ghosn thought, and if it were, this man was truly mad, and therefore more dangerous than useful. It made things easier for Ghosn to think that.
The motel didn’t offer room service from its small coffee shop. All three walked out into the cold to get their breakfasts. Along the way, Russell picked up a paper to read about the game.
Qati and Ghosn only needed a brief look to find one more reason to hate Americans. They ate eggs with bacon or ham, and pancakes with sausage—in all three cases, products of the most unclean of animals, the pig. Both men found the sight and smell of pork products repulsive. Marvin didn’t help when he ordered some as unconsciously as he’d ordered coffee. The Commander, Ghosn noted, ordered oatmeal, and halfway through breakfast he went suddenly pale and left the table.
“What’s the matter with him anyway? Sick?” Russell asked.
“Yes, Marvin, he is quite ill.” Ghosn looked at the greasy bacon on Russell’s plate and knew the smell of it had set Qati’s stomach off.
“I hope he’s able to drive.”
“That will not be a problem.” Ghosn wondered if that were true. Of course it was, he told himself, the Commander had been through tougher times—but such bluster was for others, not for times like this. No, because there had never been such a time as this, the Commander would do what must be done. Russell paid for the breakfast with cash, leaving a large tip because the waitress looked like a Native American.
Qati was pale when they got back to the rooms, and wiping his face after a long bout of nausea.
“Can I get you something, man?” Russell asked. “Milk, something good for your stomach?”
“Not now, Marvin, thank you.”
“You say so, man.” Russell opened his paper. There was nothing to do for the next few hours but wait. The morning line on the game, he saw, was Minnesota by six and a half. He decided that if anyone asked, he’d take the Vikings and give the points.
Special Agent Walter Hoskins, Assistant Special Agent in Charge (Corruption and Racketeering), of the Denver Field Division, knew that he would miss the game despite the fact that his wife had given him a ticket for Christmas. This he had sold to the S-A-C for two hundred dollars. Hoskins had work to do. A confidential informant had scored at the annual NFL Commissioner’s party last night. That party—like the ones preceding the Kentucky Derby—always attracted the rich, powerful, and important. This one had been no exception. Both U.S. Senators from Colorado and California, a gaggle of congressmen, the states’ governors, and approximately three hundred others had attended. His CI had been at the table with Colorado’s governor, senators, and the congresswoman from the third district, all of whom were targets of his corruption case. Liquor had flowed, and in the vino had been the usual amount of veritas. A deal had been made last night. The dam would be built. The payoffs had been agreed upon. Even the head of the Sierra Club’s local branch had been in on it. In return for a large donation from the contractor and a new park to be authorized by the Governor, the environmentalists would mute their objections to the project. The sad part, Hoskins thought, was that the area really needed the water project. It would be good for everyone, including the local fishermen. What made it illegal was that bribes were being made. He would have his choice of five federal statutes to apply to the case, the nastiest of which was the RICO law, the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act that had been passed over twenty years before without a thought about its possible scope of coverage. He already had one governor in a federal penitentiary, and to that he would add four more elected officials. The scandal would rip Colorado state politics asunder. The confidential informant in question was the Governor’s personal aide, an idealistic young woman who had decided eight months earlier that enough was enough. Women were always best for wearing a wire, especially if they had large breasts, as this one did. The mike went right in the bra, and the geometry of the location made for good sound quality. It was also a safe spot because the Governor had already sampled her charms and found them lacking. The old saw was right: hell really did have no fury like a woman scorned.
“Well?” Murray asked, annoyed to have to be in his office on another Sunday. He’d had to ride the subway in, and now that was broken down. He might be stuck all day here.
“Dan, we have enough to prosecute already, but I want to wait until the money gets passed to do the bust. My CI really delivered for us. I’m doing the transcript myself right now.”
“Can you fax it?”
“Soon as I’m done. Dan, we’ve got them all by the ass, all of ’em.”
“Walt, we just might put up a statue to you,” Murray said, forgetting his annoyance. Like most career cops he loathed public corruption almost as much as he loathed kidnappers.
“Dan, the transfer here is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Hoskins laughed into the phone. “Maybe I’ll run for one of the vacant Senate seats.”
“Colorado could do worse,” Dan observed. Just so you don’t carry a gun anywhere, Murray thought unkindly. He knew that was unfair. Though Walt wasn’t worth beans on the muscle end of the business, the other side of his assessment the previous year had also been correct: Hoskins was a brilliant investigator, a chessmaster to equal Bill Shaw, even. Walt just couldn’t bring down a bust worth a damn. Well, Murray corrected himself, this one wouldn’t be very hard. Politicians hid behind lawyers and press spokesmen, not guns. “What about the U.S. Attorney?”
“He’s a good, sharp kid, Dan. He’s on the team. Backup from the Department of Justice won’t hurt, but the fact of the matter is that this guy can do it if he has to.”
“Okay. Shoot me the transcript when it’s done.” Murray switched buttons on his phone, calling Shaw’s home in Chevy Chase.
“Yeah.”
“Bill, Dan here,” Murray said over the secure phone. “Hoskins scored last night. Says he’s got it all on tape—all five principal subjects cut the deal over their roast beef.”
“You realize that we might have to promote the guy now?” the FBI Director noted with a chuckle.
“So make him a deputy assistant director,” Dan suggested. “That hasn’t kept you out of trouble. Do I need to come in?”
“Not really. What’s it like there?”
“I’m thinking of putting up a ski-jump in the driveway. Roads really look bad.”
“I took the Metro in, then it shut down—ice on the tracks or something.”
“Washington, D.C., the City that Panics,” Shaw replied. “Okay, I plan to relax and watch the game, Mr. Murray.”
“And I, Mr. Shaw, will forgo my personal pleasures and work for the greater glory of the Bureau.”
“Good, I like dedication in my subordinates. Besides, I got my grandson here,” Shaw reported, watching his daughter-in-law feed him from a bottle.
“How is Kenny Junior?”
“Oh, we just might make an agent out of him. Unless you really need me, Dan....”
“Bill, enjoy the kid, just remember to hand him back when he messes the diapers.”
“Right. Keep me posted on this. I’ll have to take this to the President myself, you know.”
“You expect problems there?”
“No. He’s a standup guy on corruption stuff.”
“I’ll be back.” Murray walked out of his office toward communications. He found Inspector Pat O’Day heading the same way.
&nb
sp; “Were those your sled dogs I saw in the drive-thru, Pat?”
“Some of us drive decent cars.” O‘Day had a four-wheel-drive pickup. “The 9th Street barrier is frozen in the up position, by the way. I’ve told ’em to leave the other one down.”
“What are you in for?”
“I have the watch in the command center. My relief lives out in Frederick. I don’t expect to see him until half-past Thursday. I-270 is closed until spring, I think.”
“Christ, this is a wimpy town when it snows.”
“Tell me about it.” O’Day’s last field assignment had been in Wyoming, and he still missed the hunting out there.
Murray told the communications staff that the inbound fax from Denver was code-word material. Nobody would get to see it but him for the moment.
“I can’t match this one,” Goodley said just after lunch.
“Which one?”
“The first one that shook us up—no, excuse me, the second one. I cannot reconcile Narmonov’s and SPINNAKER’S schedules.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“I know. The odd thing is, remember what I said about linguistic differences in his reports?”
“Yeah, but remember my Russian is pretty thin. I can’t catch nuances like you can.”
“This is the first place it shows up, and it’s also the first one where I can’t satisfy myself that they definitely met.” Goodley paused. “I think I might have something here.”
“Remember that you have to sell it to our Russian department.”
“That’s not going to be easy.”
“That’s right,” Ryan agreed. “Back it up with something, Ben.”
One of the security guys helped Clark with the case of bottles. He restocked the bar supplies, then headed to the upper level with the remaining four bottles of Chivas. Chavez tagged behind with the flowers. John Clark put the bottles in their places and looked around the compartment to be sure that everything was in order. He fussed with a few minor items to show that he was being sincere. The bottle with the transceiver in it had a cracked top. That should make sure that nobody tried to open it, he thought. Clever of the S&T guys, he thought. The simple things usually worked best.
