by Tom Clancy
Were these murderers actually helping him escape?
They left the infirmary with Kovalenko in the lead and the doctors walking three meters behind him with the Walther leveled at his back. One of the men said, “To the right,” and his nervous voice echoed in the long and dark hallway. Valentin did as he was instructed. They led him up another quiet corridor, down a staircase, through two iron gates that were unlocked and propped open with waste bins, and then to a large iron door.
Kovalenko had not seen another soul during the entire walk through this part of the detention center.
“Knock,” instructed one of the men.
Valentin rapped on the iron door lightly with his knuckles.
He stood there for a moment, silence around him except for the thumping in his chest and a wheezing in his lungs from where the bronchitis affected his breathing. He felt dizzy and his body was weak; he hoped like hell this jailbreak, or whatever was going on right now, would not require him to run, jump, or climb any distance.
After waiting several more seconds, he turned back around to the men behind him.
The hallway was empty.
Bolts in the iron door were disengaged, the door creaked open on old hinges, and the Russian prisoner faced the outside.
Valentin Kovalenko had experienced a few hours of semi-fresh air in the past eight months; he’d been taken to the exercise court on the roof once a week and it was open to the sky save for a rusted wire grille, but the warm predawn breeze that brushed his face now as he stood at the edge of freedom was the freshest, most beautiful feeling he’d ever experienced.
There were no wires or moats or towers or dogs. Just a small parking lot in front of him, a few two-door civilian cars parked along a wall on the other side. And off to his right lay a dusty street stretching as far as he could see under weak streetlamps.
A street sign read Ulitsa Matrosskaya Tishina.
He was no longer alone. A young guard had opened the door from the outside. Valentin could barely see him as the lightbulb in the fixture above the door had been removed from its socket. The guard stepped past Valentin, inside the prison, and he pushed Valentin outside, and then he pulled the door.
It clanged as it shut, and then a pair of bolt locks were engaged.
And just like that, Valentin Kovalenko was free.
For about five seconds.
Then he saw the black BMW 7 Series sedan idling across the street. Its lights were off, but the heat from the exhaust rose to diffuse the glow of the streetlamp above it. This was the only sign of life he could see, so Kovalenko walked slowly in that direction.
The back door of the vehicle opened, as if beckoning him forward.
Valentin cocked his head. Someone had a sense for melodrama. Hardly necessary after what he’d been through.
The ex-spy picked up the pace and crossed the street to the BMW, and then he tucked himself inside.
“Shut the door,” came a voice from the dark. The interior lights of the backseat were off, and a smoked-glass partition separated the rear from the front seat. Kovalenko saw a figure against the far door, almost facing him. The man was big and broad, but otherwise Valentin could not make out any of the man’s features. He had been hoping to find a friendly face, but he felt certain almost immediately that he did not know this person.
Kovalenko closed the door, and the sedan rolled forward slowly.
A faint red light came on now, its origins difficult to determine, and Kovalenko saw the man back here with him a little better. He was much older than Valentin; he had a thick, almost square head and sunken eyes. He also had the look of toughness and importance that was common among the upper levels of Russian organized crime.
Kovalenko was disappointed. He’d hoped a former colleague or a government official sympathetic to his plight had sprung him from the prison, but instead, all indications now were that his savior was the mafia.
The two men just looked at each other.
Kovalenko got tired of the staring contest. “I don’t recognize you, so I do not know what I should say. Should I say ‘Thank you,’ or should I say ‘Oh, God, not you’?”
“I am no one important, Valentin Olegovich.”
Kovalenko picked up the accent as being from Saint Petersburg. He felt even more certain this man was organized crime, as Saint Petersburg was a hotbed of criminal activity.
The man continued, “I represent interests that have just spent a great deal of treasure, both financial and otherwise, to have you removed from your obligations to the state.”
The BMW 7 Series headed south, this Valentin could tell from the street signs that passed. He said, “Thank you. And thank your associates. Am I free to go?” He presumed he was not, but he wanted to get the dialogue moving a little faster so that he could get answers.
“You are only free to go back to prison.” The man shrugged. “Or to go to work for your new benefactor. You were not released from jail, you just escaped.”
“I gathered that when you killed the other prisoner.”
“He was not a prisoner. He was some drunk picked up at the rail yard. There will be no autopsy. It will be registered as you who died in the infirmary, from a heart attack, but you can’t very well return to your previous life.”
“So . . . I am implicated in this crime?”
“Yes. But don’t feel like this will affect your criminal case. There was no case. You had two possible futures. You were either going to be sent to the gulag, or you were going to be killed right there in the infirmary. Trust me, you would not be the first man to be executed in secret at Matrosskaya Tishina.”
“What about my family?”
“Your family?”
Kovalenko cocked his head. “Yes. Lyudmila and my boys.”
The man with the square head said, “Ah, you are speaking of the family of Valentin Olegovich Kovalenko. He was a prisoner who died of a heart attack in Matrosskaya Tishina prison. You, sir, have no family. No friends. Nothing but your new benefactor. Your allegiance to him for saving your life is your only reason to exist now.”
So his family was gone, and the mob was his new family? No. Kovalenko brought his chin up and his shoulders back. “Ida na hui,” he said. It was a Russian vulgarity, untranslatable into English but akin to “Fuck you.”
The mobster rapped his knuckles on the partition to the front seat, then he asked, “Do you think that somehow the bitch that left you and took your kids would react pleasantly to you showing up at her door, a man on the run from the police for murder, a man who had been targeted for termination by the Kremlin? She will be happy to learn of your death tomorrow. She won’t have the continued embarrassment of a husband in prison.”
The BMW came to a slow halt. Valentin looked out the window, wondering where they were, and he saw the long yellow-and-white walls of Matrosskaya Tishina prison once again.
“This is where you can get out. I know who you used to be, a bright young star of Russian intelligence, but that is no more. You are no longer someone who can say ‘Ida na hui’ to me. You are a local criminal and an international outlaw. I’ll tell my employer that you said ‘Ida na hui,’ and he will leave you to fend for yourself. Or, if you prefer, I will deliver you to the train station; you can go home to your whore wife, and she will turn you in.”
The door to the BMW opened and the driver stood by it.
With the thought of returning to prison, Kovalenko felt a new cold sweat on his neck and back. After several seconds of silence, Valentin shrugged. “You make a compelling argument. Let’s get out of here.”
The man with the square head just stared at him. His face perfectly impassive. Finally he looked out to the driver. “Let’s go.”
The back door closed, the driver’s door opened and shut, and then, for the second time in the past five minutes, Vale
ntin Kovalenko was driven away from the detention facility.
He looked out the window for a moment, trying to get hold of himself so that he could take control of this conversation and positively affect his destiny.
“I will need to leave Russia.”
“Yes. That has been arranged. Your employer is abroad, and you will serve outside of Russia as well. You will see a doctor about your health, and then you will continue your career in the intelligence work, after a fashion, but not in the same location as your employer. You will be recruiting and running agents, executing your benefactor’s directives. You will be remunerated much better than you had been while working for the Russian intelligence service, but you will, essentially, work alone.”
“Are you saying I will not meet my employer?”
The burly man said, “I have worked for him for almost two years, and I have never met him. I do not even know if he is a he.”
Kovalenko raised his eyebrows. “You are not speaking of a national actor. So this is not a foreign state. This is . . . some sort of illegal enterprise?” He knew that it was; he was only feigning surprise to show his distaste.
His answer came in the form of a short nod.
Valentin’s shoulders slumped a little. He was tired from his sickness and the adrenaline waning in his blood after the murder of the man and his own thoughts of death. After several seconds he said, “I suppose I have no choice but to join your band of merry criminals.”
“It’s not my band, and they are not merry. That is not how this operation is run. We . . . you, me, others . . . we get orders via Cryptogram.”
“What is Cryptogram?”
“Secure instant messaging. A system of communication that can’t be read, can’t be hacked, and immediately erases itself.”
“On the computer?”
“Yes.”
Valentin realized he’d have to get a computer. “So you are not my handler?”
The Russian just shook his head. “My job is done. We’re done. I suppose you will never see me again as long as you live.”
“Okay.”
“You will be taken to a house where documents and instructions will be delivered to you by courier. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later. Then my people will get you out of the city. Out of the country.”
Kovalenko looked back out the window, and he saw they were heading into central Moscow.
“I will give a warning, Valentin Olegovich. Your employer—I should say our mutual employer—has people everywhere.”
“Everywhere?”
“If you attempt to flee your duties, to renege on your compact, his people will find you, and they will not hesitate to hold you to account. They know everything, and they see everything.”
“I get it.”
For the first time, the square-headed man chuckled. “No. You do not get it. You cannot possibly get it at this point. But trust me. Cross them in any way at any time, and you will instantly come to know their omniscience. They are like gods.”
It was obvious to the urbane and educated Valentin Kovalenko that he was far worldlier than this criminal scumbag sitting next to him. It was likely this man had no experience working with a well-run outfit before going to work for this foreign employer, but Valentin was hardly stressed about the scope and reach of his new boss. He’d worked in Russian intelligence, and it was, after all, a tier-one spy agency.
“One more warning.”
“I’m listening.”
“This is not an organization from which you will someday resign or retire. You will work at their bidding as long as they want you to.”
“I see.”
The square-headed Russian shrugged. “It was this or die in prison. You’ll be doing yourself a favor by keeping that in your head. Every day of life is a gift given to you. You should enjoy your life, and make the most of it.”
Kovalenko looked out the window, watching predawn Moscow pass by. A motivational speech from a blockheaded mobster.
Valentin sighed.
He was going to miss his old life.
SEVEN
Jack Ryan woke at 5:14 a.m., a minute before his iPhone was set to rouse him. He turned off the alarm before it disturbed the naked girl sleeping tangled in the sheets next to him, and he used the light from the screen to look her over. He did this most mornings, but he never told her.
Melanie Kraft lay on her side, facing him, but her long dark hair covered her face. Her left shoulder, soft yet toned, glowed in the light.
Jack smiled, then reached over after a moment, and stroked her hair out of her eyes.
Her eyes opened. It took her a few seconds to waken and form a sentient thought into a word. “Hi.” Her voice was a whisper.
“Hi,” Jack said.
“Is it Saturday?” she asked, her tone both hopeful and playful, though she was still wiping the cobwebs from her brain.
“Monday,” Jack replied.
She rolled onto her back, exposing her breasts. “Damn. How did that happen?”
Jack kept his eyes on her as he shrugged. “Earth’s revolution. Distance from the sun. Stuff like that. I probably learned it in fourth grade, but I’ve forgotten.”
Melanie started to fall back to sleep.
“I’ll make coffee,” he said, and he rolled off the bed.
She nodded distantly, and the hair that Ryan had lifted off her face fell back over her eyes.
—
Five minutes later they sipped steaming mugs of coffee together on the sofa in the living room of Jack’s Columbia, Maryland, apartment. Jack wore tracksuit pants and a Georgetown T-shirt. Melanie was in her bathrobe. She kept a lot of clothes and personal items here at Jack’s place. More and more as the weeks went by, and Jack did not mind at all.
After all, she was beautiful, and he was in love.
They had been dating exclusively for a few months now, and already this was the longest exclusive relationship of Jack’s life. He had even taken her to the White House to meet his parents a few weeks back; by design, he and Melanie were ushered into the living quarters away from the press, and Jack had introduced his girlfriend to his mother in the West Sitting Hall just off the President’s Dining Room. The two women sat on the sofa under the beautiful half-moon window and chatted about Alexandria, her job, and their mutual respect for Melanie’s boss, Mary Pat Foley. Ryan spent the time looking at Melanie; he was captivated by her poise and calm. He’d brought girls home to Mom before, of course, but they’d usually just managed to survive the experience. Melanie, on the other hand, seemed to genuinely enjoy spending time with his mother.
Jack’s father, the President of the United States, slipped in while the women were chatting. Junior saw his allegedly tough father turn to jelly within moments of meeting his son’s brilliant and beautiful girlfriend. He was all smiles and bright banter; Junior chuckled to himself watching his dad trying to lay on some extra charm.
They had dinner in the dining room and the conversation was fun and flowing, Jack Junior spoke the least, but once in a while he caught Melanie’s eyes and they smiled at each other.
Jack was not surprised at all that Melanie asked the vast majority of the questions, and she spent as little time as possible talking about herself. Her mom had passed away, her father had been an Air Force colonel, and she’d spent much of her childhood abroad. This she told the President and First Lady when they asked, and it was just about all Ryan, Jr., knew about her childhood himself.
Jack was certain the Secret Service detail that approved her visit to the White House knew more about his girlfriend’s past than he did.
After dinner, after they slipped out of the White House just as covertly as they’d slipped in, Melanie confessed to Jack that she’d been nervous at first, but his parents had been so down to earth that she’d forgotten f
or large parts of the evening that she was in the presence of the commander-in-chief and the chief of surgery at Johns Hopkins’s Wilmer Eye Institute.
Jack thought back on that evening while he eyed Melanie’s curves through her bathrobe.
She saw him looking at her, and she asked, “Gym or run?” They did one or the other most every morning, whether or not they had spent the night in the same bed. When she stayed at his place, they worked out in the gym here in Jack’s building, or else they ran a three-mile course that took them around nearby Wilde Lake and through Fairway Hills golf course.
Jack Ryan, on the other hand, never stayed at Melanie’s apartment in Alexandria. He thought it odd that she’d never invited him to sleep over, but she always explained it away, saying she felt self-conscious about her tiny carriage-house digs, an apartment that wasn’t even as big as the living room in Jack’s place.
He did not push the issue. Melanie was the love of his life, of this he was certain, but she was also a little mysterious and guarded. At times even evasive.
It came from her training at CIA, he was sure, and it only added to her allure.
When he just kept looking at her, not answering her question, she smiled behind her mug of coffee. “Gym or run, Jack?”
He shrugged. “Sixty degrees. No rain.”
Melanie nodded. “Run it is.” She put her mug down and stood to go back to the bedroom to change.
Jack watched her walk away, and then he called out from behind, “Actually, there is a third option for exercise this morning.”
Melanie stopped, turned back to him. Now her lips formed a sly smile. “What might that be, Mr. Ryan?”
“Scientists say sex burns more calories than jogging. It’s better for the heart, too.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Scientists say this?”
He nodded. “They do.”
“There is always the risk of overtraining. Burning out.”
Ryan laughed. “No chance at all.”
“Well, then,” she said. Melanie opened her robe and let it fall to the hardwood floor, then turned and walked naked into the bedroom.
