by Tom Clancy
“Can you do it that fast without attracting attention?”
“Let me worry about that,” Alex replied with a smile.
“Anything new on your end?” Owens asked.
“Not much,” Murray admitted. “We have plenty of forensic evidence, but only one witness who got a clear look at one face, and she can’t give us a real ID. ”
“The local help?”
“That’s who we almost ID’d. Nothing yet. Maybe they’ve learned from the ULA. No manifesto, no announcement claiming credit for the job. The people we have inside some other radical groups—that is, those that still exist—have drawn a big blank. We’re still working on it, and we have a lot of money out on the street, but so far we haven’t got anything to show for it.” Murray paused. “That’ll change. Bill Shaw is a genius, one of the real brains we have in the Bureau. They switched him over from counterintelligence to terrorism a few years back, and he’s done really impressive work. What’s new on your end?”
“I can’t go into specifics yet,” Owens said. “But we might have a small break. We’re trying to decide now if it’s real or not. That’s the good news. The bad is that His Royal Highness is traveling to America this coming summer. A number of people were informed of his itinerary, including six on our list of possible suspects.”
“How the hell did you let that happen, Jimmy?”
“No one asked me, Dan,” Owens replied sourly. “In several cases, if the people hadn’t been informed it would have told them that something odd was happening—you can’t simply stop trusting people, can you? For the rest, it was just another balls-up. Some secretary put out the plans on the normal list without consulting the security officers.” This wasn’t a new story for either man. There was always someone who didn’t get the word.
“Super. So call it off. Let him get the flu or something when the time comes,” Murray suggested.
“His Highness won’t do that. He’s become quite adamant on the subject. He won’t allow a terrorist threat to affect his life in any way.”
Murray grunted. “You gotta admire the kid’s guts, but—”
“Quite so,” Owens agreed. He didn’t really care for having his next king referred to as “the kid,” but he’d long since gotten used to the American way of expressing things. “It doesn’t make our job any easier.”
“How firm are the travel plans?” Murray asked, getting back to business.
“Several items on the itinerary are tentative, of course, but most are set in stone. Our security people will be meeting with yours in Washington. They’re flying over next week.”
“Well, you know that you’ll get all the cooperation you want, Secret Service, the Bureau, local police, everything. We’ll take good care of him for you,” Murray assured him. “He and his wife are pretty popular back home. Will they be taking the baby with them?”
“No. We were able to prevail on him about that.”
“Okay. I’ll call Washington tomorrow and get things rolling. What’s happening with our friend Ned Clark?”
“Nothing as yet. His colleagues are evidently giving him rather a bad time, but he’s too bloody stupid to break.”
Murray nodded. He knew the type.
Well, they wanted me to take off early, Ryan thought. He decided to accept an invitation to a lecture at Georgetown University. Unfortunately, it was something of a disappointment. Professor David Hunter was Columbia’s enfant terrible, America’s ranking authority on political affairs in Eastern Europe. His book of the previous year, Revolution Postponed, had been a penetrating study of the political and economic problems of the Soviet’s unsteady empire, and Ryan, like others, had been eager to hear his new information on the subject. The speech had turned out to be little more than a rehash of the book, with the rather startling suggestion at the end that the NATO countries should be more aggressive in trying to separate the Soviet Union from her captives. Ryan considered that to be lunacy, even if it did guarantee lively discussions at the reception.
At the end of the talk, Ryan moved quickly to the reception. He’d skipped dinner to make it here on time. There was a wide table of hors d’oeuvres, and Jack filled his plate as patiently as he could before drifting off to a sedate corner by the elevators. He let others form knots of conversation around Professor Hunter. On the whole, it was nice to be back at Georgetown, if only for a few hours. The “Galleria” in the Intercultural Center was quite a contrast to the CIA institutional drab. The four-story atrium of the language building was lined with the glass windows of offices, and a pair of potted trees reached toward the glass roof. The plaza outside was paved with bricks, and known to the students as Red Square. To the west was the old quadrangle, and the cemetery where rested the priests who had taught here for nearly two hundred years. It was a thoroughly civilized setting, except for the discordant shriek of jets coming out of National Airport, a few miles downriver. Someone jostled Ryan just as he was finishing his snacks.
“Excuse me, Doctor.” Ryan turned to see a man shorter than himself. He had a florid complexion and was dressed in a. cheap-looking suit. His blue eyes seemed to sparkle with amusement. His voice had a pronounced accent. “Did you enjoy the lecture?”
“It was interesting,” Ryan said diffidently.
“So. I see that capitalists can lie as well as we poor socialists.” The man had a jolly, overpowering laugh, but Jack decided that his eyes were sparkling with something other than amusement. They were measuring eyes, playing yet another variation of the game he’d been part of in England. Already Ryan disliked him.
“Have we met?”
“Sergey Platonov.” They shook hands after Ryan set his plate on a table. “I am Third Secretary of the Soviet Embassy. Perhaps my photograph at Langley does not do me justice.”
A Russian—Ryan tried not to look too surprised—who knows I’ve been working at CIA. Third Secretary could easily mean that he was KGB, perhaps a diplomatic intelligence specialist, or maybe a member of the CPSU’s Foreign Department—as though it made a difference. A “legal” intelligence officer with a diplomatic cover. What do I do now? For one thing, he knew that he’d have to write up a contact report for CIA tomorrow, explaining how they’d met and what they’d talked about, perhaps an hour’s work. It took an effort to remain polite.
“You must have the wrong guy, Mr. Platonov. I’m a history teacher. I work at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. I was invited to this because I got my degree here.”
“No, no.” The Russian shook his head. “I recognize you from the photograph on your book jacket. You see, I purchased ten copies of it last summer.”
“Indeed.” Jack was surprised again and unable to conceal it. “My publisher and I thank you, sir.”
“Our Naval Attaché was much taken by it, Doctor Ryan. He felt that it should be brought to the attention of the Frunze Academy, and, I think, the Grechko Naval Academy in Leningrad.” Platonov applied his considerable charm. Ryan knew it for what it was, but ... “To be honest, I merely skimmed the book myself. It seemed quite well organized, and the Attaché said that your analysis of the way decisions are made in the heat of battle was highly accurate.”
“Well.” Jack tried not to be overly flattered, but it was hard. Frunze was the Soviet staff academy, the finishing school for young field-grade officers who were tagged for stardom. The Grechko Academy was only slightly less prestigious.
“Sergey Nikolay’ch,” boomed a familiar voice, “it is not kulturny to prey upon the vanity of helpless young authors.” Father Timothy Riley joined them. A short, plump Jesuit priest, Riley had headed the history department at Georgetown while Ryan had gotten his doctorate. He was a brilliant intellect with a series of books to his credit, including two penetrating works on the history of Marxism—neither of which, Ryan was certain, had found their way into the library at Frunze. “How’s the family, Jack?”
“Cathy’s back to work, Father. They moved Sally over to Hopkins. With luck we’ll have her home early next week
.”
“She will recover fully, your little daughter?” Platonov asked. “I read about the attack on your family in the newspaper.”
“We think so. Except for losing her spleen, there seems to be no permanent damage. The docs say she’s recovering nicely, and with her at Hopkins, Cathy’s able to see her every day,” Ryan said more positively than he felt. Sally was a different child. Her legs weren’t fully healed yet, but worst of all, his bouncing little girl was a sad thing now. She’d learned a lesson that Ryan had hoped to hold off for at least ten more years—that the world is a dangerous place even when you have a mother and a father to take care of you. A hard lesson for a child, it was harder still for a parent. But she’s alive, Jack told himself, unaware of the expression on his face. With time and love, you can recover from anything, except death. The doctors and nurses at Hopkins were taking care of her like one of their own. That was a tangible advantage of having a doctor in the family.
“A terrible thing.” Platonov shook his head in what seemed to be genuine disgust. “A terrible thing to attack innocent people for no reason.”
“Indeed, Sergey,” Riley said in the astringent voice that Ryan had known so well. When he wanted, “Father Tim” had a tongue that could saw through wood. “I seem to recall that V. I. Lenin said the purpose of terrorism is to terrorize, and that sympathy in a revolutionary is as reprehensible as cowardice on the field of battle.”
“Those were hard times, good Father,” Platonov said smoothly. “My country has no business with those IRA madmen. They are not revolutionaries, however much they pretend to be. They have no revolutionary ethic. It is madness, what they do. The working classes should be allies, contesting together against the common enemy that exploits them both, instead of killing one another. Both sides of the conflict are victimized by bosses who play them off against each other, but instead of recognizing this they kill one another like mad dogs, and with as little point. They are bandits, not revolutionaries,” he concluded with a distinction lost on the other two.
“Maybe so, but if I ever get my hands on them, I’ll give them a lesson in revolutionary justice.” It was good to let his hatred out in the open for once.
“You have no sympathy for them, either of you?” Platonov baited them. “After all, you are both related to the victims of British imperialism. Did not both your families flee to America to escape it?”
Ryan was caught very short by that remark. It seemed an incredible thing to say until he saw that the Russian was watching for his reaction.
“Or perhaps the direct victim of Soviet imperialism,” Jack responded with his own look. “Those two guys in London had Kalashnikov rifles. So did the ones who attacked my wife,” he lied. “You don’t buy one of those at the local hardware store. Whether you choose to admit it or not, most of the terrorists over there profess to be Marxists. That makes them your allies, not mine, and it makes it appear more than a coincidence that they use Soviet arms.”
“Do you know how many countries manufacture weapons of Soviet design? It is sadly inevitable that some will fall into the wrong hands.”
“In any case, my sympathy for their aim is, shall we say, limited by their choice of technique. You can’t build a civilized country on a foundation of murder,” Ryan concluded. “Much as some people have tried.”
“It would be well if the world worked in more peaceful ways.” Platonov ignored the implicit comment on the Soviet Union. “But it is an historical fact that nations are born in blood, even yours. As countries grow, they mature beyond such conduct. It is not easy, but I think we can all see the value of peaceful coexistence. For myself, Doctor Ryan, I can sympathize with your feelings. I have two fine sons. We once had a daughter also, Nadia. She died long ago, at age seven, from leukemia. I know it is a hard thing to see your child in pain, but you are more fortunate than I. Your daughter will live.” He allowed his voice to soften. “We disagree on many things, but no man can fail to love his children.
“So.” Platonov changed gears smoothly. “What did you really think of Professor Hunter’s little speech? Should America seek to foment counterrevolution in the socialist states of Europe?”
“Why don’t you ask the State Department? That’s not my part of the world, remember? I teach naval history. But if you want a personal opinion, I don’t see how we can encourage people to rebel if we have no prospect of helping them directly when your country reacts.”
“Ah, good. You understand that we must act to protect our fraternal socialist brothers from aggression.”
The man was good, Ryan saw, but he’d had a lot of practice at this. “I wouldn’t call the encouragement of people to seek their own freedom a form of aggression, Mr. Platonov. I was a stockbroker before I got my history degree, and that doesn’t make me much of a candidate for sympathizing with your political outlook. What I am saying is that your country used military force to crush democratic feelings in Czechoslovakia and Hungary. To encourage people toward their own suicide is both immoral and counterproductive.”
“Ah, but what does your government think?” the Russian asked with another jolly laugh.
“I’m a historian, not a soothsayer. In this town they all work for the Post. Ask them.”
“In any case,” the Russian went on, “our Naval Attaché is most interested to meet you and discuss your book. We are having a reception at the embassy on the twelfth of next month. The good Father is coming, he can watch over your soul. Might you and your wife attend?”
“For the next few weeks I plan to be at home with my family. My girl needs me there for a while.”
The diplomat was not to be put off. “Yes, I can understand that. Some other time, perhaps?”
“Sure, give me a call sometime this summer.” Are you kidding?
“Excellent. Now if you will excuse me, I wish to speak to Professor Hunter.” The diplomat shook hands again and walked off to the knot of historians who were hanging on Hunter’s every word.
Ryan turned to Father Riley, who’d watched the exchange in silence while sipping at his champagne.
“Interesting guy, Sergey,” Riley said. “He loves to hit people for reactions. I wonder if he really believes in his system or if he’s just playing the game for points ... ?”
Ryan had a more immediate question. “Father, what in the hell was that all about?”
Riley chuckled. “You’re being checked out, Jack.”
“Why?”
“You don’t need me to answer that. You’re working at CIA. If I guess right, Admiral Greer wants you on his personal staff. Marty Cantor is taking a job at the University of Texas next year, and you’re one of the candidates for his job. I don’t know if Sergey’s aware of that, but you probably looked like the best target of opportunity in the room, and he wanted to get a feel for you. Happens all the time.”
“Cantor’s job? But—nobody told me that!”
“The world’s full of surprises. They probably haven’t finished the full background check on you yet, and they won’t pop the offer until they do. I presume the information you’re looking at is still pretty limited?”
“I can’t discuss that, Father.”
The priest smiled. “Thought so. The work you’ve done over there has impressed the right people. If I have things right, they’re going to bring you along like a good welterweight prospect.” Riley got another glass of champagne. “If I know James Greer, he’ll just sort of ease you into it. What did it, you see, was that Canary Trap thing. It really impressed some folks.”
“How do you know all this?” Ryan asked, shocked at what he’d just heard.
“Jack, how do you think you got over there in the first place? Who do you think got you that Center for Strategic and International Studies fellowship? The people there liked your work, too. Between what I said and what they said, Marty thought you were worth a look last summer, and you worked out better than anyone expected. There are some people around town who respect my opinion. ”
�
�Oh.” Ryan had to smile. He’d allowed himself to forget the first thing about the Society of Jesus: they know everyone, from whom they can learn nearly everything. The President of the university belonged to both the Cosmos and University clubs, with which came access to the most important ears and mouths in Washington. That’s how it would start. Occasionally a man would need advice on something, and being unable to consult the people he worked with, he might try to discuss it with a clergyman. No one was better qualified for this than a Jesuit, meticulously educated, well versed in the ways of the world, but not spoiled by it—most of the time. Like any clergyman, each was a good listener. So effective was the Society at gathering information that the State Department’s code-breakers had once been tasked to break the Jesuits’ own cipher systems; the assignment had started a small revolt in the “Black Chamber” ... until they’d realized what sort of information was finding its way to them.
When Saint Ignatius Loyola had founded the order, the ex-soldier set it on a path to do only two things: to send out missionaries and to build schools. Both had been done extraordinarily well. The influence passed on by the schooling would never be lost on the men who’d graduated. It wasn’t Machiavellian, not really. The colleges and universities plied its students with philosophy and ethics and theology—all required courses—to mute their baser tendencies and sharpen their wits. For centuries the Jesuits had built “men for others,” and wielded a kind of invisible temporal power, mainly for the good. Father Riley’s intellectual credentials were widely known, and his opinions would be sought, just as from any distinguished academic, added to which was his moral authority as a graduate theologian.
“We’re good security risks, Jack,” Riley said benignly. “Can you imagine one of us being a Communist agent? So, are you interested in the job?”
“I don’t know.” Ryan looked at his reflection in a window. “It would mean more time away from the family. We’re expecting another one this summer, you know.”
