Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  Price decided to laugh. “You are a chauvinist, Boss.”

  That snapped his head around. “I beg your pardon, Ms. Price!” Ryan said in a voice that sounded cross until a presidential laugh followed it. “Please don’t tell the media I said that.”

  “Sir, I don’t tell reporters where the bathroom is.”

  The President yawned. “What’s tomorrow look like?”

  “Well, you’re in the office all day. I imagine this Iraq business will wreck your morning. I’ll be out early, back in the afternoon. I’m going to do a walk-around tomorrow, to check security arrangements for all the kids. We have a meeting to see if there’s a way to get SURGEON to work and back without the helicopter—”

  “That is funny, isn’t it?” Ryan observed.

  “A FLOTUS with a real job is something the system never really allowed for.”

  “Real job, hell! She makes more money than I do, has for ten years, except for when I was back in the market. The papers haven’t picked up on that, either. She’s a great doc.”

  His words were meandering, Price saw. He was too tired to think straight. Well, that happened to Presidents, too. Which was why she was around.

  “Her patients love her, that’s what Roy says. Anyway, I’m going to look over arrangements for all your children—routine, sir, I’m responsible for all of the arrangements for your family. Agent Raman will stand post with you for most of the day. We’re moving him up. He’s coming along very nicely,” Special Agent Price reported.

  “The one who got the fire coat to disguise me back on the first night?” Jack asked.

  “You knew?” Price asked in return. The President turned to enter the White House proper. The grin was one of exhaustion, but for all that the blue eyes twinkled at his principal agent.

  “I’m not that dumb, Andrea.”

  No, she decided, it wasn’t better to have a son of a bitch as POTUS.

  21

  RELATIONSHIPS

  PATRICK O’DAY WAS A widower whose life had changed in a particularly cruel and abrupt way after a late-life marriage. His wife, Deborah, had been a fellow agent in the Laboratory Division, an expert on forensic investigation, which had occasioned a great deal of travel out of headquarters, until one afternoon, flying into Colorado Springs, her aircraft had crashed into the ground for reasons still undetermined. It had been her first field assignment after maternity leave, and she’d left behind a daughter, Megan, aged fourteen weeks.

  Megan was two and a half now, and Inspector O’Day was still wrestling with how he should introduce Megan to her mother. He had videotapes and photographs, but were he to point to dyed paper or a phosphor screen and tell his daughter, “That’s Mommy,” might it make her think that all life was artificial? What effect would it have on her development? It was one more question in the life of a man supposed to find answers. The single fatherhood enforced on him by fate had made him all the more devoted as a father, and this on top of a professional career in which he’d worked no less than six kidnappings all the way to conclusion. Six four, two hundred wiry pounds, he had sacrificed his Zapata mustache to the requirements of Headquarters Division, but tough guy among tough guys, his attention to his daughter would have made his colleagues chuckle. Her hair was blondish and long, and each morning he brushed it to silky smoothness after dressing her in colorful toddler clothes and helping her with her tiny sneaks. For Megan, Daddy was a great big protective bear who towered into the blue sky, and snatched her off the ground like a rocket so that she could wrap her arms around his neck.

  “Oof!” Daddy said. “You hug too hard!”

  “Did I hurt?” Megan asked in mock alarm. It was part of the morning routine.

  A smile. “No, not this time.” With that, he walked out of the house and opened the door to his muddy pickup, carefully strapped her into her car seat, and set her lunch box and blanky between them. It was six-thirty, and they were on their way to a new day-care center. O’Day could not start his truck without looking down at Megan, the image of her mother, a daily realization that always made him bite his lip and close his eyes and shake his head, wondering again why the 737 had rolled and plunged straight into the ground with his wife of sixteen months in seat 18-F.

  The new day-care center was more convenient to his route to work, and the people next door loved it for their twin boys. He turned left onto Ritchie Highway, and found the place right across from a 7-Eleven where he could get a pint of coffee for the commute in on U.S. 50. Giant Steps, nice name.

  Hell of a way to make a living, Pat thought, parking his truck. Marlene Daggett was always there at six, tending to the children of the bureaucrats who trekked to D.C. every morning. She even came out to meet them for the first arrival.

  “Mr. O’Day! And this is Megan!” the teacher announced with stunning enthusiasm for so early an hour. Megan had her doubts, and looked up at her daddy. She turned back in surprise to see something special. “Her name is Megan, too. She’s your bear, and she’s been waiting all day for you.”

  “Oh.” The little girl seized the brown-furred creature and hugged it, name tag and all. “Hello.”

  Mrs. Daggett looked up in a way that told the FBI agent, it works every time. “You have your blanky?”

  “Right here, ma’am,” O’Day told her, also handing over the forms he’d completed the night before. Megan had no medical problems, no allergies to medicine, milk, or food; yes, in case of a real emergency you can take her to the local hospital; and the inspector’s work and pager numbers, and his parents’ number, and the number of Deborah’s parents, who were damned good grandparents. Giant Steps was well organized. O’Day didn’t know how well organized only because there was something Mrs. Daggett wasn’t supposed to talk casually about. His identity was being checked out by the Secret Service.

  “Well, Miss Megan, I think it’s time for us to play and make some new friends.” She looked up. “We’ll take good care of her.”

  O’Day got back into his truck with the usual minor pain that attended leaving his daughter behind—anywhere, no matter the time or place—and jumped across the street to the 7-Eleven for his commute coffee. He had a conference scheduled at nine o’clock to go over further developments on the crash investigation—they were down to T-crossing and I-dotting now—followed by a day of administrative garbage which would at least not prevent him from picking his little girl up on time. Forty minutes later, he pulled into FBI Headquarters at Tenth and Pennsylvania. His post as roving inspector gave him a reserved parking place. From there he walked, this morning, to the indoor pistol range.

  An expert marksman since Boy Scouts, Pat O’Day had also been a “principal firearms instructor” at several FBI field offices, which meant that he’d been selected by the SAC to supervise weapons training for the other agents—always an important part of a cop’s life, even though few ever fired their side arms in anger.

  The range was rarely busy this time of day—he got in at 7:25—and the inspector selected two boxes of Federal 10mm hollow-points for his big stainless Smith & Wesson 1076 automatic, along with a couple of standard “Q” targets and a set of ear protectors. The target was a simple white cardboard panel with an outline of the vital parts of a human body. The shape resolved itself into the rough size and configuration of a farmer’s steel milk can, with the letter “Q” in the center, about where the heart would be. He attached the target to the spring-clip on the traveler, set the distance for thirty feet, and hit the travel switch. As it moved downrange, he let his thoughts idle, contemplating the sports page and the new Orioles lineup in spring-training camp. The range hardware was programmable. On arriving at its destination, the target turned sideways, and became nearly invisible. Without looking, O’Day dialed the timer to a random setting and continued to look downrange, his hands at his side. Now his thinking changed. There was a Bad Guy there. A serious Bad Guy. Convicted felon, now cornered. A Bad Guy who had told informants that he’d never go back inside, never be taken alive.
In his long career, Inspector O’Day had heard that one many times, and whenever possible he’d given the subject the opportunity to keep his word—but they all folded, dropped their gun, wet their pants, or even broke down into tears when confronted by real danger instead of the kind more easily considered over beers or a joint. But not this time. This Bad Guy was serious. He had a hostage. A child, perhaps. Maybe even his own little Megan. The thought made his eyes narrow. A gun to her head. In the movies, the Bad Guy would tell you to drop your weapon, but if you did that, all you were guaranteed was a dead cop and a dead hostage, and so you talked to your Bad Guy. You made yourself sound calm and reasonable and conciliatory, and you waited for him to relax, just a little, just enough to move the gun away from the hostage’s head. It might take hours, but sooner or later——

  —the timer clicked, and the target card turned to face the agent. O’Day’s right hand moved in a blur, snatching the pistol from its holster. Simultaneously, his right foot moved backward, his body pivoted and crouched slightly, and the left hand joined the right on the rubber grips when the gun was halfway up. His eyes acquired the gunsights at the bottom of his peripheral vision, and the moment they were aligned with the head of the “Q” target, his finger depressed the trigger twice, firing so fast that both ejected cartridge cases were in the air at the same time. It was called a double-tap, and O’Day had practiced it for so many years that the sounds almost blended in the air, and the two-shot echo was just returning from the steel backstop when the empty cases pinged off the concrete floor, but by then there were two holes in the head of the target, less than an inch apart, between and just above where the eyes would be. The target flipped side-on, less than a second after it had turned, rather nicely simulating the fall of the subject to the ground.

  Yes.

  “I think you got ’em there, Tex.”

  O’Day turned, startled from his fantasy by a familiar voice. “Morning, Director.”

  “Hey, Pat.” Murray yawned, a set of ear protectors dangling in his left hand. “You’re pretty fast. Hostage scenario?”

  “I try to train for the worst possible situation.”

  “Your little girl.” Murray nodded. They all did that, because the hostage had to be important enough in your mind. “Well, you got him. Show me again,” the Director ordered. He wanted to watch O’Day’s technique. There was always something to learn. After the second iteration, there was one ragged hole in the target’s notional forehead. It was actually rather intimidating for Murray, though he considered himself an expert marksman. “I need to practice more.”

  O’Day relaxed his routine now. If you could do it with your first shot of the day—and he’d done it with all four—you still had it figured out. Two minutes and twenty shots later, the target’s head was an annulus. Murray, in the next lane, was busy in the standard Jeff Cooper technique, two rapid shots into the chest, followed by a slower aimed round into the head. When both were satisfied that their targets were dead, it was time to contemplate the day.

  “Anything new?” the Director asked.

  “No, sir. More follow-up interviews on the JAL case are coming in, but nothing startling.”

  “What about Kealty?”

  O’Day shrugged. He was not allowed to interfere with the OPR investigation, but he did get daily summaries. A case of this magnitude had to be reported to somebody, and though supervision of the case was entirely under the purview of OPR, the information developed also went to the Director’s office, filtered through his lead roving inspector. “Dan, enough people went in and out of Secretary Hanson’s office that anybody could have walked off with the letter, assuming there was one, which, our people think, there probably was. At least Hanson talked to enough people about it—or so those people tell us.”

  “I think that one will just blow over,” Murray observed.

  “GOOD MORNING, Mr. President.”

  Another day in the routine. The kids were off. Cathy was off. Ryan emerged from his quarters suited and tied—his jacket was buttoned, which was unusual for him, or had been until moving in here—and his shoes shined by one of the valet staff. Except that Jack still couldn’t think of this place as a home. More like a hotel, or the VIP quarters he’d had while traveling on Agency business, albeit far more ornate and with much better service.

  “You’re Raman?” the President asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Special Agent Aref Raman replied. He was six feet and solidly built, more a weight lifter than a runner, Jack thought, though that might come from the body armor that many of the Detail members wore. Ryan judged his age at middle thirties. Good-looking in a Mediterranean sort of way, with a shy smile and eyes as blue as SURGEON’S. “SWORDSMAN is moving,” he said into his microphone. “To the office.”

  “Raman, where’s that from?” Jack asked, on the way to the elevator.

  “Mother Lebanese, father Iranian, came over in ’79, when the Shah had his problems. Dad was close to the regime.”

  “So what do you think of the Iraq situation?” the President asked.

  “Sir, I hardly even speak the language anymore.” The agent smiled. “Now, if you want to ask me about who’s lookin’ good in the NCAA finals, I’m your man.”

  “Kentucky,” Ryan said decisively. The White House elevator was old, pre—Art Deco in the interior finishings, with worn black buttons, which the President wasn’t allowed to push. Raman did that for him.

  “Oregon’s going all the way. I’m never wrong, sir. Ask the guys. I won the last three pools. Nobody’ll bet against me anymore. The finals will be Oregon and Duke—my school—and Oregon will win by six or eight. Well, maybe less if Maceo Rawlings has a good night,” Raman added.

  “What did you study at Duke?”

  “Pre-law, but I decided I didn’t want to be a lawyer. Actually I decided that criminals shouldn’t have any rights, and so I figured I’d rather be a cop, and I joined the Service.”

  “Married?” Ryan wanted to know the people around him. At one level, it was mere good manners. At another, these people were sworn to defend his life, and he couldn’t treat them like employees.

  “Never found the right girl—at least not yet.”

  “Muslim?”

  “My parents were, but after I saw all the trouble religion caused them, well”—he grinned—“if you ask around, they’ll tell you my religion is ACC basketball. I never miss a Duke game on the TV. Damned shame Oregon’s so tough this year. But that’s one thing you can’t change.”

  The President chuckled at the truth of that statement. “Aref, you said, your first name?”

  “Actually, they call me Jeff. Easier to pronounce,” Raman explained as the door opened. The agent positioned himself in the center of the doors, blocking a direct line of sight to POTUS. A member of the Uniform Division was standing there, along with two more of the Detail, all of them known by sight to Raman. With a nod, he walked out, with Ryan in tow, and the group turned west, past the side corridor that led to the bowling alley and the carpenter shops.

  “Okay, Jeff, an easy day planned,” Ryan told him unnecessarily. The Secret Service knew his daily schedule before he did.

  “Easy for us, maybe.”

  They were waiting for him in the Oval Office. The Foleys, Bert Vasco, Scott Adler, and one other person stood when the President walked in. They’d already been scanned for weapons and nuclear material.

  “Ben!” Jack said. He paused to set his early morning papers on the desk, and joined his guests.

  “Mr. President,” Dr. Ben Goodley replied with a smile.

  “Ben’s prepared the morning brief,” Ed Foley explained.

  Since not all of the morning visitors were part of the inner circle, Raman would stay in the room, lest somebody leap across the coffee table and try to strangle the President. A person didn’t need a firearm to be lethal. A few weeks of study and practice could turn any reasonably fit person into enough of a martial-arts expert to kill an unwary victim. For that reason, membe
rs of the Detail carried not only pistols, but also Asps, police batons made of telescoping steel segments. Raman watched as this Goodley—a carded national intelligence officer—handed out the briefing sheets. Like many members of the Secret Service, he got to hear nearly everything. The “EYES-ONLY PRESIDENT” sticker on a particularly sensitive folder didn’t really mean that. There was almost always someone else in the room, and while the Detail members professed even among themselves not to pay any attention to such things, what that really meant was that they didn’t discuss them very much. Not hearing and not remembering were something else. Cops were not trained or paid to forget things, much less to ignore them.

  In that sense, Raman thought, he was the perfect spy. Trained by the United States of America to be a law enforcement officer, he had performed brilliantly in the field, mainly in counterfeiting cases. He was a proficient marksman, and a very organized thinker—a trait revealed all the way back in his schooling; he’d graduated from Duke summa cum laude, with nothing less than an A grade on his transcript, plus he’d been a varsity wrestler. It was useful for an investigator to have a good memory, and he did. Photographic, in fact, a talent which had attracted the Detail leadership to him early on, because the agents protecting the President needed to be able to recognize a particular face instantly from the scores of photographs which they carried when the Boss was out pressing flesh. During the Fowler administration, as a junior agent gazetted to the Detail from the St. Louis field office to cover a fund-raising dinner, he’d ID’d and detained a suspected presidential stalker who’d turned out to have a .22 automatic in his pocket. Raman had pulled the man from the crowd so quietly and skillfully that the subject’s processing into the Missouri state mental-health system had never made the papers, which was just what they tried to achieve. The young agent had “Detail” written all over him, the then-Director of the United States Secret Service had decided on reviewing the case, and so Raman had been transferred over soon after Roger Durling’s ascension to the Presidency. As a junior member of the Detail he’d stood boring hours on post, run alongside the Presidential limousine, and gradually worked his way up rather rapidly for a young man. He’d worked the punishing hours without complaints, only commenting from time to time that, as an immigrant, he knew how important America was, and as his distant ancestors might have served Darius the Great as one of the “Immortals,” so he relished doing the same for his new country. It was so easy, really, much easier than the task his brother—ethnic, not biological—had performed in Baghdad a short time earlier. Americans, whatever they might say to pollsters, truly loved immigrants in their large and foolish hearts. They knew much, and they were always learning, but one thing they had yet to learn was that you could never look into another human heart.