Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “That’s not what it was really about. He was trying to get an agent out, code name CARDINAL. Gerasimov and Aleksandrov were using that spy case to topple Narmonov and kill off the reforms he was trying to initiate.”

  “Well, Ryan can say that all day if he wants. That’s not how it’s going to come across. ‘Master spy’? Just what we need to run the country, hmph?”

  “Ryan isn’t like that, God damn it!” Holtzman swore. “He’s a straight shooter right out of—”

  “Yeah, he shoots straight, all right. He’s killed at least three people. Killed, Bob! How the hell did Roger Durling ever get it into his head that this was the right guy to be Vice President. I mean, Ed Kealty isn’t much of a prize, but at least—”

  “At least he knows how to manipulate us, Ben. He suckered that airhead on TV, and then he suckered the rest of us into following the story his way.”

  “Well...” Ben Saddler ran out of things to say at that point. “It’s factual, isn’t it?”

  “That isn’t the same as ‘true,’ Ben, and you know it.”

  “This is going to have to be looked into. Ryan looks like a guy who’s played fast and loose with everything he’s touched. Next, I want this Colombian story run down. Now, can you do it? Your contacts at the Agency are pretty good, but I have to tell you, I worry about your objectivity on this.”

  “You don’t have a choice, Ben. If you want to keep up, it’s my story—course you can always just reword what the Times says,” Holtzman added, making his editor flush. Life could be tough in the media, too.

  “Your story, Bob. Just make sure you deliver. Somebody broke the law, and Ryan’s the one who covered everything up and came out smelling like a rose. I want that story.” Saddler stood. “I have an editorial to write.”

  DARYAEI COULD SCARCELY believe it. The timing could scarcely have been better. He was days away from his next goal, and his target was about to descend into the abyss entirely without his help. With his help, of course, the fall would be farther still.

  “Is that what it appears to be?”

  “It would seem so,” Badrayn replied. “I can do some quick research and be back to you in the morning.”

  “Is it truly possible?” the Ayatollah persisted.

  “Remember what I told you about lions and hyenas? For America it is a national sport. It is no trick. They don’t do such tricks. However, let me make sure. I have my methods.”

  “Tomorrow morning, then.”

  34

  WWW.TERROR.ORG

  HE HAD MUCH WORK TO do along those lines anyway. Back in his office, Badrayn activated his desktop computer. This had a high-speed modem and a dedicated fiber-optic telephone line that ran to an Iranian—UIR, now—embassy in Pakistan, and from there another line to London, where he could link into the World Wide Web without fear of a trace. What had once been a fairly simple exercise for police agencies—that’s what counterespionage and counterterrorism was, after all was now virtually impossible. Literally millions of people could access all the information mankind had ever developed, and more quickly than one could walk to one’s car for a trip to the local library. Badrayn started by hitting press areas, major newspapers from the Times in Los Angeles to the Times in London, with Washington and New York in between. The major papers all presented much the same basic story—quicker on the Web than in the printed editions, in fact—though the initial editorial comment differed somewhat from one to another. The stories were vague on dates, and he had to remind himself that the mere repetition of the content didn’t guarantee accuracy, but it felt real. He knew Ryan had been an intelligence officer, knew that the British, the Russians, and the Israelis respected him. Surely stories such as these would explain that respect. They also made him slightly uneasy, a fact which would have surprised his master. Ryan was potentially a more formidable adversary than Daryaei appreciated. He knew how to take decisive action in difficult circumstances, and such people were not to be underestimated.

  It was just that Ryan was out of his element now, and that was plain from the news coverage. As he changed from one home page to another, a brand-new editorial came up. It called for a congressional inquiry into Ryan’s activities at CIA. A statement from the Colombian government asked in clipped diplomatic terms for an explanation of the allegations—and that would start another firestorm. How would Ryan respond to the charges and the demands? An open question, Badrayn judged. He was an unknown quantity. That was disturbing. He printed up the more important articles and editorials for later use, and then went on with his real business.

  There was a dedicated home page for conventions and trade shows in America. Probably for the use of travel agents, he thought. Well, that wasn’t far off. Then it was just a matter of selecting them by city. That told him the identity of the convention centers, typically large barnlike buildings. Each of those had a home page as well, to boast of their capabilities. Many showed diagrams and travel directions. All gave phone and fax numbers. These he collected as well until he had twenty-four, a few extra, just in case. One could not send one of his travelers to a ladies’ underwear show, for example—although ... he chuckled to himself. Fashion and fabric shows—these would be for the winter season, though summer had not yet come even to Iran. Automobile shows. These, he saw, traced across America as the various car and truck manufacturers showed their wares like a traveling circus ... so much the better.

  Circus, he thought, and punched up another home page—but, no, it was just a few weeks too early in the year for that. Too bad. Too bad indeed! Badrayn groused. Didn’t the big circuses travel in private trains? Damn. But that was just bad timing, and bad timing could not be helped. The auto show would have to do.

  And all the others.

  GROUP TWO’S MEMBERS were all fatally ill now, and it was time to end their suffering. It wasn’t so much mercy as efficiency. There was no point at all in risking the lives of the medical corpsmen by treating people condemned to death by law and science both, and so like the first group they were dispatched by large injections of Dilaudid, as Moudi watched the TV. The relief for the medics was visible, even through the cumbersome plastic suits. In just a few minutes all of the test subjects were dead. The same procedures as before would be exercised, and the doctor congratulated himself that they’d worked so well, and no extraneous personnel had been infected. That was mainly because of their ruthlessness. Other places proper hospitals—would not be so lucky, he knew, already mourning the loss of fellow practitioners.

  It was a strange truism of life that second thoughts came only when it was too late for them. He could no more stop what was to come than he could stop the turning of the earth.

  The medics started loading the infected bodies on the gurneys, and he turned away. He didn’t need to see it again. Moudi walked into the lab.

  Another set of technicians was now loading the “soup” into containers known as flasks. They had a thousand times more than was needed for the operations, but the nature of the exercise was such that it was actually easier to make too much than it was to make just enough and, the director had explained offhandedly, one never knew when more might be needed. The flasks were all made of stainless steel, actually a specialized alloy that didn’t lose its strength in extreme cold. Each was three-quarters filled and sealed. Then it would be sprayed with a caustic chemical to make certain the outside was clean. Next it would be placed on a cart and rolled to the cold-storage locker in the building’s basement, there to be immersed in liquid nitrogen. The Ebola virus particles could stay there for decades, too cold to die, completely inert, waiting for their next exposure to warmth and humidity, and a chance to reproduce and kill. One of the flasks stayed in the lab, sitting in a smaller cryogenic container, about the size of an oil drum but somewhat taller, with an LED display showing the interior temperature.

  It was something of a relief that his part in the drama would soon be over. Moudi stood by the door, watching the lesser personnel do their jobs, and probably th
ey felt the same. Soon the twenty spray containers would be filled and removed from the building, and every square centimeter of the building would be rigorously cleaned, making everything safe again. The director would spend all of his time in his office, and Moudi—well, he couldn’t reappear at the WHO, could he? He was dead, after all, killed in the airplane crash just off the Libyan coast. Someone would have to generate a new identity and passport for him before he could travel again, assuming that he ever could. Or perhaps as a security measure—no, even the director wasn’t that ruthless, was he?

  “HELLO, I’M CALLING for Dr. Ian MacGregor.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “This is Dr. Lorenz at CDC Atlanta.”

  “Wait, please.”

  Gus had to wait for two minutes, by his watch, long enough to light his pipe and open a window. The younger staffers occasionally chided him about the habit, but he didn’t inhale, and it was good for thinking ...

  “This is Dr. MacGregor,” a young voice said.

  “This is Gus Lorenz in Atlanta.”

  “Oh! How do you do, Professor?”

  “How are your patients doing?” Lorenz asked from seven time zones away. He liked the sound of MacGregor, clearly working a little late. The good ones did a lot of that.

  “The male patient isn’t doing well at all, I’m afraid. The child, however, is recovering nicely.”

  “Indeed? Well, we examined the specimens you sent. Both contained the Ebola virus, Mayinga sub-strain.”

  “You’re quite certain?” the younger man asked.

  “No doubt about it, Doctor. I ran the tests myself.”

  “I was afraid of that. I sent another set to Paris, but they haven’t got back to me yet.”

  “I need to know a few things.” On his end of the line, Lorenz had a pad out. “Tell me more about your patients.”

  “There’s a problem with that, Professor Lorenz,” MacGregor had to say. He didn’t know if the line might be bugged, but in a country like Sudan, it was not something he could discount. On the other hand, he had to say something, and so he started picking his way through the facts he could disclose.

  “I SAW YOU on TV last night.” Dr. Alexandre had decided to see Cathy Ryan at lunch again for that very reason. He’d taken a liking to her. Who would have expected an eye cutter and laser jockey (for Alex, these were more mechanical specialties than the true medicine he practiced-even that profession had its rivalries, and he felt that way about almost all surgical specialties) to take an interest in genetics? Besides, she probably needed a friendly voice.

  “That’s nice,” Caroline Ryan replied, looking down at her chicken salad as he took his seat. The bodyguard, Alexandre saw, merely looked unhappily tense.

  “You did okay.”

  “Think so?” She looked up, saying evenly: “I wanted to rip his face off.”

  “Well, that didn’t quite come across. You were pretty supportive of your husband. You came across smart.”

  “What is it with reporters? I mean, why—”

  Alex smiled. “Doctor, when a dog urinates on a fire hydrant, he’s not committing vandalism. He’s just being a dog.” Roy Altman nearly choked on his drink.

  “Neither one of us ever wanted this, you know?” she said, still unhappy enough to miss the jibe.

  Professor Alexandre held his hands up in mock surrender. “Been there, done that, ma‘am. Hey, I never wanted to join the Army. They drafted me right out of med school. It turned out all right, making colonel and all. I found an interesting field to keep the brain busy, and it pays the bills, y’know?”

  “I don’t get paid for this abuse!” Cathy objected, albeit with a smile.

  “And your husband doesn’t get paid enough,” Alex added.

  “He never has. Sometimes I wonder why he doesn’t just do the job for free, turn the checks back in, just to make the point that he’s worth more than they pay him.”

  “You think he would have made a good doc?”

  Her eyes brightened. “I’ve told him that. Jack would have been a surgeon, I think—no, maybe something else, like what you’re in. He’s always liked poking around and figuring things out.”

  “And saying what he thinks.”

  That almost started a laugh. “Always!”

  “Well, guess what? He comes across as a good guy. I’ve never met him, but I liked what I saw. Sure as hell he’s no politician, and maybe that’s not a bad thing once in a while. You want to lighten up a little, Doctor? What’s the worst thing that can happen? He leaves the job, goes back to whatever he wants to do—teaching, I guess from what he said—and you’re still a doc with a Lasker on the wall.”

  “The worst thing that can happen—”

  “You have Mr. Altman here to take care of that, don’t you?” Alexandre looked him over. “I imagine you’re big enough to stand in the way of the bullet.” The Secret Service agent didn’t reply, but his look at Alex told the tale. Yes, he’d stop one for his principal. “You guys can’t talk about this sort of thing, can you?”

  “Yes, sir, we can, if you ask.” Altman had wanted to say this all day. He’d seen the TV special, too, and as had often happened before, there was light talk in the Detail this morning about popping a cap on the reporter in question. The Secret Service had a fantasy life, too. “Dr. Ryan, we like your family a lot, and I’m not just saying that to be polite, okay? We don’t always like our principals. But we like all of you.”

  “Hey, Cathy.” It was Dean James, passing by with a smile and a wave.

  “Hi, Dave.” Then she noted a few waves from faculty friends. So, she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

  “Okay, Cathy, are you married to James Bond or what?” In a different context the question might have set her off, but Alexandre’s Creole eyes were twinkling at her.

  “I know a little. I got briefed in on some of it when President Durling asked Jack to be Vice President, but I can’t—”

  He held up his hand. “I know. I still have a security clearance because I still drive up to Fort Detrick once in a while.”

  “It isn’t like the movies. You don’t do stuff like that and have a drink, kiss the girl, and drive away. He used to have nightmares and I—well, I’d hug him in his sleep and usually that calmed him down, then when he wakes up, he pretends it never happened at all. I know some of it, not all. When we were in Moscow last year, a Russian comes up and says that he had a gun to Jack’s head once”—Altman’s head turned at that one—“but he said it like a joke or something, then he said the gun wasn’t loaded. Then we had dinner together, like we were pals or something, and I met his wife—pediatrician, would you believe it? She’s a doc and her husband is the head Russian spy and—”

  “It does sound a little far-fetched,” Dr. Alexandre agreed with a judiciously raised eyebrow, and then a real laugh happened on the other side of the table.

  “It’s all so crazy,” she concluded.

  “You want crazy? We have two Ebola cases reported in Sudan.” Now that her mood had changed, he could talk about his problems.

  “Funny place for that virus to turn up. Did they come in from Zaire?”

  “Gus Lorenz is checking that out. I’m waiting for him to get back to me,” Professor Alexandre reported. “It can’t be a local outbreak.”

  “Why’s that?” Altman asked.

  “Worst possible environment,” Cathy explained, finally picking at her lunch. “Hot, dry, lots of direct sun. The UV from the sunlight kills it.”

  “Like a flamethrower,” Alex agreed. “And no jungle for a host animal to live in.”

  “Only two cases?” Cathy asked with a mouthful of salad. At least, Alexandre thought, he’d gotten her to eat. Yep, he still had a good bedside manner, even in a cafeteria.

  He nodded. “Adult male and a little girl, that’s all I know right now. Gus is supposed to run the tests today, probably already has.”

  “Damn, that’s a nasty little bug. And you still don’t know the host.�
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  “Twenty years of looking,” Alex confirmed. “Never found one sick animal—well, the host wouldn’t be sick, but you know what I mean.”

  “Like a criminal case, eh?” Altman asked. “Poking around for physical evidence?”

  “Pretty much,” Alex agreed. “Just we’re trying to search a whole country, and we’ve never figured exactly what we’re looking for.”

  DON RUSSELL WATCHED as the cots went out. After lunch—today it was ham-and-cheese sandwiches on wheat bread, glass of milk, and an apple—the kids all went down for their afternoon nap. An altogether good idea, all the adults thought. Mrs. Daggett was a superb organizer, and the kids all knew the routine. The beds came out of the storage room, and the kids knew their spaces. SANDBOX was getting along well with young Megan O’Day. Both usually dressed in Oshkosh B’gosh outfits decorated with flowers or bunnies—at least a third of the kids had them; it was a popular label. The only hard part was parading the children into the bathrooms so that no “accidents” happened during the naps - some happened anyway, but that was kids for you. It took fifteen minutes, less than before because two of his agents helped. Then the kids were all down in their cots, with their blankets and bears, and the lights went down. Mrs. Daggett and her helpers found chairs to sit in and books to read.

  “SANDBOX is sleeping,” Russell said, stepping outside for some fresh air.

  “Sounds like a winner,” the mobile team thought, sitting in the den of the house across the street. Their Chevy Suburban was parked in the family garage. There were three agents there, two of whom were always on watch, seated close to the window which faced Giant Steps. Probably playing cards, ever a good way to pass dead time. Every fifteen minutes—not quite regularly in case someone was watching—Russell or another of the crew would walk around the grounds. TV cameras kept track of traffic on Ritchie Highway. One of the inside people was always positioned to cover the doors in and out of the center. At the moment it was Marcella Hilton; young and pretty, she always had her purse with her. A special purse of a type made for female cops, it had a side pocket she could just reach into for her SigSauer 9mm automatic, and two spare magazines. She was letting her hair grow to something approaching hippie length (he’d had to tell her what a hippie was) to accentuate her “disguise.”