Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “Been checking Jane Does?” the junior agent asked. He didn’t have to go further. Their instant thought was the obvious one: Was there a serial killer operating in New York City? That sort of criminal nearly always went after women between eighteen and thirty years of age, as selective a predator as there was anywhere in nature.

  “Yeah, but nothing that fit the Pretloe girl’s description, or this one for that matter.” He handed the photo back. “This case is a head-scratcher. Find anything?”

  “Not yet,” the senior agent replied. “Diary, but nothing useful in it. No photos of men. Just clothes, cosmetics, normal stuff for a girl this age.”

  “Prints?”

  A nod. “That’s next. We have our guy on the way now.” But they all knew that this was a thin reed, after the apartment had been vacant for a month. The oils that made fingerprints evaporated over time, though there was some hope here, in a climate-controlled and sealed apartment.

  “This one’s not going to be easy,” the NYPD detective observed next.

  “They never are,” the senior FBI agent replied.

  “What if there’s more than two?” the other FBI agent asked.

  “Lots of people turn up missing in this town,” the detective said. “But I’ll run a computer check.”

  Subject F5 was a hot little number, Killgore saw. And she liked Chip, too. That wasn’t very good news for Chip Smitton, who hadn’t been exposed to Shiva by injection, vaccine testing, or the fogging system. No, he’d been exposed by sexual contact only, and now his blood was showing antibodies, too. So, that means of transmission worked also, and better yet, it worked female-to-male, not just male-to-female. Shiva was everything they’d hoped it would be.

  It was distasteful to watch people making love. Not the least bit arousing for him, playing voyeur. Anne Pretloe, F5, was within two days of symptoms, judging by her blood work, eating, drinking, and being very merry right before his eyes on the black-and-white monitor. Well, the tranquilizers had lowered every subject’s resistance to loose behavior, and there was no telling what she was like in real life, though she certainly knew the techniques well enough.

  Strangely, Killgore had never paid attention to this sort of thing in animal tests. Rats, he imagined, came into season, and when they did, the boy rats and girl rats must have gotten it on, but somehow he’d never noticed. He respected rats as a life-form, but didn’t find their sexual congress the least bit interesting, whereas here, he had to admit to himself, he did find his eyes returning to the screen every few seconds. Well, Pretloe, Subject F5, was the cutest of the bunch, and if he’d found her in a singles bar, he might have offered her a drink and said hello and . . . let things develop. But she was doomed, too, as doomed as white, bred-for-the-purpose lab rats. Those cute little pink-eyed creatures were used all over the world because they were genetically identical, and so test results in one country would match the test results generated anywhere else in the world. They probably didn’t have the wherewithal to survive in the wild, and that was too bad. But their white color would work against them—cats and dogs would spot them far more easily, and that was not a good thing in the wild, was it? And they were an artificial species anyway, not part of Nature’s plan, but a work of Man, and therefore unworthy of continuance. A pity they were cute, but that was a subjective, not objective, observation, and Killgore had long since learned to differentiate between the two. After all, Pretloe, F5, was cute, too, and his pity for her was a lingering atavistic attitude on his part, unworthy of a Project member. But that got him thinking as he watched Chip Smitton screw Anne Pretloe. This was the kind of thing Hitler might have done with Jews, saved a small number of them as human lab rats, maybe as crash-test dummies for auto-safety tests. . . . So, did that make him a Nazi? Killgore thought. They were using F5 and M7 as such . . . but, no, they didn’t discriminate on race or creed, or gender, did they? There were no politics involved, really—well, maybe, depending on how one defined the term, not in the way he defined the term. This was science, after all. The whole Project was about science and love of Nature. Project members included all races and categories of people, though not much in the way of religions, unless you considered love of Nature to be a religion . . . which in a way it was, the doctor told himself. Yes, surely it was.

  What they were doing on his TV screen was natural, or nearly so—as it had been largely instigated by mood depressants—but the mechanics certainly were. So were their instincts, he to spread his seed as far as possible, and she to receive his seed—and his own, Killgore’s mind went on, to be a predator, and through his depredations to decide which members of that species would live and which would not.

  These two would not live, attractive as both were . . . like the lab rats with their cute white hair and cute pink eyes and twitching white whiskers. Well, none of them would be around much longer, would they? It was aesthetically troubling, but a valid choice in view of the future that they all beheld.

  CHAPTER 22

  COUNTERMEASURES

  “So, nothing else from our Russian friend?”Bill Tawney asked.

  “Nothing,” Cyril Holt confirmed. “Tapes of Kirilenko show that he walks to work the same way every day and at exactly the same time, when the streets are crowded, stops in his pub for a pint four nights out of five, and bumps into all manner of people. But all it takes is a minor attempt at disguise and a little knowledge of trade-craft to outfox us, unless we really tighten our coverage, and there’s too great a chance that Ivan Petrovich would notice it and simply upgrade his own efforts to remain covert. It’s a chance we’d prefer not to take.”

  “Quite so,” Tawney had to agree, despite his disappointment. “Nothing from other sources?”

  “Other sources” meant whomever the Security Service might have working for them inside the Russian Embassy. There almost had to be someone there, but Holt would not discuss it over a telephone line, encrypted or not, because if there was one thing you had to protect in this business, it was the identity of your sources. Not protecting them could get them killed.

  “No, Bill, nothing. Vanya hasn’t spoken over his phone line to Moscow on this subject. Nor has he used his secure fax line. Whatever discussions developed from this incident, well, we do not have even a confirmed face, just that chap in the pub, and that might well have been nothing. Three months ago, I had one of my chaps strike up a conversation with him at the pub, and they talked about football—he’s a serious fan, and he knows the game quite well, and never even revealed his nationality. His accent is bloody perfect. So that chap in the photo might well be nothing at all, just another coincidence. Kirilenko is a professional, Bill. He doesn’t make many mistakes. Whatever information came out of this was doubtless written up and couriered off.”

  “So we probably have a KGB RIF prowling around London still, probably with whatever information Moscow has on our Mr. Clark, and doing what, we do not know.”

  “Correct, Bill,” Holt agreed. “I can’t say that I like it either, but there you are.”

  “What have you turned up on KGB-PIRA contacts?”

  “We have a few things. One photo of someone else from a meeting in Dublin eight years ago, and oral reports of other contacts, with physical description. Some might be the chap in the photo, but the written descriptions fit about a third of male humanity, and we’re leery of showing the photos around quite yet.” Tawney didn’t need to be told why. It was well within the realm of possibility that some of Holt’s informants were indeed double-agents, and showing them the photos of the man in the pub might well do nothing more than alert the target of the investigation to the fact that someone knew who he was. That would cause him to become more cautious, perhaps change his appearance, and the net result would be to make things worse instead of better. This was the most complex of games, Tawney reminded himself. And what if the whole thing was nothing more than curiosity on the part of the Russians, merely keeping track of a known intelligence officer on the other side? Hell, everyon
e did that. It was just a normal part of doing business.

  The bottom line was that they knew what they didn’t know—no, Tawney thought. They didn’t even know that much. They knew that they didn’t know something, but they didn’t even know what it was that they wanted to find out. What was the significance of this blip of information that had appeared on the scope?

  “What’s this for?” Henriksen asked innocently.

  “A fog-cooling system. We got it from your chaps,” Aukland said.

  “Huh? I don’t understand,” the American replied.

  “One of our engineers saw it in—Arizona, I think. It sprays a very fine water mist. The tiny droplets absorb heat energy and evaporate into the atmosphere, has the same effect as air-conditioning, but with a negligible energy expenditure.”

  “Ahh,” Bill Henriksen said, doing his best to act surprised. “How widely distributed is the system?”

  “Just the tunnels and concourses. The architect wanted to put it all over the stadium, but people objected, said it would interfere with cameras and such,” Aukland answered, “too much like a real fog.”

  “Okay, I think I need to look at that.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, sir, it’s a hell of a good way to deliver a chemical agent, isn’t it?” The question took the police official seriously aback.

  “Well . . . yes, I suppose it would be.”

  “Good. I have a guy in the company, former officer in the U.S. Army Chemical Corps, expert on this sort of thing, degree from MIT. I’ll have him check it out ASAP.”

  “Yes, that is a good idea, Bill. Thank you,” Aukland said, kicking himself for not thinking of that on his own. Well, he was hiring expertise, wasn’t he? And this Yank certainly seemed to be an expert.

  “Does it get that hot here?”

  “Oh, yes, quite. We expect temperatures in the nineties—Fahrenheit, that is. We’re supposed to think in Celsius nowadays, but I never did learn that.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Henriksen noted.

  “Anyway, the architect said that this was an inexpensive way to cool the spectators down, and quite reasonable to install. It feeds off the fire-sprinkler system. Doesn’t even use much water for what it does. It’s been installed for over a year. We test it periodically. American company, can’t recall the name at the moment.”

  Cool-Spray of Phoenix, Arizona, Henriksen thought. He had the plans for the system in the file cabinet in his office. It would play a crucial role in the Project’s plans, and had been seen as a godsend from the first moment. Here was the place. Soon would come the time.

  “Heard anything more from the Brits?”

  “We have an inquiry in, but no reply yet,” Aukland answered. “It is a very hush-hush project, evidently.”

  Henriksen nodded. “Politics, always gets in the way.” And with luck it would stay that way.

  “Quite,” Aukland agreed, with a nod.

  Detective Lieutenant Mario d’Allessandro punched up his computer and accessed the NYPD central-records file. Sure enough, Mary Bannister was in there, as was Anne Pretloe. Then he set up a search routine, picking gender WOMEN, age eighteen to thirty for starters, and picking the RUN icon with his mouse. The system generated forty-six names, all of which he saved to a file he created for the purpose. The system didn’t have photos built in. He’d have to access the paper files for those. He de-selected ten names from Queens and Richmond boroughs for the moment, saving for the moment only Manhattan missing girls. That came down to twenty-one. Next he de-selected African-American women, because if they were dealing with a serial killer, such criminals usually selected clones as victims—the most famous of them, Theodore Bundy, had almost exclusively picked women who parted their hair down the middle, for instance. Bannister and Pretloe were white, single, reasonably attractive, ages twenty-one and twenty-four, and dark-haired. So, eighteen to thirty should be a good straddle, he thought, and he further de-selected the names that didn’t fit that model.

  Next he opened the department’s Jane Doe file, to look up the recovered bodies of murder victims who had not yet been identified. He already knew all of these cases from his regular work. Two fit the search parameters, but neither was Bannister or Pretloe. So this was, for the moment, a dry hole. That was both good and bad news. The two missing women were not definitely dead, and that was the good news. But their bodies could have been cleverly disposed of—the Jersey marshes were nearby, and that area had been a prime dumping site for bodies since the turn of the century.

  Next he printed up his list of missing women. He’d want to examine all the paper files, including the photos, with the two FBI agents. Both Pretloe and Bannister had brown hair of roughly the same length, and maybe that was enough of a commonality for a serial killer—but, no, Bannister was still alive, or so the e-mail letter suggested . . . unless the serial killer was the kind of sick person who wanted to taunt the families of his victims. D’Allessandro had never come across one of those before, but serial killers were seriously sick bastards, and you could never really predict the things they might do for personal amusement. If one of those fucks were loose in New York, then it wasn’t just the FBI who’d want his ass. Good thing the state of New York finally had a death-penalty statute . . .

  “Yes, I’ve seen him,” Popov told his boss.

  “Really?” John Brightling asked. “How close?”

  “About as close as we are, sir,” the Russian replied. “It was not intentional, but it happened. He’s a large, powerful man. His wife is a nurse at the local community hospital, and his daughter is a medical doctor, married to one of the other team members, working at the same hospital. She is Dr. Patricia Chavez. Her husband is Domingo Chavez, also a CIA field officer, now assigned to this Rainbow group, probably as a commando leader. Both Clark and Chavez are CIA field officers. Clark was involved in the rescue of the former KGB chairman’s wife and daughter from Soviet territory some years ago—you’ll recall the story made the press recently. Well, Clark was the officer who got them out. He was also involved in the conflict with Japan, and the death of Mahmoud Haji Daryaei in Iran. He and Chavez are highly experienced and very capable intelligence officers. It would be very dangerous to underestimate either of them,” Popov concluded.

  “Okay, what does that tell us?”

  “It tells us that Rainbow is what it appears to be, a multinational counterterror group whose activities spread all across Europe. Spain is a NATO member, but Austria and Switzerland are not, you will recall. Could they expand their operations to other countries? Certainly, yes. They are a very serious threat to any terrorist operation. It is not,” Popov went on, “an organization I would like to have in the field against me. Their expertise in actual ‘combat’ operations we have seen on television. Behind that will be excellent technical and intelligence support as well. The one cannot exist without the other.”

  “Okay. So we know about them. Is it possible that they know about us?” Dr. Brightling asked.

  “Possible, but unlikely,” Popov thought. “If that were the case, then you would have agents of your FBI in here to arrest you—and me—for criminal conspiracy. I am not being tracked or followed—well, I do not think that I am. I know what to look for, and I have seen nothing of the sort, but, I must also admit, it is possible that a very careful and expert effort could probably follow me without my noticing it. That is difficult—I have been trained in countersurveillance—but theoretically possible.”

  That shook his employer somewhat, Popov saw. He’d just made an admission that he was not perfect. His former supervisors in KGB would have known it beforehand and accepted it as a normal risk of the intelligence trade . . . but those people never had to worry about being arrested and losing their billions of dollars of personal worth.

  “What are the risks?”

  “If you mean what methods can be used against you? . . .” He got a nod. “That means that your telephones could be tapped, and—”

  “My phones are e
ncrypted. The system is supposed to be break-proof. My consultants on that tell me—”

  Popov cut him off with a raised hand. “Sir, do you really think that your government allows the manufacture of encryption systems that it cannot itself break?” he asked, as though explaining something to a child. “The National Security Agency at Fort Meade has some of the brightest mathematicians in the world, and the world’s most powerful computers, and if you ever wonder how hard they work, you need only look at the parking lots.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “If the parking lots are filled at seven in the evening, that means they are hard at work on something. Everyone has a car in your country, and parking lots are generally too large to be enclosed and protected from even casual view. It’s an easy way for an intelligence officer to see how active one of your government agencies is.” And if you were really interested, you found out a few names and addresses, so as to know the car types and tag numbers. The KGB had tracked the head of NSA’s “Z” group—the people tasked both to crack and to create encryption systems and codes—that way for over a decade, and the reborn RVS was doubtless doing the same. Popov shook his head. “No, I would not trust a commercially available encoding system. I have my doubts about the systems used by the Russian government. Your people are very clever at cracking cipher systems. They’ve been so for over sixty years, well before World War Two, and they are allied with the British, who also have a tradition of excellence in that area of expertise. Has no one told you this?” Popov asked in surprise.

  “Well . . . no, I’ve been told that this system I have here could not be broken because it is a 128-bit—”

  “Ah, yes, the STU-3 standard. That system has been around in your government for about twenty years. Your people have changed to STU-4. Do you think they made that change merely because they wanted to spend money, Dr. Brightling? Or might there have been another reason? When I was in the field for KGB, I only used one-time pads. That is an encryption system only used one time, composed of random transpositions. It cannot be broken, but it is tedious to use. To send a single message that way could take hours. Unfortunately, it’s very difficult to use for verbal communications. Your government has a system called TAP-DANCE, which is similar in concept, but we never managed to copy it.”