Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “That is the account number and activation code for the secure account in Switzerland. You can only make withdrawals on Monday and Wednesday as an added security measure. The account has in it six million dollars of United States currency. The amount in the account can be checked at any time,” Popov told him.

  “A pleasure to do business with you, as always, Joe,” Sean said, allowing himself a rare smile. He’d never had so much as a tenth of that much money under his control, for all his twenty-plus years as a professional revolutionary. Well, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich thought, they weren’t businessmen, were they?

  “When will you move?”

  “Very soon. We’ve checked out the objective, and our plan is a thing of beauty, my friend. We will sting them, Iosef Andreyevich,” Grady promised. “We will hurt them badly.”

  “I will need to know when, exactly. There are things I must do as well,” Popov told him.

  That stopped him, Dmitriy saw. The issue here was operational security. An outsider wanted to know things that only insiders should have knowledge of. Two sets of eyes stared at each other for a few seconds. But the Irishman relented. Once he verified that the money was in place, then his trust in the Russian was confirmed—and delivery of the ten pounds of white powder was proof of the fact in and of itself—assuming that he wasn’t arrested by the Garda later this day. But Popov wasn’t that sort, was he?

  “The day after tomorrow. The operation will commence at one in the afternoon, exactly.”

  “So soon?”

  Grady was pleased that the Russian had underestimated him. “Why delay? We have everything we need, now that the money is in place.”

  “As you say, Sean. Do you require anything else of me?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will be off, with your permission.”

  This time they shook hands. “Daniel will drive you—to Dublin?”

  “Correct, the airport there.”

  “Tell him, and he will take you.”

  “Thank you, Sean—and good luck. Perhaps we will meet afterwards,” Dmitriy added.

  “I would like that.”

  Popov gave him a last look—sure that it would be the last, despite what he’d just said. Grady’s eyes were animated now, thinking about a revolutionary demonstration that would be the capstone of his career. There was a cruelty there that Popov had not noted before. Like Fürchtner and Dortmund, this was a predatory animal rather than a human being, and, as much experience as he’d had with such people, Popov found himself troubled by it. He was supposed to be skilled at reading minds, but in this one he saw only emptiness, only the absence of human feelings, replaced by ideology that led him—where? Did Grady know? Probably not. He thought himself on the path to some Radiant Future—the term most favored by the Communist Party of the Soviet Union—but the light that beckoned him was far more distant than he realized, and its bright glow hid the holes in the road immediately before him. And truly, Popov thought on, were he ever to achieve that which he wanted, then he’d be a disaster as a ruler of men, like those he resembled—Stalin, Mao, and the rest—so divorced from the common man’s outlook as to be an alien, for whom life and death were mere tools to achieve his vision, not something of humanity at all. Of all the things Karl Marx had given the world, surely that outlook was the worst. Sean Grady had replaced his humanity and emotions with a geometrically precise model of what the world should be—and he was too wedded to that vision to take note of the fact that it had failed wherever it had been tried. His pursuit was one after a chimera, a creature not real, never quite within reach, but drawing him onward to his own destruction—and as many others as he might kill first. And his eyes sparkled now in his enthusiasm for the chase. His ideological soundness denied him the ability to see the world as it really was—as even the Russians had come to see, finally, after seventy years of following the same chimera. Sparkling eyes serving a blind master, how strange, the Russian thought, turning to leave.

  “Okay, Peter, you have the duty,” Chavez told his Team- 1 counterpart. As of now Team-1 was the go-team, and Team-2 was on standby/standdown, and back into the more intensive training regimen.

  “As you say, Ding,” Covington replied. “But nothing seems to be happening anywhere.”

  The intelligence that had been passed on to them from the various national agencies was actually rather encouraging. Informants who’d chatted with known or suspected terrorists—mostly the latter, since the more active ones would have been arrested—reported back that the Worldpark incident had chilled the atmosphere considerably, especially since the French had finally published the names and photos of the known terrorists who’d been killed in Spain, and one of them, it had turned out, had been a revered and respected former member of Action Directe, with six known murders to his credit and something of a reputation as an expert operator. His public destruction had rumbled through the community, along with greatly increased respect for the Spanish police, which was basking institutionally in the glow of Rainbow’s deeds, to the great discomfort of Basque terrorists, who, Spanish sources reported, were also somewhat chastened by the loss of some of their most respected members.

  If this was true, Bill Tawney’s summary document suggested, then Rainbow was indeed having the effect that had been hoped for when it had been formed. Maybe this meant that they wouldn’t have to move into the field and kill people as frequently to prove their mettle.

  But there was still nothing to suggest why there had been three such incidents so close in time, or who, if anyone, might have instigated them. The British Secret Intelligence Service’s analysis section called it random, pointing out that Switzerland, Germany, and Spain were different countries, and that it was unlikely that anyone had contacts in the underground groups in all three of them. Two of them, perhaps, but not all three. It also suggested that contacts be made with former East Bloc intelligence services, to check out what was happening with certain retired members. It might even be worth buying their information for the going price, which was rather high now that the former intelligence officers had to make a real living in the real world—but not as high as the cost of an incident in which people got hurt. Tawney had highlighted that when he passed it on to John Clark, and the latter had discussed it with Langley again, only to be rebuffed again, which had Rainbow Six grumbling all week about the REMFs at CIA headquarters. Tawney thought about suggesting it to the London headquarters of “Six” on his own hook, but without the positive endorsement of CIA, it would have been wasted effort.

  On the other hand, Rainbow did seem to be working. Even Clark admitted that, unhappy though he continued to be, he was a “suit” working behind a desk and sending younger men off to do the exciting stuff. For much of his career as an intelligence officer, John had grumbled at oversight from above. Now that he was doing it, he thought that maybe he understood it a little better. Being in command might be rewarding, but it could never be much fun for someone who’d been out in the weeds, dodging the fire and involved in the things that happened out at the sharp end. The idea that he knew how it was done and could therefore tell people how to do it was as unpopular a stance for him to take as it had been . . . for him to accept, as recently as five years earlier. Life was a trap, Clark told himself, and the only way out of the trap wasn’t much fun either. So, he donned his suitcoat every morning and grumbled at the effect age had on his life, just like every other man of his age did across the planet. Where had his youth gone? How had he lost it?

  Popov arrived at Dublin Airport before lunch. There he purchased a ticket to Gatwick for the hour’s flight back to England. He found himself missing the G-V business jet. A very convenient way to travel, liberating from the bustle of the airports. It rode every bit as well as a jumbo jet—but he’d never have enough money to permit him to indulge himself that much, and so he struck the thought from his mind. He’d have to settle for mere first-class travel, the Russian grumbled to himself, sipping some wine as the 737 climbed to cruising al
titude. Now, again, he had some thinking to do, and he’d found that the solitary time in the first-class cabin of an aircraft helped.

  Did he want Grady to succeed? More to the point, did his employer want Grady to succeed? It hadn’t seemed so for Bern and Vienna, but was this a different matter? Maybe Henriksen thought so. He’d given Popov that impression in their discussions. Was there a difference? If so, what was it?

  Henriksen was former FBI. Perhaps that explained it. Like Popov, he wouldn’t court failure in anything. Or did he really want this Rainbow group damaged to the point that it couldn’t—couldn’t what? Interfere with some operation?

  Again the brick wall, and again Popov struck his head against it. He’d started two terrorist operations, and the only purpose for them he could discern was to raise the international consciousness about terrorism. Henriksen had an international consulting company in that area, and Henriksen wanted the consciousness raised so that he could win contracts—but on the surface it seemed an expensive and inefficient way of doing it, Popov reflected. Certainly the money to be gained from the contracts won would be less than the money Popov had already expended—or pocketed. And again he reminded himself that the money had come from John Brightling and his Horizon Corporation—perhaps from Brightling himself—not Henriksen’s Global Security, Inc. So, the two companies were related in their objectives, but not in their financial support.

  Therefore, Popov thought, sipping his French Chablis, the operation is entirely Brightling’s doing, with Henriksen as a support service, providing expertise and advice—

  —but, one objective was to get Henriksen the consulting contract for the Sydney Olympics, to start in only a few weeks. That had been very important to both Brightling and Henriksen. Therefore, Henriksen was doing something of great importance to Brightling, doubtless in support of the latter’s goal, whatever the hell that was.

  But what did Brightling and his company do? Horizon Corporation and all of its numerous international subsidiaries were in the business of medical research. The company manufactured medicines, and spent a huge amount of money every year to invent new ones. It was a world leader in the field of medical research. It had Nobel Prize winners working in its labs, and, his Internet research had determined, it was working in some very exciting areas of potential medical advancement. Popov shook his head again. What did genetic engineering and pharmaceutical manufacturing have to do with terrorism?

  The lightbulb that went off over the Irish Sea reminded him that only a relatively few months before, America had been attacked with biological warfare. It had killed about five thousand people, and incurred the lethal wrath of the United States and her president. The dossier he’d been given said that the chief of this Rainbow group, Clark, and his son-in-law, Chavez, had played a quiet but very dramatic role in concluding that bloody little war.

  Bio-war, Popov thought. It had given the entire world a reason to shudder. In the event it had proven to be an ineffective weapon of statecraft—especially since America had reacted with her customary speed and furious effectiveness on the battlefields of Saudi Arabia. As a result, no nation-state today dared even to contemplate an attack on America. Its armed forces strode the world like a frontier sheriff in a Western movie, respected and, more to the point, feared for their lethal capabilities.

  Popov finished his wine, and fingered the empty glass in his hand as he looked down at the approaching green coastline of England. Bio-war. It had made the whole world shiver in fear and disgust. Horizon Corporation was deeply into cutting-edge research in medical science. So, surely, Brightling’s business could well be involved with biological-warfare research—but to what possible end? Besides, it was a mere corporation, not a nation-state. It had no foreign policy. It had nothing to gain from warlike activities. Corporations didn’t make war, except, perhaps, on other corporations. They might try to steal trade secrets, but actually shed blood? Of course not. Again, Popov told himself, he had merely found a blank hard wall to smash his head against.

  “Okay,” Sergeant Major Dick Voss told them. “First of all, the sound quality of these digital radios is so good that you can recognize voices just like a regular conversation in a living room. Second, the radios are coded so that if you have two different teams operating in the field, one team comes in the left ear, and the other team comes in the right ear. That’s to keep the commander from getting too confused,” he explained, to the amusement of the Australian NCOs. “This gives you more positive control of your operations, and it keeps everybody informed on what’s going on. The more you people know, the more effective you will be in the field. You can adjust volume on this dial here—” He showed them the knob on the microphone root.

  “What’s the range?” a senior Aussie NCO asked.

  “Up to ten miles, or fifteen thousand meters, a little longer if you have line of sight. After that, it breaks up some. The batteries are rechargeable, and every set comes with two spares. The batteries will hold their charge for about six months in the spare holders you have, but we recommend recharging them every week. No big deal, the charger comes with every set, and it has a universal plug set. It’ll fit into a wall socket here, or anyplace else in the world. You just play with the little fucker until you get the right plug pattern here—” He demonstrated. Most of the people in the room looked at theirs for a few seconds. “Okay, people, let’s put them on and try them out. Power-on /off switch is here. . . .”

  “Fifteen kilometers, eh?” Malloy asked.

  “Right,” Noonan said. “This way you can listen to what we’re doing on the ground, instead of waiting to be told. It fits inside your aircraft headset and shouldn’t interfere much with what you need to get over your intercom. This little switch can be attached, and the control button goes down your sleeve into your hand, so you can flip it on or off. It also has a listen-only mode. That’s the third position here.”

  “Slick,” Sergeant Nance observed. “Be nice to know what’s happening on the ground.”

  “Damned right. If you ground-pounders need an evac, I’ll be halfway in before you make the call. I like it,” Colonel Malloy noted. “I guess we’ll keep it, Tim.”

  “It’s still experimental. E-Systems says there may be a few bugs in it, but nobody’s found them yet. The encryption system is state-of-the-art 128-bit continuous, synchronized off the master set, but hierarchicalized so that if a set goes down, another automatically takes that function over. The boys and girls at Fort Meade can probably crack it, but only twelve hours after you use it.”

  “Any problem with being inside an aircraft—interference with any of the onboard systems?” Lieutenant Harrison asked.

  “Not that we know of. It’s been tested on Night Hawks and Stalkers at Fort Bragg, no problems discovered.”

  “Let’s check that one out,” Malloy said at once. He’d learned not to trust electronics—and besides, it was a perfectly good excuse to take their Night Hawk off the ground. “Sergeant Nance, head out to the bird.”

  “You bet, Colonel.” The sergeant stood and moved toward the door.

  “Tim, you stay here. We’ll try it inside and outside, and get a range check, too.”

  Thirty minutes later, the Night Hawk was circling around Hereford.

  “How’s this, Noonan?”

  “Loud and clear, Bear.”

  “Okay, good, we’re about, oh, eleven clicks out, and you are coming through like Rush Limbaugh across the street. These digital radios work nice, don’t they?”

  “Yep.” Noonan got in his car, and confirmed that the metal cage around him had no effect on performance. It turned out that the radios continued to work at over eighteen kilometers, or eleven miles, which wasn’t bad, they thought, for something with a battery the size of two quarters and an antenna half again the length of a toothpick. “This’ll make your long-rope deployments go smoother, Bear.”

  “How so, Noonan?”

  “Well, the guys on the end of the rope’ll be able to tell you whe
n you’re a little high or low.”

  “Noonan,” came the irate reply, “what do you think depth perception is for?”

  “Roger that, Bear,” the FBI agent laughed.

  CHAPTER 28

  BROAD DAYLIGHT

  The money made it far easier. Instead of stealing trucks, they could buy them with cashier’s checks drawn from an account set up by a person with false identification papers, who’d also been wearing a disguise at the time. The trucks were large Swedish-made Volvo commercial vehicles, straight or nonarticulated trucks with canvas covers over the load area that proclaimed the names of nonexistent businesses.

  The trucks came across the Irish Sea to Liverpool on commercial ferries, their interiors laden with cardboard cartons for refrigerators, and passed through British customs with no trouble, and from there it was just a matter of driving within the legal limit on the motorways. The trucks traveled in close formation through the West Country, and arrived near Hereford just before dusk. There, at a prearranged point, they all parked. The drivers dismounted at the local equivalent of a truck stop and headed for a pub.

  Sean Grady and Roddy Sands had flown in the same day. They’d passed through customs/immigration control at Gatwick with false papers that had stood the test of time on numerous previous occasions, and again proved to their satisfaction that British immigration officers were blind as well as deaf and dumb. Both of them rented cars with false credit cards and drove west to Hereford, also along preplanned routes, and arrived at the same pub soon before the arriving trucks.

  “Any problems?” Grady asked the Barry twins.

  “None,” Sam replied, accompanied by a nod from Peter. As always, the members of his unit made a show of sangfroid, despite the pre-mission jitters they all had to have. Soon everyone was there, and two groups, one of seven and one of eight, sat in booths, sipping their Guinness and chatting quietly, their presence not a matter of interest to pub regulars.