Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  Paging through the book, he saw that this Eddington—also a professor of history, the flap said; wasn’t that interesting? —paid no small attention to that factor. Well, maybe he was smart in addition to being lucky. He’d had the good fortune to command reserve soldiers with many years of service, and while they’d only had part-time practice for their training, they’d been in highly stable units, where every soldier knew every other, and that was a virtually unknown luxury for regular soldiers. And they’d also had the revolutionary new American IVIS gear, which let all the men and vehicles in the field know exactly what their commander knew, often in great detail ... and in turn told their commander exactly what his men saw. Eddington said that had made his job a lot easier than any mechanized-force commander had ever had it.

  The American officer also talked about knowing not only what his subordinate commanders were saying, but also the importance of knowing what they were thinking, the things they didn’t have the time to say. The implicit emphasis was on the importance of continuity within the officer corps, and that, Bondarenko thought as he made a marginal note, was a most important lesson. He’d have to read this book in detail, and maybe have Washington purchase a hundred or so for his brother officers to read ... even get reprint rights in Russia for it? It was something the Russians had done more than once.

  CHAPTER 12

  Conflicts of the Pocket

  Okay, George, let’s have it,” Ryan said, sipping his coffee. The White House had many routines, and one that had evolved over the past year was that, after the daily intelligence briefing, the Secretary of the Treasury was Ryan’s first appointment two or three days of the week. Winston most often walked across—actually under—15th Street via a tunnel between the White House and Treasury Building that dated back to the time of FDR. The other part of the routine was that the President’s Navy messmen laid out coffee and croissants (with butter) in which both men indulged to the detriment of their cholesterol numbers.

  “The PRC. The trade negotiations have hit the wall pretty hard. They just don’t want to play ball.”

  “What are the issues?”

  “Hell, Jack, what aren’t the friggin’ issues?” TRADER took a bite of croissant and grape jelly. “That new computer company their government started up is ripping off a proprietary hardware gadget that Dell has patented—that’s the new doohickey that kicked their stock up twenty percent, y‘know? They’re just dropping the things into the boxes they make for their own market and the ones they just started selling in Europe. That’s a goddamned violation of all sorts of trade and patent treaties, but when we point that out to them over the negotiating table, they just change the subject and ignore it. That could cost Dell something like four hundred million dollars, and that’s real money for one company to lose, y”know? If I was their corporate counsel, I’d be flipping through the Yellow Pages for Assassins ‘R Us. Okay, that’s one. Next, they’ve told us that if we make too big a deal of these ’minor’ disagreements, Boeing can forget the 777 order—twenty-eight aircraft they’ve optioned—in favor of Airbus.”

  Ryan nodded. “George, what’s the trade balance with the PRC now?”

  “Seventy-eight billion, and it’s their way, not ours, as you know.”

  “Scott’s running this over at Foggy Bottom?”

  SecTreas nodded. “He’s got a pretty fair team in place, but they need a little more in the way of executive direction.”

  “And what’s this doing to us?”

  “Well, it gets our consumers a lot of low-cost goods, about seventy percent of which is in low-tech stuff, lots of toys, stuffed animals, like that. But, Jack, thirty percent is upscale stuff. That amount’s almost doubled in two and a half years. Pretty soon that’s going to start costing us jobs, both in terms of production for domestic consumption and lost exports. They’re selling a lot of laptops domestically—in their country, I mean—but they don’t let us into the market, even though we’ve got ’em beat in terms of performance and price. We know for sure they’re taking part of their trading surplus with us and using it to subsidize their computer industries. They want to build that up for strategic reasons, I suppose.”

  “Plus selling weapons to people we’d prefer not to have them,” POTUS added. Which they also do for strategic reasons. “Well, doesn’t everybody need an AK-47 to take care of his gophers?” A shipment of fourteen hundred true—that is, fully automatic—assault rifles had been seized in the Port of Los Angeles two weeks before, but the PRC had denied responsibility, despite the fact that U.S. intelligence services had tracked the transaction order back to a particular Beijing telephone number. That was something Ryan knew, but it had not been allowed to leak, lest it expose methods of intelligence collection—in this case to the National Security Agency at Fort Meade. The new Beijing telephone system hadn’t been built by an American firm, but much of the design work had been contracted to a company that had made a profitable arrangement with an agency of the United States government. It wasn’t strictly legal, but different rules were attached to national security matters.

  “They just don’t play by the rules, do they?”

  Winston grunted. “Not hardly.”

  “Suggestions?” President Ryan asked.

  “Remind the little slant-eyed fucks that they need us a shitload more than we need them.”

  “You have to be careful talking like that to nation-states, especially ones with nuclear weapons,” Ryan reminded his Treasury Secretary. “Plus the racial slur.”

  “Jack, either it’s a level playing field or it isn’t. Either you play fair or you don’t. If they keep that much more of our money than we do of theirs, then it means they’ve got to start playing fair with us. Okay, I know”—he held his hands up defensively—“their noses are a little out of joint over Taiwan, but that was a good call, Jack. You did the right thing, punishing them. Those little fucks killed people, and they probably had complicity in our last adventure in the Persian Gulf—and the Ebola attack on us—and so they had it coming. But nooooo, we can’t punish them for murder and complicity in an act of war on the United States, can we? We have to be too big and strong to be so petty. Petty, my ass, Jack! Directly or indirectly, those little bastards helped that Daryaei guy kill seven thousand of our citizens, and establishing diplomatic relations with Taiwan was the price they paid for it—and a damned small price that was, if you ask me. They ought to understand that. They’ve got to learn that the world has rules. So, what we have to do is show them that there’s pain when you break the rules, and we have to make the pain stick. Until they understand that, there’s just going to be more trouble. Sooner or later, they have to learn. I think it’s been long enough to wait.”

  “Okay, but remember their point of view: Who are we to tell them the rules?”

  “Horseshit, Jack!” Winston was one of the very few people who had the ability—if not exactly the right—to talk that way in the Oval Office. Part of it came from his own success, part of it from the fact that Ryan respected straight talk, even if the language was occasionally off-color. “Remember, they’re the ones sticking it to us. We are playing fair. The world does have rules, and those rules are honored by the community of nations, and if Beijing wants to be part of that community, well, then they have to abide by the same rules that everyone else does. If you want to join the club, you have to pay the cost of admittance, and even then you still can’t drive your golf cart on the greens. You can’t have it both ways.”

  The problem, Ryan reflected, was that the people who ran entire nations—especially large, powerful, important nations—were not the sort to be told how or why to do anything at all. This was all the more true of despotic countries. In a liberal democracy the idea of the rule of law applied to just about everyone. Ryan was President, but he couldn’t rob a bank just because he needed pocket change.

  “George, okay. Sit down with Scott and work something out that I can agree to, and we’ll have State explain the rules to our friends in
Beijing.” And who knows, maybe it might even work this time. Not that Ryan would bet money on it.

  This would be the important evening, Nomuri thought. Yeah, sure, he’d banged Ming the night before, and she seemed to have liked it, but now that she’d had time to think it over, would her reaction be the same? Or would she reflect that he’d plied her with liquor and taken advantage of her? Nomuri had dated and bedded his share of women, but he didn’t confuse amorous successes with any sort of understanding of the female psyche.

  He sat at the bar of the medium-sized restaurant—different from the last one—smoking a cigarette, which was new for the CIA officer. He wasn’t coughing, though his first two had made the room seem to spin around some. Carbon monoxide poisoning, he thought. Smoking reduced the oxygen supply to your brain, and was bad for you in so many ways. But it also made waiting a lot easier. He’d bought a Bic lighter, blue, with a facsimile of the PRC flag on it, so that it appeared like their banner was waving in a clear sky. Yeah, he thought, sure, and here I am wondering if my girl will show up, and she’s already—he checked his watch—nine minutes late. Nomuri waved to the bartender and ordered another Scotch. It was a Japanese brand, drinkable, not overly expensive, and when you got down to it, booze was booze, wasn’t it?

  Are you coming, Ming? the case officer’s mind asked the air around him. Like most bars around the world, this one had a mirror behind the glasses and bottles, and the California native examined his face quizzically, pretending it was someone else’s, wondering what someone else might see in it. Nervousness? Suspicion? Fear? Loneliness? Lust? There could be someone making that evaluation right now, some MSS counterintelligence officer doing his stakeout, careful not to look toward Nomuri too much of the time. Maybe using the mirror as an indirect surveillance tool. More likely sitting at an angle so that his posture naturally pointed his eyes to the American, whereas Nomuri would have to turn his head to see him, giving the surveillance agent a chance to avert his glance, probably toward his partner—you tended to do this with teams rather than an individual—whose head would be on the same line of sight, so that he could survey his target without seeming to do so directly. Every nation in the world had police or security forces trained in this, and the methods were the same everywhere because human nature was the same everywhere, whether your target was a drug dealer or a spook. That’s just the way it was, Nomuri said to himself, checking his watch again. Eleven minutes late. It’s cool, buddy, women are always late. They do it because they can’t tell time, or it takes them fucking forever to get dressed and do their makeup, or because they don’t remember to wear a watch ... or most likely of all, because it gives them an advantage. Such behavior, perhaps, made women appear more valuable to men—after all, men waited for them, right? Not the other way around. It put a premium on their affection, which if not waited for, might not appear one day, and that gave men something to fear.

  Chester Nomuri, behavioral anthropologist, he snorted to himself, looking back up in the mirror.

  For Christ’s sake, dude, maybe she’s working late, or the traffic is heavy, or some friend at the office needed her to come over and help her move the goddamned furniture. Seventeen minutes. He fished out another Kool and lit it from his ChiComm lighter. The East is Red, he thought. And maybe this was the last country in the world that really was red ... wouldn’t Mao be proud ... ?

  Where are you?

  Well, whoever from the MSS might be watching, if he had any doubts about what Nomuri was doing, they’d damned sure know he was waiting for a woman, and if anything his stress would look like that of a guy bewitched by the woman in question. And spooks weren’t supposed to be bewitched, were they?

  What are you worrying about that for, asshole, just because you might not get laid tonight?

  Twenty-three minutes late. He stubbed out one cigarette and lit another. If this was a mechanism women used to control men, then it was an effective one.

  James Bond never had these problems, the intelligence officer thought. Mr. Kiss-Kiss Bang-Bang was always master of his women—and if anyone needed proof that Bond was a character of fiction, that was sure as hell it!

  As it turned out, Nomuri was so entranced with his thoughts that he didn’t see Ming come in. He felt a gentle tap on his back, and turned rapidly to see—

  —she wore the radiant smile, pleased with herself at having surprised him, the beaming dark eyes that crinkled at the corners with the pleasure of the moment.

  “I am so sorry to be late,” she said rapidly. “Fang needed me to transcribe some things, and he kept me in the office late.”

  “I must talk to this old man,” Nomuri said archly, hauling himself erect on the bar stool.

  “He is, as you say, an old man, and he does not listen very well. Perhaps age has impeded his hearing.”

  No, the old fucker probably doesn’t want to listen, Nomuri didn’t say. Fang was probably like bosses everywhere, well past the age when he looked for the ideas of others.

  “So, what do you want for dinner?” Nomuri asked, and got the best possible answer.

  “I’m not hungry.” With sparkles in the dark eyes to affirm what she did want. Nomuri tossed off the last of his drink, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked out with her.

  So?” Ryan asked.

  “So, this is not good news,” Arnie van Damm replied.

  “I suppose that depends on your point of view. When will they hear arguments?”

  “Less than two months, and that’s a message, too, Jack. Those good ’strict-constructionist’ justices you appointed are going to hear this case, and if I had to bet, I”d wager they’re hot to overturn Roe.”

  Jack settled back in his chair and smiled up at his Chief of Staff. “Why is that bad, Arnie?”

  “Jack, it’s bad because a lot of the citizens out there like to have the option to choose between abortion or not. That’s why. ’Pro choice’ is what they call it, and so far it’s the law.”

  “Maybe that’ll change,” the President said hopefully, looking back down at his schedule. The Secretary of the Interior was coming in to talk about the national parks.

  “That is not something to look forward to, damn it! And it’ll be blamed on you!”

  “Okay, if and when that happens, I will point out that I am not a justice of the United States Supreme Court, and stay away from it entirely. If they decide the way I—and I guess you—think they will, abortion becomes a legislative matter, and the legislature of the ‘several states,’ as the Constitution terms them, will meet and decide for themselves if the voters want to be able to kill their unborn babies or not—but, Arnie, I’ve got four kids, remember. I was there to see them all born, and be damned if you are going to tell me that abortion is okay!” The fourth little Ryan, Kyle Daniel, had been born during Ryan’s Presidency, and the cameras had been there to record his face coming out of the delivery room, allowing the entire nation—and the world, for that matter—to share the experience. It had bumped Ryan’s approval rating a full fifteen points, pleasing Arnie very greatly at the time.

  “God damn it, Jack, I never said that, did I?” van Damm demanded. “But you and I do objectionable things every so often, don’t we? And we don’t deny other people the right to do such things, too, do we? Smoke, for example?” he added, just to twist Ryan’s tail a little.

  “Arnie, you use words as cleverly as any man I know, and that was a good play. I’ll give you that. But there’s a qualitative difference between lighting up a goddamned cigarette and killing a living human being.”

  “True, if a fetus is a living human being, which is something for theologians, not politicians.”

  “Arnie, it’s like this. The pro-abortion crowd says that whether or not a fetus is human is beside the point because it’s inside a woman’s body, and therefore her property to do with as she pleases. Fine. It was the law in the Roman Republic and Empire that a wife and children were property of the paterfamilias, the head of the family, and he could kill them a
nytime he pleased. You think we should go back to that?”

  “Obviously not, since it empowers men and disempowers women, and we don’t do things like that anymore.”

  “So, you’ve taken a moral issue and degraded it to what’s good politically and what’s bad politically. Well, Arnie, I am not here to do that. Even the President is allowed to have some moral principles, or am I supposed to check my ideas of right and wrong outside the door when I show up for work in the morning?”

  “But he’s not allowed to impose it on others. Moral principles are things you keep on the inside, for yourself.”

  “What we call law is nothing more or less than the public’s collective belief, their conviction of what right and wrong is. Whether it’s about murder, kidnapping, or running a red light, society decides what the rules are. In a democratic republic, we do that through the legislature by electing people who share our views. That’s how laws happen. We also set up a constitution, the supreme law of the land, which is very carefully considered because it decides what the other laws may and may not do, and therefore it protects us against our transitory passions. The job of the judiciary is to interpret the laws, or in this case the constitutional principles embodied in those laws, as they apply to reality. In Roe versus Wade, the Supreme Court went too far. It legislated; it changed the law in a way not anticipated by the drafters, and that was an error. All a reversal of Roe will do is return the abortion issue to the state legislatures, where it belongs.”