Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “Enzo!”

  Dominic snapped his head around. “Aldo!”

  People often remarked on their resemblance, though it was even more apparent when they were apart. Both had dark hair and fair skin. Brian was the taller by twenty-four millimeters. Dominic was perhaps ten pounds heavier. Whatever differences in mannerisms they’d had as boys had stayed with them as they’d grown up together. Since both were partly Italian in ancestry, they hugged warmly—but they didn’t kiss. They weren’t that Italian.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Dominic was the first to ask.

  “Me? What about you?” Brian shot back, heading to help with his brother’s bags. “I read about your shoot in Alabama. What’s the story?”

  “Pedophile,” Dominic replied, pulling out his two-suiter. “Raped and killed a cute little girl. I got there about half an hour too late.”

  “Hey, ain’t nobody perfect, Enzo. Papers said you put an end to his career.”

  Dominic looked right into Brian’s eyes. “Yeah, I managed to accomplish that.”

  “How, exactly?”

  “Three in the chest.”

  “Works every time,” Captain Brian Caruso observed. “And no lawyers to cry over his body.”

  “No, not this time.” His words were not the least bit jolly, but his brother heard the cold satisfaction.

  “With this, eh?” The Marine lifted his brother’s automatic from its holster. “Looks nice,” he said.

  “It shoots pretty good. Loaded, bro, do be careful.”

  Brian ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber. “Ten millimeter?”

  “That’s right. FBI-issue. Makes nice holes. The Bureau went back to it after Inspector O’Day had that shoot-out with the bad guys—you know, Uncle Jack’s little girl.”

  Brian remembered the story well: the attack on Katie Ryan at her school shortly after her dad had become President, the shoot-out, the kills.

  “That dude had his shit wired pretty tight,” he said. “And you know, he’s not even an ex-Marine. He was a Navy puke before he turned cop. That’s what they said at Quantico, anyway.”

  “They did a training tape of the job. I met him once, just shook his hand with twenty other guys. Son of a bitch can shoot. He talked about waiting for your chance and making the first shot count. He double-tapped both their heads.”

  “How did he keep his cool?” The rescue of Katie Ryan had struck home for both Caruso boys. She was, after all, their first cousin, and a nice little girl, the image of her mother.

  “Hey, you smelled the smoke over there. How did you keep yours?”

  “Training. I had Marines to look after, bro.”

  Together, they manhandled Dominic’s things inside. Brian showed the way upstairs. They had separate bedrooms, next to each other. Then they came back to the kitchen. Both got coffee and sat at the kitchen table.

  “So, how’s life in the Marine Corps, Aldo?”

  “Gonna make major soon, Enzo. Got myself a Silver Star for what I did over there—wasn’t that big a deal, really, I just did what they trained me to do. One of my men got shot up, but he’s okay now. We didn’t bag the guy we were after—he wasn’t in a mood to surrender, so Gunny Sullivan sent him off to see Allah—but we got two live ones and they talked some, gave us some good information, the Intel guys told me.”

  “What did you get the pretty ribbon for?” Dominic asked pointedly.

  “Mainly for staying alive. I shot three of the bad guys myself. Weren’t even hard shots, really. I just took ’em. Later they asked me if I had any nightmares about it. The Marine Corps just has too many doctors around—and they’re all squids.”

  “Bureau’s the same way, but I blew it off. No bad dreams about that bastard. The poor little girl. I should’ve shot his dick off.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “’Cause that doesn’t kill your ass, Aldo. But three in the heart does.”

  “You didn’t shoot him on the spur of the moment, did you?”

  “Not exactly, but—”

  “And that’s why you’re here, Special Agent Caruso,” a man said, entering the room. He was over six feet, a very fit fifty, both of the others thought.

  “Who are you, sir?” Brian asked.

  “Pete Alexander,” the man answered.

  “I was supposed to meet you last—”

  “No, actually you weren’t, but that’s what we told the general.” Alexander sat down with his own cup of coffee.

  “So, who are you, then?” Dominic asked.

  “I’m your training officer.”

  “Just you?” Brian asked.

  “Training for what?” Dominic asked at the same time.

  “No, not just me, but I’m the one who’ll be here all the time. And the nature of the training will show you what you’re training for,” he answered. “Okay, you want to know about me. I graduated Yale thirty years ago, in political science. I was even a member of Skull and Bones. You know, the boys’ club that conspiracy theorists like to prattle about. Jesus, like people in their late teens can really accomplish anything beyond getting laid, on a good Friday night.” His brown eyes and the look in them hadn’t come from a college, however, even an Ivy League one. “Back in the old days, the Agency liked to recruit people from Yale and Harvard and Dartmouth. The kids there have gotten over it. They all want to be merchant bankers now and make money. I worked twenty-five years in the Clandestine Service, and then I got recruited by The Campus. Been with them ever since.”

  “The Campus? What’s that?” the Marine asked. Alexander noticed that Dominic Caruso did not. He was listening and watching very closely. Brian would never stop being a Marine, and Dominic would never stop being FBI. They never did. It was both good and bad, in both cases.

  “That is a privately funded intelligence service.”

  “Privately funded?” Brian asked. “How the hell—”

  “You’ll see how it works later, and when you do, you will be surprised how easily it’s done. What concerns you right here and right now is what they do.”

  “They kill people,” Dominic said immediately. The words came out seemingly of their own accord.

  “Why do you think that?” Alexander asked innocently.

  “The outfit is small. We’re the only people here, judging by the parking pad outside. I’m not experienced enough to be an expert agent. All I did was whack somebody who needed it, and next day I’m up in Headquarters talking to an assistant director, and a couple of days after that I drive to D.C. and get sent down here. This place is very, very special, very, very small, and it has top-level approval for whatever it does. You’re not selling U.S. Savings Bonds here, are you?”

  “The book on you is that you have good analytical ability,” Alexander said. “Can you learn to keep your mouth shut?”

  “It’s not needed in this particular place, I should think. But, yeah, I know how, when the situation calls for it,” Dominic said.

  “Okay, here’s the first speech. You guys know what ‘black’ means, right? It means a program or project that is not acknowledged by the government. People pretend it doesn’t exist. The Campus takes that one step further: We really do not exist. There is not a single written document in the possession of any government employee that has a single word about us. From this moment on, you two young gentlemen do not exist. Oh, sure, you, Captain—or is it Major already?—Caruso, you get a paycheck that’s going to be direct-deposited into whatever bank account you set up this week, but you are no longer a Marine. You are on detached duty, whose nature is unknown. And you, Special Agent Dominic Caruso—”

  “I know. Gus Werner told me. They dug a hole and pulled it in after them.”

  Alexander nodded. “You will both leave your official identification documents, dog tags, everything, here before you leave. You can keep your names, maybe, but a name is just a couple of words, and nobody believes a name in this business anyway. That’s the funny part about my time in the field with
the Agency. Once on a job, I changed names without thinking about it. Damned embarrassing when I realized it. Like an actor: All of a sudden I’m Macbeth when I’m supposed to be Hamlet. No harm came of it, though, and I didn’t croak at the end of the play.”

  “What, exactly, will we be doing?” This was Brian.

  “Mostly, you’ll be doing investigative work. Tracking money. The Campus is particularly good at that. You’ll find out how and why later. You will probably deploy together. You, Dominic, will do most of the heavy lifting on the investigative side. You, Brian, will back him up on the muscle side, and along the way you’ll learn to do what—what was it you called him a little while ago?”

  “Oh, you mean Enzo? I call him that because he had a heavy foot when he got his driver’s license. You know, like Enzo Ferrari.”

  Dominic pointed to his brother and laughed. “He’s Aldo because he dresses like a dweeb. Like in that wine commercial, Aldo Cella: ‘He’s not a slave to fashion’? It’s a family joke.”

  “Okay, go to Brooks Brothers and dress better,” Pete Alexander told Brian. “Your cover mainly will be as a businessman or a tourist. So, you’ll have to dress neatly, but not like the Prince of Wales. You’ll both let your hair grow out, especially you, Aldo.”

  Brian rubbed a hand over his head stubble. It marked him anywhere in the civilized world as a United States Marine. It could have been worse. Army Rangers were even more radical in the hair department. Brian would look like a fairly normal human being in a month or so. “Damn, I’ll have to buy a comb.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “For today, just relax and settle in. Tomorrow we wake up early and make sure you two are in decent physical shape. Then there’s weapons proficiency—and the sit-down classwork. You’re both computer-literate, I presume.”

  “Why do you ask?” This was Brian.

  “The Campus mainly works like a virtual office. You’ll be issued computers with built-in modems, and that’s how you’ll communicate with the home office.”

  “What about security?” Dominic asked.

  “The machines have pretty good security built in. If there’s a way to crack them, nobody’s found it yet.”

  “That’s good to know,” Enzo observed, dubiously. “They use computers in the Corps, Aldo?”

  “Yeah, we have all the modern conveniences, even toilet paper.”

  “AND YOUR name is Mohammed?” Ernesto asked.

  “That is correct, but for now, call me Miguel.” Unlike with Nigel, it was a name he’d be able to remember. He had not begun by invoking Allah’s blessing on this meeting. These unbelievers would not have understood.

  “Your English is—well, you sound English.”

  “I was educated there,” Mohammed explained. “My mother was English. My father was Saudi.”

  “Was?”

  “Both are dead.”

  “My sympathies,” Ernesto offered with questionable sincerity. “So, what can we do for each other?”

  “I told Pablo here about the idea. Has he filled you in?”

  “Sí, he has, but I wish to hear it directly from you. You understand that I represent six others who share my business interests.”

  “I see. Do you have the power to negotiate for all of them?”

  “Not entirely, but I will present what you say to them—you need not meet with them all—and they have never rejected my suggestions. If we come to an agreement here, it can be fully ratified by the end of the week.”

  “Very well. You know the interests I myself represent. I am empowered to make an agreement, as well. Like you, we have a major enemy nation to the north. They are putting ever-greater pressure on my friends. We wish to retaliate, and to deflect their pressure in other directions.”

  “It is much the same with us,” Ernesto observed.

  “Therefore, it is in our mutual interests to cause unrest and chaos within America. The new American president is a weak man. But for that reason he can be a dangerous one. The weak are quicker to use force than the strong. Even though they use it inefficiently, it can be an annoyance.”

  “Their methods of intelligence-gathering concern us. You also?”

  “We have learned caution,” Mohammed replied. “What we do not have is a good infrastructure in America. For this we need assistance.”

  “You don’t? That’s surprising. Their news media is full of reports about the FBI and other agencies busily tracking your people within their borders.”

  “At the moment, they are chasing shadows—and sowing discord in their own land by doing so. It complicates the task of building a proper network so that we can conduct offensive operations.”

  “The nature of those operations does not concern us?” Pablo asked.

  “That is correct. It is nothing you have not done yourselves, of course.” But not in America, he did not add. Here in Colombia the gloves were all the way off, but they’d been careful to limit themselves in the U.S., their “customer” nation. So much the better. It would be entirely out of character with anything they’d done. Operational security was a concept both sides fully understood.

  “I see,” the senior Cartel man noted. He was no fool. Mohammed could see that in his eyes. The Arab was not going to underestimate these men or their capabilities . . .

  Nor would he mistake them for friends. They could be as ruthless as his own men, he knew that. Those who denied God could be every bit as dangerous as those who worked in His Name.

  “So what can you offer us?”

  “We have conducted operations in Europe for a long time,” said Mohammed. “You wish to expand your marketing efforts there. We’ve had a highly secure network in place for over twenty years. The changes in European commerce—the diminution of the importance of borders, and so forth—works in your favor, as it has worked in ours. We have a cell in the port city of Piraeus that can easily accommodate your needs, and contacts within the transnational trucking companies. If they can transport weapons and people for us, they can surely transport your products easily enough.”

  “We will need a list of names, the people with whom we can discuss the technical aspects of this business,” Ernesto told his guest.

  “I have it with me.” Mohammed held up his personal laptop computer. “They are accustomed to doing business in return for monetary considerations.” He saw his hosts nod without asking about how much money. Clearly, this was not a matter of great concern for them.

  Ernesto and Pablo were thinking: There were over three hundred million people in Europe, and many of them would doubtless enjoy the Colombians’ cocaine. Some European countries even allowed the use of drugs in discreet, controlled—and taxed—settings. The money involved was insufficient to make a decent profit, but it did have the advantage of setting the proper atmosphere. And nothing, not even medicinal-quality heroin, was as good as Andean coca. For that they would pay their Euros, and this time it would be enough to make this venture profitable. The danger, of course, was in the distribution side. Some careless street dealers would undoubtedly be arrested, and some of them would talk. So, there had to be ample insulation between the wholesale distribution and retail sides, but that was something they knew how to do—no matter how professional the European policemen were, they could not be all that different from the Americans. Some of them would even happily take the Cartel’s Euros, and grease the skids. Business was business. And if this Arab could help with that—for free, which was truly remarkable—so much the better. Ernesto and Pablo did not react physically to the business offer on the table. An outsider might have taken their demeanor for boredom. It was anything but that, of course. This offer was heaven-sent. A whole new market was going to open up, and with the new revenue stream it brought, maybe they could buy their country entirely. They’d have to learn a new way of doing business, but they’d have the money to experiment, and they were adaptable creatures: fish, as it were, swimming in a sea of peasants and capitalists.

  “How do we contact
these people?” Pablo inquired.

  “My people will make the necessary introductions.”

  Better and better, Ernesto thought.

  “And what services will you require of us?” he finally asked.

  “We will need your help to transport people into America. How would we go about this?”

  “If you mean physically moving people from your part of the world into America, the best thing is to fly them into Colombia—right here to Cartagena, in fact. Then we will arrange for them to be flown into other Spanish-speaking countries to the north. Costa Rica, for example. From there, if they have reliable travel documents, they can fly there directly, via an American airline, or through Mexico. If they appear Latin and speak Spanish, they can be smuggled across the Mexican-American border—it is a physical challenge, and some of them might be apprehended, but if so, they’d simply be returned to Mexico, for another attempt. Or, again with proper documents, they could just walk across the border into San Diego, California. Once in America, it’s a question of maintaining your cover. If money is not an issue—”

  “It isn’t,” Mohammed assured him.

  “Then you retain a local attorney—few of them have much in the way of scruples—and arrange the purchase of a suitable safe house to serve as a base of operations. Forgive me—I know we agreed that such operations need not concern us—but if you gave me some idea of what you have in mind, I could advise you.”

  Mohammed thought for a few moments, and then explained.

  “I see. Your people must be properly motivated to do such things,” Ernesto observed.

  “They are.” Could this man have any doubt of that? Mohammed wondered.

  “And with good planning and nerve, they can even survive. But you must never underestimate the American police agencies. In our business we can make financial arrangements with some of them, but that is very unlikely in your case.”