Tom Clancy's Power Plays 1 - 4

by Tom Clancy

  Wearing an elaborate turban with a peacock feather jutting straight up out of its bottom wind, a maroon shirt with glittery gold threads woven through its fabric in vertical stripes, and steel bangles on one skinny wrist, the vendor who’d sold Blackburn the puppet had looked like a street-comer sultan in his holiday finery. His open, spirited smile had revealed the black-stained teeth and reddened gums that were telltale signs of habitual betel chewing—an addictive concoction with mildly intoxicating properties, the betel probably made him look ten years older than his natural age.

  Blackburn remembered the strong scent of exotic spice on his breath as he had stepped up close to make his pitch, a pair of two-dimensional leather puppets in each hand, waving them aloft on slender rods. He remembered their painted colors looking gaudy and brilliant in the midday sunshine, remembered the exquisite detail of their hand-tooled features, and most especially remembered admiring the workmanship of the one in the vendor’s left hand. The one that had, in fact, first caught his eye, and was now hanging above him on the wall of his office—some sort of animistic figure, part elephant, part man.

  “Fifty ringgits, twenty-five American dollars!” the man had been shouting as he manipulated the puppet over his head. Out of curiosity, Blackburn had stopped to ask the vendor which Hindu diety the puppet represented, speaking English because he had not yet become proficient in Bahasa, having been in Malaysia less than a month at the time.

  Smiling his big, resin-stained smile, wagging his head up and down as if he’d understood Blackburn, the vendor had thrust the puppet into his face and enthusiastically hollered, “Yes, yes! Fifty ringgits, twenty-five American dollars!”

  “It’s Ganesha, son of Shiva. …”

  The voice was female and carried a musical British accent. Blackburn had turned in its direction to see an Oriental woman of perhaps thirty or thirty-five, a strikingly beautiful woman with a sweep of angle-cut black hair, slanted brown eyes, and skin that had been tanned the color of almonds and cream in the perpetual August of the tropics. Wearing summer khakis, a loose cotton blouse, and sandals, she was carrying a Coach handbag over her shoulder, a bag he’d known must have cost more than the combined yearly income of everyone living in that village.

  Blackburn remembered immediately noticing that she had a magnificent body. Even through her baggy clothes, he’d been able to tell. It was the way she carried herself, he supposed. But he’d always had an eye for that sort of thing.

  One of your best assets in the field, he thought now, three months later, his face troubled, his inner voice edged with self-contempt. Sitting by the phone in his office, he couldn’t remember whether the desire to go to bed with her, and the idea of convincing her to become a fly on Marcus Caine’s wall, had been linked from the very beginning. Oh, he’d felt a superficial attraction right away, but when had he ever met a good-looking women he hadn’t thought would be fun in the sack?

  Actually wanting her was another story, though. Wanting her, and then deciding he could use her… .

  He thought suddenly and unexpectedly about Megan Breen and how different it had been when they were together. Not better, but easier, without guilt. They had liked each other and felt lonely and isolated in the bleak Russian winter. Neither had held expectations of their affair going beyond what it was. There had been no secret agendas between them, nothing to hide. It had been up front and without manipulation, the lines and limits clearly defined.

  Of course, he hadn’t known who she worked for until at least five minutes into their conversation, which had begun with them chatting about the puppet.

  “. .. a god representing man’s animal nature,” she had said.

  He’d looked at her and smiled. “Thanks. Sounds like the perfect mascot for my office.”

  “You’ll see his image on a lot of pendants and charms,” she said, returning his smile. “They’re worn as protection against evil and bad fortune.”

  ‘“Better than perfect,” he said. “Think I’ll hang him right over my phone. For when the boss calls to check up on me.”

  Her amused grin broadened.

  “I can tell you the asking price is very fair,” she said. “A lot of time goes into making these wayang kulit puppets, at least the quality ones. This man’s even have bison horn rods.”

  “Is that also supposed to be good luck?”

  “Not if you’re a bison, I suppose. But it shows quality workmanship. Most of the puppets they sell to tourists have wooden rods.”

  Blackburn looked into her dark brown eyes, and realized she was studying his own. “That phrase you used .. . wayang. …”

  ”Kulit/’ she said. “Roughly translated, it means ‘shadow play.’ An enactment of the Hindu epics using maybe a hundred puppets, and a full orchestra. It’s an ancient form of entertainment in this part of the world, and a way of keeping certain traditions alive. These days, though, Nintendo beats it hands down for popularity.”

  “Same old, same old, I guess,” he said.

  “Maybe so, but it’s an awful shame. The puppet masters—they’re called dayangs —spend years and years learning their craft. They make their puppets by hand, and provide the voices and movements of all the characters. During a show the puppets are manipulated behind a white cotton screen, with oil lamps throwing their shadows onto it—when the lighting’s done right, the shadows are colored, you know. The audience is split into two groups, so that one group sees the shadow play in front of the screen, and the other sees the puppet show and musicians behind it.”

  “Representing the separation between the material and the sublime, the self and the godhead,” he said. “Worldly illusion and ultimate truth—”

  “Atman and Brahman,” she said, giving him a look that was comprised of equal parts surprise and curiosity. “I see you’re familiar with Hindu philosophy.”

  “The Beatles school, anyway,” he said. “I must have worn out five copies of George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass when I was in college.”

  They stood there silently a moment, facing each other, their eyes still in contact. The crowd jostling around them, the pungent smell of cooking smoke thick in the sultry air.

  “Fifty ring gits, twenty-five American dollars!” the vendor yelled at the top of his lungs, pushing up closer to them, obviously worried that he’d been forgotten.

  Blackburn reached into his pocket for his wallet, got out two bills—a twenty and a five, U.S. currency—and payed for the puppet. The vendor gave him a little bow of thanks and briskly moved off into the crowd, leaving Blackburn holding his new acquisition with a faint look of bemusement on his face, like someone who has won a stuffed animal at a country fair shooting gallery and abruptly realizes he hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s going to do with it.

  “Well,” the woman said. ^Tm sure the puppet will make an interesting conversation piece when you bring it to work with you. Don’t see many like it in the States, I’ll bet.”

  Blackburn gave her a quizzical glance, not quite sure what she meant. Only a moment later did it dawn on him that she was assuming his office was in America. A natural enough mistake, considering that he was obviously American, and that he’d payed for the puppet with American money.

  “Actually, my pal Ganesha here won’t be leaving the peninsula in the foreseeable future,” he said. “Guess I should properly introduce myself. My name’s Max Blackburn. I work security for a company called UpLink International, and right now I’m based at our regional headquarters in—”

  “Johor, isn’t it?” She suddenly burst out laughing as they shook hands, putting him at a loss as to what he could have said that was so funny. She recovered briefly, but then saw that the bemused expression he’d been wearing on and off over the last several minutes was very much back in evidence, and broke up again.

  Still, he noticed she hadn’t let go of his hand. Which was something on the plus side, anyway.

  “I’m sorry, you must think I’m awfully rude,” she said, getting control of her
self at last. “I’m Kirs ten Chu, and it happens that I work for Monolith Technologies, Singapore. The Corporate Communications Division. I’m here on holiday, visiting my sister and nieces.”

  Understanding spread across Blackburn’s features.

  “Ah-ha,” he said. “So that explains why you’re in conniptions.”

  “It does indeed,” she said. “Our employers are very much archrivals, aren’t they? For the past six months I’ve done nothing but huddle with our lobbyists and publicists about the encryption flap, brainstorming ways to counter Roger Gordian’s opposition.”

  Though Blackburn would not realize it until several months later, that was the moment he had decided to use Kirsten. The exact moment. It had been a calculating, unemotional decision, entirely separate from the genuine attraction he felt toward her. And all the time they had spent together since, all the nights their bodies had been locked in passion, using her had been very much a part of it.

  “Well, judging by how badly things are going for us, you’re doing a helluva job.” He’d flashed an engaging smile, letting a hint of flirtatiousness slip into his voice. Calibrating both for maximum effect. ‘ ‘But does being on opposite sides of a professional dispute mean we can’t make friendly overtures?”

  “Overtures,” she repeated.

  “Right. A personal truce.”

  Their eyes met.

  “I suppose,” she said, “it could be possible.”

  “Then let’s seal it over dinner tonight.”

  “Well…”

  “Please,” he said, not giving her time to answer. “I guarantee a mutually agreeable resolution.”

  She looked at him a moment longer. Smiled.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

  And that was that. The beginning of an affair that had turned out to be enormously satisfying for him. Great sex, great inside information.

  What more could a man desire?

  Now Blackburn sat in the silence of his office, his face troubled, looking out his window at the sprawl of low, prefabricated buildings that constituted the Johor ground station, hating to think of the danger he’d put her in, refusing to let himself think about it, instead turning his mind back to the part that was real for both of them, imagining her body moving against him, joined to him, their cries of pleasure mingling in the darkness of her bedroom, going on and on into the night.

  Yes, that part of it was real.

  Real.

  He reached for his phone, dialed her office number, waited for her secretary to connect them.

  “Max?” she said, picking up a moment later. “Did you get my messages?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t get back to you till now. They’re adding components to the alarm system, and I had to oversee the whole thing. Took me most of the morning to get the glitches smoothed out.”

  Her voice became hushed. “Guess I got a little anx~ ious. Something’s turned up, and I think it could be important. Perhaps the very thing you’ve been looking for.”

  “You’d better not say any more right now.”

  “Agreed. Even if I wasn’t at the office, it would be much too sensitive to discuss over the phone.”

  “Got you. We’ll talk about it in person, then.”

  “Will you be coming this weekend?”

  ”Yes,” he said.

  “Such enthusiasm,” she said.

  He told himself to put away the guilt.

  “Just tired,” he said. “Barring any unforseen developments, I’ll be taking a lorry over the causeway tomorrow morning.”

  “Bringing along your overnight bag?”

  “It’s been packed since yesterday,” he said.

  “Not too full, I hope. Clothes won’t be necessary for the weekend agenda I’ve planned.”

  “Toothbrush and deodorant?”

  “Now they’re absolute requirements.” She laughed. “I have to run. Max. Love you.”

  Blackburn’s eyes moved from the window to the spot where he’d hung the puppet on the wall.

  Atman and Brahman, he thought. Illusion and truth,

  “I love you, too,” he heard himself say.

  Wondering if the words sounded as empty and mechanical over the phone as they did to his own ears.

  FOUR

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 17, 2000

  “CONGRATULATIONS, ALEX. I’LL BET EVERY POLITICAL COLUMNIST in the country’s writhing in the light of your greater glory.”

  Alex Nordstrum smiled a little uncomfortably as he walked into the conference room, hoping Gordian’s comments, coupled with his late arrival, wouldn’t give rise to certain impressions about him. That they might be accurate impressions was beside the point. Why be blatant? Conceit was a quality Nordstrum preferred to bear with discretion; he had an old Harvard classmate who’d been wearing his Phi Beta Kappa fraternity key on a gold fob for the past twenty years, and it was never a pretty sight.

  “So you’ve heard about my upcoming submarine ride,” he said, taking his place at the table. And how was that for understatement? Or had he struck a false note right there? Maybe it was a mistake trying to appear blase about being handpicked for the small group of reporters who would accompany the President and several other world leaders—all of whom were intent on milking a treaty-signing event for every bit of public attention it was worth—on a “ride” aboard a Seawolf nuclear sub.

  Yes, maybe he ought to let the others in the room be freely awed.

  “May I ask who gave you the news?” he said, knowing Gordian could have gotten it from any number of political and business contacts, including at least a couple of the individuals present at the meeting. Although the list of invited reporters had been released only hours earlier, this was a plugged-in bunch if there’d ever been one.

  “My source insisted on anonymity,” Gordian said. “Anyway, Alex, you’d better pour yourself some coffee. We’ve got a lot to talk about this morning, and you just might feel like you’re already underwater before we’re finished.”

  A workable segue to more relevant matters of discussion, Alex thought.

  He looked around the room, nodding his acknowledgment to the parties who’d arrived ahead of him. Most of the faces he saw were very familiar, belonging to Gordian’s core group of friends and advisors. There were two UpLink employees at the table besides Nordstrum himself, who, as Foreign Affairs Consultant, was technically a freelancer: Vice President of Special Projects Megan Breen, seated to Gordian’s immediate right, and Risk Assessment Manager Vince Scull at his left. Directly across from Nordstrum was Dan Parker, the congressman from California’s Fourteenth District and Gordian’s closest confidant since the days when they’d flown bombing sorties with the 355th Tactical Fighter Wing in Vietnam. In a chair alongside Parker sat another government official, Robert Lang, chief of the FBI’s Washington, D.C., bureau.

  The man poring over a document at the far end of the table was Richard Sobel, founder and CEO of Secure Solutions, a young Massachusetts-based encryption tech outfit. He both rounded out the small group and, by mere virtue of his presence, symbolized all the reasons it had come together this morning. Nordstrum couldn’t have said whether it was more significant that a competitor in the field of cryptographic technology was here to offer Gordian his support and alliance, or that Sobel was the only one of fifty leaders in the software business to accept Gord’s invitation.

  “Okay, let’s get rolling,” Gordian said now, the intense gravity of his manner hardly lifted by a cordial smile. “First, I want to thank all of you for coming. Second, I want to be clear about how much I appreciate why you’ve come. It obviously would have been easy to remain silent and invisible. Our unified stance on the encryption issue has already caused most of us considerable problems, and it’s a fair bet they’re going to increase exponentially in the next couple of days.” He paused and glanced over at Megan Breen. “The credit for putting together the statement I’ll be reading at
our press conference goes entirely to Ms. Breen. Assuming everyone received a copy by fax and has gotten a chance to review it, I believe you’ll agree she’s done a magnificent job of boiling our concerns down to media-friendly sound bites.”

  “Absolutely,” Sobel said, looking up at her from the sheet of paper he’d been scanning. “Megan, if I thought I had any chance of poaching you from Roger, I’d make an offer right now and be off, never mind the order of the day.”

  Megan smiled at the compliment. A tall, slender woman of thirty-six, with huge sapphire eyes and shoulder-length auburn hair currently worn in a French braid, she looked crisp and able in a violet blouse and a gray designer blazer-and-slacks combination. Being that he was a heterosexual male with what he regarded as a good eye for attractive women, Nordstrum had long ago observed that she was a knockout. Being that she was a professional colleague, Nordstrum recognized it wasn’t politically correct to give that observation any air time, and had wisely kept it to himself… although he reasonably suspected that many of her other male business associates, a couple of whom were in the room at that very moment, shared his atavistic view. Or hadn’t there been a jag of envy in Scull’s voice when he’d conveyed the rumors about Meg and Max Blackburn heating up the Russian winter last year?

  “While Roger may have put it a bit too flatteringly, I did want to make our comments brief and straightforward,” Megan was saying. “Still, I hope none of you will hesitate to let me know if there’s anything that should be added, removed, or clarified. We have forty-eight hours before President Ballard signs the Morrison-Fiore Bill, which gives me ample opportunity to fine-tune any part of the statement that needs it. I think, though, that our message really is a simple one.”