Tom Clancy's Power Plays 1 - 4

by Tom Clancy

  “Would you rather limit your mating prospects to women you meet in bars and nightclubs?”

  He looked at her.

  “I think you’re being a little unfair.”

  Megan was shaking her head now, her face dead serious.

  “What isn’t fair is putting boundaries on what we’ve got going because you’re jittery about messing with some artificial formula,” she said. “The workplace is where adults meet. Where they get to know one other, sans hackneyed pickup lines. I don’t see anything wrong with that. Or how our having grown close suddenly makes us Mata Hari and Benedict Arnold.”

  He was quiet. They sat there alongside each other, steam billowing around them into the chill air, shimmering in the sunlight.

  Megan craned her head back, looking up into the open sky.

  “One last time,” she said after a moment, still staring upward. “My feelings for you aren’t predicated on whether UpLink obtains the clearances. But I’ve got my job obligations, too. Gord isn’t about to take no for an answer, and he’s got heavyweight contacts from the president on down. I’d prefer we not have to make an end run around you. And I hope that if we must, you’ll understand and won’t let it pull us apart.” Her voice caught. “That would be a waste. And make me sadder than I can begin to express.”

  Silence.

  Lang gazed out at the brown-and-green-splashed mountains in the distance.

  “Tell Gordian he’ll have my decision by the end of the week,” he said.

  Megan nodded without looking down.

  He turned to her, studied her upturned face for several seconds.

  “It must be hard sometimes being a woman and strong,” he said.

  Her eyes lowered. Met his again.

  “Sometimes,” she said.

  He leaned close and touched his lips to her shoulder. Brushed them along her neck, the line of her chin, the soft flesh below her ear, caressing her face, stroking back her hair with his fingertips, leaving behind traces of white gooseflesh.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered and slid his arm around the bareness of her waist to draw her closer, kissing her on the cheek, on the corner of the mouth. “I’m in for whatever happens.”

  She made a low sound in her throat, her lips parting against his.

  “Let’s make something happen right now,” she husked, and kissed him, smiling as their mouths and tongues joined. She put her hand on him under the water, closed it around him under the water, moved it with quickening intensity under the water. Lang’s hand slid down over her hip, down over her thigh, lower, finding her, touching her, matching her rhythm, their eyes locked, their bodies pressing together, moving together, swaying, locked ...

  The two of them losing themselves in each other, making something happen there in the water on the deck beneath the wide and borderless blue sky.

  In a sense, Gordian was right about his building of the corral having a therapeutic effect on him. He knew a doctor would not have condoned it. Might have strictly disallowed it. But he felt the warmth of the sun on his back, the smells of mown grass and freshly dug earth, and the robust physical workout helped carry him through most of the day.

  Standing in his daughter’s backyard now, Gordian inspected his workmanship and nodded to himself with approval. He’d developed and patented scores of breakthrough technologies, pioneered advances in communications that had transformed governments and economies, but his justifiable pride in those achievements had never topped his pleasure in building something with only wooden boards, a box full of nails or screws, and a handy set of tools.

  It was a feeling that was no less keen today than it had been when Gordian was a thirteen-year-old boy pounding together a tree house in Racine, Wisconsin. The ordered routine of readying his tools and construction materials relaxed him and gave him a chance to organize his thoughts. He enjoyed the way a number of careful and methodical steps that followed a proven design would yield visible results within a relatively short time frame. And he enjoyed the direct connection between hands-on effort and outcome, especially when they were for the benefit of someone he loved.

  While it was a bit of a damper to realize he was inexplicably getting on that particular someone’s nerves, he’d almost come to accept that as status quo.

  Gordian removed his safety goggles, slipped them into his tool belt, and flapped his T-shirt to dry the perspiration on his chest and armpits. Certainly he’d been functioning at well below 100 percent. He was breathing hard, his sore throat bothered him, and a nagging, raspy cough had developed over the last few hours. Every so often he would get a pang between his shoulder blades and down at the base of his spine as a reminder not to push too far. But that sun felt great, and there hadn’t been a recurrence of the vague dizziness and shakes he’d experienced the night before, and he hadn’t looked for trouble by mentioning any of it to Julia. She would surely overreact and push him into a lawn chair, where he’d spend the rest of the afternoon shooing away flies and mosquitos.

  No thanks, he thought. He could decide for himself when he’d had enough. Parental privilege.

  Gordian blotted the sweat from his eyes and forehead with his sleeve, put his cordless power drill into its belt holster, folded his arms across his chest, and continued to look over his handiwork. The fencing’s interwoven board construction required more fuss than, say, an ordinary stockade, but the wider spaces between its boards allowed enough wind filtration to keep it upright during the worst imaginable coastal blow. And gave the greyhounds convenient openings to peep through.

  Each side of the square corral was to measure twelve feet by six feet, its horizontal plywood strips sized at a little over four feet long—any longer and they would tend to weaken. Gordian had needed to start off the first side by installing four posts at four-foot intervals. After he’d plotted the corral’s measurements with a tape ruler, twine, and temporary stakes on his last visit, he had dug the first row of postholes, filled their bottoms with gravel for drainage, and then driven the posts into the ground with a heavy mallet, repeatedly checking their vertical line with a carpenter’s level, packing soil into the holes as he went along. It had been vigorous work that left him streaked with dirt and sweat and with a blistered finger or two in spite of the gloves he’d worn. But it wasn’t supposed to be easy, and he hadn’t minded.

  This morning, Gordian had resumed where he’d left off, using his power tool to fasten the horizontal strips to alternating sides of the posts, moving from bottom to top and right to left. What he was presently looking at was the open space between the last two posts. Once he got the horizontals up to close that gap, he’d be done with an entire side of the corral, his modified goal for the afternoon. Well, almost done with it, since that would still leave him having to thread the vertical spacers through the strips. But it was a relatively quick and undemanding task, and he could ask Julia to help him with it before leaving for home.

  Gordian had another brief spate of coughing and cleared his throat but didn’t bring up any fluid, and he was left a bit winded afterward. It was odd, that dry shortness of breath. He didn’t seem to have any of the accompanying mucus and watery congestion that was usually symptomatic of a cold. Not even a runny nose. It was as if he’d sucked in a handful of plaster dust and couldn’t expel it from his lungs.

  He cast a guarded look over at Julia’s back porch, afraid she might have heard his latest hack attack. Fortunately, though, she was busy with the tuna and sword-fish steaks on her gas grill. When Ashley had called to report that she’d been met by her pickup car at the airport, Julia had gotten into an instant rush to prepare dinner. Maybe too great a rush. The drive from San Jose International would take about an hour in light traffic, and on Sundays, Highway 1 ordinarily became crammed with bumper-to-bumper mall-goers. This close to Thanksgiving, you could count on it. Much as he was anxious to see his wife, Gordian estimated they had a good forty minutes before she arrived, and Julia knew the Bay Area traffic situation as well as anyo
ne. Besides, Ashley would want to relax for a while before eating dinner.

  Gordian sighed. Call him oversensitive, but he thought Julia’s glued attention to the barbecue seemed an excuse for her utter and deliberate inattention to him. Whatever was bothering his daughter, her emotional state was always best revealed by her attempts to conceal it, to appear calmly preoccupied with her chores and projects, to veer off on her own and peripheralize everything and everyone around her. It was an exasperating quality Gordian found easy to recognize, given that the river from whence it flowed happened to bear his name, first and last.

  Unfortunately, recognizing it didn’t mean he had the vaguest idea how to deal with it. On the one hand, he didn’t like being ignored during what he’d hoped would be a chance for some father-daughter bonding, to paraphrase Ashley. On the other, he didn’t want Julia regarding him so closely that she’d detect he was less than the picture of health. Was there no happy medium?

  He stood there looking across the yard at the house, and after a few moments became aware that Jack and Jill seemed to be compensating for their mother’s cold-shoulder routine. Nice doggies. Leashed to the porch rail a cautious distance from any edibles, they had fixated on him in their high-strung and illimitably questioning way, their ears cocked in his direction like swivel antennas, their eyes penny brown circles of curiosity. Gordian had once heard somebody refer to the breed as “pushbutton dogs” because of their habit of lying perfectly still and silent for hours on end, comically anxious as they watched their owners tend to their business, only to snap onto all fours with a spring-loaded, running bound when it was time to be fed or walked. And while the term had been used with affection, he’d been distressed to learn this peculiar behavior came from years of being cooped in racetrack kennels that barely allowed them the room to stand or turn, let alone interact with other dogs. As a consequence, they became social miscasts, insecure about their status, never quite able to tell what was expected of them or how to behave. And so they kept their constant watch, waiting for reassurance, all bottled energy.

  Sad, Gordian thought. But thanks to the greyhound rescue people and Julia, things had vastly changed for them. And would change even more for those particular greyhounds when their corral was built and they could gallop around outdoors to their hearts’ content.

  He turned, ready for his next go at the fence. The pile of forty boards he’d set out for himself this morning had dwindled to a mere ten spread neatly across the grass. Now that today’s section had started to take definite shape, he could scarcely wait to get the rest of them up.

  Gordian was stooping to lift an armload of boards when the lightheadedness washed over him again. He flashed hot and cold. His heart fluttered irregularly, then began to pound.

  He took several deep breaths. The gritty rattle in his throat wasn’t any comfort, but he soon grew steadier and felt the pounding in his chest subside.

  Within seconds, the spell was over. Gordian knelt on the lawn, his head clear again. Still, he couldn’t keep on like this. He would have to get himself checked out. He’d call the doctor tomorrow morning, try to squeeze in an appointment for the same day. He was confident as ever that he wasn’t suffering from anything more serious than a nasty cold. Maybe a touch of the flu. But it couldn’t just be disregarded ad infinitum.

  He glanced over at the porch. Julia remained involved with her cuts of fish, shifting and flipping them over the flame with her spatula. She hadn’t noticed his little episode. Good. He’d pretty much recovered and was thinking he could mount the rest of the boards in twenty minutes, tops. Close that space. Then he’d quit. Grab one of those lawn chairs, relax in the sunshine. And wait for Ash.

  He gathered half the siding boards on the ground, carried them to the fence posts where he’d be working, and squatted to get the lowermost board in place. Then he took the drill from his holster, checked to see that the screwdriver bit was firmly in the chuck, pulled his goggles over his eyes, and reached into his pouch for a screw.

  His power tool slugged the screw into the wood easily, its fat motor startling the birds out of a nearby tree with its racket.

  The board went on without a snag. Gordian reached for the next one, positioned it, and was about to squeeze the drill’s trigger switch when he heard Julia calling him: “Dad!”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw her approaching across the lawn. She was outfitted in black capri pants, espadrilles, and a sleeveless blue midriff blouse that precisely matched the color of her eyes. And Gordian’s eyes as well, though it was not something he noticed at that moment.

  What he was noticing was the tight, controlled expression on her face. The overdone casualness of her stride.

  He braced himself as she reached him.

  “Time for a break. We’ll be eating soon,” she said in a flat, clipped tone.

  “Hey Dad, you’re doing a fantastic job!” Gordian thought. “I couldn’t have expected better from a professional carpenter!”

  He raised his goggles and regarded her from his crouch.

  “I’m almost finished with this side of the corral,” he said. “Your mother hasn’t even arrived yet ...”

  She shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d want to wash up before she gets here.”

  “You’re the greatest, Dad! I love you! Jack and Jill love you! We all love you like mad! I honestly don’t know what we’d do without you being around!”

  Gordian tried not to look set upon. He felt a burr in his throat and cleared it to stave off a cough.

  “Her car just left the airport half an hour ago, and you can imagine what the roads are like today,” he said, wondering if his voice sounded as weak and croaky as it seemed. “We should have plenty of time ...”

  Her gaze flogged him.

  “Okay,” she said. “Whatever.”

  Baffled, Gordian watched her turn away and walk back toward the house. It struck him to call after her, ask her to help him understand the nature of his current transgression, but he thought it might just provoke an argument. He decided the wisest thing to do was concentrate on his undertaking, keep his distance, and maintain a frail peace until Ashley arrived.

  Gordian managed that with considerable success. He attached the rest of the boards he’d carried from the shrinking pile and then brought over the five that were left, all without getting into knots about Julia’s inexplicable attitude.

  Then he was on his last board. He aligned it between the posts with a swell of anticipation and squeezed the trigger of the drill. It whined to life in his hand—

  And then the dizziness overtook him in a surge that almost spilled Gordian off his feet. He staggered drunkenly, his gorge heaving into his throat, rancid and scalding. His vision went gray around the edges, and then the grayness spread over everything, and he felt his body go loose, the drill jolting in his right hand. He experienced a hot, piercing pain in his opposite hand an instant before releasing his grip on the power tool’s trigger. Just as the gray turned to black, he saw a bright splash of redness gush from the burning spot from the wandering drill bit.

  “Dad!”

  Julia. Calling him from somewhere at a distance. Her tone of voice so different than it had been only minutes before.

  “Dad, Daddy, oh no, oh my God, DADDY—”

  Lost in darkness, spinning in a whirlpool of darkness, he felt every part of himself melting away, turning to liquid, rushing into the ground.

  It’s all right, hon, please don’t sound so scared, Gordian thought he heard himself say.

  In fact, the words never had a chance to leave his mouth.

  FOURTEEN

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  NOVEMBER 14, 2001

  THE BODY OF FELIX QUIROS DID NOT QUITE GO TO the rodents. Nor was it exactly found by other members of the Quiros clan.

  His executioner would later be amused to hear that they split the difference.

  First cousins to one another, third cousins to Felix on opposite sides of his lineage, foremen at h
is auto salvage yard, and low-level functionaries in the criminal family business, Cesar and Jorge were far from quick to attach his three-day absence from the yard to the notion that any harm had come to him, and even slower to associate it with the scuttling, scratching noise they heard down the aisle of junkers.

  Every so often, Felix would shoot down across the border to those Tijuana bars where the young putas came three for the price of one, bring them to a hotel room, turn them on to some dope or ecstasy, get fucked up, and drop out of sight for days on end. Cesar and Jorge were well aware of his bad habits and guessed they had been the guys taking care of the scrapyard’s daily operations ever since Enrique handed it to Felix in an attempt to give him a firm set of responsibilities and keep him from running into trouble, but he’d kept on doing it anyway. Just let him get his hands on a little cash, and you could count on him going no-show until he’d blown every cent of it looking for degenerate kicks.

  Felix was here, he wasn’t here, Cesar and Jorge didn’t think it was of much consequence either way. They knew about their own obligations. They had the keys and entry combinations to every part of the scrapyard and usually found that it was less trouble to manage things without his high-hat bullshit. When he’d asked them to participate in that score connected with the Salazars’ goods from Mexico, they’d told him he was a maniac and refused. Because Felix was the illegitimate son of Enrique’s sister, Cesar and Jorge kept from voicing their opinions of him except between themselves, though the pair had a strong feeling that whatever they thought about the twit was hardly anything that wouldn’t have occurred to his uncle a hundred times, and that nobody would have faulted them too much for anything they said. Still, you had to observe certain proprieties.