by Tom Clancy
The old bearded man said, “My son, son of Dagestan, Allah supports our resistance against Moscow.”
“I know this to be true, Abu Dagestani.”
“I have learned of an opportunity that, with your help, can do more for our cause than anything that has ever happened in all the days before. More than the war, more than brother Israpil was able to accomplish with all his troops.”
“Just tell me what you need. You know I have begged you to let me do something, to play some role in our struggle.”
“Do you remember what you told me when you were here last year?”
Safronov thought back. He had said many, many things, all ideas he had that would allow him to aid the cause of Jamaat Shariat. Georgi stayed up nights working on schemes to promote the cause, and during his annual visits to Makhachkala he offered up his best ideas to Murshidov. He did not know which of these plans his leader was referring to. “I… Which thing, father of Dagestan?”
A thin crease of a smile spread across the old man’s lips. “You told me that you were a powerful man. That you controlled the rockets that went off into space. That you could redirect your rockets to hit Moscow.”
Safronov beamed with excitement at the same moment his mind filled with worry and consternation. He had told the old man about his many ideas for retribution against the Russians with whom he lived and worked. Changing the path of one of his space delivery vehicles so that it would not reach orbit but instead send its payload into a crowded population center was, by far, the most fanciful of his boasts to Murshidov. There were a hundred or more problems with that plan of his, but yes, it was not beyond the realm of possibilities.
Safronov knew now was not the time to show doubt. “Yes! I swear I can do it. Just give me the word and I will force the Russians to either ret tot surn our military leader or suffer for this crime.”
Murshidov began to speak, but Safronov, amped with excitement, said, “I need to say that such a strike would be best used against an oil refinery, even if it is outside of a city. The capsule itself is not explosive, so although it would hit at a high rate of speed, it will need to hit something flammable or explosive to do the greatest amount of damage.” Georgi worried the old man would be disappointed in this; he’d probably neglected to give a realistic explanation of just what a kinetic missile could accomplish when he’d made his boast the year before.
But Murshidov posed a question: “Would your weapons be more powerful if they were tipped with nuclear bombs?”
Safronov’s head cocked. He stammered briefly. “Well… yes. Of course. But that is not possible, and even without them they still can be powerful conventional weapons. I promise you that if I target fuel storage or—”
“Why is it not possible?”
“Because I have no bombs, Father.”
“If you did, would you still proceed? Or is your heart made heavy by the thought of the deaths of hundreds of thousands of your adopted countrymen?”
Safronov’s chin rose. This was a test. A hypothetical. “If I had bombs, I would act with even more passion. There is no equivocation in my heart.”
“There is a man here that I want you to meet. A foreigner.”
Safronov had seen no foreigner. Was this a hypothetical, too? “What man?”
“I will let him tell you who he is. Talk to him. I trust him. He comes highly respected from our brothers in Chechnya.”
“Of course, Abu Dagestani. I will speak with him.”
Suleiman Murshidov motioned to one of his sons, who beckoned Safronov to follow him. Georgi stood, confused by what was happening, but he followed the man into the hall and up the staircase, and then into a large bedroom. Here three men in casual clothing stood with assault rifles hanging over their shoulders. They were not Dagestanis; not Arabs, either. One man was very tall, and he was Georgi’s age; the other two were younger.
“As salaam aleikum,” the older man said. So they spoke Arabic, anyway.
“Wa aleikum as salaam,” Safronov replied.
“Lift your arms in the air, please.”
“I am sorry?”
“Please, friend.”
Safronov did so, unsure. The two young men approached him and frisked him thoroughly but with no obvious intentions of disrespect.
Once this was complete, the older man bade Safronov to sit on a worn sofa against the wall. Both men sat down, and glasses of orange soda were placed on a table in front of them.
“Mr. Safronov, you may call me General Ijaz. I am a general in the Pakistani Defense Force.”
Georgi shook the man’s hand. Pakistan? Interesting. Slowly Suleiman Murshidov’s words downstairs began to bear some context.
Rehan asked, “You are Dagestani? And a faithful Muslim?”
“I am both of these things, General.”
“Suleiman promised me you were just exactlre ze="y the man I need to speak to.”
“I hope I can be of service.”
“You are in charge of Russian space operations?”
Safronov started to shake his head. That was a gross oversimplification of his role as president and main shareholder of Kosmos Space Flight Corporation. But he stopped himself. Now was no time to equivocate, though he did explain further. “That is almost true, General Ijaz. I am president of the company that owns and operates one of Russia’s best space launch vehicles.”
“What do you deliver into space?”
“We deliver satellites into orbits, primarily. We made twenty-one successful launches last year, and expect twenty-four next year.”
“You have access to the missiles to launch the vehicles?”
Safronov nodded, proud of himself and the company he had grown over the past fifteen years. “Our principal space delivery vehicle is the Dnepr-1 Space Launch System. It is a converted RM-36.”
Rehan just stared at the Russian. He did not like to admit that he did not know a fact. He would wait silently until this little man explained himself.
“The RM-36, General, is an intercontinental ballistic missile. Russia… I should say the Soviet Union, used this to deliver nuclear missiles. It was only in the 1990s when my company reconfigured the system into a civilian space rocket.”
Rehan nodded thoughtfully, feigning only mild interest when, in fact, this was an incredible piece of news.
“What can be put inside of this missile, Mr. Safronov?”
Georgi smiled knowingly. He understood from Murshidov’s questions what was happening here. He also understood it was his job to sell this idea to this stern-faced Pakistani in front of him.
“General, we can put in it whatever you have for us that will fit inside the payload envelope.”
“The devices I am considering are 3.83 meters by.46 meters.”
“And the weight?”
“Just over one thousand kilograms.”
The Russian nodded happily. “It can be done.”
“Excellent.”
“Are you prepared to tell me what this device is?”
The man Safronov knew as General Ijaz just looked him in the eye. “Nuclear bombs. Twenty-kiloton yield.”
“Bombs? Not the warheads of a missile?”
“No. These are air-dropped bombs. Is that a problem?”
“I know very little about bombs, more about Russian missile warheads from my time in the military. But I do know the bombs can be removed from their cases to make them smaller and lighter. This will not affect the yield of the blast. We will need to do this to put them in payload containers for our missiles.”
“I see,” Rehan said. “Tell me this. Your missiles… where can they go?”
Now Safronov took on a guarded expression. He started to speak but stopped himself. Stammered a bit.
Rehan said, “I am only curious, friend. If I decide to give these devices to your organization, then they are yours to do with as you wish.” Rehan smiled more broadly. “e bid, Although I’d prefer you did not target Islamabad.”
Safronov relaxed a littl
e. For a moment he worried this operation was to be some sort of job for the Pakistanis. Safronov would not do this for money. He would only do this for his cause.
“General Ijaz, my missiles will go anywhere I tell them to go. But there will be no debate. One of them will land in Red Square.”
Rehan nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “Finally Moscow will beg at your feet for mercy. You and your people can have what you have long desired. An Islamic caliphate in the Caucasus.”
The thin Russian with the boyish flop of hair on his forehead smiled, the rings of his eyes reddened and moistened, and the two men embraced there in the cold attic room.
As Riaz Rehan hugged the smaller man, the Pakistani general himself smiled. He had been marshaling zealots and criminals since he was a fourteen-year-old boy, and he was very, very good at it.
After the emotional embrace, Rehan returned to the business at hand. “Mr. Safronov. You may, in the coming days, hear faint rumors of strangers asking questions of you, your history, your background, your education, your faith.”
“Why is this?”
“First and foremost, I will have to look into you very carefully.”
“General Ijaz. I understand completely. You and your security service may look into me all you wish, but please do not take too long, sir. There is a scheduled launch at the end of the year. Three Dnepr-1 rockets carrying three satellites for United States, British, and Japanese companies will be launched on three consecutive days.”
“I see,” said Rehan. “And you will be there?”
“I had already planned on it.” Safronov smiled. “But you give me additional incentive.”
The two men went over details for the rest of the afternoon, and then into the evening. They prayed together. By the time he returned to the Volgograd airport, Rehan was ready to hand the bombs over to the energetic Dagestani partisan.
But first he had to acquire the bombs, and for this he had a plan, yes. But he also had much work still to do. Operation Saker, a plan that he had been working on for years and thinking about for well over a decade, needed to begin as soon as he returned to Pakistan.
30
Jack Ryan Jr. breathed out a long, slow breath, and with it a small measure of his anxiety.
He dialed the number. With each ring, half of him hoped there would be no answer on the other end. His blood pressure was up, and his palms perspired slightly.
He’d gotten the phone number from Mary Pat Foley. He’d written several e-mails to her over the last few days, but each one he’d deleted before hitting that irrevocable send key. Finally, on perhaps his fourth or fifth try, he’d written Mary Pat a succinct but friendly message thanking her for the tour around the office the other day, and, oh, by the way, he was wondering if she would pass on Melanie Kraft’s phone number.
He groaned when he read his message, he felt more than a little foolish, but he sucked it up and hit send.
Twenty minutes later a friendly message came back from Mary Pat. Mary Pat said she had enjoyed running out for frsushi, and she had found their conversation exceedingly interesting. She hoped to be able to add to the conversation soon. And at the end, following a simple “Here you go,” Jack saw the area code 703, Alexandria, Virginia, preceding a seven-digit number.
“Yes!” he shouted at his desk.
Behind him, Tony Wills spun around, waited for an explanation.
“Sorry,” said Jack.
But this was all yesterday. Jack’s initial excitement had turned to butterflies, and he was doing his best to fight them as Melanie’s phone continued ringing.
Shit, Jack thought to himself. It wasn’t exactly a gun battle in central Paris he was facing here at the moment. Why the nerves?
A click indicated that someone had answered. Shit. Okay, Jack. Play cool.
“Melanie Kraft.”
“Hi, Melanie. This is Jack Ryan.” A brief pause. “It is an honor, Mr. President.” “No… Not… It’s Jack Junior. We met the other day.” “I’m just kidding. Hi, Jack.”
“Oh. Hey, you got me. How are you?” “I’m great. Yourself?”
The pace of the conversation slowed. “I’m fine.” “Good.”
Jack did not speak.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Uh.” Snap out of it, Jack. “Yes. Actually, a little bird told me you live down in Alexandria.” “Does that little bird happen to serve as associate director at the National Counterterrorism Center?” “As a matter of fact, she does.”
“Thought so.”
Jack could hear a smile in Melanie’s voice, and he could immediately tell everything was going to be okay.
“Anyway, that got me thinking… There’s a restaurant down there on King Street. Vermillion. It has the best strip loin I’ve ever tasted. I was wondering if I could take you to dinner there on Saturday.” “That sounds great. Will it be just you, or will your Secret Service detail be coming with us?” “I don’t have protection.”
“Okay, just checking.”
She was teasing him, and he liked it. He said, “That doesn’t mean I won’t have my dad’s detail check you out thoroughly before our date.” She laughed. “Bring it on. It can’t be any worse than going through the TS-SCI process.” She was referring to the CIA vetting process that took months and involved interviews with everyone from neighbors to elementary school teachers.
“I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Seven’s fine. We can actually walk from my place.” “Great. See you then.”
“Looking forward to it,” Melanie said.
Jack hung up the phone, stood, and smiled at Wills. Tony stood and high-fived his young coworker.
Paul Laska stood on the long balcony of the Royal Suite of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in London, and he looked out over Hyde Park below.
It was a cool morning in October, but certainly no cooler than it would be back in Newport. Paul had come alone, with only his personal assistant Stuart, his secretary Carmela, his dietitian Luc, and a pair of Czech-born security officers who traveled with him wherever he went.
That’s what passed for “alone” in the life of a high-profile billionaire.
The other man on the balcony really had come alone. Yes, there was a time, years before, when Oleg Kovalenko would have been flanked by guards everywhere he went. He had been KGB, after all. A case officer in several Soviet satellites in the sixties and seventies. Not a particularly high-riser in the KGB, but he’d retired as rezident, the KGB’s equivalent to a CIA station chief, even though he was only rezident of Denmark.
After retirement, Oleg Kovalenko returned home to Russia to live a quiet life in Moscow. He’d rarely traveled out of the country since, but an insistent phone call the day before put him on a jet to London, and now here he sat, feet up on a chaise longue, his thick, soft body tired from the travel, but enjoying the first of what he hoped would be many excellent mimosas.
Laska watched the morning Knightsbridge commuters file below him and waited for the old Russian to break the ice.
It did not take long. Kovalenko had always hated uncomfortable silence.
“It is good to see you again, Pavel Ivanovich,” Kovalenko said.
Laska’s only reply was a quiet sardonic smile that was delivered toward the park in front of him, and not to the big man on his right.
The heavy Russian continued, “I was surprised that you wanted to meet like this. It is not so public here, really, but others could be watching.” Now Laska turned to the man on the chaise longue. “Others are watching me, Oleg. But no one is watching you. No one cares about an old Russian pensioner, even if you once wielded some power. Your delusions of grandeur are quite childish, actually.” Kovalenko smiled, sipped his morning drink. If he was offended by the insult, he made no show of it.
“So, how can I help you? This is, I am guessing, about our good old times together? You feel the need to settle something from our past?” Laska shrugged. “I left the past behind. If you haven’t done th
at yet yourself, you are an old fool.” “Ha. That is not how it worked for we Russians. The past left us behind. We were more than willing to remain there.” He shrugged, drained his mimosa and immediately began looking around for a fresh one. “Tempus fugit, as they say.” “I need a favor from you,” Laska said.
Kovalenko stopped searching for a drink. Instead he looked to the Czech billionaire, then he climbed out of the chaise and stood with his hands on his wide hips. “What could I possibly have that you need, Pavel?” “It’s Paul, not Pavel. It has not been Pavel for forty years.” “Forty years. Yes. You turned your back on us a long time ago.” “I never turned my back on you, Oleg. I was never with youi>w mee in the first place. I was never a devotee.” Kovalenko smiled. He understood completely, but he pressed. “Then why did you help us so eagerly?” “I was eager to get out of there. That’s all. You know that.” “You turned your back on us, just as you turned your back on your own people. Some would suggest you have turned yet again, turning away from the capitalism that made you in the West. Now you support everything that is not capitalism. You are quite a dancer for an old man. Just the same as when you were young.” Laska thought back to when he was young, in Prague. He thought back to his friends in the movement, his initial support of Alexander Dubček. Laska also thought about his girlfriend, Ilonka, and their plans to get married after the revolution.
But then he thought of his arrest by the secret police, the visit to his cell by a big, powerful, and dominant KGB officer named Oleg. The beating, the threats of imprisonment, and the promise of an exit visa if the young banker only informed on a few of his fellow rabble-rousers in the movement.
Pavel Laska had agreed. He saw it as an opportunity to go to the West, to New York City, to trade on the New York Stock Exchange, and to make a great deal of money. Kovalenko turned him with this enticement, and Laska had helped turn the tide against the Prague Spring.
