The Sum of All Fears jr-7

by Tom Clancy

  Just like home, Russell thought to himself. The house was made of stones instead of block, and the roof was flat instead of peaked, but the dust was the same, and the pathetic little garden was the same. And the man might as easily have been a Sioux, the tiredness in his eyes, the bent back, the old, gnarled hands of one defeated by others.

  “This must be the place,” he said, as the truck slowed.

  “The old man's son fought the Israelis and was badly wounded. Both have been friends to us.”

  “You have to look out for your friends,” Marvin agreed. The truck stopped, and Russell had to hop out to allow Ghosn to step down.

  “Come along, I will introduce you.”

  It was all surprisingly formal to the American. He didn't understand a word, of course, but he didn't have to. The respect of his friend Ghosn for the old one was good to see. After a few more remarks, the farmer looked at Russell and bowed his head, which embarrassed the American. Marvin took his hand gently and shook it in the manner of his people, muttering something that Ghosn translated. Then the farmer led them into his garden.

  “Damn,” Russell observed when he saw it.

  “American Mark 84 2,000 pound bomb, it would appear…” Ghosn said off-handedly, then knew he was wrong… the nose wasn't quite right… of course, the nose was crushed and distorted… but oddly so… He thanked the farmer and waved him back to the truck. “First we must uncover it. Carefully, very carefully.”

  “I can handle that,” Russell said. He went back to the truck, and selected a folding shovel of a military design.

  “We have people—” The American cut Ghosn off.

  “Let me do it. I'll be careful.”

  “Do not touch it. Use the shovel to dig around it, but use your hands to remove the soil from the bomb itself. Marvin, I warn you, this is very dangerous.”

  “Better step back, then.” Russell turned and grinned. He had to show this man that he was courageous. Killing the cop had been easy, no challenge at all. This was different.

  “And leave my comrade in danger?” Ghosn asked rhetorically. He knew that this was the intelligent thing to do, what he would have done had his own people done the digging, because his skills were too valuable to be risked stupidly, but he could not show weakness in front of the American, could he? Besides, he could watch and see if the man was as courageous as he seemed.

  Ghosn was not disappointed. Russell stripped to the waist and got on his knees to dig around the periphery of the bomb. He was even careful of the garden, far more so than Ghosn's men would have been. It took an hour until he'd dug a shallow pit around the device, piling up the soil in four neat mounds. Already Ghosn knew that there was something odd here. It was not a Mark 84. It had roughly the same size, but the shape was wrong, and the bombcase was… just wasn't right. The Mark 84 had a sturdy case made of cast steel, so that when the explosive filler detonated, the case would be transformed into a million razor-sharp fragments, the better to tear men to bits. But not this one. In two visible places the case was broken, and it wasn't quite thick enough for that kind of bomb. So what the hell was it?

  Russell moved in closer and used his hands to pull the dirt off the surface of the bomb itself. He was careful and thorough. The American worked up a good sweat but didn't slacken his efforts even once. The muscles in his arms rippled, and Ghosn admired him for that. The man had a physical power like none he had ever seen. Even Israeli paratroopers didn't look so formidable. He'd excavated two or three tons of dirt, yet he barely showed the effort, his movements as steady and powerful as a machine.

  “Stop for a minute,” Ghosn said. “I must get my tools.”

  “Okay,” Russell replied, sitting back and staring at the bomb.

  Ghosn returned with a rucksack and a canteen, which he handed to the American.

  Thanks, man. It is a little warm here.“ Russell drank half a liter of water. ”Now what?"

  Ghosn took a paint brush from the sack and began sweeping the last of the dirt from the weapon. “You should leave now,” he warned.

  “That's okay, Ibrahim. I'll stay if you don't mind.”

  “This is the dangerous part.”

  “You stayed by me, man,” Russell pointed out.

  “As you wish. I am now looking for the fuse.”

  “Not in front?” Russell pointed to the nose of the bomb.

  “Not there. There is usually one at the front — it appears to be missing, that's just a screw-on cap — one in the middle, and one at the back.”

  “How come it don't have no fins on it?” Russell asked. “Don't bombs have fins on 'em, you know, like an arrow?”

  “The fins were probably stripped off when it hit the ground. That's often how we find such bombs, because the fins come off and lie on the surface.”

  “Want me to uncover the back of the thing, then?”

  “Very, very carefully, Marvin. Please.”

  “Okay, man.” Russell moved around his friend and resumed pulling the dirt off the back end of the bombcase. Ghosn, he noted, was one cool son of a bitch. Marvin was as scared as he had ever been, this close to a shitload of explosives, but he could not and damned well would not show anything that looked like fear to this guy. Ibrahim might be a little pencil-necked geek, but the dude had real balls, dicking with a bomb like this. He noted that Ghosn was sweeping the dirt off like he was using the brush on a girl's tits, and made his own efforts just as cautious. Ten minutes later, he had uncovered the back.

  “Ibrahim?”

  “Yes, Marvin?” Ghosn said without looking.

  “There ain't nothing here. The back's just a hole, man.”

  Ghosn lifted the brush from the case and turned to look. That was odd. But he had other things to do. “Thank you. You can stop now. I still have not found a fuse.”

  Russell backed off, sat on a mound of dirt, and proceeded to empty the rest of the canteen. On reflection he walked over to the truck. The three men there along with the farmer were just standing — the farmer watching in the open, the others observing more circumspectly behind the stone walls of the house. Russell tossed one man the empty canteen, and had a full one returned the same way. He gave a thumbs-up sign to all of them and walked back to the bomb.

  “Back off for a minute and have a drink,” Marvin said on his return.

  “Good idea,” Ghosn agreed, setting his brush down next to the bomb.

  “Find anything?”

  “A plug connection, nothing else.” That was odd, too, Ghosn thought, pulling the top off the canteen. There were no stenciled markings, just a silver-and-red label block near the nose. Color-codes were common on bombs, but he'd never seen that one before. So, what was this damned thing? Maybe an FAE or some kind of sub-munition canister? Something old and obsolete that he'd never seen before. It had come down in 1973, after all. Maybe something that had long since gone out of service. That was very bad news. If it were something he'd never seen before, it might have a fusing system that he didn't know. His manual for dealing with such things was Russian in origin, though printed in Arabic. Ghosn had long since committed it to memory, but there was no description for anything like this. And that was truly frightening. Ghosn took a long pull from the canteen and then poured a little across his face.

  “Take it easy, man,” Russell said, noticing the man's tension.

  “This job is never easy, my friend, and it is always very frightening.”

  “You look pretty cool, Ibrahim.” It wasn't a lie. While brushing the dirt off, he looked like a doctor, almost, doing something real hard, Russell thought, but doing it. The little fucker had balls, Marvin told himself again.

  Ghosn turned and grinned. “That is all a lie. I am quite terrified. I truly hate doing this.”

  “You got a big pair, boy, and that's no shit.”

  “Thank you. Now I must return while I still can. You really should leave, you know.”

  Russell spat into the dirt. “Fuck it.”

  “That would be very dif
ficult.” Ghosn grinned. “And if you got a reaction from 'her', you might not like it.”

  “I guess when these suckers come, the earth really does move!”

  Ghosn knew enough of American idiom that he fell backwards and laughed uproariously. “Please, Marvin, do not say such things when I am working!” I like this man! Ghosn told himself. We are too humorless a lot. I like this American! He had to wait another few minutes before he calmed down enough to resume his work.

  Another hour's brushing showed nothing. There were seams in the bombcase, even some sort of hatch… he'd never seen that before. But no fuse point. If there were one, it had to be underneath. Russell moved away some more dirt, allowing Ghosn to continue his search, but again, nothing. He decided to examine the back.

  There's a flashlight in my sack…"

  “Got it.” Russell handed the light over.

  Ghosn lay down on the dirt and contorted himself to look into the hole. It was dark, of course, and he switched on the light… He saw electrical wiring, and something else, some sort of metal framework — latticework would be more accurate. He judged he could see perhaps eighty centimeters… and if this were a real bomb, there would not be so much empty space. So. So. Ghosn tossed the light to the American.

  “We have just wasted five hours,” he announced.

  “Huh?”

  “I don't know what this thing is, but it is not a bomb.” He sat up and had a brief attack of the shakes, but it didn't last long.

  “What is it then?”

  “Some kind of electronic sensing device, perhaps, a warning system. Maybe a camera pod — the lens assembly must be underneath. That doesn't matter. What is important is that it is no bomb.”

  “So, now what?”

  “We move it, take it back with us. It might be valuable. Perhaps something we can sell to the Russians or the Syrians.”

  “So the old guy was worried about nothing?”

  “Correct.” Ghosn rose and the two men walked back to the truck. “It is safe now,” he told the farmer. Might as well tell him what he wanted to know, and why confuse him with the facts of the matter? The farmer kissed Ghosn's dirty hands, and those of the American, which further embarrassed Russell.

  The driver pulled the truck around, and backed into the garden, careful to do as little damage to the rows of vegetables as possible. Russell watched as two men filled a half-dozen sandbags and hoisted them into the truck. Next they put a sling around the bomb, and began to crank it up with a winch. The bomb — or whatever it was — was heavier than expected, and Russell took over the hand winch, displaying his strength yet again as he cranked it up alone. The Arabs swung the A-frame forward, then he lowered the bomb into the nest made of sandbags. A few ropes secured it in place, and that was that.

  The farmer would not let them leave. He brought out tea and bread, insisting on feeding the men before they left, and Ghosn accepted the man's hospitality with appropriate humility. Four lambs were added to the truck's load before they left.

  “That was a good thing you did, man,” Russell observed as they pulled off.

  “Perhaps,” Ghosn said tiredly. Stress was so much more tiring than actual labor, though the American seemed to handle both quite well. Two hours later, they were back in the Bekaa Valley. The bomb — Ghosn didn't know what else to call it — was dropped unceremoniously in front of his workshop, and the party of five went to feast on fresh lamb. To Ghosn's surprise, the American had never had lamb before, and so was properly introduced to the traditional Arab delicacy.

  “Got something interesting, Bill,” Murray announced, as he came into the Director's office.

  “What's that, Danny?” Shaw looked up from his appointments schedule.

  “A cop got himself killed over in Athens, and they think it was an American who did it.” Murray filled Shaw in on the technical details.

  “Broke his neck barehanded?” Bill asked.

  That's right. The cop was a skinny little guy,“ Murray said, ”but…"

  “Jesus. Okay, let's see.” Murray handed the photo over. “We know this guy, Dan? It's not the best picture in the world.”

  “Al Denton thinks it might be Marvin Russell. He's playing computer games on the original slide. There were no prints or other forensic stuff. The car was registered to a third party who disappeared, probably never existed in the first place. The driver of the other vehicle is an unknown. Anyway, it fits Russell's description, short and powerful, and the cheekbones and coloration make him look like an Indian. Clothing is definitely American. So's the suitcase.”

  “So you think he skipped the country after we got his brother… smart move,” Shaw judged. “He was supposed to be the bright one, wasn't he?”

  “Smart enough to get teamed up with an Arab.”

  “Think so?” Shaw examined the other face. “Could be Greek, or anything Mediterranean. Skin's a little fair for an Arab, but it's a pretty ordinary face, and you said it's an unknown. Gut call, Dan?”

  “Yep.” Murray nodded. “I checked the file. A confidential informant told us a few years ago that Marvin made a trip east a few years back and made contacts with the PFLP. Athens is a convenient place to renew the association. Neutral ground.”

  “Also a good place to make connections for a drug deal,” Shaw suggested. “What current info do we have on Brother Marvin?”

  “Not much. Our best CI out there is back in the joint — had a brawl with a couple of reservation cops and came off second-best.”

  Shaw grunted. The problem with Confidential Informants, of course, was that most of them were criminals who did illegal things and regularly ended up in jail. That both established their bonafides and made them temporarily useless. Such were the rules of the game. “Okay,” the FBI Director said. “You want to do something. What is it?”

  “With a little nudge, we can spring the CI on good-time rules and get him back into the Warrior Society. If this is a terrorist connection, we'd better start running some leads down. Ditto if it's for drugs. Interpol has already come up blank on the driver. No record of his face for either terrorist or drug connections. The Greeks have come to a blank wall. Information on the car didn't lead them anywhere. They have a dead sergeant, and all they got to go on is two faces with no names attached. Sending the photo to us was their last shot. They figured him for an American…”

  “Hotel?” the Director asked, ever the investigator.

  “Yeah, they identified that — that is, they know it's one of two places side by side. There were ten people with American passports who checked out that day, but they're both little places with lots of in-and-out, and they came up with nothing useful for identification purposes. The hotel staff is forgetful. That kind of a place. Who's to say that our friend even stayed there? The Greeks want us to do follow-up on the names from the hotel register,” Murray concluded.

  Bill Shaw handed the photo back. “That's simple enough. Run with it.”

  “Already being done.”

  “Assuming we know that these two had anything to do with the killing. Well, you gotta go with your best guess. Okay: let the US Attorney know that our CI has paid his debt to society. It's about time we ran those 'warriors' down once and for all.” Shaw had won his spurs on counter-terrorism, and that class of criminal was still his first hate.

  “Yeah, I'll play up the drug connection on that. We ought to have him sprung in two weeks or so.”

  “Fair enough, Dan.”

  “When's the President get into Rome?” Murray asked.

  “Pretty soon. Really something, isn't it?”

  “Bet your ass, man. Kenny'd better find himself another line of work soon. Peace is breaking out.”

  Shaw grinned. “Who woulda thunk it? We can always get him a badge and a gun so's he can earn an honest living.”

  Presidential security was completed with a discreetly located flight of four Navy Tomcat fighters that had followed the VC-25A at a distance of five miles while a radar-surveillance aircraft ma
de sure that nothing was approaching Air Force One. Normal commercial traffic was set aside, and the environs of the military airfield being used for the arrival had not so much been combed as strained. Already waiting on the pavement was the President's armored limousine, which had been flown in a few hours earlier by an Air Force C-141B, and enough Italian soldiers and police to discourage a regiment of terrorists. President Fowler emerged from his private washroom shaved and scrubbed pink, his tie exquisitely knotted, and smiling as brightly as Pete and Daga had ever seen. As well he might, Connor thought. The agent did not moralize as deeply as D'Agustino did. The President was a man, and as most presidents were, a lonely man — doubly so with the loss of his wife. Elliot might be an arrogant bitch, but she was undeniably attractive, and if that's what it took to allay the stress and pressure of the job, then that's what it took. The President had to relax, else the job would burn him up — as it had burned others up — and that was bad for the country. So long as H AWK didn't break any major laws, Connor and D'Agustino would protect both his privacy and his pleasures. Pete understood. Daga merely wished that he had better taste. E.E. had left the quarters a little earlier, and was dressed in something especially nice. She joined the President in the dining area just before landing for coffee and donuts. There was no denying that she was attractive, especially this morning. Maybe, Special Agent Helen D'Agustino thought, she was a good lay. Certainly she and the President were the best-rested people on the flight. The media pukes — the Secret Service has an institutional dislike for reporters — had squirmed and fidgeted in their seats throughout the flight, and looked rumpled, despite their upbeat expressions. The most harried of all was the President's speechwriter, who'd worked through the night without pause, except for coffee and head-calls, and finally delivered the speech to Arnie van Damm a bare twenty minutes before touchdown. Fowler had run through it over breakfast and loved it.