by Tom Clancy
The problem, Reilly thought, was that neither he nor anyone else knew how much time there was for Russians to catch up with the rest of the world. There was much here to admire, especially in the arts. Because of his diplomatic status, Reilly and his wife often got complimentary tickets to concerts (which he liked) and the ballet (which his wife loved), and that was still the class of the world ... but the rest of the country had never kept up. Some at the embassy, some of the older CIA people who’d been here before the fall of the USSR, said that the improvements were incredible. But if that were true, Reilly told himself, then what had been here before must have been truly dreadful to behold, though the Bolshoi had probably still been the Bolshoi, even then.
“That is all?” Tanya Bogdanova asked in the interrogation room.
“Yes, thank you for coming in. We may call you again.”
“Use this number,” she said, handing over her business card. “It’s for my cellular phone.” That was one more Western convenience in Moscow for those with the hard currency, and Tanya obviously did.
The interrogator was a young militia sergeant. He stood politely and moved to get the door for her, showing Bogdanova the courtesy she’d come to expect from men. In the case of Westerners, it was for her physical attributes. In the case of her countrymen, it was her clothing that told them of her newfound worth. Reilly watched her eyes as she left the room. The expression was like that of a child who’d expected to be caught doing something naughty, but hadn’t. How stupid father was, that sort of smile proclaimed. It seemed so misplaced on the angel-face, but there it was, on the other side of the mirror.
“Oleg?”
“Yes, Mishka?” Provalov turned.
“She’s dirty, man. She’s a player,” Reilly said in English. Provalov knew the cop-Americanisms.
“I agree, Mishka, but I have nothing to hold her on, do I?”
“I suppose not. Might be interesting to keep an eye on her, though.”
“If I could afford her, I would keep more than my eye on her, Mikhail Ivan’ch.”
Reilly grunted amusement. “Yeah, I hear that.”
“But she has a heart of ice.”
“That’s a fact,” the FBI agent agreed. And the game in which she was a player was at best nasty, and at its worst, lethal.
So, what do we have?” Ed Foley asked, some hours later across the river from Washington.
“Gornischt so far,” Mary Pat replied to her husband’s question.
“Jack wants to be kept up to speed on this one.”
“Well, tell the President that we’re running as fast as we can, and all we have so far is from the Legal Attaché. He’s in tight with the local cops, but they don’t seem to know shit either. Maybe somebody tried to kill Sergey Nikolay’ch, but the Legat says he thinks Rasputin was the real target.”
“I suppose he had his share of enemies,” the Director of Central Intelligence conceded.
Thank you,” the Vice President concluded to the packed house at the Ole Miss field house. The purpose of the speech was to announce that eight new destroyers would be built in the big Litton shipyard on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, which meant jobs and money for the state, always items of concern for the governor, who was now standing and applauding as though the Ole Miss football team had just knocked off Texas at the Cotton Bowl. They took their sports seriously down here. And their politics, Robby reminded himself, stifling a curse for this tawdry profession that was so much like medieval bargaining in a village square, three good pigs for a cow or something, toss in a mug of bitter ale. Was this how one governed a country? He grinned as he shook his head. Well, there had been politics in the Navy, too, and he’d scaled those heights, but he’d done it by being one hell of a good naval officer and the best fucking fighter pilot ever to catapult off a flattop. On the last score, of course he knew that every fighter pilot sitting and waiting for the cat shot felt exactly the same way ... it was just that he was totally correct in his self-assessment.
There were the usual hands to shake coming off the platform, guided by his Secret Service detail in their dark, forbidding shades, then down the steps and out the back door to his car, where another squad of armed men waited, their vigilant eyes looking ever outward, like the gunners on a B- 17 over Schweinfurt must have done, the Vice President thought. One of them held open the car door, and Robby slid in.
“TOMCAT is rolling,” the chief of the VP detail told his microphone as the car headed off.
Robby picked up his briefing folder as the car got onto the highway for the airport. “Anything important happening in D.C.?”
“Not that they’ve told me about,” the Secret Service agent answered.
Jackson nodded. These were good people looking after him. The detail chief, he figured, was a medium-to-senior captain, and the rest of his troops j.g.’s to lieutenant commanders, which was how Robby treated them. They were underlings, but good ones, well-trained pros who merited the smile and the nod when they did things right, which they nearly always did. They would have made good aviators, most of them—and the rest probably good Marines. The car finally pulled up to the VC-20B jet in an isolated corner of the general-aviation part of the airport, surrounded by yet more security troops. The driver stopped the car just twenty feet from the foot of the self-extending stairs.
“You going to drive us home, sir?” the detail chief asked, suspecting the answer.
“Bet your ass, Sam” was the smiling reply.
That didn’t please the USAF captain detailed to be co-pilot on the aircraft, and it wasn’t all that great for the lieutenant colonel supposed to be the pilot-in-command of the modified Gulfstream III. The Vice President liked to have the stick—in his case the yoke—in his hands at all times, while the colonel worked the radio and monitored the instruments. The aircraft spent most of its time on autopilot, of course, but Jackson, right seat or not, was determined to be the command pilot on the flight, and you couldn’t very well say no to him. As a result, the captain would sit in the back and the colonel would be in the left seat, but jerking off. What the hell, the latter thought, the Vice President told good stories, and was a fairly competent stick for a Navy puke.
“Clear right,” Jackson said, a few minutes later.
“Clear left,” the pilot replied, confirming the fact from the plane-walker in front of the Gulfstream.
“Starting One,” Jackson said next, followed thirty seconds later by “Starting Two.”
The ribbon gauges came up nicely. “Looking good, sir,” the USAF lieutenant colonel reported. The G had Rolls-Royce Spey engines, the same that had once been used on the U.K. versions of the F-4 Phantom fighter, but somewhat more reliable.
“Tower, this is Air Force Two, ready to taxi.”
“Air Force Two, Tower, cleared to taxiway three.”
“Roger, Tower AF-Two taxiing via three.” Jackson slipped the brakes and let the aircraft move, its fighter engines barely above idle, but guzzling a huge quantity of fuel for all that. On a carrier, Jackson thought, you had plane handlers in yellow shirts to point you around. Here you had to go according to the map/diagram—clipped to the center of the yoke—to the proper place, all the while looking around to make sure some idiot in a Cessna 172 didn’t stray into your path like a stray car in the supermarket parking lot. Finally, they reached the end of the runway, and turned to face down it.
“Tower, this is Spade requesting permission to take off.” It just sort of came out on its own.
A laughing reply: “This ain’t the Enterprise, Air Force Two, and we don’t have cat shots here, but you are cleared to depart, sir.”
You could hear the grin in the reply: “Roger, Tower, AF-TWO is rolling.”
“Your call sign was really ‘Spade’?” the assigned command pilot asked as the VC-20B started rolling.
“Got hung on by my first CO, back when I was a new nugget. And it kinda stuck.” The Vice President shook his head. “Jesus, that seems like a long time ago.”
&n
bsp; “V-One, sir,” the Air Force officer said next, followed by “V-R.”
At velocity-rotation, Jackson eased back on the yoke, bringing the aircraft off the ground and into the air. The colonel retracted the landing gear on command, while Jackson flipped the wheel half an inch left and right, rocking the wings a little as he always did to make sure the aircraft was willing to do what he told it. It was, and inside of three minutes, the G was on autopilot, programmed to turn, climb, and level out at thirty-nine thousand feet.
“Boring, isn’t it?”
“Just another word for safe, sir,” the USAF officer replied.
Fucking trash-hauler, Jackson thought. No fighter pilot would say something like that out loud. Since when was flying supposed to be ... well, Robby had to admit to himself, he always buckled his seat belt before starting his car, and never did anything reckless, even with a fighter plane. But it offended him that this aircraft, like almost all of the new ones, did so much of the work that he’d been trained to do himself. It would even land itself ... well, the Navy had such systems aboard its carrier aircraft, but no proper naval aviator ever used it unless ordered to, something Robert Jefferson Jackson had always managed to avoid. This trip would go into his logbook as time in command, but it really wasn’t. Instead it was a microchip in command, and his real function was to be there to take proper action in case something broke. But nothing ever did. Even the damned engines. Once turbojets had lasted a mere nine or ten hours before having to be replaced. Now there were Spey engines on the G fleet that had twelve thousand hours. There was one out there with over thirty thousand that Rolls-Royce wanted back, offering a free brand-new replacement because its engineers wanted to tear that one apart to learn what they’d done so right, but the owner, perversely and predictably, refused to part with it. The rest of the Gulfstream airframe was about that reliable, and the electronics were utterly state-of-the-art, Jackson knew, looking down at the color display from the weather-radar. It was a clear and friendly black at the moment, showing what was probably smooth air all the way to Andrews. There was as yet no instrument that detected turbulence, but up here at flight level three-niner-zero, that was a pretty rare occurrence, and Jackson wasn’t often susceptible to airsickness, and his hand was inches from the yoke in case something unexpected happened. Jackson occasionally hoped that something would happen, since it would allow him to show just how good an aviator he was ... but it never did. Flying had become too routine since his childhood in the F-4N Phantom and his emerging manhood in the F-14A Tomcat. And maybe it was better that way. Yeah, he thought, sure.
“Mr. Vice President?” It was the voice of the USAF communications sergeant aboard the VC-20. Robby turned to see her with a sheaf of papers.
“Yeah, Sarge?”
“Flash traffic just came in on the printer.” She extended her hand, and Robby took the paper.
“Colonel, your airplane for a while,” the VP told the lieutenant colonel in the left seat.
“Pilot’s airplane,” the colonel agreed, while Robby started reading.
It was always the same, even though it was also always different. The cover sheet had the usual classification formatting. It had once impressed Jackson that the act of showing a sheet of paper to the wrong person could land him in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary—at the time, actually, the since-closed Portsmouth Naval Prison in New Hampshire—but now as a senior government official in Washington, D.C., he knew he could show damned near anything to a reporter from The Washington Post and not be touched for it. It wasn’t so much that he was above the law as he was one of the people who decided what the law meant. What was so damned secret and sensitive in this case was that CIA didn’t know shit about the possible attempt on the life of Russia’s chief spymaster ... which meant nobody else in Washington did, either....
CHAPTER 3
The Problems with Riches
The issue was trade, not exactly the President’s favorite, but then, at this level, every issue took on sufficient twists that even the ones you thought you knew about became strange at best, unknown and alien at worst.
“George?” Ryan said to his Secretary of the Treasury, George Winston.
“Mr. Pres—”
“Goddammit, George!” The President nearly spilled his coffee with the outburst.
“Okay.” SecTreas nodded submission. “It’s hard to make the adjustment ... Jack.” Ryan was getting tired of the Presidential trappings, and his rule was that here, in the Oval Office, his name was Jack, at least for his inner circle, of which Winston was one. After all, Ryan had joked a few times, after leaving this marble prison, he might be working for TRADER, as the Secret Service knew him, back in New York on The Street, instead of the other way ’round. After leaving the Presidency, something for which Jack prostrated himself before God every night—or so the stories went—he’d have to find gainful employment somewhere, and the trading business beckoned. Ryan had shown a rare gift for it, Winston reminded himself. His last such effort had been a California company called Silicon Alchemy, just one of many computer outfits, but the only one in which Ryan had taken an interest. So skillfully had he brought that firm to IPO that his own stock holdings in SALC—its symbol on the big board—were now valued at just over eighty million dollars, making Ryan by far the wealthiest American President in history. It was something his politically astute Chief of Staff, Arnold van Damm, did not advertise to the news media, who typically regarded every wealthy man as a robber baron, excepting, of course, the owners of the papers and TV stations themselves, who were, of course, the best of public-spirited citizens. None of this was widely known, even in the tight community of Wall Street big-hitters, which was remarkable enough. Should he ever return to The Street, Ryan’s prestige would be sufficient to earn money while he slept in his bed at home. And that, Winston freely admitted, was something well and truly earned, and be damned to whatever the media hounds thought of it.
“It’s China?” Jack asked.
“That’s right, Boss,” Winston confirmed with a nod. “Boss” was a term Ryan could stomach, as it was also the in-house term the Secret Service—which was part of Winston’s Department of the Treasury—used to identify the man they were sworn to protect. “They’re having a little cash-shortfall problem, and they’re looking to make it up with us.”
“How little?” POTUS asked.
“It looks as though it will annualize out to, oh, seventy billion or so.”
“That is, as we say, real money.”
George Winston nodded. “Anything that starts with a ‘B’ is real enough, and this is a little better than six ‘Bs’ a month.”
“Spending it for what?”
“Not entirely sure, but a lot of it has to be military-related. The French arms industries are tight with them now, since the Brits kiboshed the jet-engine deal from Rolls-Royce.”
The President nodded, looking down at the briefing papers. “Yeah, Basil talked the PM out of it.” That was Sir Basil Charleston, chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service, sometimes called (erroneously) MI6. Basil was an old friend of Ryan’s, going back to his CIA days. “It was a remarkably stand-up thing to do.”
“Well, our friends in Paris don’t seem to think the same way.”
“They usually don’t,” Ryan agreed. The odd thing was the dichotomy inherent in dealing with the French. In some things, they weren’t so much allies as blood brothers, but in others they were less than mere associates, and Ryan had trouble figuring out the logic by which the French changed their minds. Well, the President thought, that’s what I have a State Department for.... “So, you think the PRC is building up its military again?”
“Big time, but not so much their navy, which makes our friends in Taiwan feel a little better.”
That had been one of President Ryan’s foreign-policy initiatives after concluding hostilities with the defunct United Islamic Republic, now restored to the separate nations of Iran and Iraq, which were at least at peace with each o
ther. The real reasons for the recognition of Taiwan had never been made known to the public. It looked pretty clear to Ryan and his Secretary of State, Scott Adler, that the People’s Republic of China had played a role in the Second Persian Gulf War, and probably in the preceding conflict with Japan, as well. Exactly why? Well, some in CIA thought that China lusted after the mineral riches in eastern Siberia—this was suggested by intercepts and other access to the electronic mail of the Japanese industrialists who’d twisted their nation’s path into a not-quite-open clash with America. They’d referred to Siberia as the “Northern Resource Area,” harkening back to when an earlier generation of Japanese strategists had called South Asia the “Southern Resource Area.” That had been part of another conflict, one known to history as the Second World War. In any case, the complicity of the PRC with America’s enemies had merited a countermove, Ryan and Adler had agreed, and besides, the Republic of China on Taiwan was a democracy, with government officials elected by the people of that nation island—and that was something America was supposed to respect.
