Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  Her co-workers noted a slight difference in their colleague. She smiled a little more, and in a somewhat different way. Something good must have happened to her, some of them thought, and for this they rejoiced, albeit in a reserved and private way. If Ming wished to share the experience with them, all well and good, and if not, that, too, was okay with them, because some things were private, even among a group of women who shared virtually everything, including stories of their minister and his fumbling, lengthy, and occasionally futile efforts at lovemaking. He was a wise man, and usually a gentle one, though as a boss he had his bad points. But Ming would notice none of those today. Her smile was sweeter than ever, and her eyes twinkled like little diamonds, the rest of the admin/secretarial staff all thought. They’d all seen it before, though not with Ming, whose love life had been an abbreviated one, and whom the minister liked a little too much, but whom he serviced imperfectly and too seldom. She sat at her computer to do her correspondence and translations of Western news articles that might be of interest to the Minister. Ming had the best English skills of anyone in this corner of the building, and the new computer system worked superbly. The next step, so the story went, was a computer into which you’d just speak, making the characters appear by voice command, sure to become the curse of every executive secretary in the world, because it would largely make them obsolete. Or maybe not. The boss couldn’t fuck a computer, could he? Not that Minister Fang was all that intrusive in his demands. And the perks he delivered in return weren’t bad at all.

  Her first morning assignment took the customary ninety minutes, after which she printed up the resulting copy and stapled the pages together by article. This morning she’d translated pieces by the Times of London, and the New York Times, plus The Washington Post, so that her Minister would know what the barbarians around the world thought of the enlightened policy of the People’s Republic.

  In his private office, Minister Fang was going over other things. The MSS had a double report on the Russians: both oil and gold, the reports said. So, he thought, Zhang had been right all along, even more right than he knew. Eastern Siberia was indeed a treasure-house, full of things everyone needed. Oil, because petroleum was the very blood of modern society, and gold, because in addition to its negotiable value as an old but still very real medium of exchange, it still had industrial and scientific uses as well. And each had a cache of its own. What a pity that such riches should fall to a people without the wit to make proper use of them. It was so strange, the Russians who had given the world the gift of Marxism but then failed to exploit it properly, and then abandoned it, only to fail also in their transition to a bourgeois capitalist society. Fang lit a cigarette, his fifth of the day (he was trying to cut back as his seventieth birthday approached), and set the MSS report down on his desk before leaning back in his chair to puff on his unfiltered smoke and consider the information this morning had brought. Siberia, as Zhang had been saying for some years now, had so much that the PRC needed, timber, minerals in abundance—even greater abundance, so these intelligence documents said—and space, which China needed above all things.

  There were simply too many people in China, and that despite population-control measures that could only be called draconian both in their content, and in their ruthless application. Those measures were an affront to Chinese culture, which had always viewed children as a blessing, and now the social engineering was having an unexpected result. Allowed only one child per married couple, the people often chose to have boys instead of girls. It was not unknown for a peasant to take a female toddler of two years and drop her down a well—the merciful ones broke their necks first—to dispose of the embarrassing encumbrance. Fang understood the reasons for this. A girl child grew up to marry, to join her life to a man, while a boy child could always be depended upon to support and honor his parents, and provide security. But a girl child would merely spread her legs for some other couple’s boy child, and where was the security for her parents in that?

  It had been true in Fang’s case. As he’d grown to a senior party official, he’d made sure that his own mother and father had found a comfortable place to live out their lives, for such were the duties of a child for those who had given him life. Along the way, he’d married, of course—his wife was long dead of cardiovascular disease—and he’d given some lip service to his wife’s parents ... but not as much as he’d done for his own. Even his wife had understood that, and used her shadow-influence as the wife of a party official to make her own special but lesser arrangements. Her brother had died young, at the hands of the American army in Korea, and was therefore just a memory without practical value.

  But the problem for China that no one really talked about, even at Politburo level, was that their population policy was affecting the demographics of their country. In elevating the value of boy children over girls, the PRC was causing an imbalance that was becoming statistically significant. In fifteen years or so, there would be a shortage of women—some said that this was a good thing, because they would achieve the overarching national objective of population stability faster but it also meant that for a generation, millions of Chinese men would have no women to marry and mate with. Would this turn into a flood of homosexuality? PRC policy still frowned upon that as a bourgeois degeneracy, though sodomy had been decriminalized in 1998. But if there were no women to be had, what was a man to do? And in addition to killing off surplus girl babies, those abandoned by their parents were often given away, to American and European couples unable to have children of their own. This happened by the hundreds of thousands, with the children disposed of as readily and casually as Americans sold puppies in shopping malls. Something in Fang’s soul bridled at that, but his feelings were mere bourgeois sentimentality, weren’t they? National policy dictated what must be, and policy was the means to achieving the necessary goal.

  His was a life as comfortable as privilege could make it. In addition to a plush office as pleasant as any capitalist’s, he had an official car and driver to take him to his residence, an ornate apartment with servants to look after his needs, the best food that his country could provide, good beverages, a television connected to a satellite service so that he could receive all manner of entertainment, even including Japanese pornographic channels, for his manly drives had not yet deserted him. (He didn’t speak Japanese, but you didn’t need to understand the dialogue in such movies, did you?)

  Fang still worked long hours, rising at six-thirty, and was at his desk before eight every morning. His staff of secretaries and assistants took proper care of him, and some of the female ones were agreeably compliant, once, occasionally twice per week. Few men of his years had his vigor, Fang was sure, and unlike Chairman Mao, he didn’t abuse children, which he’d known of at the time and found somewhat distasteful. But great men had their flaws, and you overlooked them because of the greatness that made them who they were. As for himself and people like him, they were entitled to the proper environments in which to rest, good nourishment to sustain their bodies through their long and grueling workdays, and the opportunities for relaxation and recreation that men of vigor and intelligence needed. It was necessary that they live better than most other citizens of their country, and it was also earned. Giving direction to the world’s most populous country was no easy task. It demanded their every intellectual energy, and such energy needed to be conserved and restored. Fang looked up as Ming entered with her folder of news articles.

  “Good morning, Minister,” she said with proper deference.

  “Good morning, child.” Fang nodded with affection. This one shared his bed fairly well, and for that reason merited more than a grunt. Well, he’d gotten her a very comfortable office chair, hadn’t he? She withdrew, bowing proper respect for her father figure, as she always did. Fang noticed nothing particularly different about her demeanor, as he lifted the folder and took out the news articles, along with a pencil for making notations. He’d compare these with MSS estimates of the mo
od of other countries and their governments. It was Fang’s way of letting the Ministry of State Security know that the Politburo members still had minds of their own with which to think. The MSS had signally failed to predict America’s diplomatic recognition of Taiwan, though in fairness, the American news media didn’t seem to predict the actions of this President Ryan all that well, either. What an odd man he was, and certainly no friend of the People’s Republic. A peasant, the MSS analysts called him, and in many ways that seemed both accurate and appropriate. He was strangely unsophisticated in his outlook, something the New York Times commented upon rather frequently. Why did they dislike him? Was he not capitalist enough, or was he too capitalist? Understanding the American news media was beyond Fang’s powers of analysis, but he could at least digest the things they said, and that was something the intelligence “experts” at the MSS Institute for American Studies were not always able to do. With that thought, Fang lit another cigarette and settled back in his chair.

  It was a miracle, Provalov thought. Central Army Records had gotten the files, fingerprints, and photographs of the two bodies recovered in St. Petersburg—but perversely sent the records to him rather than to Abramov and Ustinov, doubtless because he was the one who had invoked the name of Sergey Golovko. Dzerzhinskiy Square still inspired people to do their jobs in a timely fashion. The names and vital statistics would be faxed at once to St. Petersburg so that his northern colleagues might see what information could be developed. The names and photographs were only a start—documents nearly twenty years old showing youthful, emotionless faces. The service records were fairly impressive, though. Once upon a time, Pyotr Alekseyevich Amalrik and Pavel Borissovich Zimyanin had been considered superior soldiers, smart, fit ... and highly reliable, politically speaking, which was why they’d gone to Spetsnaz school and sergeant school. Both had fought in Afghanistan, and done fairly well—they’d survived Afghanistan, which was not the usual thing for Spetsnaz troops, who’d drawn all of the dirtiest duty in an especially dirty war. They’d not reenlisted, which was not unusual. Hardly anyone in the Soviet Army had ever reenlisted voluntarily. They’d returned to civilian life, both working in the same factory outside Leningrad, as it had been called then. But Amalrik and Zimyanin had both found ordinary civilian life boring, and both, he gathered, had drifted into something else. He’d have to let the investigators in St. Petersburg find out more. He pulled a routing slip from his drawer and rubber-banded it to the records package. It would be couriered to St. Petersburg, where Abramov and Ustinov would play with the contents.

  A Mr. Sherman, Mr. Secretary,” Winston’s secretary told him over the intercom. ”Line three.”

  “Hey, Sam,” SecTreas said, as he picked up the phone. “What’s new?”

  “Our oil field up north,” the president of Atlantic Richfield replied.

  “Good news?”

  “You might say that. Our field people say the find is about fifty percent bigger than our initial estimates.”

  “How solid is that information?”

  “About as reliable as one of your T-bills, George. My head field guy is Ernie Beach. He’s as good at finding oil as you used to be playing up on The Street.” Maybe even better , Sam Sherman didn’t add. Winston was known to have something of an ego on the subject of his own worth. The addendum got through anyway.

  “So, summarize that for me,” the Secretary of the Treasury commanded.

  “So, when this field comes on line, the Russians will be in a position to purchase Saudi Arabia outright, plus Kuwait and maybe half of Iran. It makes east Texas look like a fart in a tornado. It’s huge, George.”

  “Hard to get out?”

  “It won’t be easy, and it won’t be inexpensive, but from an engineering point of view it’s pretty straightforward. If you want to buy a hot stock, pick a Russian company that makes cold-weather gear. They’re going to be real busy for the next ten years or so,” Sherman advised.

  “Okay, and what can you tell me of the implications for Russia in economic terms?”

  “Hard to say. It will take eight to twelve years to bring this field fully on line, and the amount of crude this will dump on the market will distort market conditions quite a bit. We haven’t modeled all that out—but it’s going to be huge, like in the neighborhood of one hundred billion dollars per year, current-year dollars, that is.”

  “For how long?” Winston could almost hear the shrug that followed.

  “Twenty years, maybe more. Our friends in Moscow still want us to sit on this, but word’s perking out in our company, like trying to hide a sunrise, y’know? I give it a month before it breaks out into the news media. Maybe a little longer’n that, but not much.”

  “What about the gold strike?”

  “Hell, George, they’re not telling me anything about that, but my guy in Moscow says the cat’s gobbled down some kind of canary, or that’s how it appears to him. That will probably depress the world price of gold about five, maybe ten percent, but our models say it’ll rebound before Ivan starts selling the stuff he pulls out of the ground. Our Russian friends—well, their rich uncle just bit the big one and left them the whole estate, y’know?”

  “And no adverse effects on us,” Winston thought aloud.

  “Hell, no. They’ll have to buy all sorts of hardware from our people, and they’ll need a lot of expertise that only we have, and after that’s over, the world price of oil goes down, and that won’t hurt us either. You know, George, I like the Russians. They’ve been unlucky sonsabitches for a long time, but maybe this’ll change that for’em.”

  “No objections here or next door, Sam,” TRADER assured his friend. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Well, you guys still collect my taxes.” You bastards, he didn’t add, but Winston heard it anyway, including the chuckle. “See you around, George.”

  “Right, have a good one, Sam, and thanks.” Winston killed one button on his phone, selected another line, and hit his number nine speed-dial line.

  “Yeah?” a familiar voice responded. Only ten people had access to this number.

  “Jack, it’s George, just had a call from Sam Sherman, Atlantic Richfield.”

  “Russia?”

  “Yeah. The field is fifty percent bigger than they initially thought. That makes it pretty damned big, biggest oil strike ever, as a matter of fact, bigger than the whole Persian Gulf combined. Getting the oil out will be a little expensive, but Sam says it’s all cookbook stuff—hard, but they know how it’s done, no new technology to invent, just a matter of spending the money—and not even all that much, ’cause labor is a lot cheaper there than it is here. The Russians are going to get rich.”

  “How rich?” the President asked.

  “On the order of a hundred billion dollars per year once the field is fully on line, and that’s good for twenty years, maybe more.”

  Jack had to whistle at that. “Two trillion dollars. That’s real money, George.”

  “That’s what we call it on The Street, Mr. President,” Winston agreed. “Sure as hell, that’s real money.”

  “And what effect will it have on the Russian economy?”

  “It won’t hurt them very much,” SecTreas assured him. “It gets them a ton of hard currency. With that money they can buy the things they’d like to have, and buy the tools to build the things they can make on their own. This will re-industrialize their country, Jack, jump-start them into the new century, assuming they have the brains to make proper use of it and not let it all bug out to Switzerland and Liechtenstein.”

  “How can we help them?” POTUS asked.

  “Best answer to that, you and I and two or three others sit down with our Russian counterparts and ask them what they need. If we can get a few of our industrialists to build some plants over there, it won’t hurt, and it’ll damned sure look good on TV.”

  “Noted, George. Get me a paper on that by the beginning of next week, and then we’ll see if we can figure out a way to let th
e Russians know what we know.”

  It was the end of another overlong day for Sergey Golovko. Running the SVR was job enough for any man, but he also had to back up Eduard Petrovich Grushavoy, President of the Russian Republic. President Grushavoy had his own collection of ministers, some of them competent, the others selected for their political capital, or merely to deny them to the political opposition. They could still do damage on the inside of Grushavoy’s administration, but less than on the outside. On the inside they had to use small-caliber weapons, lest they be killed by their own shots.

  The good news was that the Economics Minister, Vasily Konstantinovich Solomentsev, was intelligent and seemingly honest as well, as rare a combination in the Russian political spectrum as anywhere else in the known world. He had his ambitions—it was a rare minister who did not—but mainly, it seemed, he wanted his nation to prosper, and didn’t want to profit himself all that much. A little self-enrichment was all right with Golovko, just so that a man wasn’t a pig about it. The line, for Sergey Nikolay’ch, was about twenty million euros. More than that was hoggish, but less was understandable. After all, if a minister was successful at helping his country, he or she was entitled to get a proper reward for doing so. The ordinary working people out there wouldn’t mind, if the result was a better life for them, would they? Probably not, the spymaster thought. This wasn’t America, overrun with pointless and counterproductive “ethics” laws. The American President, whom Golovko knew well, had an aphorism that the Russian admired : If you have to write your ethics rules down, you’ve already lost. No fool, that Ryan, once a deadly enemy, and now a good friend, or seemingly so. Golovko had cultivated that friendship by providing help to America in two serious international crises. He’d done it because it had, first of all, been in his nation’s interest, and secondly, because Ryan was a man of honor, and unlikely to forget such favors. It had also amused Golovko, who’d spent most of his adult-hood in an agency devoted to the destruction of the West.