by Marc Cameron
Sassani scoffed. “See,” he said to Dovzhenko. “As I told you. Weak. But he will hang with his fellow traitors, nonetheless, by way of example.”
Sassani took the cigarettes out of his slacks and put a fresh one in his mouth. His venomous smile made Dovzhenko sick to his stomach. “May I trouble you for another light?”
Dovzhenko looked on passively as he lit the Iranian’s cigarette. There was something at play here. Something Dovzhenko could not quite put his finger on.
Reza Kazem was a troublemaker to be sure, the face of the tens of thousands of students and other dissatisfied Iranians who took to the streets in greater number every day across the entire country. It was natural for Sassani to want to know his whereabouts—but he wasn’t hard to find.
9
President Jack Ryan’s eyes flicked open at 5:27 a.m., just before his customary alarm. He was exhausted, and could have used the extra two minutes and forty-one seconds of sleep, but Cathy was home. Beside him. Right now. Awake. Conflicting schedules and high-profile jobs made grabbing a few moments together all but impossible. Times like this could not be taken for granted. He fluffed his pillow—they had great pillows at the White House—and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand when he turned off the alarm, before rolling over to face his wife of nearly forty years. She needed glasses as badly as he did, but had yet to put hers on, which was good because it tempered her view of his aging face and bleary-eyed bedhead. Nestling in closer, he caught the scent of mouthwash and Dioressence perfume. Supremely good signs indeed.
Egyptian cotton sheet pulled up to her chin, blond hair fanned across her pillow, Cathy Ryan fluttered long lashes. She began to sing as soon as Jack turned over, in a voice somewhere between Betty Boop and Marilyn Monroe.
“. . . Happy Birthday, Mr. President . . .”
Ryan chuckled, kissing her on the nose when she finished the song. “You know it’s not my birthday, right?”
Dr. Ryan’s eyes flew wide. Her lips puckered in a mock pout. “Really?” For one of the most talented ophthalmic surgeons in the world, she played the part of breathless bimbo incredibly well. Both hands now clutched the sheet on each side of her pouting chin. Her perfectly manicured nails were painted a deep red called I’m Not Really a Waitress. Amazingly, the White House press office had been able to keep the name of the color under wraps.
Her breasts rose and fell beneath the sheets as she heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Darn! If it’s not your birthday, then what am I supposed to do with this present?”
* * *
—
Eighteen minutes later, Ryan turned slightly to glance at his bedside clock and heaved a sigh of his own. Cathy’s arm trailed across his chest, her leg over his thigh, warm, so they no longer needed the sheet. Soft breaths puffed against his neck.
She chuckled softly.
“What?” he said.
Ryan couldn’t see her face, but he’d known her long enough to feel the tensing of her skin when she smiled. “You ever think what it would be like if there was some crisis of impending doom right now and the Secret Service had to burst in here with Arnie?”
“Now would be better than five minutes ago,” Ryan offered, considering the real possibility that his chief of staff might barge into the presidential bedroom if the threat was great enough.
“Maybe a little better,” Cathy said. “But not much.”
Ryan shrugged. “It’s different for you, hon. You’d be embarrassed, cover up with the sheet. I, on the other hand, couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud. It would be a guiltless way to proclaim, ‘Hey, the leader of the free world’s still got it.’”
“Oh, you still got it.” She nuzzled in closer, shuddering a little. “Anyway, I can’t just lie around here all day. I need to get to the hospital.”
“I know,” Ryan said. “I’ll hear it later in the briefing, but you docs must talk about this stuff. Fill me in on the latest expert opinions about this epidemic.”
Cathy reached down for the sheet and pulled it up to her chest before collapsing back on her preferred stack of three down pillows. Ryan knew she was envisioning a map of the United States and the number of deaths in each area. If the victim happened to be a child, she’d see the name. Her brain worked that way, recalling pictures of information—pages she’d read, images she’d seen—with a near-photographic memory. Though she specialized in diseases and injuries of the eye, Cathy had been asked by her husband to be the face of the media campaign providing education and information on the recent outbreak of a virulent strain of influenza.
“One hundred and thirty-seven,” she said. “That’s in the U.S. and Canada. But there are two hundred–plus reported sick enough to hospitalize. We’re having some luck with antivirals, maybe even stemming the tide, but it’s too early to know for sure. First responders, military, essential personnel, hospital staff—they should all be vaccinated by the end of this week or early next. The CDC is doing a terrific job of pushing out everything we have on hand, basically attempting to throw a bucket of sand on the fire and smother it all at once. The trouble is, Jack, we’re going to run out of sand, in the near term at least. We usually recommend vaccinating the very young and the elderly, but this stuff is hitting primarily healthy people in the prime of life, much like the pandemic of 1918.”
“The Spanish flu,” Ryan said.
“Yeah, well, Spain got a bad rap,” Cathy said. “Given that same line of reasoning, they could call this the American flu, since we publish our findings to the world in hopes that everyone can stop it. There were certainly other countries with similar outbreaks in that same year, but Spain was the one that reported the illness.” She let her head fall sideways against the pillow, looking directly at him. “As I said, this virus affects a vital portion of the workforce, the doctors, nurses, and pharmaceutical techs who would normally be the ones leading the fight. The 1918 pandemic killed more people than both World Wars combined—almost five percent of the world’s population. It was virulent stuff, Jack. And this strain has the potential to be even worse. Unchecked, it’ll burn through the best and brightest within months, maybe even weeks . . .”
Ryan groaned.
Cathy nudged him in the arm. “See what I did there?”
“What?”
“I caused you to panic,” Cathy said. “That, Jack, is the number one reason this flu is so bad. I don’t mean to downplay the seriousness of the illness, but we provide better care today, a generally healthier lifestyle, and the ability to fight secondary infections that killed many of the people in the 1918 pandemic. Unfortunately, we also have a twenty-four-hour news cycle that is yellow journalism gone rogue. The idea that this is the worst, most deadly, illness in history—which it is not—is the stuff of pure unadulterated bull hockey. Each new reported case gets thrown up on the crawler at the bottom of the broadcast as Breaking News. Honestly, from a medical standpoint, I’m almost as worried about the flooding in Louisiana and Mississippi as I am about this flu.”
Ryan nodded.
“I’ve gotta tell you, Jack, there is a better-than-average chance more people will be injured in riots than by the actual bug. And that bitch Michelle Chadwick isn’t helping matters.”
Ryan gave his wife a pat on the thigh. “Probably best we keep your feelings about the good senator between us.”
Cathy lifted the sheets, giving the area under them an exaggerated look. “It’s just me and you here, boyo,” she said. “And besides, I’m allowed a little anger at someone who spews that kind of vitriol at my husband. She held a press conference yesterday accusing you of inaction. You. Can you believe it?”
He gave Cathy another pat on the thigh. This one for his benefit. “I’m ashamed to say it, but I think I’m getting used to politics. The garbage still stinks to high heaven, but I can hardly even smell it anymore.”
“Have you noticed that the news isn’t even the news?�
�� Cathy said. “It’s about how social media reacts to the news. Michelle Chadwick is scaring the crap out of the country, Jack. Isn’t it against the law to yell ‘Fire’ in a crowded theater?”
Ryan shrugged. “She’d argue that there’s an actual fire.”
“Whatever,” Cathy said. “But she’s pouring gasoline on it.”
Ryan bunted the subject back to the flu.
“I saw the public service announcement you did with the CDC,” he said. “Thanks for lending the trustworthy face of the first lady to the cause. Should keep people home from work and school if they are sick, and, hopefully, get them to the doctor for a flu shot before they get that way. Say, I have an idea. How about you come work for me?”
“You can’t afford me.”
“I’ll reinstate the draft,” Ryan said. “Nationalize health care. Press all doctors into government service, especially beautiful ophthalmologists.”
“Oh, yeah,” Cathy said and chuckled. “That’ll go over big with your constituents. I specialized in ophthalmic surgery for two reasons. One, I happen to be good at it. And—”
Ryan smiled, finishing her thought. “And GBSs.” Cathy Ryan was an exceptionally gifted doctor, but, as with most docs, he supposed, one of her least favorite parts of med school rotations was what the students called GBSs—gooey butt sores. The list of GBSs was apparently endless, and Ryan had seen far too many photos in medical textbooks over the years. Enough, at least, to understand why his wife had chosen ophthalmology.
Cathy swung her legs off the bed, exposing the arch of her back and the exquisite swell of her hips, now completely free of the sheets. “There’s that,” she said. “But I’m not a big fan of by-the-ways, either.”
“I see,” Ryan said, though he obviously did not.
Cathy held a pink terry-cloth robe across her lap but hadn’t put it on yet. She turned slightly, leaning on one arm while she looked at the still-reclining Ryan.
“You know,” she said, shrugging the robe over her shoulders while she explained. “Patient comes in for something else and then stops kind of like Colombo when the visit should be over and says, ‘By the way, Doc, I know I came in for a sleep apnea, but while I’m here, you think you could set me up with some of those little blue pills my friend Bob told me about?’”
“Sounds smart to me,” Ryan said.
Cathy stood, wagging her head. “You got no issues, by the way, Mr. President. And anyway, the point is, you got this. You don’t need me to work for you.”
Ryan sprang sideways, grabbing the tail of her robe and giving it a tug, pulling her toward the bed.
“Jaaackkk,” she said, as she walked in place, in a halfhearted attempt to escape. “I really do have to go. Don’t you have a meeting about raising taxes or something?”
He held the robe for another half-second, just long enough to let her know he wanted her to come back to bed, but agreed that they didn’t have the time. It was a delicate dance, letting such an intelligent woman know he could not possibly live without her—and then doing precisely that for long stretches at a time.
Ryan shot another glance at the clock. It was a sorry state of affairs that he could feel like such a slacker for staying in bed until six in the morning. He let his head fall against the pillow in time for Cathy to turn and catch him looking at her.
She held the robe closed, tight at her neck, sheepishly drawing back her head. “What?”
“I was just thinking,” Ryan said. “I hope Jack Junior finds a girl like I did.”
10
The Russians were in Seville for less than an hour before they decided to go swimming.
Jack Ryan, Jr., sat on the floor of Midas’s hotel room, leaning against the angle formed by a set of whitewashed radiator pipes and the wall. A dog-eared paperback copy of The Great Game by Peter Hopkirk lay on the rug beside him. The room was pleasant enough, and smelled, as most hotel rooms around the world smell, of instant coffee and the last person to occupy them—in this case, a woman who was overly fond of her Coco Chanel. Even boutique hotels like this one made it far too easy to wake up in some cookie-cutter suite and forget where you were.
It was nearing noon, and Midas was posted a few blocks away in Clark’s room to keep watch. According to the retired Delta operator, the Russians were lounging around the rooftop pool, pasty and white in the Spanish sun. They were waiting for someone.
Surveillance could go kinetic at any moment, so this momentary lag was the first opportunity to form up the team to regroup and do a quick AAR for the past few days. Midas listened in over the radio from his post, in virtual attendance.
Clark loved his after-action reviews. Jack certainly saw the need, but some things that were done in the heat of the moment sounded . . . well, asinine with the benefit of hindsight. Still, Clark was a talented and experienced leader who’d made plenty of mistakes of his own. He didn’t use the AARs as a chance to embarrass, at least with no more than a good-natured gibe or two. Honest, open critique benefited the entire team. Serious corrections happened in private. Jack had learned early on that though neither Clark nor Ding would often admit it out loud, they forgave almost any mistake of the head. Mistakes of the heart—errors that demonstrated a weakness in character—would never be tolerated.
Clark sat on the end of the bed. Dom and Adara on the floor at the foot of the leather love seat, while Ding leaned back in the swiveling desk chair, notebook in hand. Jack absentmindedly ruffled the pages of the book with his thumb, like shuffling a deck of cards. Both Clark and Chavez had come to believe strongly in reading assignments—geopolitical, cultural, leadership, even some fiction. Nothing was out of bounds. Essays on intelligence and tactics were favorite topics. DNI Foley, with whom both men had worked extensively at CIA, wrote an in-depth study called How to Work a Russian Asset. She had the chops for it. Born Mary Pat Kaminsky, she was the granddaughter of a riding instructor in the house of Tsar Nicholas II. There was even some stuff by Jack’s dad. He could almost hear the old man’s voice when he read it.
According to Ding Chavez, good intelligence officers were like sharks—they kept swimming or they died. Languages, once learned, had to be practiced consistently or they risked growing stale. Techniques and methods had to be practiced—in the mat room, on the pistol range, or on the street. Some things you could come by naturally—but even those required sharpening with a great deal of practice and study. Don’t practice until you get it right. Practice until you don’t get it wrong. The sentiment had a hell of a lot more meaning when ignoring it could get a friend killed. The real intel types were more bookworm than playboy—though, Jack admitted, the human-engineering side of the job was more interesting than the Chinese or Cyrillic flash cards Adara was always carrying around.
Jack didn’t mind the reading. It gave him something to do during the down time—and there was always a good deal of that, hours of sheer boredom punctuated by massive adrenaline dumps big enough to explode the average human heart.
The Russians had gone from their meeting at Casa Ibérica to a small hotel in Lagoa, north of Carvoeiro, where they’d stayed for two days. Lagoa was larger than the tiny hamlets along the coast and marginally easier for Clark and the rest of The Campus to blend in to without too much worry of being recognized, so long as they didn’t press the surveillance too much. The Russians departed on the afternoon of the second day in a meandering surveillance-detection run that took them six hours to make the two-and-a-half-hour drive east to Seville. The one with the bowl haircut spent a lot of time in the hot tub. His partner sat by the pool and read or talked on the phone. The two who’d been on overwatch stayed in their room, apparently content that their services were not needed between operations.
Ding and Midas had a back-and-forth while still in Portugal on the risk versus benefits of placing a small GPS tracking device on the target vehicle. The device would transmit location information to Campus operat
ives over a GSM cell signal, allowing them to run a looser tail. The Russians made the decision for them when they came out at the end of the first day and ran a handheld cell-phone tracker over both cars. They weren’t especially thorough, but they had a directional antenna, so they didn’t really have to be.
They’d have to keep at least one of the cars in sight.
The three Campus vehicles bounded, trading places over the course of the journey, all the way to the EME Catedral Hotel, tucked into the pedestrian district in the shadow of the Giralda bell tower. It was a few blocks from the bullfighting arena along the canal off the Guadalquivir River in Seville.
Clark booked a double at the same hotel, down the hall from the Russians. The others set up at small hotels in the area, none close enough to offer a direct view of their target, but that couldn’t be helped. Dom and Adara generally stayed out of sight, since the Russians who’d been working overwatch in Portugal would likely recognize them from the restaurant.
“You with us, kid?” Clark asked, dragging Jack back to the present.
“. . . Yes?” Jack gave a wan smile. He hoped there wasn’t going to be a quiz on whatever it was that Clark had been saying.
“Outstanding,” Clark said, seeing right through him. “Hugo Gaspard was our main objective on this op. But we’re already here, so it’s worth keeping an eye on the Russians in the near term. Ding, how about you bring everyone up to speed on what Gavin found.”
The camera on the Snipe Nano mini-drone didn’t have the visual clarity that a cheaper, off-the-shelf model might have, but night vision and the ability to zoom more than made up for it. Midas got several good screen grabs of the female assassin from the footage. Adara’s numerous selfies contained some grainy photos of the Russians and the guy who’d dropped in on them at Casa Ibérica. Gavin and his team had been busy enhancing the photos and running them through some facial recognition programs and databases.
