Dead or Alive

by Tom Clancy

  Inland, the city was a sea of skyscrapers and crisscrossing highways and construction equipment. And in another five years, attractions would continue to pop up across the landscape: the Dubai Waterfront, a crescent extending some fifty miles into the ocean; the Hydropolis Underwater Hotel; the Sports City and ski dome complexes; Space Science World. In less than a decade, Dubai had gone from what many considered little more than a desolate backwater speck on the map to one of the world’s top resort destinations, a playground for the super-rich. Before long, Badr thought, Dubai’s amenities and attractions would outpace even those of Las Vegas. Or perhaps not, Badr reminded himself. The global economic crisis had hit the UAE as well. Many of the cranes looming over the city were, in fact, still, as construction projects had ground to a halt. Badr suspected this was the hand of Allah. Such decadence in an Arab country was unthinkable.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Badr heard behind him, and he turned around.

  “My apologies for being late,” the real-estate agent said. “As you’ve probably noticed, construction can be something of a nuisance. Mr. Almasi, yes?”

  Badr nodded. It was not his name, of course, and the agent probably suspected as much, but another of Dubai’s many admirable traits was a universal respect for discretion and anonymity among its army of bankers, brokers, and agents. Business was business and money was money, and each was held in greater esteem than arbitrary and wholly subjective codes of conduct.

  “Yes,” Badr replied. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “Not at all. This way, please.”

  The agent walked to a nearby electric golf cart. Badr got in, and they started down the pier.

  “You probably noticed the dock is not concrete,” the agent said.

  “I did.” In fact, the surface had a slightly terra-cotta hue to it.

  “It’s a composite material—something akin to synthetic decking material, I’m told, but much stronger and durable, and the color will hold for a lifetime. The designers thought it a more attractive alternative to standard gray concrete.”

  They stopped before a warehouse at the far end and got out. “You mentioned the need for privacy,” the agent said. “Will this do?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “As you can see, it’s a corner unit, with water-access points at the front and the side. Enough to accommodate two ships of three hundred feet each. Of course, tracked derricks are available for lease, should you require them.”

  The truth was, Badr knew little about his client’s requirement beyond the size and layout of the warehouse and the period of time it would be needed. Access and privacy, he’d been told, were paramount.

  “May I see the inside?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  The agent produced a card key and slid it through a reader beside the door. There was a soft beep. The agent pressed his thumb onto a pad beside the reader. A few moments later the lock clicked open.

  “The card keys and biometric reader are fully programmable by the lessee. You and you alone would control who has access to the facility.”

  “How is that done?”

  “Through our secure website. Once your account is created, you simply log on, program the cards, and scan in the fingerprint records. All the data is encrypted with what’s called TLS, or Transport Layer Security, and digital certificates.”

  “Very good. And the police?”

  “In the last ten years I can count on one hand the number of times the police have asked for warrants to search our facilities. Of those, all but one were denied by the courts. We pride ourselves on providing security and anonymity—both within the legal bounds of the Emirates, of course.”

  They stepped inside. The space, which measured two thousand square feet, was empty. The floor and walls were made of the same composite material as the dock but tinted off-white. No windows, either, which had been an item on his client’s wish list. Not a must but certainly a plus. The air was cool, hovering in the low seventies, he judged.

  “Comfortable, yes?” the agent asked.

  Badr nodded. “Fire- and theft-control systems?”

  “Both. Monitored by our control center less than a mile away. In case of fire, a halon suppression system is activated. In case of unauthorized breach, the lessee is contacted for further instructions.”

  “Not the police?”

  “Only on the lessee’s approval.”

  “What about your company? Surely you have access to—”

  “No. If a lessee’s rent is found to be overdue by seven days, we make every attempt to contact them. At the fourteen-day mark, if contact still hasn’t been established, the card reader and biometric scanner are removed and the locking system dismantled—an expensive and time-consuming process which would, of course, be charged to the lessee’s account, as would any reinstallation of these systems. Similarly, all contents of their warehouse would be forfeit.”

  “You won’t have that problem with us, I assure you,” Badr replied.

  “I have no doubt. We do have a minimum one-year contract, with six-month increments beyond that.”

  “A year should do.” A month would do, actually, he’d been told. The warehouse would sit empty after that, its purpose—whatever that was—having been served. In fact, within days of his client’s departure, the financial artifices put in place to affect the lease would be the only thing left for the authorities to find, and even those would lead only to more closed accounts and front companies. The “money trail,” which the American intelligence community was so good at following, would be ice-cold.

  “We can also provide assistance in streamlining the customs process, should you have cargo to offload,” the agent said. “Export licenses would be your responsibility, however.”

  “I understand,” Badr replied with a barely suppressed smile. Something told him the last thing his clients were concerned about was export licenses. He took a final look around, then turned to the agent. “How soon can you have the lease drawn up?”

  Though Adnan would never know it, his counterparts were not only further along in their mission but were riding in the relative comfort of a charter boat—albeit a converted Russian landing craft.

  For days Adnan and his men had been traveling up the coast road along the Kara Sea, through fishing hamlets and abandoned settlements and the whited-out desolate landscape, seeing only the occasional vehicle on the road, and none heading in their same direction—a fact that Adnan was doing his best to not take as an omen. He had trouble imagining anyone living here voluntarily. At least in the desert you could take cheer in the sunlight. Here, gray overcast skies seemed more the rule than the exception.

  As he’d expected, finding shelter for their nightly stops wasn’t hard, but finding shelter that was little more than a shack was something altogether different. On the first night they’d been lucky enough to find an abandoned wall tent with a working woodstove, and while the canvas walls were pitted and had lost their waterproofing, the support poles were buried deep in the ground and the support wires were still taut, so they’d spent the night in relative comfort while outside near-gale-force winds whipped the snow and ice against the canvas like shrapnel and the waves roared against the rocks. The second night they’d been less fortunate, having to huddle together in their sleeping bags in the rear of the truck as the sieve-like canvas sides rippled in the wind. After several hours of trying to sleep, they’d given up and spent the reminder of the night drinking tea brewed on their portable camp stove and waiting for the first signs of dawn.

  And now, after three days of travel, they were within a day or a day and a half of their destination—or so said the map, which Adnan consulted warily, taking care to double-check its markings and measurements against the readings on his own handheld GPS unit. Destination wasn’t quite the right word, though, was it? Stepping-stone, perhaps. Providing their charter captain was as good as his word and he wanted to earn the remainder of his fee, they’d be one step closer to
their goal, an idea that caused Adnan no small amount of trepidation. From what little he’d read about the place, their current surroundings, bleak as they were, would soon prove to be comparatively luxurious. And then there was the disease. They had pills for that, but the doctor who had provided the doses had been unsure about the efficacy. They would help, Adnan was told, but there were no guarantees. Their best protection would be speed and caution. The longer they spent there, the higher the risk. The worst of it was that none of them would know whether they were safe until many years had passed, never knowing until too late that invisible death was eating away at them. No matter, he told himself. Death was death, simply a bridge to paradise, and his men knew that as well as he did. To doubt that was an insult to Allah.

  Despite the brutal cold and meager rations, not one of them had uttered the slightest complaint. They were good men, faithful to both Allah and the cause—which were, of course, one and the same. And while he was reasonably confident they would remain steadfast when he finally revealed the purpose of their journey, he knew he couldn’t let down his guard. The Emir had personally chosen him for this mission, and their job was too important to let fear turn them away.

  But what about the task itself? Adnan asked himself. His instructions were detailed and clear, and readily accessible in his pack—several dozen laminated pages—but what if there were complications? What if their tools were inadequate for the job? What if they cut in the wrong place or the winch system could not support the load? And what if, God forbid, the security measures had changed since they received the information?

  Stop, he commanded himself. Like fear, self-doubt was a trick of the mind, a weakness to be overcome through faith in Allah, and in the Emir. He was a wise man, a great man, and he’d assured Adnan that their prize would be there waiting for them. They would find it, do whatever was necessary to secure it, then return.

  Three more days, then five more back.

  27

  JACK JUNIOR shut his computer down and left his cubbyhole, heading out to the parking lot and his yellow Hummer H2, one of his few guilty pleasures in life. Still, with gas prices and the general state of the economy where they were, he felt a pang of guilt every time he turned the ignition key on the damned thing. He was no tree hugger, that much was certain, but maybe it was time to think about scaling back. Damn, his annoyingly eco-aware little sister was rubbing off on him. He’d heard Cadillac was making a pretty decent Escalade Hybrid. Might be worth a trip to the dealership.

  He had a rare dinner with Mom and Dad scheduled for tonight. Sally would be there, too, probably full of ideas from her medical school. She had to think about picking her specialty, and for that she’d be bending Mom’s ear. And Katie would be as charming as ever, doting as she did on her big brother, which could be a pain in the ass, but SANDBOX wasn’t all that bad for a little sister. Family night, steak and spinach salad, baked potato, and corn on the cob, because that was his father’s favorite supper. Maybe a glass of wine now that he was old enough.

  The life of a presidential son had its drawbacks, Jack had long ago learned. His protective detail was gone, thankfully, though he was never entirely sure that he didn’t have covert coverage on him. He’d asked Andrea about it and been told that he no longer had troops assigned, but who was to say that she was entirely truthful about it?

  He parked on the street in front of his apartment, and went inside to change into slacks and a flannel shirt, then out again. Before long he was on I-97 for the ride down to Annapolis and thence to Peregrine Cliff.

  His parents had built a sizable house before entering government service. The bad news was that everyone knew where it was. Cars would drive by the narrow country road and stop to stare at it, not knowing that every tag was recorded and computer checked by the Secret Service via a gaggle of concealed TV cameras. They might guess that a concealed structure within seventy yards of the main house held a minimum of six armed agents in case someone tried to pass through the gate and motor up the driveway. He knew his father found it oppressive. It was a major production even to go to the local Giant to get a loaf of bread and a quart of milk.

  The prisoner in the gilded cage, Jack thought.

  “SHORTSTOP, coming in,” he told the gatepost, and a camera would make sure of his identity before the gate opened. The Secret Service disliked his choice of car. The bright yellow of his Hummer was conspicuous, that much was certain.

  He parked, got out, and walked to the door, beside which he found Andrea.

  “Didn’t get a chance to talk to you afterward,” she said to him. “It was a hell of a thing you did, Jack. If you hadn’t caught it ...”

  “Then you just would’ve had a longer shot, that’s all.”

  “Maybe. Still, thanks.”

  “You bet. We know anything about the guy? Heard a rumor he might be URC.”

  Andrea considered this for a moment. “I can neither confirm nor deny,” she said with a smile and a distinct emphasis on confirm.

  So the Emir tried to take out Dad, Jack thought. Un-fucking-believable. He quashed the impulse to return to his computer at The Campus. The Emir was out there, and sooner or later he’d run out of running room; sadly, though, Jack wouldn’t be there when it happened.

  “Motive?”

  “Shock value, we’re thinking. Your dad might be a ‘former,’ but he’s still damned popular. Plus, the logistics are more manageable—easier to kill a retired President than a sitting one.”

  “Maybe easier, but sure as hell not easy. You proved that.”

  “We proved that,” Andrea said with a smile. “You want an application?”

  Jack smiled at this. “I’ll let you know how the trading business goes. Thanks, Andrea.” He pushed through the door. “Hey, I’m home!” he called.

  “Hi, Jack,” Jack Junior’s mom said, emerging from the kitchen with a hug and a kiss. “You look pretty good.”

  “So do you, Professor-of-surgery lady. Where’s Dad?”

  She pointed to his right. “Library. He’s got company. Arnie.”

  Jack headed over there, up the short steps and turning left into Dad’s workplace. Dad was sitting in his swivel chair, with Arnie van Damm sprawled in a club chair nearby. “What are you guys conspiring on or for?” he asked on his way into the room.

  “Conspiracies don’t work,” his father said tiredly. There’d been a lot of that talk during his presidency, and his father detested all of it, though he’d once joked of having the presidential helicopter fleet painted black just to annoy the idiots who believed that nothing happened on planet earth without a dark conspiracy’s having brought it about. It didn’t help that John Patrick Ryan Sr. was both wealthy and a former employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, of course—a combination sure to create a conspiracy buzz, real or imagined.

  “Ain’t that a shame, Pop,” Jack offered, coming over for a hug. “What’s Sally doing?”

  “Went to the store for the salad fixings. Took Mom’s car. What’s new?”

  “Learning currency arbitrage. It’s kinda spooky.”

  “Making any moves yourself?”

  “Well, no, not yet, no big ones anyway, but I advise people.”

  “Theoretical accounts?”

  “Yeah, I made half a million virtual dollars last week,” he said.

  “You can’t spend virtual dollars, Jack.”

  “I know, but you have to start somewhere, right? So, Arnie, trying to get Dad to run again?” he asked.

  “Why do you say that?” van Damm asked.

  Maybe it was the setting, Jack thought. His eyebrow went up a little, but he didn’t press the issue. And so everyone in the room knew something the other two didn’t know. Arnie didn’t know about The Campus and his father’s part in setting it up, didn’t know about the blank pardons, didn’t know what his father had authorized. Dad didn’t know his own son worked there. And Arnie knew more political secrets than anyone since the Kennedy administration, most of which never left
his lips, even to the sitting President.

  “D.C.’s a mess,” Jack offered, wondering what it might break loose.

  Van Damm wasn’t buying: “Usually is.”

  “Makes you wonder what people were thinking in 1914, how the country was going to hell in a basket back then—but nobody remembers that now. Is that because somebody fixed it, or was it because none of it really mattered?”

  “The first Wilson administration,” Arnie responded. “War breaking out in Europe, but nobody saw how badly it would all turn out yet. Took another year before reality sank in, and by then it was too late for anyone to figure a way out of it. Henry Ford tried, but he got laughed out of town.”

  “Is that because the problem was too big, or the people were too small and too dumb?” Jack wondered.

  “They didn’t see it coming,” the senior Ryan said. “They were too busy dealing with the day-to-day stuff to step back and see the big historic trends.”

  “Like all politicians?”

  “Professional politicians tend to focus on the small issues rather than the large ones, yes,”Arnie agreed. “They try to maintain continuity because it’s easier to keep the train on the same tracks. Trouble is, what do you do when the tracks come unglued around the next turn? That’s why it’s a hard job, even for smart men.”

  “And nobody saw terrorism coming, either.”

  “No, Jack, we didn’t, at least not entirely,” the former President admitted. “Some did. Hell, with a better intelligence service we might have, but that damage was done thirty years ago, and nobody ever really made it right.”

  “What does work?” Jack asked. “What would have made the difference?” It was a sufficiently general question that it might generate a truthful answer.

  “Signals intelligence—we’re still the best at that, probably—but there’s no substitute for HUMINT—real field spooks, talking to real people and finding out what they really think.”

  “And killing some?” Jack asked, just to see what would result.