Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “I gotta admire your timing, Jack. You made it back almost in time for Christmas break,” Skip observed as everyone got in the car.

  “I didn’t exactly plan it that way,” Jack objected.

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Better’n it was, guy.”

  “I believe it,” Tyler laughed as he pulled away from the terminal. “I was surprised they got you on the Concorde. How’d you like it?”

  “It’s over a lot faster.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say.”

  “How are things going at school?”

  “Ah, nothing ever changes. You heard about The Game?” Tyler’s head came around.

  “No, as a matter of fact.” How did I ever forget about that?

  “Absolutely great. Five points down with three minutes left, we recover a fumble on our twelve. Thompson finally gets it untracked and starts hitting sideline patterns—boom, boom, boom, eight-ten yards a pop. Then he pulls a draw play that gets us to the thirty. Army changes its defense, right? So we go to a spread. I’m up in the press box, and I see their strong-side safety is favoring the outside—figures we gotta stop the ctock—and we call a post for the tight end. Like a charm! Thompson couldn’t have handed him the ball any better! Twenty-one to nineteen. What a way to end the season.”

  Tyler was an Annapolis graduate who’d made second-string All-American at offensive tackle before entering the submarine service. Three years before, when he’d been on the threshold of his own command a drunk driver had left him without half his leg. Amazingly, Skip hadn’t looked back. After taking his doctorate in engineering from MIT, he’d joined the faculty at Annapolis, where he was also able to scout and do a little coaching in the football program. Jack wondered how much happier Jean was now. A lovely girl who had once worked as a legal secretary, she must have resented Skip’s enforced absences on submarine duty. Now she had him home—surely he wasn’t straying far; it seemed that Jean was always pregnant—and they were rarely separated. Even when they walked in the shopping malls, Skip and Jean held hands. If anyone found it humorous, he kept his peace about it.

  “What are you doing about a Christmas tree, Jack?”

  “I haven’t thought about it,” Ryan admitted.

  “I found a place where we can cut ’em fresh. I’m going over tomorrow. Wanna come?”

  “Sure. We have some shopping to do, too,” he added quietly.

  “Boy, you’ve really been out of it. Cathy called last week. Jean and I finished up the, uh, the important part. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No. ” Ryan turned to see his wife smile at him. Gotcha! “Thanks, Skip.”

  “Ah.” Tyler waved his hand as they pulled onto the D.C. beltway. “We’re going up to Jean’s family’s place—last chance for her to travel before the twins arrive. And Professor Billings says you have a little work waiting for you.”

  A little, Ryan thought. More like two months’ worth.

  “When are you going to be able to start back to work?”

  “It’ll have to wait until he gets the cast off,” Cathy answered for Jack. “I’ll be taking Jack to Baltimore tomorrow to see about that. We’ll get Professor Hawley to check him out.”

  “No sense hurrying with that kind of injury,” Skip acknowledged. He had ample personal experience with that sort of thing. “Robby says hi. He couldn’t make it. He’s down at Pax River today on a flight simulator, learning to be an airedale again. Rob and Sissy are doing fine, they were just over the house night before last. You picked a good weather day, too. Rained most of last week.”

  Home, Jack told himself as he listened. Back to the mundane, day-to-day crap that grates on you so much—until somebody takes it away from you. It was so nice to be back to a situation where rain was a major annoyance, and one’s day was marked by waking up, working, eating, and going back to bed. Catching things on television, and football games. The comics in the daily paper. Helping his wife with the wash. Curling up with a book and a glass of wine after Sally was put to bed. Jack promised himself that he’d never find this a dull existence again. He’d just spent over a month on the fast track, and was grateful that he’d left it three thousand miles behind him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Cooley.” Kevin O’Donnell looked up from his menu.

  “Hello, Mr. Jameson. How nice to see you,” the book dealer replied with well-acted surprise.

  “Won’t you join me?”

  “Why, yes. Thank you.”

  “What brings you into town?”

  “Business. I’m staying overnight with friends at Cobh.” This was true; it also told O’Donnell—known locally as Michael Jameson—that he had the latest message with him.

  “Care to look at the menu?” O‘Donnell handed it over. Cooley inspected it briefly, closed it, and handed it back. No one could have seen the transfer. “Jameson” let the small envelope inside the folder drop to his lap. The conversation which ensued over the next hour drifted through various pleasantries. There were four Gardai in the next booth, and in any case Mr. Cooley did not concern himself with operational matters. His job was that of contact agent and cutout. A weak man, O’Donnell thought, though he’d never told this to anyone. Cooley didn’t have the right qualities for real operations; he was better suited to the role of intelligence. Not that he’d ever asked, and surely the smaller man had passed through training well enough. His ideology was sound, but O‘Donnell had always sensed within him a weakness of character that accompanied his cleverness. No matter. Cooley was a man with no record in any police station. He’d never even thrown a rock, much less a cocktail, at a Saracen. He’d preferred to watch and let his hate fester without an emotional release. Quiet, bookish, and unobtrusive, Dennis was perfect for his job. If Cooley was unable to shed blood, O’Donnell knew, he was also unlikely to shed tears. You bland little fellow, you can organize a superb intelligence-gathering operation, and so long as you don’t have to do any of the wet-work yourself, you can—you have helped cause the death of... ten or twelve, wasn’t it? Did the man have any emotions at all? Probably not, the leader judged. Perfect. He had his own little Himmler, O’Donnell told himself—or maybe Dzerzhinsky would be a more apt role model. Yes, “Iron Feliks” Dzerzhinsky: that malignant, effective little man. It was only the round, puffy face that reminded him of the Nazi Himmler—and a man couldn’t choose his looks, could he? Cooley had a future in the Organization. When the time came, they’d need a real Dzerzhinsky.

  They finished their talking over after-dinner coffee. Cooley picked up the check. He insisted: business was excellent. O‘Donnell pocketed the envelope and left the restaurant. He resisted the urge to read the report. Kevin was a man to whom patience came hard, and as a consequence he forced himself to it. Impatience had ruined more operations than the British Army ever had, he knew. Another lesson from his early days with the Provos. He drove his BMW through the old streets at the legal limit, leaving the town behind as he entered the narrow country roads to his home on the headlands. He did not take a direct route, and kept an eye on his mirror. O’Donnell knew that his security was excellent. He also knew that continued vigilance was the reason it remained so. His expensive car was registered to his corporation’s head office in Dundalk. It was a real business, with nine blue-water trawlers that dragged purse-seine nets through the cold northern waters that surrounded the British Isles. The business had an excellent general manager, a man who had never been involved in the Troubles and whose skills allowed O‘Donnell to live the life of a country gentleman far to the south. The tradition of absentee ownership was an old one in Ireland—like O’Donnell’s home, a legacy from the English.

  It took just under an hour to reach the private driveway marked by a pair of stone pillars, and another five minutes to reach the house over the sea. Like any common man, O‘Donnell parked his car in the open; the carriage house that was attached to the manor had been converted to offices by a local contractor. He went at once to his study. McKenney was waiting for
him there, reading a recent edition of Yeats’ poetry. Another bookish lad, though he did not share Cooley’s aversion to the sight of blood. His quiet, disciplined demeanor concealed an explosive capacity for action. A man very like O’Donnell himself, Michael was. Like the O‘Donnell often or twelve years before, his youth needed tempering; hence his assignment as chief of intelligence so that he could learn the value of deliberation, of gathering all the information he could get before he committed himself to action. The Provos never really did that. They used tactical intelligence, but not the strategic kind—a fine explanation, O’Donnell thought, for the mindlessness of their overall strategy. Another of the reasons he had left the Provisionals—but he would return to the fold. Or more properly, the fold would return to him. Then he would have his army. Kevin already had his plan, though not even his closest associates knew it—at least not all of it.

  O‘Donnell sat in the leather chair behind the desk and took the envelope from his coat pocket. McKenney discreetly went to the comer bar and got his superior a glass of whiskey. With ice, a taste Kevin had acquired in hotter climes several years before. He set the glass on the desk, and O’Donnell took it, sipping off a tiny bit without a word.

  There were six pages to the document, and O’Donnell read through the single-spaced pages as slowly and deliberately as McKenney had just been doing with the words of Yeats. The younger man marveled at the man’s patience. For all his reputation as a fighter capable of ruthless action, the chief of the ULA often seemed a creature made of stone, the way he would assemble and process data. Like a computer, but a malignant one. He took fully twenty minutes to go through the six pages.

  “Well, our friend Ryan is back in America, where he belongs. Flew the Concorde home, and his wife arranged for a friend to meet them at the airport. Next Monday I expect he’ll be back teaching those fine young men and women at their Naval Academy.” O’Donnell smiled at the humor of his words. “His Highness and his lovely bride will be back home two days late. It seems that their aircraft developed electrical problems, and a new instrument had to be flown in all the way from England—or so the public story will go. In reality, it would seem that they like New Zealand so much that they wanted some additional time to enjoy their privacy. Security on their arrival will be impressive.

  “In fact, looking this over, it would seem that their security for the next few months at least will be impenetrable.”

  McKenney snorted. “No security’s impenetrable. We’ve proven that ourselves.”

  “Michael, we do not wish to kill them. Any fool can do that,” he said patiently. “Our objective demands that we take them alive.”

  “But—”

  Would they never learn? “No buts, Michael. If I wanted to kill them, they would already be dead, and this Ryan bastard along with them. It is easy to kill, but that will not achieve what we wish.”

  “Yes, sir.” McKenney nodded his submission. “And Sean?”

  “They will be processing him in Brixton Prison for another two weeks or so—our friends in C-13 don’t want him far from their reach for the moment.”

  “Does that mean that Sean—”

  “Most unlikely,” O’Donnell cut him off. “Still and all, I think the Organization is stronger with him than without him, don’t you?”

  “But how will we know?”

  “There is a great deal of high-level interest in our comrade,” O’Donnell half-explained.

  McKenney nodded thoughtfully. He concealed his annoyance that the Commander would not share his intelligence source with his own intelligence chief. McKenney knew how valuable the information was, but where it came from was the deepest of all the ULA’s secrets. The younger man shrugged it off. He had his own information sources, and his skill at using their information was growing on a daily basis. Having always to wait so long to act on it chafed on him, but he admitted to himself—grudgingly at first, but with increasing conviction—that full preparation had allowed several tricky operations to go perfectly. Another operation that had not gone so well had landed him in the H-Blocks of Long Kesh prison. The lesson he’d learned from this miscued op was that the revolution needed more competent hands. He’d come to hate the PIRA leadership’s ineffectiveness even more than he did the British Army. The revolutionary often had more to fear from friends than enemies.

  “Anything new with our colleagues?” O’Donnell asked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” McKenney answered brightly. Our colleagues were the Provisional Wing of the Irish Republican Army. “One of the cells of the Belfast Brigade is going to go after a pub, day after tomorrow. Some UVF chaps have been using it of tate—not very smart of them, is it?”

  “I think we can let that one pass,” O’Donnell judged. It would be a bomb, of course, and it would kill a number of people, some of whom might be members of the Ulster Volunteer Force, whom he regarded as the reactionary forces of the ruling bourgeoisie—no more than thugs, since they lacked any ideology at all. So much the better that some UVF would be killed, but really any prod would suffice, since then other UVF gunmen would slink into a Catholic neighborhood and kill one or two people on the street. And the detectives of the RUC’s Criminal Investigation Division would investigate, as always, and no one would admit to having seen much of anything, as usual, and the Catholic neighborhoods would retain their state of revolutionary instability. Hate was such a useful asset. Even more than fear, hate was what sustained the Cause. “Anything else?”

  “The bombmaker, Dwyer, has dropped out of sight again,” McKenney went on.

  “The last time that happened... yes, England, wasn’t it? Another campaign?”

  “Our man doesn’t know. He’s working on it, but I have told him to be careful.”

  “Very good.” O’Donnell would think about this one. Dwyer was one of the best PIRA bombers, a genius with delayed fuses, someone Scotland Yard’s C-13 branch wanted as badly as they wanted anyone. Dwyer’s capture would be a serious blow to the PIRA leadership.... “We want our chap to be very careful indeed, but it would be useful to know where Dwyer is.”

  McKenney got the message loud and clear. It was too bad about Dwyer, but that colleague had picked the wrong side. “And the Belfast brigadier?”

  “No.” The chief shook his head.

  “But he’ll slip away again. We needed a month to—”

  “No, Michael. Timing—remember the importance of timing. The operation is an integrated whole, not a mere collection of events.” The commander of the PIRA’s Belfast Brigade—Brigade, less than two hundred men, O’Donnell thought wryly—was the most wanted man in Ulster. Wanted by more than one side, though for the moment the Commander perforce had to let the Brits have him. Too bad. I will dearly love to make you pay personally for casting me out, Johnny Doyle, for putting a price on my head. But on this I, too, must be patient. After all, I want more than your head. “You might also keep in mind that our chaps have their own skins to protect. The reason timing is so important is that what we have planned can only work once. That is why we must be patient. We must wait for exactly the right moment. ”

  What right moment? What plan? McKenney wanted to know. Only weeks before, O’Donnell had announced that “the moment” was at hand, only to call things off with a last-second telephone call from London. Sean Miller knew, as did one or two others, but McKenney didn’t even know who those privileged fellows were. If there was anything the Commander believed in, it was security. The intelligence officer acknowledged its importance, but his youth chafed at the frustration of knowing the importance of what was happening without knowing what it was.

  “Difficult, isn’t it, Mike?”

  “Yes, sir, it is,” McKenney admitted with a smile.

  “Just keep in mind where impatience has gotten us,” the leader said.

  8

  Information

  “I guess that about covers it, Jimmy. Thanks from the Bureau for tracking that guy down.”

  “I really don’t think he�
��s the sort of tourist we need, Dan,” Owens replied. A Floridian who’d embezzled three million dollars from an Orlando bank had made the mistake of stopping off in Britain on his way to another European country, one with slightly different banking laws. “I think the next time we’ll let him do some shopping on Bond Street before we arrest him, though. You can call that a fee—a fee for apprehending him.”

  “Ha!” The FBI representative closed the last folder. It was six o’clock local time. Dan Murray leaned back in his chair. Behind him, the brick Georgian buildings across the street paled in the dusk. Men were discreetly patrolling the roofs there, as with all the buildings on Grosvenor Square. The American Embassy was not so much heavily guarded as minorly fortified, so many terrorist threat warnings had come and gone over the past six years. Uniformed police officers stood in front of the building, where North Audley Street was closed off to traffic. The sidewalk was decorated with concrete “flowerpots” that a tank could surmount only with difficulty, and the rest of the building had a sloped concrete glacis to fend off car bombs. Inside, behind bullet-resistant glass, a Marine corporal stood guard beside a wall safe containing a .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver. A hell of a thing, Murray thought. A hell of a thing. The wonderful world of the international terrorist. Murray hated working in a building that seemed part of the Maginot Line, hated wondering if there might be some Iranian, or Palestinian, or Libyan, or whatever madman of a terrorist, with an RPG-7 rocket launcher in a building across the street from his office. It wasn’t fear for his life. Murray had put his life at risk more than once. He hated the injustice, the insult to his profession, that there were people who would kill their fellow men as a part of some form of political expression. But they’re not madmen at all, are they? The behavioral specialists say that they’re not. They’re romantics—believers, people willing to commit themselves to an ideal, and to commit any crime to further it. Romantics!