Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “But the Washington area is such a nice place.”

  Jack walked into a fast-food shop that specialized in bagels and corned beef, but also served other fare. Service was quick, and the men took a white plastic table that sat by itself in the center of the mall’s corridor. Cleverly done, Jack thought. People could walk past and not hear more than a few random words. But he knew Platonov was a pro.

  “I have heard that you face some rather unfortunate legal difficulties.” With every word, Platonov smiled. It was supposed to appear that they were discussing ordinary pleasantries, Jack supposed, with the added dimension that his Russian colleague was enjoying himself.

  “Do you believe that little prick last night? You know, one thing I actually admire about Russia is the way you handle—”

  “Antisocial behavior? Yes—five years in a camp of strict regime. Our new openness does not extend to condoning sexual perversion. Your friend Trent made an acquaintance on his last trip to the Soviet Union. The young ... man in question is now in such a camp.” Platonov didn’t say that he had refused to cooperate with the KGB, and so earned his sentence. Why confuse the issue? he thought.

  “You can have him with my blessings. We have enough of them over here,” Jack growled. He felt thoroughly awful; his eyes were pounding to escape from his head as a result of all the wine and insufficient sleep.

  “So I have noticed. And may we have the SEC also?” Platonov asked.

  “You know, I didn’t do anything wrong. Not a damned thing! I got a tip from a friend and I followed up on it. I didn’t go looking for it, it just happened. So I made a few bucks—so what? I write intelligence briefs for the President! I’m good at it—and they’re coming after me! After all the—” Ryan stopped and stared painfully into Platonov’s eyes. “So what the hell do you care?”

  “Ever since we first met at Georgetown some years ago, frankly I have admired you. That business with the terrorists. I do not agree with your political views, as you plainly do not agree with mine. But as one man to another, you took some vermin off the street. You may choose to believe this or not, but I have argued against State support for such animals. True Marxists who want to free their peoples—yes. we should support them in any way we can—but bandits are murderers, they are mere scum who view us as a source of arms, nothing more. My country gains nothing by it. Politics aside, you are a man of courage and honor. Of course I respect that. It is a pity that your country does not. America only places its best men on pedestals so that lesser ones can use them as targets.”

  Ryan’s wary look was replaced briefly with one of measurement. “You have that one right.”

  “So, my friend—what will they do to you?”

  Jack let out a long breath as he focused his eyes down the corridor. “I have to get a lawyer this week. I suppose he’ll know. I’d hoped to avoid that. I thought I could talk my way out of it, but—but this new bastard in SEC, a pansy that Trent—” Another breath. “Trent used his influence to get the job for him. How much you want to bet that the two of them ... I find myself in agreement with you. If one must have enemies, they should at least be enemies you can respect.”

  “And CIA cannot help you?”

  “I don’t have many friends there—well, you know that. Moved up too fast, richest kid on the block, Greer’s fair-haired boy, my connections with the Brits. You make enemies that way, too. Sometimes I wonder if one of them might have ... I can’t prove it, but you wouldn’t believe the computer network we have at Langley, and all my stock transactions are stored in computer systems ... and you know what? Computer records can be changed by someone who knows how ... But try to prove that one, pal.” Jack took two aspirins from a small tin and swallowed them.

  “Ritter doesn’t like me at all, never has. I made him look bad on something a few years back, and he isn’t the sort of man to forget that sort of thing. Maybe one of his people ... he has some good ones. The Admiral wants to help, but he’s old. The Judge is on his way out, supposed to have left a year ago, but he’s hanging on somehow—he couldn’t help me if he wanted to.”

  “The President likes your work. We know that.”

  “The President’s a lawyer, a prosecutor. He gets even a whiff that you might have bent a law, and—it’s amazing how quick you can get lonely. There’s a bunch in the State Department who’re after my ass, too. I don’t see things quite their way. This is a bitch of a town to be honest in.”

  It’s correct, then, Platonov thought. They’d gotten the report first from Peter Henderson, code-named Cassius, who’d been feeding data to the KGB for over ten years, first as special assistant to the retired Senator Donaldson of the Senate’s intelligence committee, now an intelligence analyst for the General Accounting Office. KGB knew Ryan to be the bright, rising star of the CIA’s Intelligence Directorate. His evaluation at Moscow Center had at first called him a wealthy dilettante. That had changed a few years ago. He’d done something to earn him presidential attention, and now wrote nearly half of the special intelligence briefing papers that went to the White House. It was known from Henderson that he had assembled a massive report on the strategic-arms situation, one that had raised hackles at Foggy Bottom. Platonov had long since formed his own impression. A good judge of character, from their first meeting at Georgetown’s Galleria he’d deemed Ryan a bright opponent, and a brave one—but a man too accustomed to privilege, too easily outraged at personal attack. Sophisticated, but strangely naive. What he saw over lunch confirmed it. Fundamentally, Ryan was too American. He saw things in blacks and whites, goods and bads. But what mattered today was that Ryan had felt himself invincible, and was only now learning that this was not the case. Because of that, Ryan was an angry man.

  “All that work wasted,” Jack said after a few seconds. “They’re going to trash my recommendations.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Ernest Fucking Allen has talked the President into putting SDI on the table.” It required all of Platonov’s professionalism not to react visibly to that statement. Ryan went on: “It’s all been for nothing. They’ve discredited my analysis because of this idiot stock thing. The Agency isn’t backing me up like they should. They’re throwing me to the fucking dogs. Not a damned thing I can do about it, either.” Jack finished off the hot dog.

  “One can always take action,” Platonov suggested.

  “Revenge? I’ve thought of that. I could go to the papers, but the Post is going to run a story about the SEC thing. Somebody on the Hill is orchestrating the hanging party. Trent, I suppose. I bet he put that reporter on me last night, too, the bastard. If I try to get the real word out, well, who’ll listen? Christ, I’m putting my tight little ass on the line just sitting here with you, Sergey.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why don’t you guess?” Ryan allowed himself a smile that ended abruptly. “I’m not going to go to jail. I’d rather die than have to disgrace myself like that. God damn it, I’ve risked my tife—I’ve put it all on the line. Some things you know about, and one that you don’t. I have risked my life for this country, and they want to send me to prison!”

  “Perhaps we can help.” The offer finally came across.

  “Defect? You have to be joking. You don’t really expect me to live in your workers’ paradise, do you?”

  “No, but for the proper incentive, perhaps we could change your situation. There will be witnesses against you. They could have accidents ...”

  “Don’t give me that shit!” Jack leaned forward. “You don’t do jobs like that in our country and we don’t do them in yours.”

  “Everything has a price. Surely you understand that better than I.” Platonov smiled. “For example, the ‘disaster’ Mr. Trent referred to last night. What might that have been?”

  “And how do I know who you’re really working for?” Jack asked.

  “What?” That surprised him. Ryan saw past the pain in his sinuses.

  “You want an incentive?
Sergey, I am about to put my life on the line. Just because I’ve done it before, don’t you think that it’s easy. We have somebody inside Moscow Center. Somebody big. You tell me now what that name would buy me.”

  “Your freedom,” Platonov said at once. “If he’s as high as you say, we would do very much indeed.” Ryan didn’t say a word for over a minute. The two men stared at each other as though over cards, as though they were gambling for everything each man owned—and as though Ryan knew that he held the lesser hand. Platonov matched the power of the American’s stare, and was gratified to see that it was his power that prevailed.

  “I’m flying to Moscow the end of the week, unless the story breaks before then, in which case I’m fucked. What I just told you, pal, it doesn’t go through channels. The only person I’m sure it isn’t is Gerasimov. It goes to the Chairman himself, direct to him, no intermediaries, or you risk losing the name.”

  “And why am I supposed to believe you know it?” The Russian pressed his advantage, but carefully.

  It was Jack’s turn to smile. His hole card had turned out to be a good one. “I don’t know the name, but I know the data. With the four things that I know came from CONDUCTOR—THAT’S the code name—your troops can handle the rest. If your letter goes through channels, probably I don’t get on the airplane. That’s how far up the chain he is—if it’s a he, but it probably is. How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “In the intelligence business one must keep one’s promises,” Platonov assured him.

  “Then tell your Chairman that I want to meet him if he can arrange it. Man to man. No bullshit.”

  “The Chairman? The Chairman doesn’t—”

  “Then I’ll make my own legal arrangements and take my chances. I’m not going to jail for treason either, if I can help it. That’s the deal, Comrade Platonov,” Jack concluded. “Have a nice drive home.”

  Jack rose and walked away. Platonov did not follow. He looked around and found his own security man, who signaled that they had not been observed.

  And he had his own decision to make. Was Ryan genuine? Cassius said so.

  He had run Agent Cassius for three years. Peter Henderson’s data had always checked out. They’d used him to track down and arrest a colonel in Strategic Rocket Forces who’d been working for CIA, had gotten priceless strategic and political intelligence, and even inside American analysis of that Red October business of the previous—no, it was two years now, wasn’t it, right before Senator Donaldson had retired—and now that he worked in the GAO, he had the best of all possible worlds: direct access to classified defense data and all his political contacts on the Hill. Cassius had told them some time before that Ryan was under investigation. At the time it had been merely a tidbit, no one had taken it seriously. The Americans were always investigating one another. It was their national sport. Then a second time he’d heard the same story, then the scene with Trent. Was it really possible ... ?

  A leak high up in KGB, Platonov thought. There was a protocol, of course, for getting important data directly to the Chairman. The KGB allowed for any possibility. Once that message was sent, it would have to be followed up. Just the hint that CIA had an agent high in the KGB hierarchy ...

  But that was only one consideration.

  Once we set the hook, we will own Dr. Ryan. Perhaps he is foolish enough to think that a one-time exchange of information for services is possible, that he will never again ... more likely that he is so desperate that he does not care at the moment. What kind of information might we get from him?

  Special assistant to the Deputy Director for Intelligence! Ryan must see nearly everything! To recruit so valuable an agent—that hadn’t been done since Philby, and that was over fifty years ago!

  But is it important enough to break the rules? Platonov asked himself as he finished off his drink. Not in living memory had the KGB committed an act of violence in the United States—there was a gentlemen’s agreement on that. But what were rules against this sort of advantage? Perhaps an American or two might have an auto accident, or an unexpected heart attack. That would also have to be approved by the Chairman. Platonov would give his recommendation. It would be followed. He was sure of that.

  The diplomat was a fastidious man. He wiped his face with the paper napkin, put all the trash in the paper drink cup, and deposited it in the nearest receptacle. He left nothing behind to suggest that he’d ever been there.

  The Archer was sure that they were winning. On announcing his mission to his subordinates, the reaction could not have been better. Grim, amused smiles, sideways looks, nods. The most enthusiastic of all had been their new member, the former Major of the Afghan Army. In their tent, twenty kilometers inside Afghanistan, the plans had been put together in five tense hours.

  The Archer looked down at phase one, already complete. Six trucks and three BTR-60 infantry carriers were in their hands. Some were damaged, but that was not unexpected. The dead soldiers of the puppet army were being stripped of their uniforms. Eleven survivors were being questioned. They would not join in this mission, of course, but if they proved to be reliable, they would be allowed to join allied guerrilla bands. For the others ...

  The former Army officer recovered maps and radio codes. He knew all the procedures that the Russians had so assiduously taught to their Afghan “brothers.”

  There was a battalion base camp ten kilometers away, due north on the Shékábád road. The former Major contacted it on the radio, indicating that “Sunflower” had repulsed the ambush with moderate losses and was heading in. This was approved by the battalion commander.

  They loaded a few of the bodies aboard, still in their bloody uniforms. Trained former members of the Afghan Army manned the heavy machine guns on the BTR carriers as the column moved out, keeping proper tactical formation on the gravel road. The base camp was just on the far side of the river. Twenty minutes later they could see it. The bridge had long since been wrecked, but Russian engineers had dumped enough gravel to make a ford. The column halted at the guard post on the east side.

  This was the tense part. The Major made the proper signal, and the guard post waved them through. One by one the vehicles moved across the river. The surface was frozen and the drivers had to follow a line of sticks across to keep from becoming trapped in the deep water that lay under the crackling ice. Another five hundred meters.

  The base camp was on a small rise. It was surrounded by low-lying bunkers made of sandbags and logs. None were fully manned. The camp was well sited, with wide fields of fire in all directions, but they’d only man their weapons pits fully at night. Only a single company of troops was actually in the post, while the remainder were out patrolling the hills around the camp. Besides, the column was coming in at meal-time. The battalion motor pool was in sight.

  The Archer was in the front of the lead truck. He wondered to himself why he trusted the defected Major so fully, but decided that this was not a good time for that particular worry.

  The battalion commander came out of his bunker, his mouth working on some food as he watched the soldiers jump out of the trucks. He was waiting for the unit commander, and showed some annoyance as the side door on the BMP opened slowly, and a man in an officer’s uniform appeared.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  “Allahu akhbar!” the Major screamed. His rifle cut down the questioner. The heavy machine guns on the infantry carriers ripped into the mass of men eating their noon meal while the Archer’s men raced to the half-manned bunkers. It took ten minutes before all resistance ceased, but there was never a chance for the defenders, not with nearly a hundred armed men inside the camp. Twenty prisoners were taken. The only Russians in the post—two lieutenants and a communications sergeant—were killed out of hand and the rest were placed under guard as the Major’s men ran to the motor pool.

  They got two more BTRs there and four trucks. That would have to be enough. The rest they burned. They burned everything they couldn’t carry. They to
ok four mortars, half a dozen machine-guns, and every spare uniform they could find. The rest of the camp was totally destroyed—especially the radios, which were first smashed with rifle butts, then burned. A small guard force was left behind with the prisoners, who would also be given the chance to join the mudjaheddin—or die for their loyalty to the infidel.

  It was fifty kilometers to Kabul. The new, larger vehicle column ran north. More of the Archer’s men linked up with it, hopping aboard the vehicles. His force now numbered two hundred men, dressed and equipped like regular soldiers of the Afghan Army, rolling north in Russian-built army vehicles.

  Time was their most dangerous enemy. They reached the outskirts of Kabul ninety minutes later, and encountered the first of several checkpoints.

  The Archer’s skin crawled to be near so many Russian soldiers. When dusk came, the Russians returned to their laagers and bunkers, he knew, leaving the streets to the Afghans, but even the setting sun did not make him feel secure. The checks were more perfunctory than he expected, and the Major talked his way through all of them, using travel documents and code words from the base camp so recently extinguished. More to the point, their route of travel kept them away from the most secure parts of the city. In less than two hours the city was behind them, and they rolled forward under the friendly darkness.

  They went until they began to run out of fuel. At this point the vehicles were rolled off the roads. A Westerner would have been surprised that the mudjaheddin were happy to leave their vehicles behind, even though it meant carrying weapons on their backs. Well rested, the guerrillas moved at once into the hills, heading north.

  The day had held nothing but bad news, Gerasimov noted, as he stared at Colonel Vatutin. “What do you mean, you cannot break him?”

  “Comrade Chairman, our medical people advise me that both the sensory-deprivation procedure, or any form of physical abuse”—torture was no longer a word used at KGB headquarters—“ might kill the man. In view of your insistence on a confession, we must use ... primitive interrogation methods. The subject is a difficult man. Mentally, he is far tougher than any of us expected,” Vatutin said as evenly as he could. He would have killed for a drink at the moment.