Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  She would have preferred curtains on the windows, but it was not a good idea to alter the appearance of the trailer too much. Nor was it a very good idea to have a car there. After the team arrived, they’d find a heavily wooded spot a hundred meters up the dirt road to leave it. That was also a minor annoyance, but one for which they had to prepare. Setting up safe houses was never as easy as people thought, certainly not the covert kind, even in places as open as America. It would have been somewhat easier if she’d had decent warning, but this operation had been laid on virtually overnight, and the only place she had was the rough-and-ready spot she’d picked out soon after arriving. It wasn’t intended for anything other than a place for her to hole up, or perhaps safeguard her agent should it ever become necessary. It had never been intended for the mission at hand, but there wasn’t time to make any other arrangements. The only other alternative was her own home, and that was definitely out. Bisyarina wondered if she’d be disciplined for not having scouted out a better location, but knew that she’d followed her instructions to the letter in all of her field activities.

  The furniture was functional, though dirty. With nothing better to do, she wiped it off. The team leader coming in was a senior officer. She didn’t know his name or face, but he had to have more rank than she did for this kind of job. When the trailer’s single couch was reasonably presentable, she stretched out for a nap, having first set a small alarm clock to wake her in several hours. It seemed that she’d just lain down when the bell startled her off the vinyl cushions.

  They arrived an hour before dawn. The road signs made it easy, and Leonid had the route completely memorized. Five miles—he had to think in miles now—off the interstate, he turned right onto a side road. Just past a road sign advertising a cigarette, he saw the dirt road that seemingly led nowhere. He switched off the car’s lights and coasted up to it, careful to keep his foot off the brake lest his taillights betray him in the trees. Over the first small ridge, the road dropped and curved to the right. There was the Volvo. Next to it was a figure.

  This was always the tense part. He was making contact with a fellow KGB officer, but he knew of cases where things hadn’t gone quite right. He set the parking brake and got out.

  “Lost?” the woman’s voice asked.

  “I’m looking for Mountain View,” he replied.

  “That’s on the other side of town,” she said.

  “Oh, I must have taken the wrong exit.” He could see her relax when he completed the sequence.

  “Tania Bisyarina. Call me Ann.”

  “I’m Bob,” Leonid said. “In the car are Bill and Lenny.”

  “Tired?”

  “We’ve been driving since dawn yesterday,” Leonid/Bob answered.

  “You can sleep inside. There’s food and drink. No electricity, no running water. There are two flashlights and a gasoline lantern—you can use that to boil water for coffee.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Get your people inside and I’ll show you where to move the car.”

  “How about getting out?”

  “I don’t know yet. What we have to do later today is complex enough.” That launched her into a description of the operation. What surprised her, though it shouldn’t have, was the professionalism of the three. Each of them had to be wondering what Moscow Center had in its head when it ordered this operation. What they were doing was insane enough, much less the timing. But none of the four allowed their personal feelings to interfere with business. The operation was ordered by Moscow Center, and Moscow knew what it was doing. The manuals all said so, and the field officers believed it, even when they knew they shouldn’t.

  Beatrice Taussig awoke an hour later. The days were getting longer, and now the sun didn’t shine in her face when she drove to work. Instead it stared right through her bedroom window like an accusing eye. Today, she told herself, the dawn marked what was supposed to be a really new day, and she prepared herself to meet it. She started off with a shower and blow-dried her hair. Her coffee machine had already switched on, and she drank her first cup while she decided what she’d wear today. She told herself that it was an important decision, and found that it required more of a breakfast than a cup of coffee and a muffin. Such things require energy, she told herself gravely, and fixed eggs to go along with the rest. She’d have to remind herself to go light on lunch as a result. Taussig had kept to a constant weight for the past four years, and was very careful of her figure.

  Something frilly, she decided. She didn’t have many outfits like that, but maybe the blue one ... She switched on the TV as she ate her breakfast, catching the CNN Headline News blurb about the arms negotiations in Moscow. Maybe the world would become a safer place. It was good to think that she was working for something. A fastidious person, she put all her dishes in the dishwasher rack before returning to her bedroom. The blue outfit with the frills was a year out of date, but few at the project would notice—the secretaries would, but who cared about them? She added a paisley scarf around her neck to show that Bea was still Bea.

  Taussig pulled into her reserved parking place at the normal time. Her security pass came out of her purse and went around her neck, suspended by a gold chain, and she breezed in the door, past the security checkpoints.

  “’Mornin’, doc,” said one of the guards. It had to be the outfit, Bea thought. She gave him a smile anyway, which made it an unusual morning for both of them, but didn’t say anything, not to some high-school dropout.

  She was the first one in her office, as usual. That meant that she fixed the coffee machine the way she liked, very strong. While it was perking, she opened her secure file cabinet and took out the package that she’d been working on the previous day.

  Surprisingly, the morning went much more quickly than she had expected. The work helped. She had to deliver a cost-projection analysis by the end of the month, and to do that she had to shuffle through reams of documents, most of which she’d already photographed and forwarded to Ann. It was so convenient to have a private office with a door, and a secretary who always knocked before entering. Her secretary didn’t like her, but Taussig didn’t much care for her, either, a born-again jerk whose idea of a good time was practicing hymns. Well, a lot of things would change, she told herself. This was the day. She’d seen the Volvo on the drive in, parked in the appropriate place.

  “Eight-point-one on the dyke-meter,” Peggy Jennings said. “You ought to see the clothes she buys.”

  “So she’s eccentric,” Will Perkins observed tolerantly. “You see something I don’t, Peg. Besides, I saw her coming in this morning, and she looked fairly decent, except for the scarf.”

  “Anything unusual?” Jennings asked. She put her personal feelings aside.

  “No. She gets up awfully early, but maybe she takes time to get untracked in the morning. I don’t see any special reason to extend the surveillance.” The list was long, and manpower was short. “I know you don’t like gays, Peg, but you haven’t even got a confirmation on that yet. Maybe you just don’t like the gal,” he suggested.

  “The subject is flamboyant in mannerisms but conservative in dress. Outspoken on most things, but she doesn’t talk at all about work. She’s a collection of contradictions.” And that fits the profile, she didn’t have to add.

  “So maybe she doesn’t talk about work because she’s not supposed to, like the security weenies tell them. She drives like an Easterner, always in a hurry, but she dresses in conservative clothes—maybe she likes the way she looks in clothes like that? Peg, you can’t be suspicious about everything.”

  “I thought that was our job,” Jennings snorted. “Explain what we watched the other night.”

  “I can’t explain it, but you’re putting your own spin on it. There’s no evidence, Peg, not even enough to intensify the surveillance. Look, after we get through the people on the list, we’ll take another look at her.”

  “This is crazy, Will. We have a supposed leak in a top-security pr
oject, and we have to pussyfoot around like we’re afraid we might offend somebody.” Agent Jennings stood and walked over to her desk for a moment. It wasn’t much of a walk. The local FBI office was crowded with arrivals from the Bureau’s counterintel office, and the headquarters people had usurped the lunchroom. Their “desks” were actually lunch tables.

  “Tell you what—we can take the people who have access to the leaked material and put ’em all on the box.” On the box meant subjecting everyone to a lie-detector test. The last time that had been done here, it had nearly started a revolution at Tea Clipper. The scientists and engineers were not intelligence types who understood that such things were necessary, but academics who considered the whole process an insult to their patriotism. Or a game: one of the software engineers had even tried using biofeedback techniques to screw up the test results. The main result from this effort, eighteen months before, had been to show that the scientific staff had a great deal of hostility to the security weenies, which was not much of a surprise. What had finally stopped the testing was a wrathful paper from a senior scientist who’d shown that a few deliberate lies he’d told went undetected. That, and the disruption it had caused within the various sections, had ended things before the program had been completed.

  “Taussig didn’t go on the box the last time,” Jennings noted. She’d checked. “None of the admin people did. The revolt stopped things before they got that far. She was one of the people who—”

  “Because the software bunch brought their protests to her. She’s admin, remember, she’s supposed to keep all the scientific people happy.” Perkins had checked, too. “Look, if you feel this strongly about it, we can come back to her later. I don’t see anything myself, but I’ll trust your instincts—but for now, we have all these others to check out.”

  Margaret Jennings nodded her surrender. Perkins was right, after all. They had nothing solid to point to. It was just her—what? Jennings wondered. She thought Taussig was gay, but that wasn’t such a big thing anymore—the courts had said so in enough cases—and there was no proof to support her suspicion anyway. That’s what it was, she knew. Three years earlier, right before she’d joined the counterintelligence office, she’d handled a kidnapping involving a couple of ...

  She also knew that Perkins was being more professional about it. Even though a Mormon, and straighter than most arrows, he didn’t let his personal feelings interfere with business. What she couldn’t shake was the gut feeling that despite everything logic and experience told her, she was still right. Right or wrong, she and Will had six reports to fill out before they went back into the field. You couldn’t spend more than half your time in the field anymore. The rest was always stuck at a desk—or a converted lunch table—explaining to people what it was that you did when you weren’t stuck at a desk.

  “Al, this is Bea. Could you come over to my office?”

  “Sure. Be over in five minutes.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Taussig hung up. Even Bea admired Gregory for his punctuality. He came through the door exactly on time.

  “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

  “No. They’re running another target-geometry simulation, but they don’t need me for that. What’s up?” Major Gregory asked, then said, “I like the outfit, Bea.”

  “Thanks, Al. I need you to help me with something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a birthday present for Candi. I’m picking it up this afternoon and I need somebody to help me with it.”

  “Eek, you’re right. It is in three weeks, isn’t it?”

  Taussig smiled at Al. He even made geeky noises. “You’re going to have to start remembering those things.”

  “So what are you getting her?” He grinned like a little boy.

  “It’s a surprise, Al.” She paused. “It’s something Candi needs. You’ll see. Candi drove herself in today, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she has to see the dentist after work.”

  “And don’t tell her anything, please? It’s a big surprise,” Bea explained.

  He could see that it was all she could do to keep her face straight. It must be some surprise, he smiled. “Okay, Bea. I’ll see you at five.”

  They woke after noon. “Bob” trudged to the bathroom first before he remembered that there was no running water. He checked the windows for signs of activity before he went outside. By the time he was back, the others had water boiling. They only had instant coffee, but Bisyarina had gotten them a decent brand, and the breakfast food was all typically American, loaded with sugar. They knew that they’d need it. When each had finished his “morning” routine, they got out their maps and their tools and went over the operation’s details. Over a period of three hours, they walked through them mentally until each man knew exactly what had to happen.

  And there it was, the Archer told himself. Mountains made for long views. In this case, the objective was still two nights’ march away, despite the fact that they could see it now. While his subordinates tucked their men into hiding places, he rested his binoculars on a rock and examined the site, still ... twenty-five kilometers away? he wondered, then checked his map. Yes. He’d have to take his men downhill, cross a small stream, then up the slopes on a man-killing climb, and they would make their last camp ... there. He concentrated his viewing on that spot. Five kilometers from the objective itself, shielded from view by the mountain’s contours ... the final climb would be a hard one. But what choice was there? He might give his people an hour’s rest before the actual assault. That would help, and he’d also be able to brief his men on their individual missions, and give them all time to pray. His eyes went back to the objective.

  Clearly, construction was still under way, but on this sort of place, they’d never stop building. It was well that they were here now. In a few more years it would be impregnable. As it was ...

  His eyes strained to make out the details. Even with binoculars he couldn’t make out anything smaller than the guard towers. In the first light of dawn he could see the individual bumps that marked buildings. He’d have to be closer to make out items on which the last-minute details of his plan would depend, but for the moment his interest was in the lay of the land. How best to approach the place? How to use the mountain to their advantage? If this place were guarded by KGB troops, as the CIA documents he’d inspected had said, he knew that they were as lazy as they were cruel.

  Guard towers, three, north side. There will be a fence there. Mines? he wondered. Mines or not, those guard towers would have to go fast. They’d hold heavy machine guns, and the view from them commanded the terrain. How to do that?

  “So that is the place?” The former Army Major came down beside him.

  “The men?”

  “All hidden,” the Major answered. He spent a minute examining the place in silence. “Remember the stories about the Assassins’ stronghold in Syria?”

  “Oh.” The Archer turned sharply. That’s what it reminded him of! “And how was that fortress taken?”

  The Major smiled, keeping his eyes to the objective. “With more resources than we have, my friend ... if they ever fortify the whole hilltop, it would take a regiment with helicopter support even to get inside the perimeter. So how do you plan to do it?”

  “Two groups.”

  “Agreed.” The Major didn’t agree with any of this. His training—all of it supplied by the Russians—told him that this mission was madness for so small a force, but before he could contradict a man like the Archer he would have to show his combat skills. That meant running mad risks. In the meantime, the Major would try to nudge his tactics in the right direction.

  “The machines are on the slopes to the north. The people are on the knoll to the south.” As they watched, the headlights of buses were moving from one place to the other. It was shift-change. The Archer considered that, but he had to make his attack in darkness and leave in darkness, else they’d never get away.

  “If we can get in close witho
ut being detected ... may I make a suggestion?” the Major asked quietly.

  “Go on.”

  “Take everything in together to the high ground in the center, then attack downhill against both places.”

  “It’s dangerous,” the Archer noted at once. “There is much open ground to be covered on both sides.”

  “It’s also easier to reach the jump-off point unobserved. An approach by one group is less likely to be spotted than one by two groups. Place our heavy weapons there, and they can observe and support both assault teams ...”

  Here was the difference between an instinctive warrior and a trained soldier, the Archer admitted to himself. The Major knew better than he how to measure hazards one against the other. “I don’t know about the guard towers, though. What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. I—” The Major pushed his commander’s head down. A moment later an airplane streaked down the valley.

  “That was a MiG-21, reconnaissance version. We are not dealing with fools.” He looked to make sure that all his men were under cover. “We may just have had our pictures taken.”

  “Did they—”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to trust in God for that, my friend. He has not let us come this far to fail,” the Major said, wondering if that were true or not.

  “So where are we going?” Gregory asked in the parking lot.

  “Meet me at the mall, south side of the lot, okay? I just hope it’ll fit in the car.”