Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  Jennings had never seen anyone so thoroughly destroyed as Beatrice Taussig had been. Beneath the brittle, confident exterior had beaten what was after all a lonely human heart, consumed by solitary rage at a world that hadn’t treated her in the way that she desired, but was unable to make happen. She almost felt sorry for the woman in handcuffs, but sympathy did not extend to treason, and certainly not to kidnapping, the highest—or lowest—crime in the FBI’s institutional pantheon.

  Her collapse was agreeably complete, however, and that’s what mattered right now, that and the fact that she and Will Perkins had gotten the information out of her. It was still dark when they took her outside to a waiting FBI car. They left her Datsun in the driveway to suggest that she was still there, but fifteen minutes later she came in the back door of the Santa Fe FBI office and gave her information to the newly arrived investigators. It wasn’t all that much, really, just a name, an address, and a type of car, but it was the beginning the agents needed. A Bureau car drove by the house soon thereafter and noted that the Volvo was in place. Next, a crisscross telephone directory enabled them to call the family directly across the street, giving them one minute’s warning that two FBI agents were about to knock on their back door. The two agents set up surveillance in the family’s living room, which was both frightening and exciting to the young couple who owned the tract house. They told the agents that “Ann,” as she was known, was a quiet lady whose profession was unknown to the family, but who had caused no trouble in the neighborhood, though she did occasionally keep eccentric hours, like quite a few single people. Last night, for example, she hadn’t gotten home until rather late, the husband noted, about twenty minutes before the Carson show ended. A heavy date, he thought. Odd that they’d never seen her bring anyone home, though ...

  “She’s up. There go some lights.” One agent picked up binoculars, hardly needed to see across the street. The other one had a long-lens camera and high-speed film. Neither man could see anything more than a moving shadow through the drawn curtains. Outside, they watched a man in a tubular bicycle helmet ride past her car on his ten-speed, getting his morning exercise. From their vantage point they could see him place the radio beeper on the inside surface of the Volvo’s rear bumper, but only because they knew what to look for.

  “Who teaches them to do that,” the man with the camera asked, “David Copperfield?”

  “Stan something—works at Quantico. I played cards with him once,” the other chuckled. “He gave the money back and showed me how it’s done. I haven’t played poker for money since.”

  “Can you tell us what this is all about?” the homeowner asked.

  “Sorry. You’ll find out, but no time for it now. Bingo!”

  “Got it.” The camera started clicking and winding.

  “We timed that one close!” The man with the binoculars lifted his radio. “Subject is moving, getting in the car.”

  “We’re ready,” the radio replied.

  “There she goes, heading south, about to lose visual contact. That’s it. She’s yours now.”

  “Right. We got her. Out.”

  No fewer than eleven cars and trucks were assigned to the surveillance, but more important were the helicopters orbiting four thousand feet above the ground. One more helicopter was on the ground at Kirtland Air Force Base. A UH-1N, the two-engine variant of the venerable Huey of Vietnam fame, it had been borrowed from the Air Force and was now being fitted with rappelling ropes.

  Ann drove her Volvo in what appeared to be a grossly ordinary fashion, but behind her sunglasses her eyes returned to her mirrors every few seconds. She needed all her skills now, all her training, and despite a mere five hours of sleep she kept to her professional standards. Next to her on the seat was a thermos of coffee. She’d already had two cups for herself, and would give the rest to her three colleagues.

  Bob was moving too. Dressed in work clothes and boots, he was jogging cross-country through the woods, pausing only to look at a compass on a two-mile path through the pines. He’d given himself forty minutes to make the trip, and realized that he needed all of it. The high altitude and thin air had him gasping for breath even before he had to deal with the slopes here. He had put all the recriminations behind. All that mattered now was the mission. Things had gone wrong for field operations before, though not any of his, and the mark of a real field officer was the ability to deal with adversity and fulfill his task. At ten minutes after seven he could see the road, and on the near side of it was the convenience store. He stopped twenty yards inside the woodline and waited.

  Ann’s path was a random one, or seemingly so. Her driving took her on and off the main road twice before she settled down to the final part of the trip. At seven-fifteen she pulled into the parking lot of the small store and went inside.

  The FBI was down to two cars now, so skillful had the subject been at evading the surveillance. Every random turn she made had forced a car off her tail—it was assumed that she could identify any car seen more than once—and a frantic call had been sent out for additional vehicles. She’d even chosen the convenience store with care. It could not be watched from anyplace on the road itself; traffic flow would not permit it. Car number ten went into the same parking lot. One of its two occupants went inside, while the other stayed with the vehicle.

  The inside man got the Bureau’s first real look at Ann, while she bought some donuts and decided to get some more coffee in large Styrofoam cups, plus some soft drinks, all of them high in caffeine content, though the agent didn’t take note of that. He checked out right behind her with a paper and two large coffees. He watched her go out the door, and saw that a man joined her, getting into the car as naturally as the fiance of a woman who liked to drive her own car. He hustled out of the door to his car, but still they almost lost her.

  “Here.” Ann handed over a paper. Bob’s picture was on the front page. It had even been done in color, though the picture quality from the tiny license frame was not exciting. “I’m glad you remembered to wear the wig,” she observed.

  “What is the plan?” Leonid asked.

  “First I will rent you a new car to get you back to the safe house. Next I will purchase some makeup so that all of you can alter your complexions. After that, I think we will get a small truck for the border crossing. We’ll also need some packing crates. I don’t know about those yet, but I will by the end of the day.”

  “And the crossing?”

  “Tomorrow. We’ll leave before noon and make the crossing about dinnertime.”

  “So fast?” Bob asked.

  “Da. The more I think about it—they will flood the area with assets if we linger too much.” They drove the rest of the way in silence. She went back into the city and parked her car in a public lot, leaving Leonid there as she crossed the street and walked half a block to a rental car agency right across the street from a large hotel. There she went through the proper procedures in less than fifteen minutes, and soon thereafter parked a Ford beside her Volvo. She tossed the keys to Bob and told him to follow her to the interstate, after which he’d be on his own.

  By the time they got to the freeway, the FBI was nearly out of cars. A decision had to be made, and the agent in charge of the surveillance guessed right. An unmarked state police vehicle took up the coverage on the Volvo while the last FBI car followed the Ford onto the highway. Meanwhile five cars from the early part of the morning’s surveillance of “Ann” raced to catch up with “Bob” and his Ford. Three of them took the same exit, then followed him along the secondary road leading to the safe house. As he matched his driving to the posted speed limit, two of the cars were forced to pass him, but the third was able to lay back—until the Ford pulled to the shoulder and stopped. This section of the road was as straight as an arrow for over a mile, and he’d stopped right in the middle of it.

  “I got him, I got him,” a helicopter observer reported, watching the car from three miles away through a pair of stabilized binoculars. He
saw the minuscule figure of a man open the hood, then bend down and wait for several minutes before closing it and driving on. “This boy is a pro,” the observer told the pilot.

  Not pro enough, the pilot thought, his own eyes locked on the distant white dot of a car’s roof. He could see the Ford turn off the road onto a dirt track that disappeared in the trees.

  “Bingo!”

  It had been expected that the safe house would be isolated. The geography of the area easily lent itself to that. As soon as the site was identified, an RF-4C Phantom of the 67th Tactical Reconnaissance Wing lifted off from Bergstrom Air Force Base in Texas. The two-man crew of the aircraft thought it was all something of a joke, but they didn’t mind the trip, which took less than an hour. As a mission, it was simple enough that anyone could have done it. The Phantom made a total of four high-altitude passes over the area, and after shooting several hundred feet of film through its multiple camera systems, the Phantom landed at Kirtland Air Force Base, just outside Albuquerque. A cargo plane had brought additional ground crew and equipment a few hours earlier. While the pilot shut down his engines, two groundcrewmen removed the film canister and drove it to the trailer that served as an air-portable photolab. Automatic processing equipment delivered the damp frames to the photointerpreters half an hour after the plane had stopped moving.

  “There you go,” the pilot said when the right frame came up. “Good conditions for it: clear, cold, low humidity, good sun angle. We didn’t even leave any contrails.”

  “Thank you, Major,” the sergeant said as she examined the film from the KA-91 panoramic camera. “Looks like we have a dirt road coming off this highway here, snakes over the little ridge ... and looks like a house trailer, car parked about fifty yards—another one, covered up some. Two cars, then. Okay, what else ... ?”

  “Wait a minute—I don’t see the second car,” an FBI agent said.

  “Here, sir. The sun’s reflecting off something, and it’s too big to be a Coke bottle. Car windshield, probably. Maybe a back window, but I think it’s the front end.”

  “Why?” the agent asked. He just had to know.

  She didn’t look up. “Well, sir, if it was me, and I was hiding a car, like, I’d back it in so’s I could get out quick, y’know?”

  It was all the man could do not to laugh. “That’s all right, Sarge.”

  She cranked to a new frame. “There we go—here’s a flash off the bumper, and that’s probably the grille, too. See how they covered it up? Look by the trailer. That might be a man there in the shadows ...” She went to the next frame. “Yep, that’s a person.” The man was about six feet, athletic, with dark hair and a shadow on his face suggesting that he’d neglected to shave today. No gun was visible.

  There were thirty usable frames of the site, eight of which were blown up to poster size. These went to the hangar with the UH-1N. Gus Werner was there. He didn’t like rush jobs any more than the people in that trailer did, but his choices were as limited as theirs had been.

  “So, Colonel Filitov, we now have you to 1976.”

  “Dmitri Fedorovich brought me with him when he became Defense Minister. It simplified things, of course.”

  “And increased your opportunities,” Vatutin observed.

  “Yes, it did.”

  There were no recriminations now, no accusations, no comments on the nature of the crime that Misha had committed. They were past that for the moment. The admission had come first as it always did, and that was always hard, but after that, once they’d been broken or tricked into confessing, then came the easy part. It could last for weeks, and Vatutin had no idea where this one would end. The initial phase was aimed at outlining what he’d done. The detailed examination of each episode would follow, but the two-phase nature of the interrogation was crucial to establishing a cross-referencing index, lest the subject later try to change or deny particular things. Even this phase, glossing over the details as they went, horrified Vatutin and his men. Specifications for every tank and gun in the Soviet Army, including the variations never sent to the Arabs—which was as good as giving them to the Israelis, therefore as good as giving them to the Americans—or even the other Warsaw Pact countries, had gone out to the West even before the design prototypes had entered full production. Aircraft specifications. Performance on both conventional and nuclear warheads of every description. Reliability figures for strategic missiles. Inside squabbling in the Defense Ministry, and now, entering the time when Ustinov had become a full voting member of the Politburo, political disputes at the highest level. Most damaging of all, Filitov had given the West everything he knew of Soviet strategy—and he knew all there was to know. As sounding board and confidant for Dmitri Ustinov, and in his capacity as a legendary combat soldier, he’d been the bureaucrat’s eyepiece onto the world of actual war-fighting.

  And so, Misha, what do you think of this ... ? Ustinov must have asked that same question a thousand times, Vatutin realized, but he’d never suspected ...

  “What sort of man was Ustinov?” the Colonel of “Two” asked.

  “Brilliant,” Filitov said at once. “His administrative talents were unparalleled. His instincts for manufacturing processes, for example, were like nothing I’ve seen before or since. He could smell a factory and tell if it was doing proper work or not. He could see five years in the future and determine which weapons would be needed and which would not. His only weakness was in understanding how they were actually used in combat, and as a result we fought occasionally when I tried to change things to make them easier to use. I mean, he looked for easier manufacturing methods to speed production while I looked at the ease with which the end product could be used on the battlefield. Usually I won him over, but sometimes not.”

  Amazing, Vatutin thought as he made a few notes. Misha never stopped fighting to make the weapons better even though he was giving everything to the West ... why? But he couldn’t ask that now, nor for a very long time. He couldn’t let Misha see himself as a patriot again until all of his treason was fully documented. The details of this confession, he knew now, would take months.

  “What time is it in Washington?” Ryan asked Candela.

  “Coming up on ten in the morning. You had a short session today.”

  “Yeah. The other side wanted an early recess for something or other. Any word from D.C. on the Gregory matter?”

  “Nothing,” Candela replied gloomily.

  “You told us they would put their defense systems on the table,” Narmonov said to his KGB chief. The Foreign Minister had just reported otherwise. They’d actually learned that the day before, but now they were totally sure that it wasn’t mere gamesmanship. The Soviets had hinted at reneging on the verification section of the proposal that had already been settled in principle, hoping this would shake the Americans loose, even a little, on the SDI question. That gambit had met a stone wall.

  “It would seem that our source was incorrect,” Gerasimov admitted. “Or perhaps the expected concession will take more time.”

  “They have not changed their position, nor will they change it. You’ve been misinformed, Nikolay Borissovich,” the Foreign Minister said, defining his position to be in firm alliance with the Party’s General Secretary.

  “Is this possible?” Alexandrov inquired.

  “One of the problems gathering intelligence on the Americans is that they themselves often do not know what their position is. Our information came from a well-placed source, and this report coincided with that from another agent. Perhaps Allen wished to do this, but was forbidden to.”

  “That is possible,” the Foreign Minister allowed, unwilling to push Gerasimov too hard. “I’ve long felt that he has his own thoughts on the issue. But that does not matter now. We will have to change our approach somewhat. Might this signal that the Americans have made another technical breakthrough?”

  “Possibly. We’re working on that right now. I have a team trying to bring out some rather sensitive material.” Gera
simov didn’t dare to go further. His operation to snatch the American Major was more desperate than Ryan himself guessed. If it became public, he’d stand accused within the Politburo of trying to destroy important negotiations—and to have done so without first consulting his peers. Even Politburo members were supposed to discuss what they did, but he couldn’t do that. His ally Alexandrov would want to know why, and Gerasimov could not risk revealing his entrapment to anyone. On the other hand, he was certain that the Americans would not do anything to reveal the kidnapping. For them to do so would run an almost identical risk—political elements in Washington would try to accuse conservatives of using the incident to scuttle the talks for reasons of their own. The game was as grand as it had ever been, and the risks Gerasimov was running, though grave, merely added spice to the contest. It was too late to be careful. He was beyond that, and even though his own life was on the line, the scope of the contest was worthy of its goal.

  “We don’t know that he’s there, do we?” Paulson asked. He was the senior rifleman on the Hostage Rescue Team. A member of the Bureau’s “Quarter-Inch Club,” he could place three aimed shots within a circle less than half an inch in diameter at two hundred yards—and of that half-inch, .308 inches was the diameter of the bullet itself.