Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  With presidential approval, things moved along smartly. Overseas communications were handled, as always, by the National Security Agency, and only the time zones made things inconvenient. An earlier heads-up signal had been dispatched to the legal attaches in several European embassies, and at the appointed time, first in Bern, teletype machines operating off encrypted satellite channels began punching out paper. In the communications rooms in all the embassies, the commo-techs took note of the fact that the systems being used were the most secure lines available. The first, or register, sheet prepped the technicians for the proper one-time-pad sequence, which had to be retrieved from the safes which held the cipher keys.

  For especially sensitive communications—the sort that might accompany notice that war was about to start, for example—conventional cipher machines simply were not secure enough. The Walker-Whitworth spy ring had seen to that. Those revelations had forced a rapid and radical change in American code policy. Each embassy had a special safe—actually a safe within yet another, larger safe—which contained a number of quite ordinary-looking tape cassettes. Each was encased in a transparent but color-coded plastic shrink-wrap. Each bore two numbers. One number—in this case 342—was the master registration number for the cassette. The other—in the Bern embassy; it was 68—designated the individual cassette within the 342 series. In the event that the plastic wrap on any of the cassettes, anywhere in the world, was determined to be split, scratched, or even distorted, all cassettes on that number series were immediately burned on the assumption that the cassette might have been compromised.

  In this case, the communications technician removed the cassette from its storage case, examined its number, and had his watch supervisor verify that it had the proper number: “I read the number as three-four-two.”

  “Concur,” the watch supervisor confirmed. “Three-four-two.”

  “I am opening the cassette,” the technician said, shaking his head at the absurd solemnity of the event.

  The shrink-wrap was discarded in the low-tech rectangular plastic waste can next to his desk, and the technician inserted the cassette in an ordinary-looking but expensive player that was linked electronically to another teletype machine ten feet away.

  The technician set the original printout on the clipboard over his own machine and started typing.

  The message, already encrypted on the master 342 cassette at NSA headquarters, Fort Meade, Maryland, had been further encrypted for satellite transmission on the current maximum-security State Department cipher, called STRIPE, but even if someone had the proper keys to read STRIPE, all he would have gotten was a message that read DEERAMO WERAC KEWJRT, and so on, due to the super-encipherment imposed by the cassette system. That would at the least annoy anyone who thought that he’d broken the American communications systems. It certainly annoyed the communications technician, who had to concentrate as hard as he knew on how to type things like DEERAMO WERAC KEWJRT instead of real words that made some sort of sense.

  Each letter passed through the cassette player, which took note of the incoming letter and treated it as a number from 1 (A) to 26 (Z), and then added the number on the tape cassette. Thus, if 1 (A) on the original text corresponded to another 1 (A) on the cassette, 1 was added to 1, making 2 (B) on the clear-text message. The transpositions on the cassette were completely random, having been generated from atmospheric radio noise by a computer at Fort Meade. It was a completely unbreakable code system, technically known as a One-Time Pad. There was, by definition, no way to order or predict random behavior. So long as the tape cassettes were uncompromised, no one could break this cipher system. The only reason that this system, called TAPDANCE, was not used for all communications was the inconvenience of making, shipping, securing, and keeping track of the thousands of cassettes that would be required, but that would soon be made easier when a laser-disc format replaced the tape cassettes. The code-breaking profession had been around since Elizabethan times, and this technical development threatened to render it as obsolete as the slide rule.

  The technician pounded away on the keyboard, trying to concentrate as he grumbled to himself about the late hours. He ought to have been off work at six, and was looking forward to dinner in a nice little place a couple of blocks from the embassy. He could not, of course, see the clear-text message coming up ten feet away, but the truth was that he didn’t give a good goddamn. He’d been doing this sort of thing for nine years, and the only reason he stuck with it was the travel opportunity. Bern was his third posting overseas. It wasn’t as much fun as Bangkok had been, but it was far more interesting than his childhood home in Ithaca, New York.

  The message had seventeen thousand characters, which probably corresponded to about twenty-five hundred words, the technician thought. He blazed through the message as quickly as he could.

  “Okay?” he asked when he was finished. The last “word” had been ERYTPESM.

  “Yep,” the legal attaché replied.

  “Great.” The technician took the telex printout he’d just typed from and fed it into the code room’s own shredder. It came out as flat pasta. Next he removed the tape cassette from the player and, getting a nod from the watch supervisor, walked to the corner of the room. Here, tied to a cable fixed to the wall—actually it was just a spiraled telephone cord—was a large horseshoe magnet. He moved this back and forth over the cassette to destroy the magnetic information encoded on the tape inside. Then the cassette went into the burn-bag. At midnight, one of the Marine guards, supervised by someone else, would carry the bag to the embassy’s incinerator, where both would watch a day’s worth of paper and other important garbage burned to ashes by a natural-gas flame. Mr. Bernardi finished scanning the message and looked up.

  “I wish my secretary could type that fast, Charlie. I count two—only two!—mistakes. Sorry we kept you late.” The legal attaché handed over a ten-franc note. “Have a couple of beers on me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bernardi.”

  Chuck Bernardi was a senior FBI agent, whose civil-service rank was equivalent to that of brigadier general in the United States Army, in which he had served as an infantry officer, long ago and far away. He had two more months to serve here, after which he’d rotate home to FBI Headquarters and maybe a job as special-agent-in-charge of a medium-sized field division. His specialty was in the Bureau’s OC—Organized Crime—Directorate, which explained his posting to Switzerland. Chuck Bernardi was an expert on tracking mob money, and a lot of it worked its way through the Swiss banking system. His job, half police officer and half diplomat, put him in touch with all of the top Swiss police officials, with whom he had developed a close and friendly working relationship. The local cops were smart, professional, and damned effective, he thought. A little old lady could walk the streets of Bern with a shopping bag full of banknotes and feel perfectly secure. And some of them, he chuckled to himself on the walk to his office, probably did.

  Once in his office, Bernardi flipped on his reading light and reached for a cigar. He hadn’t shaken off the first ash when he leaned back in his chair to stare at the ceiling.

  “Son of a bitch!” He reached for his telephone and called the most senior cop he knew.

  “This is Chuck Bernardi. Could I speak to Dr. Lang, please? Thank you.... Hi, Karl, Chuck here. I need to see you ... right away if possible ... it’s pretty important, Karl, honest.... In your office would be better.... Not over the phone, Karl, if you don’t mind.... Okay, thanks, pal. It’s worth it, believe me. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  He hung up the phone. Next he walked out to the office Xerox machine and made a copy of the document, signing off that it was he who had used the machine and how many copies had been run off. Before leaving, he put the original in his personal safe and tucked the copy in his coat pocket. Karl might be pissed about missing dinner, he thought, but it wasn’t every day that somebody enriched your national economy to the tune of two hundred million dollars. The Swiss would freeze the acco
unts. That meant that six of their banks would, by law, keep all the accrued interest—and maybe the principal also, as the identity of the government which was entitled to get the funds might never be clear, “forcing” the Swiss to keep the funds, which would ultimately be turned over to the canton governments. And people wondered why Switzerland was such a wealthy, peaceful, charming little country. It wasn’t just the skiing and the chocolate.

  Within an hour, six embassies had the word, and as the sun marched across the earth, special agents of the FBI also visited the executive suites of several American commercial—“full-service” —banks. They handed over the identifying numbers or names of several accounts, all of whose considerable funds would be immediately frozen by the simple expedient of putting a computer lock on them. In all cases, it was done quietly. No one had to know, and the importance of secrecy was conveyed in very positive terms—in America and elsewhere—by serious, senior government employees, to bank presidents who were fully cooperative in every instance. (After all, it wasn’t their money, was it?) In nearly all cases, the police officials learned, the accounts were not terribly active, averaging two or three transactions per month; always large ones, of course. Deposits would still be accepted, and it was suggested by a Belgian official that if the FBI had the account information for other such accounts, transfers from one monitored account to another would be allowed—only within the same country, of course, the Belgian pointed out—to prevent tipping off the depositors. After all, he said, drugs were the common enemy of all civilized men, and most certainly of all police officers. That suggestion was immediately ratified by Director Jacobs, with the concurrence of the AG. Even the Dutch went along, despite the fact that the Netherlands government itself sold drugs in approved stores to its more jaded younger citizens. It was, all in all, a clear case of capitalism in action. There was dirty money around, money that had not been rightly earned, and governments did not approve of such money. Which was why they seized it for their own approved ends. In the case of the banks, the secrecy to which they were sworn was every bit as sacred as that by which they guarded the identity of their depositors.

  By the close of business hours on Friday, all had been accomplished. The banks’ computer systems stayed up and running. The law-enforcement people now had two full additional days to give the money trails further examination. If they found any more money related to the accounts already seized, those funds would also be frozen, and, in the case of the European banks, confiscated. The first hit here was in Luxembourg. Though Swiss banks are those known internationally for their confidentiality laws, the only real difference in security between their operation and those of banks in most other European countries was the fact that Belgium, for example, wasn’t surrounded by the Alps, and that Switzerland hadn’t been overrun by foreign armies quite as recently as her European neighbors. Otherwise, the integrity of the banks was identical, and accordingly the non-Swiss bankers actually resented the Alps for giving their Swiss brethren such an additional and accidental business advantage. But in this case, international cooperation was the rule. By Sunday evening, six new “dirty” accounts had been identified, and one hundred thirty-five million additional dollars were put under computer lock.

  Back in Washington, Director Jacobs, Deputy Assistant Director Murray, the specialists from the organized-crime office, and the Justice Department left their offices for a well-deserved dinner at the Jockey Club Restaurant. While the Director’s security detail watched, the ten men proceeded to have themselves a superb meal at government expense. Perhaps a passing reporter or Common Cause staffer might have objected, but this one had been well and truly earned. Operation TARPON was the greatest single success in the War on Drugs. It would go public, they agreed, by the end of the week.

  “Gentlemen,” Dan Murray said, rising with his—he didn’t remember how many glasses of Chablis had accompanied this fish—of course—dinner. “I give you the United States Coast Guard!”

  They all rose with a chorus of laughter that annoyed the other customers in the restaurant. “The United States Coast Guard!” It was a pity, one of the Justice Department attorneys noted, that they didn’t know the words to “Semper Paratus.”

  The party broke up about ten o’clock. The Director’s security men shared looks. Emil didn’t hold his liquor all that well, and he’d be a gruff, hungover little bear tomorrow morning—though he’d apologize to them all before lunch.

  “We’ll be flying down to Bogotá Friday afternoon,” he told them in the sanctity of his official car, an Oldsmobile. “Make your plans but don’t tell the Air Force until Wednesday. I don’t want any leaks on this.”

  “Yes, sir,” the chief of the detail answered. He wasn’t looking forward to this one either. Especially now. The druggies were going to be pissed. But this visit would catch them unawares. The news stories would say that Jacobs was remaining in D.C. to work on the case, and they wouldn’t expect him to show up in Colombia. Even so, the security for this one would be tight. He and his fellow agents would be spending some extra time in the Hoover Building’s own weapons range, honing their skills with their automatic pistols and submachine guns. They couldn’t let anything happen to Emil.

  Moira found out Tuesday morning. By this time she, too, knew all about TARPON, of course. She knew that the trip was supposed to be secret, and she had no doubt that it would also be dangerous. She wouldn’t tell Juan until Thursday night. After all, she had to be careful. She spent the rest of the week wondering what special place he had in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  It no longer mattered that the uniform clothing was khaki instead of woodland pattern Battle Dress Uniform. Between the sweat stains and the dirt, the squad members were now exactly the same color as the ground on which they hid. They had all washed once in the stream from which they took their water, but no one had used soap for fear that suds or smell or something might alert someone downstream. Under the circumstances, washing without soap wasn’t even as good as kissing your sister. It had cooled them off, however, and that for Chavez was a most pleasant memory. For—what was it?—ten glorious minutes he’d been comfortable. Ten minutes after which, he’d sweated again. The climate was beastly, with temperatures reaching to one hundred twenty degrees on one cloudless afternoon. If this was a goddamned jungle, Chavez asked himself, why the hell doesn’t it rain? The good news was that they didn’t have to move around a great deal. The two jerks who guarded this airstrip spent most of their time sleeping, smoking—probably grass, Chavez thought—and generally jerking off. They had, once, startled him by firing their weapons at tin cans that they’d set up on the runway. That might have been dangerous, but the direction of fire hadn’t been toward the observation post, and Chavez had used the opportunity to evaluate the weapons skills of the opposition. Shitty, he’d told Vega at once. Now they were up to it again. They set up three bean cans—big ones—perhaps a hundred meters from the shack, and just blazed away, shooting from the hip like movie actors.

  “Christ, what fuck-ups,” he observed, watching through his binoculars.

  “Lemme see.” Vega got to watch just as one of them knocked a can down on his third try. “Hell, I could hit the damned things from here....”

  “Point, this is Six, what the fuck is going on!” the radio squawked a moment later. Vega answered the call.

  “Six, this is Point. Our friends are doing some plinkin’ again. Their axis of fire is away from us, sir. They’re punchin’ holes in some tin cans. They can’t shoot for shit, Cap’n.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “Roger.” Ding set down the radio. “The Cap’n’s coming. I think the noise made him nervous.”

  “He sure does worry a lot,” Vega noted.

  “That’s what they pay officers for, ain’t it?”

  Ramirez appeared three minutes later. Chavez made to hand over his binoculars, but the captain had brought his own pair this time. He fell to a prone position and got his glasses up just in time to watch ano
ther can go down.

  “Oh.”

  “Two cans, two full magazines,” Chavez explained. “They like to go rock-and-roll. I guess ammo’s cheap down here.”

  Both of the guards were still smoking. The captain and the sergeant watched them laugh and joke as they shot. Probably, Ramirez thought, they’re as bored as we are. After the first aircraft, there had been no activity at all here at RENO, and soldiers like boredom even less than ordinary citizens. One of them—it was hard to tell them apart since they were roughly the same size and wore the same sort of clothing—inserted another magazine into his AK-47 and blazed off a ten-round burst. The little fountains of dirt walked up to the remaining can, but didn’t quite hit it.

  “I didn’t know it would be this easy, sir,” Vega observed from behind the sights of his machine gun. “What a bunch of fuck-ups!”

  “You think that way, Oso, you turn into one yourself,” Ramirez said seriously.

  “Roger that, Cap‘n, but I can’t help seein’ what I’m seein’.”

  Ramirez softened his rebuke with a smile. “I suppose you’re right.”

  The third can finally went down. They were averaging thirty rounds per target. Next the guards used their weapons to push the cans around the runway.

  “You know,” Vega said after a moment, “I ain’t seen ’em clean their weapons yet.” For the squad members, cleaning their weapons was as regular a routine as morning and evening prayers were for clergymen.