Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  Clark saw Ding give the all-clear sign, an ordinary gesture, like shooing an insect off his neck. Then why the eye-recognition from the target—anyone who took an interest in his protectee was a target—why had he stopped and looked? Clark turned around. There was a pretty girl just two tables away. Not Arab or Israeli, some sort of European, Germanic language, sounded like, maybe Dutch. Good-looking girl, and such girls attracted looks. Maybe he and the other two had just been between a looker and his lookee. Maybe. For a protective officer the balance between awareness and paranoia was impossible to draw even when you understood the tactical environment, and Clark had no such illusions here. On the other hand, they’d selected a random eatery on a random street, and the fact that Ryan was here, and that Ben Jakob and he had decided to look things over ... nobody had intelligence that good, and nobody had enough troops to cover even a single city—except maybe the Russians in Moscow—to make the threat a real one. But why the eye-recognition?

  Well. Clark recorded the face and it went into the memory hopper with all the hundreds of others.

  Ghosn continued his own patrol. He’d purchased all the books he needed and was now observing the Swiss troops, how they moved, how tough they looked. Avi Ben Jakob, he thought. Missed opportunity. Targets like that one didn’t appear every day. He continued down the rough, cobbled street, his eyes vacant as they appeared to scan at random. He’d take the next right, increase his pace, and try to get ahead of the Swiss before they made it to the next cross street. He both admired what he saw in them and regretted that he saw it.

  “Nicely done,” Ben Jakob observed to Clark. “Your subordinate is well trained.”

  “He shows promise.” As Clark watched, Ding Chavez looped back to his lookout point across the street. “You know the face?”

  “No. My people probably got a photograph. We’ll check it out, but it was probably a young man with normal sexual drives.” Ben Jakob jerked his head toward the Dutch girl, if that’s what she was.

  Clark was surprised the Israelis hadn’t made a move. A shopping bag could contain anything. And “anything” had generally negative connotations in this environment. God, he hated this job. Looking out for himself was one thing. He typically used mobility, random paths, irregular pacing, always keeping an eye out for escape routes or ambush opportunities. But Ryan, while he might have had similar instincts—tactically speaking, the DDCI was pretty swift, Clark judged—had an overdeveloped sense of faith in the competence of his two bodyguards.

  “So, Avi?” Ryan asked.

  “Well, the first echelon of your cavalry troops is settling in. Our tank people like your Colonel Diggs. I must say I find their regimental crest rather odd—a bison is just a kind of wild cow, after all.” Avi chuckled.

  “As with a tank, Avi, you probably don’t want to stand in front of one.” Ryan wondered what would happen when the 10th Cav ran its first full-up training exercise with the Israelis. It was widely believed in the U.S. Army that the Israelis were overrated, and Diggs had a big reputation as a kick-ass tactician. “It looks like I can report to the President that the local situation is showing real signs of promise.”

  “There will be difficulties.”

  “Of course there will. Avi, the millennium doesn’t arrive for a few more years,” Jack noted. “But did you think things would go so smoothly so fast?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Ben Jakob admitted. He fished out the cash to pay the check, and both men rose. Clark took his cue and went over to Chavez.

  “Well?”

  “Just that one guy. Heavy shopping bag, but it looked like books—textbooks, matter of fact. There was a sales slip still in one. Would you believe books on nuclear physics? The one title I saw was, anyway. Big, thick, heavy mother. Maybe he’s a grad student or something, and that is one pretty lady over there, man.”

  “Let’s keep our minds on business, Mr. Chavez.”

  “She’s not my type, Mr. Clark.”

  “What do you think of the Swiss guys?”

  “They look awful pretty for track-toads. I wouldn’t want to play with them unless I picked the turf and the time, man.” Chavez paused. “You notice the guy I frisked eyeballed them real hard?”

  “No.”

  “He did ... looked like he knew what he was—” Domingo Chavez paused. “I suppose people around here seen a lot of soldiers. Anyway, he gave ‘em a professional sorta look. That’s what I noticed first, not the way he eyeballed you and the doc. The guy had smart eyes, y’know what I mean?”

  “What else?”

  “Moved good, decent shape. Hands looked soft, though, not hard like a soldier. Too old for a college kid, but maybe not for a grad student.” Chavez paused again. “Jesucristo! this is a paranoid business we’re in, man. He was not carrying a weapon. His hands didn’t look like he was a martial-arts type. He just came down the street looking at those Swiss grunts, eyeballed over where the doc and his friend were, then he just kept going. End of story.” There were times when Chavez wished he’d opted to remain in the Army. He would have had his degree and his commission by now instead of cramming in night courses at George Mason while he played bodyguard to Ryan. At least the doc was a good guy, and working with Clark was ... interesting. But this intelligence stuff was a strange life.

  “Time to move,” Clark advised.

  “I got the point.” Ding’s hand checked the automatic clipped under his loose shirt. The Israeli guards were already moving up the street.

  Ghosn caught them just as he’d planned. The Swiss had helped. An elderly Muslim cleric had stopped the squad sergeant to ask a question. There was a problem with translation. The imam didn’t speak English, and the Swiss soldier’s Arabic was still primitive. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

  “Excuse me,” Ghosn said to the imam, “can I help with translation?” He absorbed the rapid-fire string of his native language and turned to the soldier.

  “The imam is from Saudi Arabia. This is his first time in Jerusalem since he was a boy and he requires directions to the Troika’s office.”

  On recognizing the seniority of the cleric, the sergeant removed his helmet and inclined his head respectfully. “Please tell him that we would be honored to escort him there.”

  “Ah, there you are!” another voice called. It was obviously an Israeli. His Arabic was accented but literate. “Good day, Sergeant,” the man added in English.

  “Greetings, Rabbi Ravenstein. You know this man?” the soldier asked.

  “This is Imam Mohammed Al Faisal, a distinguished scholar and historian from Medina.”

  “Is it all I have been told?” Al Faisal asked Ravenstein directly.

  “All that and more!” the rabbi replied.

  “Excuse me?” Ghosn had to say.

  “You are?” Ravenstein asked.

  “A student. I was attempting to assist with the language problem.”

  “Ah, I see,” Ravenstein said. “Very kind of you. Mohammed is here to look at a manuscript we uncovered at a dig. It’s a scholarly Muslim commentary on a very old Torah, Tenth Century, a fantastic find. Sergeant, I can manage things from here, and thank you also, young man.”

  “Do you require escort, sir?” the sergeant asked. “We are heading that way.”

  “No, thank you, we are both too old to keep up with you.”

  “Very well.” The sergeant saluted. “Good day.”

  The Swiss moved off. The few people who’d taken note of the brief encounter pointed and smiled.

  “The commentary is by Al Qalda himself, and it seems to cite the work of Nuchem of Acre,” Ravenstein said. “The state of preservation is incredible.”

  “Then I must see it!” The two scholars began walking down the street as rapidly as their aged legs would carry them, oblivious to everything around them.

  Ghosn’s face didn’t change. He’d shown wonder and amusement for the benefit of the Swiss infantrymen now halfway down the block, themselves with a trailing escort of small chil
dren. His discipline allowed him to sidle off to the side, take another turn, and vanish down a narrow alley, but what he had just seen was far more depressing.

  Mohammed Al Faisal was one of the five greatest Islamic scholars, a highly respected historian, and a distant member of the Saudi royal family despite his unpretentious nature. Except for his age—the man was nearing eighty—he might have been one of the members of the troika running Jerusalem—that and the fact that they’d wanted a scholar of Palestinian ancestry for political reasons. No friend of Israel, and one of the most conservative of the Saudi religious leaders, had he become enamored of the treaty also?

  Worse still, the Swiss had treated the man with the utmost respect. Worst of all, the Israeli rabbi had done the same. The people in the streets, nearly all of them Palestinians, had watched it all with amusement and ... what? Tolerance? Acceptance, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The Israelis had long ago given lip-service to respect for their Arab neighbors, but that promise had not even been written on sand for all the permanence it had carried.

  Ravenstein wasn’t like that, of course. Another scholar, living in his own little world of dead things and ideas, he’d often counseled moderation in dealings with Arabs, and handled his archaeological digs with Muslim consultation ... and now...

  And now he was a psychological bridge between the Jewish world and the Arab one. People like that would continue doing what they had always done, but now it was not an aberration, was it?

  Peace. It was possible. It could happen. It wasn’t just another mad dream imposed on the region by outsiders. How quickly the ordinary people were adapting to it. Israelis were leaving their homes. The Swiss had already taken over one settlement and demolished several others. The Saudi commission was set up, and was beginning to work on restoring land parcels to their rightful owners. A great Arab university was planned for the outskirts of Jerusalem, to be built with Saudi money. It was moving so fast! Israelis were resisting, but less than he had expected. In another week, he’d heard from twenty people, tourists would flood the city—hotel bookings were arriving as rapidly as satellite phone links could deliver them. Already two enormous new hotels were being planned for the influx, and on the basis of increased tourism alone the Palestinians here would reap fantastic economic benefits. They were already proclaiming their total political victory over Israel, and had collectively decided to be magnanimous in their triumph—it made financial sense to be so, and the Palestinians had the most highly developed commercial sense in the Arab world.

  But Israel would still survive.

  Ghosn stopped at a street café, set down his bag, and ordered a glass of juice. He contemplated the narrow street as he waited. There were Jews and Muslims. Tourists would soon flood the place; the first wave had barely broken at local airports. Muslims, of course, to pray at the Dome of the Rock. Americans with their money, even Japanese, curious about a land even more ancient than their own. Prosperity would soon come to Palestine.

  Prosperity was the handmaiden of peace, and the assassin of discontent.

  But prosperity was not what Ibrahim Ghosn wanted for his people or his land. Ultimately, perhaps, but only after the other necessary preconditions had been met. He paid for his orange juice with American currency and walked off. Soon he was able to catch a cab. Ghosn had entered Israel from Egypt. He’d leave Jerusalem for Jordan, thence back to Lebanon. He had work to do, and he hoped the books he carried contained the necessary information.

  Ben Goodley was a postdoctoral student from Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government. A bright, good-looking academic of twenty-seven years, he was also possessed of enough ambition for the entire family after which the school had been named. His doctoral thesis had examined the folly of Vietnam from the intelligence side of the equation, and it had been sufficiently controversial that his professor had forwarded it to Liz Elliot for comment. The National Security Advisor’s only beef with Goodley was that he was a man. Nobody was perfect.

  “So exactly what sort of research do you want to do?” she asked him.

  “Doctor, I hope to examine the nature of intelligence decisions as they relate to recent changes in Europe and the Middle East. The problem is getting FOI’d into certain areas.”

  “And what is your ultimate objective? I mean,” Elliot said, “is it teaching, writing, government service, what?”

  “Government service, of course. The historical environment demands, I think, that the right people take the right action. My thesis made it clear, didn’t it, that we’ve been badly served by the intelligence community almost continuously since the 1960s. The whole institutional mind-set over there is geared in the wrong direction. At least”—he leaned back and tried to look comfortable—“that’s how it often appears to an outsider.”

  “And why is that, do you think?”

  “Recruiting is one problem. The way CIA, for example, selects people really determines how they obtain and analyze data. They create a gigantic self-fulfilling prophecy. Where’s their objectivity, where’s their ability to see trends? Did they predict 1989? Of course not. What are they missing now? Probably a lot of things. It might be nice,” Goodley said, “to get a handle on the important issues before they become crisis items.”

  “I agree.” Elliot watched the young man’s shoulders drop as he discreetly let out a deep breath. She decided to play him just a little, just enough to let him know whom he’d be working for. “I wonder what we can do with you ... ?” Elliot let her eyes trace across the far wall.

  “Marcus Cabot has an opening for a research assistant. You’ll need a security clearance, and you’ll need to sign a very strict nondisclosure agreement. You cannot publish anything without having it cleared in advance.”

  “That’s almost prior-restraint,” Goodley pointed out. “What about the Constitutional issue?”

  “Government must keep some secrets if it is to function. You may have access to some remarkable information. Is getting published your goal, or is it what you said? Public service does require some sacrifices.”

  “Well ...”

  “There will be some important openings at CIA in the next few years,” Elliot promised.

  “I see,” Goodley said, quite truthfully. “I never intended to publish classified information of course.”

  “Of course,” Elliot agreed. “I can handle that through my office, I suppose. I found your paper impressive. I want a mind like yours working for the government if you can agree to the necessary restrictions.”

  “In that case I guess I can accept them.”

  “Fine.” Elliot smiled. “You are now a White House Fellow. My secretary will take you across the street to the security office. You have a bunch of forms to fill out.”

  “I already have a ‘secret’ clearance.”

  “You’ll need more than that. You’ll have to get a SAP/SAR clearance—that means ‘special-access programs/special access required.’ It normally takes a few months for that—”

  “Months?” Goodley asked.

  “I said ‘usually.’ We can fast-track part of that. I suggest you start apartment-hunting. The stipend is sufficient?”

  “Quite sufficient.”

  “Fine. I’ll call Marcus over at Langley. You’ll want to meet him.” Goodley beamed at the National Security Advisor. “Glad to have you on the team.”

  The new White House Fellow took his cue and stood. “I will try not to disappoint you.”

  Elliot watched him leave. It was so easy to seduce people, she knew. Sex was a useful tool for the task, but power and ambition were so much better. She’d already proven that. Elliot smiled to herself.

  “An atomic bomb?” Bock asked.

  “So it would seem,” Qati replied.

  “Who else knows?”

  “Ghosn is the one who discovered it. Only he.”

  “Can it be used?” the German asked. And why have you told me?

  “It was severely damaged and must be repaired. Ibra
him is now assembling the necessary information for evaluating the task. He thinks it possible.”

  Günther leaned back. “This is not some elaborate ruse? An Israeli trick, perhaps an American one?”

  “If so, it is a very clever one,” Qati said, then explained the circumstances of the discovery.

  “Nineteen seventy-three ... it does fit. I remember how close the Syrians came to destroying the Israelis....” Bock was silent for a moment. He shook his head briefly. “How to use such a thing....”

  “That is the question, Günther.”

  “Too early to ask such a question. First, you must determine if the weapon can be repaired. Second, you must determine its explosive yield—no, before that you must determine its size, weight, and portability. That is the most important consideration. After that comes the yield—I will assume that—” He fell silent. “Assume? I know little of such weapons. They cannot be too heavy. They can be fired from artillery shells of less than twenty-centimeter diameter. I know that much.”

  “This one is much larger than that, my friend.”

  “You should not have told me this, Ismael. In a matter like this one, security is everything. You cannot trust anyone with knowledge such as this. People talk, people boast. There could be penetration agents in your organization.”

  “It was necessary. Ghosn knows that he will need some help. What contacts do you have in the DDR?”

  “What sort?” Qati told him. “I know a few engineers, people who worked in the DDR nuclear program ... it’s a dead program, you know.”

  “How so?”

  “Honecker was planning to build several reactors of the Russian sort. When Germany reunited, their environmental activists took one look at the design and—well, you can imagine. The Russian designs do not have a sterling reputation, do they?” Bock grunted. “As I keep telling you, the Russians are a backward people. Their reactor designs, one fellow told me, were mainly for production of nuclear material for weapons ...”