Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

“You’re sure?”

  “Damned right. It surprised me, too.”

  “I wanted to check up on that before—well, you know.”

  “Sure thing, man.” With that the line went dead.

  “Who is he?” Greer asked.

  “Walter Hicks. All the best schools, James—Andover and Brown. Father’s a big-time investment banker who pulled a few well-tuned political strings, and look where little Wally ends up.” Ritter tightened his hand into a fist. “You want to know why those people are still in SENDER GREEN? That’s it, my friend.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know.” But it won’t be legal. The tape wasn’t. The tap had been set up without a court order.

  “Think it over carefully, Bob,” Greer warned. “I was there, too, remember?”

  “What if Sergey can’t get it done fast enough? Then this little fuck gets away with ending the lives of twenty men!”

  “I don’t like that very much either.”

  “I don’t like it at all!”

  “Treason is still a capital crime, Bob.”

  Ritter looked up. “It’s supposed to be.”

  Another long day. Oreza found himself envying the first-class who was tending Cove Point Light. At least he had his family with him all the time. Here Oreza was with the brightest little girl in kindergarten and he hardly ever saw her. Maybe he’d take that teaching job at New London after all, Portagee thought, just so that he could have a family life for a year or two. It meant hanging out with children who would someday be officers, but at least they’d learn seamanship the right way.

  Mainly he was lonely with his thoughts. His crew was bedding down now in the bunkroom that he should have gone to. but the images haunted him. The crabman, and the three bird-feeders would deny him sleep for hours unless he got it off his conscience . . . and he had an excuse, didn’t he? Oreza rummaged around his desk, finding the card.

  “Hello?”

  “Lieutenant Charon? This is Quartermaster First Class Oreza, down at Thomas Point.”

  “It’s kinda late, you know,” Charon pointed out. He’d been caught on his way to bed.

  “Remember back in May, looking for that sailboat?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I think maybe we found your man, sir.” Oreza thought he could hear eyeballs click.

  “Tell me about it?”

  Portagee did, leaving nothing out, and he could feel the horror leaving him, almost as though he were transmitting it over the phone wire. He didn’t know that was precisely what he was doing.

  “Who’s the captain running the case for the troopers?”

  “Name’s Joy, sir. Somerset County. Know him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh, yeah, something else,” Oreza remembered.

  “Yeah?” Charon was taking lots of notes.

  “You know a Lieutenant Ryan?”

  “Yeah, he works downtown, too.”

  “He wanted me to check up a guy for him, fellow named Kelly. Oh, yeah! You’ve seen him, remember?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The night we were out after the day-sailer, the guy in the cruiser we saw just before dawn. Lives on an island, not far from Bloodsworth. Anyway, this Ryan guy wanted me to find him for him, okay? He’s back, sir, probably up in Baltimore right now. I tried calling, sir, but he was out, and I’ve been running my ass off all day. Could you pass that one along, please?”

  “Sure,” Charon replied, and his brain was working very quickly indeed now.

  35

  Rite of Passage

  Mark Charon found himself in rather a difficult position. That he was a corrupted cop did not make him a stupid one. In fact, his was a careful and thoroughly analytical mind, and while he made mistakes, he was not blind to them. That was precisely the case as he lay alone in bed, hanging up the phone after his conversation with the Coast Guard. The first order of business was that Henry would not be pleased to learn that his lab was gone, and three of his people with it. Worse still. it sounded as though a vast quantity of drugs had been lost, and even Henry’s supply was finite. Worst of all. the person or persons who had accomplished that feat was unknown, at large, and doing—what?

  He knew who Kelly was. He’d even reconstructed matters to the rather stunning coincidence that Kelly had been the one who’d picked Pam Madden off the street quite by accident the day Angelo Vorano had been eliminated, and that she’d actually been aboard his boat, not twenty feet from the Coast Guard cutter after that stormy and vomitous night. Now Em Ryan and Tom Douglas wanted to know about him. and had taken the extraordinary step of having the Coast Guard check up on him. Why? A follow-up interview with an out-of-town witness was something for the telephone more often than not. Em and Tom were working the Fountain Case, along with all the other ones that had started a few weeks later. “Rich beach bum” was what he’d told Henry, but the department’s number-one homicide team was interested in him, and he’d been directly involved with one of the defectors from Henry’s organization, and he had a boat, and he lived not too far from the processing lab that Henry was still foolish enough to use. That was a singularly long and unlikely string of coincidences made all the more troubling by the realization that Charon was no longer a policeman investigating a crime, but rather a criminal himself who was part of the crimes being checked out.

  That realization struck surprisingly hard at the Lieutenant lying in his bed. Somehow he didn’t think of himself in those terms. Charon actually had believed himself above it all, watching, taking an occasional part, but not being part of what unfolded below him. After all, he had the longest string of successes in the history of the narcotics unit, capped off with his personal elimination of Eddie Morello, perhaps the most artful action of his professional life-doubly so in that he had eliminated a genuine dealer by premeditated murder in front of no less than six other officers, then had it pronounced a clean shooting on the spot, which had given him a paid vacation in addition to what Henry had paid him for the event. Somehow it had seemed like a particularly entertaining game, and one not too far distanced from the job the citizens of his city paid him to do. Men live by their illusions, and Charon was no different from the rest. It wasn’t so much that he’d told himself what he’d been doing was all right as that he’d simply allowed himself to concentrate on the breaks that Henry had been feeding him, thus taking off the street every supplier who’d threatened the man’s market standing. Able to control which of his detectives investigated what, he’d actually been able to give the entire local market to the one supplier about whom he had no real information in his files. That had enabled Henry to expand his own operation, attracting the attention of Tony Piaggi and his own East Coast connections. Soon. and he’d told Henry this. he would be forced to allow his people to nibble at the edges of the operation. Henry had understood, doubtless after counseling from Piaggi, who was sophisticated enough to grasp the finer points of the game.

  But someone had tossed a match into this highly volatile mixture. The information he had led only in one direction, but not far enough. So he had to get more, didn’t he? Charon thought for a moment and lifted his phone. He needed three calls to get the right number.

  “State Police.”

  “Trying to get Captain Joy. This is Lieutenant Charon, Baltimore City Police.”

  “You’re in luck, sir. He just got back in. Please hold.” The next voice that came on was a tired one.

  “Captain Joy.”

  “Hello, this is Lieutenant Charon, Mark Charon. City Police. I work narcotics. I hear you just took down something big.”

  “You might say that.” Charon could hear the man settling into his chair with a combination of satisfaction and fatigue.

  “Could you give me a quick sketch? I may have some information on this one myself.”

  “Who told you about this anyway?”

  “That Coast Guard sailor who drove you around—Oreza. I’ve worked
with him on a couple cases. Remember the big marijuana bust, the Talbot County farm?”

  “Was that you? I thought the Coasties took credit for that.”

  “I had to let them, to protect my informant. Look. you can call them if you want to confirm that. I’ll give you the phone number, the boss of the station is Paul English.”

  “Okay. Charon, you sold me.”

  “Back in May I spent a day and a night out with them looking for a guy who just disappeared on us. We never found him, never found his boat. Oreza says—”

  “The crabman,” Joy breathed. “Somebody got dumped in the water, looks like he’s been there a while. Anything you can tell me about him?”

  “His name is probably Angelo Vorano. Lived here in town, small-time dealer who was looking to make it into the bigs.” Charon gave a description.

  “Height’s about right. We’ll have to check dental records for a positive ID. though. Okay, that ought to help, Lieutenant. What do you need from me?”

  “What can you tell me?” Charon took several minutes of notes. “What are you doing with Xantha?”

  “Holding her as a material witness, with her lawyer’s approval by the way. We want to take care of this girl. Looks like we’re dealing with some pretty nasty folks here.”

  “I believe it,” Charon replied. “Okay, let me see what I can shake loose for you at this end.”

  “Thanks for the assist.”

  “Jesus,” Charon said after hanging up. White boy . . . big white boat. Burt and the two people Tony had evidently seconded to the operation, back of the head, .45s. Execution-style killings were not yet the vogue in the drug business, and the sheer coldness of it gave Charon a chill. But it wasn’t so much coldness as efficiency, was it? Like the pushers. Like the case Tom and Em were working, and they wanted to see about this Kelly guy, and he was a white guy with a big white boat who lived not far from the lab. That was too much of a coincidence.

  About the only good news was that he could call Henry in safety. He knew every drug-related wiretap in the area, and not one was targeted on Tucker’s operation.

  “Yeah?”

  “Burt and his friends are dead,” Charon announced.

  “What’s that?” said a voice that was fully waking up.

  “You heard me. The State Police in Somerset have them bagged. Angelo. too, what’s left of him. The lab is gone, Henry. The drugs are gone, and they have Xantha in custody.” There was actually some satisfaction in this. Charon was still enough of a cop that the demise of a criminal operation was not yet a matter of grief for him.

  “What the fuck is going on?” a shrill voice inquired.

  “I think I can tell you that, too. We need to meet.”

  Kelly took another look at his perch, just driving by in his rented Beetle, before heading back to his apartment. He was tired, though sated from the fine dinner. His afternoon nap had been enough to keep him going after a long day, but mainly the reason was to work off the anger, which driving often did for him. He’d seen the man now. The one who had finished the process of killing Pamela, with a shoestring. It would have been so easy to take care of him there. Kelly had never killed anyone barehanded, but he knew how. A lot of skilled people had spent a lot of time at Coronado, California, teaching him the finer points until whenever he looked at any person his mind applied something like a sheet of graph paper, this place for this move, that place for that one—and seeing he’d known that, yes, it was all worth it. It was worth the danger, and it was worth the consequences . . . but that didn’t mean that he had to embrace them, as risk of life didn’t mean throwing it away. That was the other side of it.

  But he could see the end now, and he had to start planning beyond the end. He had to be even more careful. Okay, so the cops knew who he was, but he was certain that they had nothing. Even if the girl, Xantha, someday decided to talk to the cops, she’d never seen his face—the camouflage paint took care of that. About the only danger was that she’d seen the registration number on his boat as he’d backed away from that dock, but that didn’t seem to be much of a worry. Without physical evidence they had nothing they could use in front of a court of law. So they knew he disliked some people—fine. So they might even know what his training was—fine. The game he played was in accordance with one set of rules. The game they played had another. On balance, the rules worked in his favor, not theirs.

  He looked out the car window, measuring angle and distance, making a preliminary plan and working in several variations. They’d picked a spot where there were few police patrols and lots of open ground. No one could approach them easily without being seen . . . probably so that they could destroy whatever they had in there if it became necessary. It was a logical approach to their tactical problem, except for one thing. They hadn’t considered a different set of tactical rules.

  Not my problem, Kelly thought, heading back to his apartment.

  “God almighty . . . ” Roger MacKenzie was pale and suddenly nauseated. They were standing on the breakfast porch of his house in northwest Washington. His wife and daughter were shopping in New York for the fall season. Ritter had arrived unannounced at six-fifteen, fully dressed and grim, a discordant note for the cool, pleasant morning breezes. “I’ve known his father for thirty years.”

  Ritter sipped his orange juice, though the acid in it didn’t exactly do his stomach any good either. This was treason of the worst sort. Hicks had known what he did would hurt fellow citizens, one of whom he knew by name. Ritter had already made his mind up on the matter, but Roger had to have his time to rattle on.

  “We went through Randolph together, we were in the same Bomb Group,” MacKenzie was saying. Ritter decided to let him get it all out, even though it would take a little time. “We’ve done deals together . . . ” the man finished, looking down at his untouched breakfast.

  “I can’t fault you for taking him into your office, Roger, but the boy’s guilty of espionage.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “It’s a criminal offense, Roger,” Ritter pointed out.

  “I’m going to be leaving soon. They want me on the reelection team, running the whole Northeast.”

  “This early?”

  “Jeff Hicks will be running the campaign in Massachusetts, Bob. I’ll be working directly with him.” MacKenzie looked across the table, speaking in barely connected bursts. “Bob, an espionage investigation in our office—it could ruin things. If what we did-if your operation became public—I mean, the way it happened and what went wrong—”

  “I’m sorry about that, Roger, but this little bastard betrayed his country.”

  “I could pull his security clearance, kick him out—”

  “Not good enough,” Ritter said coldly. “People may die because of him. He is not going to walk away from it.”

  “We could order you to—”

  “To obstruct justice, Roger?” Ritter observed. “Because that’s what it is. That’s a felony.”

  “Your tap was illegal.”

  “National-security investigation—there’s a war going on, remember?—slightly different rules, and besides, all that has to happen is let him hear it and he’ll split open.” Ritter was sure of that.

  “And run the risk of bringing down the President? Now? At this time? Do you think that’ll do the country any good? What about our relations with the Russians? This is a crucial time, Bob.” But then. it always is, isn’t it? Ritter wanted to add. but didn’t.

  “Well. I’m coming to you for guidance.” Ritter said, and then he got it. after a fashion.

  “We can’t afford an investigation that leads to a public trial. That is politically unacceptable.” MacKenzie hoped that would be enough.

  Ritter nodded and stood. The drive back to his office at Langley was not all that comfortable. Though it was satisfying to have a free hand, Ritter was now faced with something that, however desirable, he did not want to become a habit. The first order of business was to pull the wiretap.
In one big hurry.

  After everything that had happened, it was the newspaper that broke things loose. The four-column head, below the fold, announced a drug-related triple murder in sleepy Somerset County. Ryan devoured the story, never getting to the sports page that usually occupied fifteen minutes of his morning routine.

  It’s got to be him, the Lieutenant thought. Who else would leave “a large quantity” of drugs behind, along with three bodies? He left the house forty minutes early that morning, surprising his wife.

  “Mrs. O’Toole?” Sandy had just finished her first set of morning rounds, and was checking off some forms when the phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “This is James Greer. You’ve spoken to my secretary, Barbara. I believe.”

  “Yes, I have. Can I help you?”

  “I hate to bother you, but we’re trying to track John down. He’s not at home.”

  “Yes, I think he’s in town, but I don’t know where exactly.”

  “If you hear from him, could you please ask him to call me? He has my number. Please forgive me for asking this,” the man said politely.

  “I’ll be glad to.” And what’s that aboat? she wondered.

  It was getting to her. The police were after John, and she’d told him, and he hadn’t seemed to care. Now somebody else was trying to get hold of him. Why? Then she saw a copy of the morning paper sitting on the table in the lounge area. The brother of one of her patients was reading something or other, but right there on the lower-right side of the front page was the headline: DRUG MURDER IN SOMERSET.

  “Everybody’s interested in that guy,” Frank Allen observed.

  “What do you mean?” Charon had come into Western District on the pretense of checking up on the administrative investigation of the Morello shooting. He’d talked Allen into allowing him to review the statements of the other officers and three civilian witnesses. Since he’d graciously waived his right to counsel, and since the shooting looked squeaky clean, Allen hadn’t seen any harm in the matter, so long as it was done in front of him.