Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “I don’t see shit,” Piaggi said, squatting down to look out the windows. “There’s nobody around.”

  This is the guy who did the pushers, Tucker was telling himself as he stood away from the window. Five or six of ’em. Killed Rick with a fuckin’ knife . . .

  Tony had picked the building. It was to be an ostensible part of a small interstate trucking concern whose owners were connected and very careful players. Just perfect, he’d thought, so close to major highways, quiet part of town, little police activity, just an anonymous building doing anonymous work. Perfect, Henry had thought on seeing it.

  Oh, yeah, just perfect . . .

  “Let me look.” It wasn’t time to back off. Henry Tucker didn’t think of himself as a coward. He’d fought and killed, himself, and not just women. He’d spent years establishing himself, and the first part of the process hadn’t been without bloodshed. Besides, he couldn’t appear to be weak now, not in front of Tony and two “soldiers.” “Nothin’,” he agreed.

  “Let’s try something.” Piaggi walked to the phone and lifted it. There wasn’t a dial tone, just a buzz. . . .

  Kelly looked at the field phone, listening to the noise it made. He’d let it be for the moment, let them do the waiting now. Though the tactical situation was of his design, still his options were limited. Talk, don’t talk. Shoot, don’t shoot. Move, don’t move. With only three basic choices to be made, he had to select his actions carefully to achieve the desired effect. This battle was not a physical one. Like most battles, it was a thing of the mind.

  It was getting warm. The last hot days before the leaves started turning. Already eighty degrees, maybe going past ninety, one last time. He wiped perspiration from his face, watching the building, listening to the buzz, letting them sweat from something other than the heat of the day.

  “Shit,” Piaggi snarled, slamming the phone down. “You two!”

  “Yeah?” It was the taller one, Bobby.

  “Take a walk around the building—”

  “No!” Henry said, thinking. “What if he’s right outside? You can’t see shit out that window. He could be standing right next to the door. You want to risk that?”

  “What do you mean?” Piaggi asked.

  Tucker was pacing now, breathing a little faster than usual, commanding himself to think. How would I do it? “I mean, the bastard cuts the phone line, makes his call, spooks us, and then he just waits for us right outside, like.”

  “What do you know about this guy?”

  “I know he killed five pushers, and four of my people—”

  “And four of mine if he ain’t lyin’—”

  “So we gotta outthink him, okay? How would you handle it?”

  Piaggi thought that one over. He’d never killed. It had just never worked out that way. He was more the brains side of the business. He had roughed people up in his time, however, had delivered some fearful beatings, and that was close enough, wasn’t it? How would I do this? Henry’s idea made sense. You just stay out of sight, like around a corner, in an alley, in the shadows, and then you let them look the other way. The nearest door, the one they’d used, swung to the left, and you could tell that from the outside from where the hinges were. It also had the virtue of being closest to the cars, and since that was their only means of escape, that’s the one he’d expect them to use.

  Yeah.

  Piaggi looked over to his partner. Henry was looking up. The acoustical panels had been removed from the drop ceiling. Right there, in the flat roof, was an access door. It was locked shut with a simple manual latch to keep burglars out. It would open easily, maybe even quietly, to the flat tar-and-gravel roof, and a guy could get up there, and walk to the edge, and look down, and whack whoever was waiting there next to the front door.

  Yeah.

  “Bobby, Fred, come here,” Piaggi ordered. He filled them in on the tactical situation. By this time they’d guessed that something was gravely wrong, but it wasn’t cops—that was the worst thing that could go wrong, they thought, and the assurance that it wasn’t cops actually relieved both of them. Both had handguns. Both were smart, and Fred had killed once, taking care of a small family problem in riverside Philadelphia. The two of them slid a desk under the access door. Fred was eager to show that he was a serious guy, and so gain favor with Tony, who also looked like a serious guy. He stood on the desk. It wasn’t quite enough. They put a chair atop the desk, which allowed him to open the door and look out on the roof.

  Aha! Kelly saw the man standing there—actually only his head and chest were visible. The rifle came up, and the crosshairs found the face. He almost took the shot. What stopped him was the way the man had his hands on the door coaming, the way he was looking around, scanning the flat roof before he moved farther. He wanted to get up there. Well, I guess I’ll let him, Kelly thought as a tractor-trailer rumbled past, fifty yards away. The man lifted himself up on the roof. Through his telescopic sight, Kelly could see a revolver in his hand. The man stood erect, looking all the way around, and then moved very slowly towards the front of the building. It wasn’t bad tactics, really. Always a good thing to do your reconnaissance first . . . oh, that’s what they’re thinking, he thought. Too bad.

  Fred had removed his shoes. The small pea-size gravel hurt his feet, and so did the heat radiating from the sticky black tar under the stones, but he had to be quiet—and besides, he was a tough customer, as someone had once learned on the bank of the Delaware River. His hands flexed familiarly on the grip of his short-barreled Smith. If the bastard was there, he’d shoot straight down. Tony and Henry would pull the body in, and they’d pour water to wash the blood away, and get back to business, because this was an important delivery. Halfway there. Fred was very concentrated now. He approached the parapeted edge with his feet in the lead, his body leaning back until his stockinged toes got all the way to the low wall of bricks that extended above the roofline. Then, quickly, he leaned forward, gun aimed downwards at—nothing. Fred looked up and down the front of the building.

  “Shit!” He turned, and called, “There’s nobody here!”

  “What?” Bobby’s head came up in the opening to look, but Fred was now checking the cars out for someone crouching there.

  Kelly told himself that patience was almost always rewarded. That thought had enabled him to fight off the buck fever that always came when you had a target in your sights. As soon as his peripheral vision caught movement at the opening, he brought the gun left. A face, white, twenties, dark eyes, looking at the other one, a pistol in his right hand. Just a target now. Take him first. Kelly centered the crosshairs in the bridge of the nose and squeezed gently.

  Smack. Fred’s head turned when he heard a sound that was both wet and hard, but when he did, there was nothing there. He’d heard nothing else but that wet, sharp sound, but now there was also a clatter, as though Bobby’s chair had slipped off the desk and he’d fallen to the floor. Nothing else, but for no apparent reason the skin at the back of his neck turned to ice. He backed away from the edge of the roof, looking all around at the flat, rectangular horizon just as fast as his head could turn. Nothing.

  The gun was new, and the bolt still a little stiff as he drove the second round home. Kelly brought it back to the right. Two for the price of one. The head was turning rapidly now. He could see the fear there. He knew there was danger but not where or what kind. Then the man started moving back to the opening. He couldn’t allow that. Kelly applied about six inches of lead and squeezed again. Pingggggg.

  Smack. The sound of the impact was far louder than the muted pop of the shot. Kelly ejected the spent cartridge and slammed in another as a car approached on O’Donnell Street.

  Tucker was still looking at Bobby’s face when his head jerked upwards, hearing the thud of what had to be another body, rattling the steel-bar joists of the roof. “Oh, my God . . . ”

  37

  Trial by Ordeal

  “You’re looking much better than the last time,
Colonel,” Ritter said pleasantly in Russian. The security officer rose and walked out of the living room, giving the two men privacy. Ritter was carrying an attaché case, which he set on the coffee table. “Feeding you well?”

  “I have no complaints,” Grishanov said warily. “When can I go home?”

  “This evening, probably. We’re waiting for something.” Ritter opened the case. This made Kolya uneasy, but he didn’t allow it to show. For all he knew there might be a pistol in there. Comfortable as his imprisonment had been, friendly as his conversations with the residents in this place were, he was on enemy soil, under the control of enemies. It made him think of another man in a distant place under very different circumstances. The differences ate at his conscience and shamed him for his fear.

  “What is that?”

  “Confirmation that our people are in Hoa Lo Prison.”

  The Russian lowered his head and whispered something Ritter didn’t catch. Grishanov looked up. “I am glad to hear that.”

  “You know, I believe you. Your letters back and forth to Rokossovskiy make that clear.” Ritter poured himself some tea from the pot on the table, filling up Kolya’s cup also.

  “You have treated me correctly.” Grishanov didn’t know what else to say, and the silence was heavy in him.

  “We have a lot of experience being friendly to Soviet guests,” Ritter assured him. “You’re not the first to stay here. Do you ride?”

  “No, I’ve never been on a horse.”

  “Ummhmm.” The attaché case was quite full with papers, Kolya saw, wondering what they were. Ritter took out two large cards and an ink pad. “Could I have your hands, please?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing to worry about.” Ritter took his left hand and inked the fingertips, rolling them one at a time in the appropriate boxes on one card, then the other. The procedure was duplicated with the right hand. “There, that didn’t hurt, did it? You can wash your hands now, better to do it before the ink dries.” Ritter slid one of the cards into the file, substituting it for the one removed. The other just went on top. He closed the case, then carried the old card to the fireplace, where he ignited it with his cigarette lighter. It burned fast, joining the ash pile from the fires that the custodians liked to have every other night. Grishanov came back with clean hands.

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “It’s really nothing that need concern you. You just helped me out on something, that’s all. What say we have lunch? Then we can meet with a countryman of yours. Please be at ease, Comrade Colonel,” Ritter said as reassuringly as he could. “If your side sticks to the bargain, you’ll be on your way home in about eight hours. Fair enough?”

  Mark Charon was uncomfortable coming here again, safe though the location might be this early into its use. Well, this wouldn’t take long. He pulled his unmarked Ford to the front of the building, got out, and walked to the front door. It was locked. He had to knock. Tony Piaggi yanked it open, a gun in his hand.

  “What’s this?” Charon demanded in alarm.

  “What’s this?” Kelly asked himself quietly. He hadn’t expected the car to come right up to the building, and had been loading two more rounds into the clip when the man pulled in and got out. The rifle was so stiff that he had trouble getting the clip back in, and by the time he had it up, the figure was moving too rapidly for a shot. Damn. Of course, he didn’t know who it was. He twisted the scope to max-power and examined the car. Cheap body . . . an extra radio antenna . . . police car? Reflected light prevented him from seeing the interior. Damn. He’d made a small mistake. He’d expected a down-time after dropping the two on the roof. Never take anything for granted, dummy! The slight error made him grimace.

  “What the hell is going on?” Charon snapped at them. Then he saw the body on the floor, a small hole slightly above and to the left of the open right eye.

  “It’s him! He’s out there!” Tucker said.

  “Who?”

  “The one who got Billy and Rick and Burt—”

  “Kelly!” Charon exclaimed, turning around to look at the closed door.

  “You know his name?” Tucker asked.

  “Ryan and Douglas are after him—they want him for a string of killings.”

  Piaggi grunted. “The string is longer by two. Bobby here, and Fred on the roof.” He stooped by the window again. He’s got to be right across the road there . . .

  Charon had his gun out now, for no apparent reason. Somehow the bags of heroin seemed unusually heavy now, and he set his service revolver down and unloaded them from his clothing onto the table with the rest of them, along with the mixing bowl, and the envelopes, and the stapler. That activity ended his current ability to do anything but look at the other two. That was when the phone rang. Tucker got it.

  “Having fun, you cocksucker?”

  “Did you have fun with Pam?” Kelly asked coldly. “So,” he asked more pleasantly, “who’s your friend? Is that the cop you have on the payroll?”

  “You think you know it all, don’t you?”

  “No, not all. I don’t know why a man would get his rocks off killing girls, Henry. You want to tell me that?” Kelly asked.

  “Fuck you, man!”

  “You want to come on out and try? You swing that way too, sweetie-pie?” Kelly hoped Tucker didn’t break the phone, the way he slammed it down. He just didn’t understand the game, and that was good. If you didn’t know the rules, you couldn’t fight back effectively. There was an edge of fatigue on his voice, and Tony’s also. The one on the roof hadn’t had his shirt buttoned; it was rumpled, Kelly saw, examining the body through his sight. The trousers had creases inside the knees, as though the man had been sitting up all night. Had he merely been a slob? That didn’t seem likely. The shoes he’d left by the opening were quite shiny. Probably up all night, Kelly judged after a few seconds’ reflection. They’re tired, and they’re scared, and they don’t know the game. Fine. He had his water and his candy bars, and all day.

  “If you knew that bastard’s name, how come you—goddamn it!” Tucker swore. “You told me he’s just a rich beach bum, I said I could take him out in the hospital, remember, but no!. . . you said leave him fuckin’ be!”

  “Settle down, Henry.” Piaggi said as calmly as he could manage. This is one very serious boy we have out there. He’s done six of my people. Six! Jesus. This is not the time to panic.

  “We have to think this one through, okay?” Tony rubbed the heavy stubble on his face, collecting himself, thinking it through. “He’s got a rifle and he’s in that big white building across the street.”

  “You wanna just walk over there and get him, Tony?” Tucker pointed to Bobby’s head. “Look what he did here!”

  “Ever hear of nightfall, Henry? There’s one light out there, right over the door.” Piaggi walked over to the fuse box, checked the label inside the door, and unscrewed the proper fuse. “There, the light don’t work anymore. We can wait for night and make our move. He can’t get us all. If we move fast enough, he might not get any.”

  “What about the stuff?”

  “We can leave one guy here to guard it. We get muscle in here to go after that bastard, and we finish business, okay?” It was a viable plan, Piaggi thought. The other guy didn’t hold all the cards. He couldn’t shoot through the walls. They had water, coffee, and time on their side.

  The three stories were as close to word-for-word identical as anything he might have hoped for under the circumstances. They’d interviewed them separately, as soon as they’d recovered enough from their pills to speak, and their agitated state only made things better. Names, the place it had happened, how this Tucker bastard was dealing his heroin out-of-town now, something Billy had said about the way the bags stank—confirmed by the “lab” busted on the Eastern Shore. They now had a driver’s license number and possible address on Tucker. The address might be bogus—not an unlikely situation—but they also had a car make, from which they�
��d gotten a tag number. He had it all, or at least was close enough that he could treat the investigation as something with an end to it. It was a time for him to stand back and let things happen. The all-points was just now going on the air. At the next series of squad-room briefings, the name Henry Tucker, and his car, and his tag number would be made known to the patrol officers who were the real eyes of the police force. They could get very lucky, very fast, bring him in, arraign him, indict him, try him, and put his ass away forever even if the Supreme Court had the bad grace to deny him the end his life had earned. Ryan was going to bag that inhuman bastard.

  And yet.

  And yet Ryan knew he was one step behind someone else. The Invisible Man was using a .45 now—not his silencer; he had changed tactics, was going for quick, sure kills . . . didn’t care about noise anymore . . . and he’d talked to others before killing them, and probably knew even more than he did. That dangerous cat Farber had described to him was out on the street, hunting in the light now, probably, and Ryan didn’t know where.

  John T. Kelly, Chief Boatswain’s Mate, U.S. Navy SEALs. Where the hell are you? If I were you . . . where would I be? Where would I go?

  “Still there?” Kelly asked when Piaggi lifted the phone.

  “Yeah, man, we’re having a late lunch. Wanna come over and join us?”