Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games (29 page)

“Nice to see such confidence.”

“There's better pilots than me,” Robby admitted. “Three, as a matter of fact. Ask me again in a year, when I'm back in the groove.”

“Oh, yeah!” Jack laughed. The laugh died when he saw the picture on the TV screen. “That's him -- I wonder why --” He turned the sound up.

“ . . . killed, including five police officers. An intensive land, sea, and air search is under way for the terrorists who snatched their convicted comrade while en route to a British prison on the Isle of Wight. Sean Miller was convicted only three weeks before in the daring attack on the Prince and Princess of Wales within sight of Buckingham Palace. Two police officers and one of the terrorists were killed before the attack was broken up by American tourist Jack Ryan of Annapolis, Maryland.”

The picture changed to show the weather on the Channel and a Royal Navy helicopter, evidently searching for something. It changed again to a file tape of Miller being taken out of the Old Bailey. Just before he was put in the police van. Miller turned to face the camera, and now weeks later his eyes stared again into those of John Patrick Ryan.

“Oh, my God . . .” Jack muttered.

“You shouldn't blame yourself, Jimmy,” Murray said. “And Bob's going to make it. That's something.”

“Certainly,” Owens replied sardonically. “There's even a fifty-percent chance that he'll learn to walk again. What of the others, Dan? Five good men gone, and four civilians along with them.”

“And maybe the terrorists, too,” Murray pointed out.

“You don't believe that any more than I do!”

It had come as a piece of blind luck. A Royal Navy mine-hunter ship conducting an ongoing sonar survey of the English Channel had found a new object on the bottom and immediately sent a camera sled down to classify it. The videotape showed the remains of a ten-meter zodiac-type inflatable boat, with two hundred-horse outboard motors. It had clearly sunk as the result of an explosion near the gas tanks, but there was no evidence of the men who'd been aboard, or their weapons. The vessel's skipper had immediately grasped the importance of the discovery and informed his superiors. A salvage crew was preparing now to go out and raise the wreck.

“It's a possibility. One of them might have screwed up, the boat blew, the bad guys get dumped in the drink . . . ”

“And the bodies?”

“Fish food.” Murray smirked. “Makes a nice image, doesn't it?”

“You are so fond of punting, Dan. Just what percentage of your salary would you wager on that hypothesis?” Owens wasn't in the mood for humor. Murray could see that the head of C-13 still looked on this as a very personal defeat.

“Not very much,” the FBI representative conceded. “So you think a ship picked them up.”

“It's the only thing that makes the least bit of sense. Nine merchant vessels were close enough to have been involved. We have the list.”

So did Murray. It had already been forwarded to Washington, where the FBI and CIA would both work on it. “But why not recover the boat, too?”

“Obvious, isn't it? What if one of our helicopters saw them doing it? Or it might have been too difficult for the weather conditions. Or they might just not have wished to trouble themselves. They do have ample financial resources, don't they?”

“When will the Navy raise the wreck?”

“If the weather holds, day after tomorrow,” Owens said. That was the one thing to be happy about. Then they'd have physical evidence. Everything made in the world carried trademarks and serial numbers. Somewhere there would be records of sale. That was how many successful investigations had started -- a single sales slip in a single shop had often led to the conviction of the most dangerous criminals. From the videotape, the outboards on the boat looked like American Mercury motors. The Bureau had already been alerted to run that lead down as soon as the engine numbers were in. Murray had already learned that Mercury motors were a favorite all over the world. It would make matters harder, but it was still something; and something was always better than nothing. The resources of the Metropolitan Police and the Bureau were designed for precisely such a task.

“Any breaks on the leak?” Murray asked. This touched the rawest nerve of all.

“He'd better pray we don't find him,” Owens said quietly. There was as yet no danger that this would happen. There had been a total of thirty-one people who'd known the time and route for the prisoner transfer, and five of them were dead -- even the driver of the van hadn't known beforehand. That left twenty-six, ranging from a few members of C-13, two more high officials in the Metropolitan Police, ten in the Home Office, a few more in MI-5, the Security Service, and various others. Every one of them had a top-drawer security clearance. Not that a clearance matters a damn, Owens told himself again. By definition a leak had to come from some bastard with a top-drawer clearance.

But this was different. This was treason -- it was worse than treason -- a concept that Owens hadn't even thought possible until the last week. Whoever had leaked this had also to have been involved in the attack on the Royal Family. To betray national security secrets to a foreign power was sufficiently heinous to make the Commander think in unprofessional terms. But deliberately to endanger the Royal Family itself was so incomprehensible a crime that Owens had scarcely been able to believe it possible. This wasn't someone of dubious mental state. This was a person with intelligence and considerable skill at dissimulation, someone who had betrayed a trust both personal and national. There had been a time in his country when such people died by torture. It was not a fact that Owens was proud of, but now he understood why it had happened, how easily one might countenance such punishment. The Royal Family served so many functions for the United Kingdom, was so greatly loved by the people. And someone, probably someone very close to them, was quite willing to betray them to a small band of terrorists. Owens wanted that person. Wanted to see him dead, wanted to watch him die. There could be no other punishment for this kind of crime.

His professionalism returned after the few seconds of grim revelry. We won't find the bastard by wishing him dead. Finding him means police work -- careful, painstaking, thorough investigation. Owens knew how to do that. Neither he nor the elite team of men on the investigation would rest until they succeeded. But none of them doubted that they would ultimately succeed.

“That's two breaks you have, Jimmy,” Murray said after reading his friend's mind. It wasn't hard to do. Both men had handled hard cases, and police differ little over the world.

“Indeed,” Owens said, almost smiling. “They ought not to have tipped their hand. They should have bent every effort to protect their source. We can compare the lists of who knew that His Highness was coming in that afternoon, and who knew that young Mr. Miller was going to Lymington.”

“And the telephone operators who put the calls through,” Murray reminded him. “And the secretaries and co-workers who might have overheard, and the girlfriends, or boyfriends, who might have heard during some horizontal conversation.”

“Thank you ever so much for that, Dan. One needs encouragement at a time like this.” The Englishman walked over to Murray's cabinet and found a bottle of whiskey -- a Christmas present, still unopened on New Year's Eve.

“You're right that they should have protected their intel source. I know you'll get him, Jimmy. I will put some money down on that.”

Owens poured the drinks. It was gratifying to see that the American had finally learned to drink his whiskey decently. In the past year Owens had broken Murray of the need to put ice in everything. It was shameful to contaminate single-malt Scotch whiskey. He frowned at another recurring thought. “What does that tell us about Sean Miller?”

Murray stretched his arms out. “More important than you thought, maybe? Maybe they were afraid you'd break information out of him. Maybe they just wanted to keep their perfect record. Maybe something else?”

Owens nodded. In addition to the close working relationship Scotland Yard had with the FBI, Owens valued the opinions of his colleague. Though both were experienced cops, Murray could always be trusted to have a slightly different slant on things. Two years before Owens had been surprised to learn how valuable this might be. Though he never had thought about it, Murray had used his colleague's brain the same way on several occasions.

“So what might that make Miller?” Owens wondered aloud.

“Who can say? Chief of operations?” Murray waved his glass.

“Awfully young for that.”

“Jimmy, the guy who dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima was a full colonel in the Air Force, and twenty-nine years old. Hell, how old is this O'Donnell character?”

“That's what Bob Highland thinks.” Owens stared into his glass for a moment, frowning again.

“Bob's a smart kid, too. God, I hope you can put him back on the street.”

“If not, we can still use him in the office,” Commander Owens said positively. “He does have a fine brain for the business of investigations -- too good to be lost now. Well, I must be off. New Year's Eve, Dan. What do we drink to?”

“That's obvious. A successful investigation. You're going to get that source, Jimmy, and he's going to give you the information you need.” Murray held his glass up. “To a closed case.” “Yes.” Both men emptied their glasses.

“Jimmy, do yourself a favor and give it a night off. Clear the old head out and start fresh in the morning.”

Owens smiled. “I'll try.” He picked up his overcoat and walked toward the door. “One last thing. It hit me on the drive over. These chaps, the ULA, have broken all the rules, haven't they?”

“That's true enough,” Murray replied as he locked up his files.

“There's only one rule they haven't broken.”

Murray turned. “Oh? What's that?”

“They've never done anything in America.”

“None of them do that.” Murray dismissed the idea.

“None have had much of a reason before.”

“So?”

“Dan, the ULA might have a reason now -- and they've never been reticent about breaking the rules. It's just a feeling, no more than that.” Owens shrugged. “Well. Good night, and a happy new year to you. Special Agent Murray.”

They shook hands ceremonially. “And to you, Commander Owens. Give my love to Emily.”

Dan saw him to the door, locked it, and returned to his office to make sure all his secure files were locked up properly. It was pitch dark outside at -- he checked his watch -- quarter to six.

“Jimmy, why did you say that?” Murray asked the darkness. He sat back down in his swivel chair.

No Irish terrorist group had ever operated in the United States. Sure, they raised money there, in the Irish neighborhoods and saloons of Boston and New York, made the odd speech about their vision for the future of a free, united Ireland -- never bothering to say that as committed Marxist-Leninists, their vision of Ireland was of another Cuba. They had always been shrewd enough to know that Irish-Americans might not feel comfortable with that little detail. And there was the gun-running. That was largely something in the past. The PIRA and INLA currently got most of their weapons on the open world market. There were also reports that some of their people had gotten training in Soviet military camps -- you couldn't tell a man's nationality from a satellite photograph, nor could you recognize a specific face. These reports had never been confirmed sufficiently to be released to the press. The same was true of the camps in Libya, and Syria, and Lebanon. Some people, fair-skinned people, were being trained there -- but who? The intelligence got a little confused on this point. It was different with the European terrorists. The Arabs who got caught often sang like canaries, but the captured members of the PIRA and INLA, and the Red Army Faction, and Action-Directe of France, and all the other shadowy groups gave up their information far more grudgingly. A cultural thing, or maybe they could simply be more certain that their captors would not -- could not -- use interrogation measures still common in the Middle East. They'd all been raised under democratic rules, and knew precisely the weaknesses of the societies they sought to topple. Murray thought of them as strengths, but recognized the inconveniences that they imposed on law-enforcement professionals . . .

The bottom line was still that PIRA and INLA had never committed a violent crime in America. Never. Not once.

But Jimmy's right. The ULA has never hesitated to break a rule. The Royal Family was off-limits to everyone else, but not the ULA. The PIRA and INLA never hesitated to advertise its operations -- every terrorist group advertises its operations. But not the ULA. He shook his head. There wasn't any evidence to suggest that they'd break this rule. It was simply the one thing that they hadn't done . . . yet. Not the sort of thing to start an investigation with.

“But what are they up to?” he said aloud. Nobody knew that. Even their name was an anomaly. Why did they call themselves the Ulster Liberation Army? The nationalist movement always focused on its Irishness, it was an Irish nationalist movement, but the ULA's very name was a regional expression. “Ulster” was invariably the prefix of the reactionary Protestant groups. Terrorists didn't have to make all that much sense in what they did, but they did have to make some sense. Everything about the ULA was an anomaly. They did the things no one else would do, called themselves something no else would.

They did the things no one else would. That's what was chewing on Jimmy, Murray knew. Why did they operate that way? There had to be a reason. For all the madness of their actions, terrorists were rational by their own standards. However twisted their reasoning appeared to an outsider, it did have its own internal logic. The PIRA and INLA had such logic. They had even announced their rationales, and their actions could be seen to fit with what they said: To make Northern Ireland ungovernable. If they succeeded, the British would finally have enough of it and leave. Their objective, therefore, was to sustain a low-level conflict indefinitely and wait for the other side to walk away. It did make conceptual sense.