Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (38 page)

“Dr. Ryan, in 1972 the Black September faction of the Palestine Liberation Organization contracted the Japanese Red Army to shoot up
Ben
Gurion
Airport
, which they did, killing off mainly American Protestant pilgrims from your
island
of
Puerto Rico
. The single terrorist taken alive by our security forces told his interrogators that his dead comrades and their victims would become a constellation of stars in the heavens. In prison he purportedly converted himself to Judaism, and even circumcised himself with his teeth, which speaks volumes for his flexibility,” Brigadier General Avi Ben Jakob added matter-of-factly. “Do not ever tell me that there is something too mad to be true. I have been an intelligence officer for more than twenty years, and the only thing of which I am certain is that I have not yet seen it all.”

“Avi, even I'm not that paranoid.”

“You have never experienced a holocaust, Dr. Ryan.”

“Oh? Cromwell and the Potato Famine don't count? Get off that horse, General. We're deploying the
U.S.
troops here. If it comes to that, there will be American blood on the
Negev
, or Golan, or whatever.”

“And what if—”

“Avi, you ask what if. If that what-if ever happens, General, I will fly here myself. I used to be a Marine. You know I've been shot at before. There will be no second Holocaust. Not while I live. My countrymen will not let it happen ever again. Not my government, Avi, my countrymen. We will not let that happen. If Americans have to die to help protect this country, then Americans will die to do so.”

“You said that to
Vietnam
.”
Clark
's eyes flared at that one, Ben Jakob noticed. “You have something to say?”

“General, I'm no high official, just a grunt with pretensions. But I got more combat time than anybody in this country of yours, and I'm telling you, sir, that what really scares me about this place is how you guys always fuck up the same way we did over there—we learned, you didn't. And what Dr. Ryan says is right. He'll come over. So will I, if it comes to that. I've killed my share of enemies, too,”
Clark
told him in a low, quiet voice.

“Another Marine?” Avi asked lightly, though he knew better.

“Close enough,”
Clark
said. “And I've kept current, as they say,” he added with a smile.

“What about your associate?” Avi motioned towards Chavez, who stood casually at the corner, eyeing the street.

“Good as I ever was. So're those kids in the Cav. But this war talk is all bullshit. You guys both know that. You want security, sir, you settle your domestic problems. Peace will follow that like a rainbow after a storm.”

“Learn from your mistakes . . .”

“We had a four-thousand-mile buffer to fall back through, General. It isn't that far from here to the Med. You'd better learn from our mistakes. Good news is, you are better able to make a real peace than we ever were.”

“But to have it imposed—”

“Sir, if it works, you'll thank us. If it doesn't work, we have a lot of people to stand by you when the crap hits the fan.”
Clark
noticed that Ding had moved casually from his post across the street, moving aimlessly, it seemed, like a tourist.

“Including you?”

“Bet your ass, General,”
Clark
replied, alert now, watching the people on the street. What had Chavez spotted? What had he missed?

*     *     *

Who are they?
Ghosn wondered. It took a second. Brigadier General Abraham Ben Jakob, Deputy Director of the Mossad, his brain answered after sorting through all the recognition photographs he'd memorized. Talking to an American. I wonder who he is . . . Ghosn's head turned slowly and casually. The American would have several bodyguards . . . the one close by was obvious. A very serious fellow that one was, old . . . late forties, perhaps. It was the hardness—no, not hardness, but alertness. One could control the face but not the eyes—ah, the man put sunglasses back on. More than one. Had to be more than one, plus Israeli security officers. Ghosn knew that he'd let his eyes linger a touch too long, but—

“Oops.” A man had bumped into him, a fraction smaller and slighter than Ghosn. Dark complexion, possibly even a brother Arab, but he'd spoken in English. Contact was broken before Ghosn had time to realize that he'd been quickly and expertly frisked. “Sorry.” The man moved off. Ghosn didn't know, wasn't sure if it had been what it seemed to be or if he'd just been checked out by an Israeli, American, or other security officer. Well, he wasn't carrying a weapon, not even a pocket knife, just a shopping bag full of books.

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 towards 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 children. 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?