Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (9 page)

“What's the word from
Rome
?”

“They like it,” the president of
Georgetown
University
replied simply.

“How much?” Ryan asked.

“You're serious?”

“Alden told me two hours ago that this is now on the front burner.”

Riley accepted this news with a nod. “Trying to save
Israel
, Jack?”

Ryan didn't know how much humor was in the question, and his physical state did not allow levity. “Father, all I'm doing is following up on something—you know, orders?”

“I am familiar with the term. Your timing was pretty good on floating this thing.”

“Maybe so, but let's save the Nobel Prize for some other time, okay?”

“Finish your breakfast. We can still catch everybody over there before lunch, and you look pretty awful.”

“I feel pretty awful,” Ryan admitted.

“Everybody should stop drinking about forty,” Riley observed. “After forty you really can't handle it anymore.”

“You didn't,” Jack noted.

“I'm a priest. I have to drink. What exactly are you looking for?”

“If we can get preliminary agreement from the major players, we want to get negotiations going ASAP, but this end of the equation has to be done very quietly. The President needs a quick evaluation of his options. That's what I'm doing.”

“Will
Israel
play?”

“If they don't, they're fucked—excuse me, but that's exactly where things are.”

“You're right, of course, but will they have the sense to recognize their position?”

“Father, all I do is gather and evaluate information. People keep asking me to tell fortunes, but I don't know how. What I do know is that what we saw on TV is going to ignite the biggest firestorm since
Hiroshima
, and we sure as hell have to try to do something before it burns up a whole region.”

“Eat. I have to think for a few minutes, and I do that best when I'm chewing on something.”

It was good advice, Ryan knew a few minutes later. The food soaked up the coffee acid in his stomach, and the energy from the food would help him get through the day. Inside an hour, he was on the move again, this time to the State Department. By lunch he was on his way home to pack, managing to nap for three hours along the way. He stopped back at Alden's White House office for a session that dragged far into the night. Alden had really taken charge there, and the skull session in his office covered a huge amount of ground. Before dawn Jack headed off to Andrews Air Force Base. He was able to call his wife from the VIP Lounge. Jack had hoped to take his son to a ball game over the weekend, but for him there wouldn't be a weekend. A final courier arrived from CIA, State, and the White House, delivering two hundred pages of data that he'd have to read on the way across the
Atlantic
.

PROMISED LAND

The U.S. Air Force's Ramstein air base is set in a German valley, a fact which Ryan found slightly unsettling. His idea of a proper airport was one on land that was flat as far as the eye could see. He knew that it didn't make much of a difference, but it was one of the niceties of air travel to which he'd become accustomed. The base supported a full wing of F-i6 fighter-bombers, each of which was stored in its own bomb-proof shelter which in its turn was surrounded by trees—the German people have a mania for green things that would impress the most ambitious American environmentalists. It was one of those remarkable cases in which the wishes of the tree-huggers coincided exactly with military necessity. Spotting the aircraft shelters from the air was extremely difficult, and some of the shelters—French-built—had trees planted on top of them, making camouflage both aesthetically and militarily pleasing. The base also housed a few large executive aircraft, including a converted 707 with The United States of America“ painted on it. Resembling a smaller version of the President's personal transport, it was known locally as ”Miss Piggy," and was assigned to the use of the commander of USAF units in
Europe
. Ryan could not help but smile. Here were over seventy fighter aircraft tasked to the destruction of Soviet forces which were now drawing back from
Germany
, housed on an environmentally admirable facility, which was also home to a plane called Miss Piggy. The world was truly mad.

On the other hand, traveling Air Force guaranteed excellent hospitality and VIP treatment worthy of the name, in this case at an attractive edifice called the Cannon Hotel. The base commander, a full colonel, had met his VC-20B Gulfstream executive aircraft and whisked him off to his Distinguished Visitor's quarters where a slide-out drawer contained a nice collection of liquor bottles to help him to conquer jetlag with nine hours of drink-augmented sleep. That was just as well, because the available television service consisted of a single channel. By the time he awoke at about six in the morning, local, he was almost in sync with the time zones, stiff and hungry, having almost survived another bout with travel shock. He hoped.

Jack didn't feel like jogging. That was what he told himself. In fact he knew that he couldn't have jogged half a mile with a gun to his head. And so he walked briskly. He soon found himself being passed by early-morning exercise nuts, many of whom had to be fighter pilots, they were so young and lean. Morning mist hung in the trees that were planted nearly to the edge of the black-topped roads. It was much cooler than at home, with the still air disturbed every few minutes by the discordant roar of jet engines—“the sound of freedom”—the audible symbol of military force that had guaranteed the peace of Europe for over forty years—now resented by the Germans, of course. Attitudes change as rapidly as the times. American power had achieved its goal and was becoming a thing of the past, at least as far as
Germany
was concerned. The inner-German border was gone. The fences and guard towers were down. The mines were gone. The plowed strip of dirt that had remained pristine for two generations to betray the footprints of defectors was now planted with grass and flowers. Locations in the east once examined in satellite photos or about which Western intelligence agencies had sought information at the cost of both money and blood were now walked over by camera-toting tourists, among whom were intelligence officers more shocked than bemused at the rapid changes that had come and gone like the sweep of a spring tide. I knew that was right about this place, some thought. Or, How did we ever blow that one so badly?

Ryan shook his head. It was more than amazing. The question of the two Germanys had been the centerpiece of East-West conflict since before his birth, had appeared to be the one unchanging thing in the world, the subject of enough white papers and Special National Intelligence Estimates and news stories to fill the entire Pentagon with pulp. All the effort, all the examination of minutiae, the petty disputes—gone. Soon to be forgotten. Even scholarly historians would never have the energy to look at all the data that had been thought important—crucial, vital, worthy of men's lives—and was now little more than a vast footnote to the end of the Second World War. This base had been one such item. Designed to house the aircraft whose task it was to clear the skies of Russian planes and crush a Soviet attack, it was now an expensive anachronism whose residential apartments would soon house German families. Ryan wondered what they'd do with the aircraft shelters like that one there. . . . Wine cellars, maybe. The wine was pretty good.

“Halt!” Ryan stopped cold in his tracks and turned to see where the sound had come from. It was an Air Force security policeman—woman. Girl, actually, Ryan saw, though her M-16 rifle neither knew nor cared about plumbing fixtures.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“ID, please.” The young lady was quite attractive, and quite professional. She also had a backup in the trees. Ryan handed over his CIA credentials.

“I've never seen one of these, sir.”

“I came in last night on the VC-2o. I'm staying over at the
Inn
, room 109. You can check with Colonel Parker's office.”

“We're on security alert, sir,” she said next, reaching for her radio.

“Just do your job, miss—excuse me, Sergeant Wilson. My plane doesn't leave till ten.” Jack leaned against a tree to stretch. It was too nice a morning to get excited about anything, even if there were two armed people who didn't know who the hell he was.

“Roger.” Sergeant Becky Wilson switched off her radio. “The Colonel's looking for you, sir.”

“On the way back, I turn left at the Burger King?”

That's right, sir." She handed his ID back with a smile.

Thanks, Sarge. Sorry to bother you."

“You want a ride back, sir? The colonel's waiting.”

“I'd rather walk. He can wait, he's early.” Ryan walked away from a buck-sergeant who now had to ponder the importance of a man who kept her base commander sitting on the front step of the Cannon. It took ten brisk minutes, but Ryan's directional sense had not left him, despite the unfamiliar surroundings and a six-hour time differential.

“Morning, sir!” Ryan said as he vaulted the wall into the parking lot.

“I set up a little breakfast with COMUSAFE staff. We'd like your views on what's happening in
Europe
.”

Jack laughed. “Great! I'm interested in hearing yours.” Ryan walked off toward his room to dress. What makes them think I know anything more than they do! By the time his plane left, he'd learned four things he hadn't known. Soviet forces withdrawing from what had formerly been called
East Germany
were decidedly unhappy with the fact that there was no place for them to withdraw to. Elements of the former East German army were even less happy about their enforced retirement than
Washington
actually knew; they probably had allies among ex-members of the already de-established Stasi. Finally, though an even dozen members of the Red Army Faction had been apprehended in Eastern Germany, at least that many others had gotten the message and vanished before they, too, could be swept up by the Bundeskriminalamt, the German federal police. That explained the security alert at Ramstein, Ryan was told.

The VC-2oB lifted off from the airfield just after ten in the morning, headed south. Those poor terrorists, he thought, devoting their lives and energy and intellect to something that was vanishing more swiftly than the German countryside below him. Like children whose mother had died. No friends now. They'd hidden out in
Czechoslovakia
and the German Democratic Republic, blissfully unaware of the coming demise of both communist states. Where would they hide now?
Russia
? No chance.
Poland
? That was a laugh. The world had changed under them, and was about to change again, Ryan thought with a wistful smile. Some more of their friends were about to watch the world change. Maybe, he corrected himself. Maybe . . .

“Hello, Sergey Nikolayevich,” Ryan had said as the man had entered his office, a week before.

“Ivan Emmetovich,” the Russian had replied, holding out his hand. Ryan remembered the last time they'd been this close, on the runway of
Moscow
's
Sheremetyevo
Airport
. Golovko had held a gun in his hand then. It had not been a good day for either, but as usual, it was funny the way things had worked out. Golovko, for having nearly, but not quite, prevented the greatest defection in Soviet history, was now First Deputy Chairman of the Committee for State Security. Had he succeeded, he would not have gone quite so far, but for being very good, if not quite good enough, he'd been noticed by his own President, and his career had taken a leap upward. His security officer had camped in
Nancy
's office with John Clark, as Ryan had led Golovko into his.

“I am not impressed.” Golovko looked around disapprovingly at the painted gypsum-board drywall. Ryan did have a single decent painting borrowed from a government warehouse, and, of course, the not-exactly-required photo of President Fowler over by the clothes tree on which Jack hung his coat.

“I do have a nicer view, Sergey Nikolayevich. Tell me, is the statue of Iron Feliks still in the middle of the square?”

“For the moment.” Golovko smiled. “Your Director is out of town, I gather.”

“Yes, the President decided that he needed some advice.”

“On what?” Golovko asked with a crooked smile.

“Damned if I know,” Ryan answered with a laugh. Lots of things, he didn't say.

“Difficult, is it not? For both of us.” The new KGB Chairman was not a professional spook either—in fact, that was not unusual. More often than not, the director of that grim agency had been a Party man, but the Party was becoming a thing of history also, and Narmonov had selected a computer expert who was supposed to bring new ideas into the
Soviet Union
's chief spy agency. That would make it more efficient. Ryan knew that Golovko had an IBM PC behind his desk in
Moscow
now.

“Sergey, I always used to say that if the world made sense, I'd be out of a job. So, look what's happening. Want some coffee?”

“I would like that, Jack.” A moment later he expressed approval of the brew.

“
Nancy
sets it up for me every morning. So. What can I do for you?”

“I have often heard that question, but never in such surroundings as this.” There was a rumbling laugh from Ryan's guest. “My God, Jack, do you ever wonder if this is all the result of some drug-induced dream?”

“Can't be. I cut myself shaving the other day, and I didn't wake up.”

Golovko muttered something in Russian that Jack didn't catch, though his translators would when they went over the tapes.

“I am the one who reports to our parliamentarians on our activities. Your Director was kind enough to respond favorably to our request for advice.”

Ryan couldn't resist that opening: “No problem, Sergey Nikolayevich. You can screen all your information through me. I'd be delighted to tell you how to present it.” Golovko took it like a man.

“Thank you, but the Chairman might not understand.” With jokes aside, it was time for business.

“We want a quid pro quo.” The fencing began.

“And that is?”

“Information on the terrorists you guys used to support.”

“We cannot do that,” Golovko said flatly.

“Sure you can.”

Next Golovko waved the flag: “An intelligence service cannot betray confidences and continue to function.”

“Really? Tell Castro that next time you see him,” Ryan suggested.

“You're getting better at this, Jack.”

“Thank you, Sergey. My government is most gratified indeed for your President's recent statement on terrorism. Hell, I like the guy personally. You know that. We're changing the world, man. Let's clean a few more messes up. You never approved of your government's support for those creeps.”

“What makes you believe that?” the First Deputy Chairman asked.

“Sergey, you're a professional intelligence officer. There's no way you can personally approve the actions of undisciplined criminals. I feel the same way, of course, but in my case it's personal.” Ryan leaned back with a hard look. He would always remember Sean Miller and the other members of the Ulster Liberation Army who'd made two earnest attempts to kill Jack Ryan and his family. Only three weeks earlier, after years exhausting every legal opportunity, after three writs to the Supreme Court, after demonstrations and appeals to the Governor of Maryland and the President of the United States for executive clemency, Miller and his colleagues had, one by one, walked into the gas chamber in Baltimore, and been carried out half an hour later, quite dead. And may God have mercy on their souls, Ryan thought. If God has a strong enough stomach. One chapter in his life was now closed for good.

“And the recent incident . . . ?”

“The Indians? That merely illustrates my case. Those ”revolutionaries“ were dealing drugs to make money. They're going to turn on you, the people you used to fund. In a few years, they're going to be more of a problem for you than they ever were for us.” That was entirely correct, of course, and both men knew it. The terrorist-drug connection was something the Soviets were starting to worry about. Free enterprise was starting most rapidly of all in
Russia
's criminal sector. That was as troubling to Ryan as to Golovko. “What do you say?”

Golovko inclined his head to the side. “I will discuss it with the Chairman. He will approve.”

“Remember what I said over in
Moscow
a couple of years back? Who needs diplomats to handle negotiations when you have real people to settle things?”

“I expected a quote from Kipling or something similarly poetic,” the Russian observed dryly. “So, how do you deal with your Congress?”

Jack chuckled. “Short version is, you tell them the truth.”

“I needed to fly eleven thousand kilometers to hear you say that?”

“You select a handful of people in your parliament you can trust to keep their mouths shut, and whom the rest of parliament trust to be completely honest—that's the hard part—and you brief them into everything they need to know. You have to set up ground rules—”