Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (91 page)

“Dan, we have enough to prosecute already, but I want to wait until the money gets passed to do the bust. My CI really delivered for us. I'm doing the transcript myself right now.”

“Can you fax it?”

“Soon as I'm done. Dan, we've got them all by the ass, all of 'em.”

“Walt, we just might put up a statue to you,”
Murray
said, forgetting his annoyance. Like most career cops he loathed public corruption almost as much as he loathed kidnappers.

“Dan, the transfer here is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Hoskins laughed into the phone. “Maybe I'll run for one of the vacant Senate seats.”

“
Colorado
could do worse,” Dan observed. Just so you don't carry a gun anywhere,
Murray
thought unkindly. He knew that was unfair. Though Walt wasn't worth beans on the muscle end of the business, the other side of his assessment the previous year had also been correct: Hoskins was a brilliant investigator, a chessmaster to equal Bill Shaw, even. Walt just couldn't bring down a bust worth a damn. Well,
Murray
corrected himself, this one wouldn't be very hard. Politicians hid behind lawyers and press-spokesmen, not guns. “What about the
U.S.
Attorney?”

“He's a good, sharp kid, Dan. He's on the team. Backup from the Department of Justice won't hurt, but the fact of the matter is that this guy can do it if he has to.”

“Okay. Shoot me the transcript when it's done.”
Murray
switched buttons on his phone, calling Shaw's home in
Chevy Chase
.

“Yeah.”

“Bill, Dan here,”
Murray
said over the secure phone. “Hoskins scored last night. Says he's got it all on tape—all five principal subjects cut the deal over their roast beef.”

“You realize that we might have to promote the guy now?” the FBI Director noted with a chuckle.

“So, make him a deputy-assistant director,” Dan suggested.

“That hasn't kept you out of trouble. Do I need to come in?”

“Not really. What's it like there?”

“I'm thinking of putting up a ski-jump in the driveway. Roads really look bad.”

“I took the Metro in, then it shut down—ice on the tracks or something.”

“
Washington
,
D.C.
, the City that Panics,” Shaw replied. “Okay, I plan to relax and watch the game, Mr. Murray.”

“And I, Mr. Shaw, will forgo my personal pleasures and work for the greater glory of the Bureau.”

“Good, I like dedication in my subordinates. Besides, I got my grandson here,” Shaw reported, watching his daughter-in-law feed him from a bottle.

“How is Kenny Junior?”

“Oh, we just might make an agent out of him. Unless you really need me, Dan . . .”

“Bill, enjoy the kid, just remember to hand him back when he messes the diapers.”

“Right. Keep me posted on this. I'll have to take this to the President myself, you know.”

“You expect problems there?”

“No. He's a stand-up guy on corruption stuff.”

“I'll be back.” Murray walked out of his office towards communications. He found Inspector Pat O'Day heading the same way.

“Were those your sled dogs I saw in the drive-thru, Pat?”

“Some of us drive decent cars.” O'Day had a four-wheel-drive pickup. “The 9th Street barrier is frozen in the up position, by the way. I've told 'em to leave the other one down.”

“What are you in for?”

“I have the watch in the command center. My relief lives out in Frederick. I don't expect to see him until half-past Thursday. I-270 is closed until spring, I think.”

“Christ, this is a wimpy town when it snows.”

“Tell me about it.” O'Day's last field assignment had been in
Wyoming
, and he still missed the hunting out there.

Murray
told the communications staff that the inbound fax from
Denver
was code-word material. Nobody would get to see it but him for the moment.

“I can't match this one,” Goodley said, just after lunch.

“Which one?”

“The first one that shook us up—no, excuse me, the second one. I cannot reconcile Narmonov's and S
PINNAKER
's schedules.”

“That doesn't necessarily mean anything.”

“I know. The odd thing is, remember what I said about linguistic differences in his reports?”

“Yeah, but remember my Russian is pretty thin. I can't catch nuances like you can.”

“This is the first place it shows up, and it's also the first one where I can't satisfy myself that they definitely met.” Goodley paused. “I think I might have something here.”

“Remember that you have to sell it to our Russian department.”

“That's not going to be easy.”

“That's right,” Ryan agreed. “Back it up with something, Ben.”

One of the security guys helped
Clark
with the case of bottles. He restocked the bar supplies, then headed to the upper level with the remaining four bottles of Chivas. Chavez tagged behind with the flowers. John Clark put the bottles in their places and looked around the compartment to be sure that everything was in order. He fussed with a few minor items to show that he was being sincere. The bottle with the transceiver in it had a cracked top. That should make sure that nobody tried to open it, he thought. Clever of the S&T guys, he thought. The simple things usually worked best.

The flower arrangements had to be fastened in place. They were mainly white roses, nice ones, Chavez thought, and the little green sticks that held them in place looked like they belonged. Ding next went downstairs and looked at the forward washrooms. In the trash bin of one he dropped a very small, Japanese-made, tape recorder, making sure beforehand that it was operating properly. He met Clark at the base of the spiral stairs, and then both left the aircraft. The advance security people were just starting to arrive as they disappeared into the terminal's lower-level.

Once inside, both men found a locked room and used it to change clothes. They emerged dressed like businessmen, hair recombed, both wearing sunglasses.

“They always this easy, Mr. C?”

“Nope.” Both men walked to the opposite side of the terminal. This put them half a mile from the JAL 747, but with a direct line of sight to it. They could also see a Gulfstream-IV business jet liveried as a private aircraft. It was supposed to take off right before the Japanese aircraft, but would head on a diverging course. Clark took a Sony Walkman from his briefcase, inserted a tape cassette, and donned the earphones. In fact, he heard the murmurs of the security men on the aircraft, and the tape was recording their words as his eyes scanned a paperback book. It was a pity that he couldn't understand Japanese, Clark thought. As with most covert operations, the main component was sitting around and doing precisely nothing while he waited for something to happen. He looked up to see the red carpet being rolled out again, and the troops forming up, and a lectern being set up. It must have been a real pain in the ass for the people who had to handle these things, he thought.

Things picked up rapidly. The President of Mexico personally accompanied the Japanese Prime Minister to the aircraft, shaking his hand warmly at the base of the stairs. That might have been evidence right there,
Clark
thought. There was elation that the job was going well, but sadness that such things as this really happened. The party went up the stairs, the door closed, the stairs were hauled off, and the 747 started its engines.

Clark
heard the conversation pick up in the airplane's upstairs lounge. Then sound quality went immediately to hell when the engines fired up. Clark watched the Gulfstream begin taxiing off. The 747 began rolling two minutes later. It made sense. You had to be careful sending aircraft into the sky behind a jumbo. The big wide-bodies left behind wake turbulence that could be very dangerous. The two CIA officers remained in the observation lounge until the JAL airliner lifted off, and then their job was done.

Aloft, the Gulfstream climbed out to its crushing altitude of forty-one thousand feet on a heading of zero-two-six, inbound to
New Orleans
. The pilot eased off on the throttle somewhat, coached by the men in the back. Off to their right, the 747 was leveling off at the same altitude, on a course of zero-three-one. Inside the bigger aircraft, the supposed bottle of scotch was pointed out a window, and its EHF transmissions were scattering out towards the Gulfstream's receptors. The very favorable data-bandwidth of the system guaranteed a good signal, and no less than ten tape recorders were at work, two for each separate side-band channel. The pilot eased his course as far east as he dared until the two aircraft were over the water, then he turned back left as a second aircraft, this one an EC-135 that had struggled to get out of Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma, took up station thirty miles east, and two thousand feet below the larger Boeing product.

The first aircraft landed at
New Orleans
, unloaded its men and equipment, refueled, then lifted off to head back to
Mexico City
.

Clark
was at the embassy. One of his additions to the operation was a Japanese-speaker from the Agency's Intelligence Directorate. Reasoning that his test reception would be useful to determine the effectiveness of the system, he had further decided that it would be better still to get an immediate read on what was being said. Clark thought that this was a reasonable demonstration of operational initiative. The linguist took his time, listening to the taped conversation three times before he started typing. He generated less than two pages. It annoyed him that
Clark
was reading over his shoulder.

“'I wish it was this easy to make a deal with the opposition in the Diet,'”
Clark
read aloud.“'We merely must take care of some of his associates also.'”

“Looks to me that we got what we want,” the linguist observed.

“Where's your communications guy?”
Clark
asked the Station Chief.

“I can do it myself.” It was, indeed, easy enough. The Station Chief transcribed the two typed pages into a computer. Attached to the computer was a small machine that looked like a video-disc machine. On the large disc were literally billions of random digital numbers. Each letter he typed was randomly transformed into something else and transmitted to the M
ERCURY
room at
Langley
. Here the incoming signal was recorded. A communications technician selected the proper description disc from the secure library, slid it into his own machine, and pressed a button. Within seconds, a laser printer generated two pages of cleartext message. This was sealed in an envelope and handed to a messenger, who made for the seventh-floor office of the Deputy Director.

“Dr. Ryan, the dispatch you were waiting for.”

“Thank you.” Jack signed for it. “Dr. Goodley, you're going to have to excuse me for a moment.”

“No problem.” Ben went back to his pile of papers.

Ryan pulled the dispatch out and read it slowly and carefully twice. Then he picked up the phone and asked for a secure line to
Camp David
.

“Command center,” a voice answered.

“This is Dr. Ryan at
Langley
. I need to talk to the Boss.”

“Wait one, sir,” the Navy chief petty officer replied. Ryan lit a cigarette.

This is the President," a new voice said.

“Mr. President, this is Ryan. I have a fragment of conversation off the 747.”

“So soon?”

“It was made before engine startup, sir. We have an unidentified voice—we think it's the PM—saying that he made the deal.” Jack read off three lines verbatim.

“That son-of-a-bitch,” Fowler breathed. “You know, with evidence like that I could prosecute a guy.”

“I thought you'd want this fast, sir. I can fax you the initial transcript. The full one will take until twenty-one hundred or so.”

“It'll be nice to have something to read after the game. Okay, send it up.” The line went dead.

“You're welcome, sir,” Jack said into the phone.

“It is time,” Ghosn said.

“Okay.” Russell stood up and got into his heavy coat. It would be a really cold one outside. The predicted high temperature was six above, and they were not there yet. A bitter northeast wind was sweeping down out of Nebraska, where it was even colder. The only good thing about that was the clear sky it brought. Denver is also a city with a smog problem, made all the worse by winter-temperature inversions. But today the sky was literally cloudless, and to the west Marvin could see streams of snow being blown off the Front Range peaks like white banners. Surely it was auspicious, and the clear weather meant that the flight out of Stapleton would not be delayed as he had feared a few days before. He started the engine of the van, rehearsing his lines and going over the plan as he allowed the vehicle to heat. Marvin turned to look at the cargo. Almost a ton of super-high explosives, Ibrahim had said. That would really piss people off. Next he got into the rental car and started that one, too, flipping the heater all the way on. Shame that Commander Qati felt so bad. Maybe it was nerves, Russell thought.

A few minutes later, they came out. Ghosn got in next to Marvin. He was nervous, too.

“Ready, man?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Russell dropped the van into reverse and backed out of the parking place. He pulled forward, checking that the rental car was following, then headed off the parking lot onto the highway.

The drive to the stadium required only a few uneventful minutes. The police were out in force, and he saw that Ghosn was eyeing them very carefully. Marvin was not concerned. The cops were only there for traffic control, after all, and they were just standing around, since the traffic had scarcely begun. It was almost six hours till game time. He turned off the road onto the parking lot at the media entrance, and there was a cop he had to talk to. Qati had already broken off, and was now circling a few blocks away. Marvin stopped the van and rolled his window down.

“Howdy,” he said to the cop.

Officer Pete Dawkins of the Denver City Police was already cold, despite the fact that he was a native Coloradan. He was supposed to guard the media and VIP gate, a post he'd been stuck with only because he was a very junior officer. The senior guys were in warmer spots.