Commander-In-Chief (43 page)

He said, “Can you give me one moment?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Ryan walked over to Arnie Van Damm. People were standing around, waiting to move with the President on to his next meeting, a coffee with the Canadian prime minister, but to Arnie’s obvious surprise, Ryan spoke softly to Van Damm. “I need Canfield on the phone. Now.”

The President was telling the chief of staff that he needed to talk to the CIA director on a cell phone in the middle of a hotel in Denmark.

Arnie did as directed. It took a minute to make the secure connection, and since it was just five a.m. in Virginia, Canfield hadn’t been expecting the call. Ryan didn’t apologize for the early hour, he was too rushed.

“Jay, I need you to secure for me a hotel room in this building. I want it covered from top to bottom, left to right, with cameras and audio eavesdropping devices. I need it now.”

Canfield did not hesitate in his response. “Room 1473. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Ryan didn’t understand. “What? How did you—”

“We’ve completely wired a couple of rooms there. Seriously, don’t even think impure thoughts inside, because half the techs at NSA are going to know about it.”

“What’s it for? I mean, what is it for when the President isn’t calling you asking for it?”

“You were CIA, Mr. President. Shit happens, remember?”

Jack smiled into the phone. “Room 1473. Thanks, Jay.”

He hung up the phone and leaned over to Van Damm. “Hold
my next engagement for a few minutes. The Russian reporter and I will be going to room 1473.”

Van Damm’s eyes went just as wide as Ryan thought they might. Van Damm leaned in himself and whispered back, “And I thought the
interview
was a bad idea.”

“Don’t worry. It will be fine.”

“Nixon said that once, didn’t he?”

Jack gave another little smile. “I guess he said it a lot.”

J
ohn Clark had decided to bunk in the cockpit of his sailboat to keep more in tune with the sounds on and around the cove. There were certainly more comfortable digs down in the master stateroom, but down there he’d be completely unaware of anyone entering the area, or any threats that might arise. It was a little warm up in the cockpit, but Clark decided to give up a little comfort for a little security, so he slept on the cushioned sofa alongside the helm.

He knew his op down here would be a lot tighter with more personnel, but even before Sam’s death it had been tough to work multiple operations at the same time. Since Sam had died, however, the concept of having The Campus’s operational staff involved in three different areas of operation simultaneously was ludicrous. Still . . . Clark recognized, the enemy gets a vote, so here he was, while Jack was in Virginia on one task and Ding and Dom were in Lithuania on another.

Clark figured he had it the easiest, but that would be only until
he boarded the gray catamaran and confirmed the presence of the Walkers on board. Then things down here would get interesting.

But not tonight. Tonight he just had to go back to sleep so he could be ready to hit the
Spinnaker II
.

He was somewhere between sleep and consciousness when he heard a noise and opened his eyes.

Clark lay there unmoving for several seconds, trying to determine what had stirred him. But he heard nothing other than the natural sounds of a healthy boat in a peaceful little cove.

He started to go back to sleep, but then he sat up, deciding that he needed to go to the head.

He stood on tired legs, took a pair of steps through the cockpit; his next footstep would have brought him to the top of the companionway down to the saloon. But he sensed something again, close. Not like before, this time he was certain enough to swing around, pulling his pistol out of his linen pants as he did so.

He didn’t make it.

He never even knew it was a fourteen-inch steel-and-chrome marine wrench that dropped him. He heard the crack, felt the impact just behind his right ear, and sensed the loss of balance—the feeling of falling. He didn’t realize he’d dropped the pistol. His hands were no longer under his control and he was unable to hold his body erect.

Weightless now, he didn’t understand how he could possibly fall so far to the cockpit deck that had been right there, under his feet, just a second earlier.

The blow to the head, perfectly and savagely delivered, rendered him unconscious in just over one second, so he was out before he made his first impact with the companionway stairs, halfway down into the saloon. His body took blows in the arms, hip, and all
across his middle back as he tumbled down, finally ending up in a still heap on the deeply lacquered floor of the saloon.

•   •   •

F
or several seconds Clark lay alone, still knocked out completely, but then he was joined by two men, who descended the companionway stairs into the saloon. They wore wetsuits but no other scuba gear; they were barefoot, their faces covered with neoprene head coverings that revealed only mouths, eyes, and noses. Only the glow from a few green lights on the radios and other electronics at the navigation console showed them their way around the saloon.

They stood over the body, looking down.

After a few seconds, the American drew his diving knife from the sheath on his ankle, knelt down over the shirtless man in the white linen pants, and lifted the head by a tuft of silver hair. He reached the knife around in front of the man’s neck, placing the four-inch blade against the man’s carotid artery.

“Wait,” the South African said, looking around at the scene while he spoke.

The American responded, “But you told me to—”

“Forget what I told you. This is even better. When they find him they will think the old fuck bashed his head in rushing down the stairs in a panic. It will look like natural causes, so there will be fewer cops running around the islands asking questions.”

“Why would he panic?”

“Because he realized he was sinking.”

The American looked around himself now. He knew he was a subordinate on this op, the mercenary from Joburg called the shots, but the man from Cincinnati was bright enough to recognize this boat wasn’t sinking.

Before he could bring up this rather obvious point, the South African said, “Disable the bilge alarm.”

“Where’s that?” The American didn’t know boats, but the South African did.

“Never mind. I’ll do it.”

“You want me to snap his neck?”

“Is he out?”

“He’s out, but he might still be alive.”

“I don’t want any more unnatural marks on his body. Leave him just like that.”

“I think we should kill him.”

“I think you should do what I tell you to do, man. I cracked his skull like an egg, and a bloke this old will have broken every bone in his body falling down here. Even if he comes to, he won’t be swimming to shore.”

Together they lifted the access panel in the floor to the bilge pump and shut it off, then found the bilge pump alarm and disabled it. The South African found a second alarm, this under the table in the middle of the saloon, and he unplugged it, then tossed it on the floor.

While he did this the American found a large toolbox in the closet of the master stateroom, and he began to go through it.

•   •   •

B
ack topside the two mercs looked around the cockpit for a moment, checking the scene for any evidence they had been there. The American found the SIG Sauer .45-caliber pistol on the floor of the cockpit and he took it as a prize, and in another minute the South African had pulled two curtain rods off the curtains in the master stateroom. He joined his partner on the deck, then they
both climbed back down the anchor chain and descended back into the water. Their scuba gear was lashed where they had left it, and they climbed back into their buoyancy-control devices and pulled on their fins.

The men descended under the boat and used the metal curtain rods to reach up through the intake hoses, then jam them in violently, breaking the seacocks and knocking the hose clamps off the seacock nipples.

They broke through the sea strainer as well, sending water gushing out near the bilge pump inside the boat, adding to the leaks.

All the damage was done below the floor of the saloon, the staterooms, and the hallway to the master stateroom; anyone diving on this wreck tomorrow would find no obvious evidence of any holes or breaches.

It took the two men much longer than they would have liked; they spent ten minutes jamming rods through the ports, but eventually they had created a dozen major leaks in the hull of the boat.

It was already listing to port by the time the men swam out of the area and back toward their dinghy, hidden in an inlet a quarter-mile away.

T
atiana Molchanova stood when President Ryan entered. There was real deference there, something she’d displayed little of during the interview. Ryan didn’t know if she knew she’d been outplayed or if her behavior on TV was just an act to stay in the good graces of the Kremlin. He told himself he didn’t have time to think about it. He wasn’t going to change the thinking or the actions of those on state-run media, and it would be ridiculous to waste time trying.

Ryan crossed the room but stayed ten feet from the woman, as if she might be carrying a disease. He found himself more uncomfortable than he expected to be, and he knew he couldn’t show it. He just said, “All right. I’m here and I’m listening, Miss Molchanova.”

Molchanova seemed exceptionally proud and excited to be sent as an emissary between two leaders. With her chin high she said, “President Volodin is proposing a summit. A meeting, in secret. Between himself, yourself, and the leaders of Germany, France, and the United Kingdom. Only the five of you. President Volodin will be pleased to meet with you in Zurich as soon as you all can arrange
travel there. If you prefer another location, he will entertain any ideas you have.”

Ryan said, “I don’t understand. Why is it secret?”

“He says the meeting will concern matters of state involving the future of the region. He assures you he will come prepared to make concessions for the mutual good of all Europe.”

“Matters that involve all of Europe can’t be discussed in front of all of Europe?”

Quickly Ryan saw in the woman’s eyes that she had not been preloaded with answers to his questions. She just said, “I’m sorry, Mr. President. That was the message. Shall I give it to you again?”

Ryan shook his head. “I think I’ve got it. One more question, though. Is he making this offer in secret to the other leaders as well?”

“He asks for you to relay the message to the others.”

Jack just gave a soft nod. He said nothing. Just looked at the wall for a moment.

Molchanova looked uncomfortable now. Finally she said, “Do you have a message you would like me to convey to President Volodin? If so, I promise you it will go from your mouth to his ear. I will not report on this, nor will I tell anyone about your message.”

Ryan looked at her a long time before responding. “Yes.”

She sucked in a small breath of air, her excitement obvious. Nodding, she said, “What is your message, Mr. President?”

“My message is this: Passing offers through a reporter for a secret summit is no way for national leaders to conduct business. I’ve seen more professional statecraft in my dealings with tribesmen in Togo. If he wants to be treated like the leader of a First World nation, he should try acting like one.”

Her eyes widened and her jaw tensed, but she did not reply.

“You have my message, Miss Molchanova.”

“Mr. President, I cannot tell him this.”

Ryan shrugged. “Then don’t.” He gave the woman a little nod, turned on his heel, and left the hotel room.

•   •   •

A
rnie Van Damm and Scott Adler were in Ryan’s suite when he arrived five minutes later. “I hope you both heard all that.”

Van Damm said, “Every word. Some response you gave her. She’s probably shaking in her spiked leather boots, trying to figure out how to tell Volodin.”

Ryan took off his suit coat and hung it from a chair, then sat down on a sofa across from the other men. “He wants to talk to certain NATO members. U.S., France, Germany, UK. Clearly about Central Europe. But he doesn’t want Central European nations present.”

Van Damm asked, “Why?”

Jack Ryan knew the answer. “If you’re not at the table, then you’re on the menu.”

Van Damm said, “Holy Christ! He wants to carve up Europe, just like in the Cold War!”

Ryan nodded. “It’s Yalta all over again.” The Yalta Conference at the end of World War II was a meeting between the victors to decide the geographical spoils of war.

Adler said, “You’re not going to Switzerland, are you?”

Ryan said, “Of course not. If he wants to propose a summit he can do it through official channels. If we have one, it will involve delegates designated by NATO. This isn’t 1945, and I’m not Roosevelt.”

Adler said, “But he
does
think he’s Stalin.”

Ryan said, “He thinks
we think
he’s Stalin. This whole damn thing was just a bluff to pump up his negotiating power when we sit down at the table.”

Ryan looked out the window at the view over Copenhagen, and he shook his head in disbelief. “What an asshole.”

•   •   •

A
n hour later Ryan sat in the suite of German president Marion Schöngarth. The two of them ignored the coffee service in front of them, while Ryan relayed his conversation with the journalist from Channel Seven.

When he finished, Schöngarth said, “He is after the redivision of Central Europe, a new redivision, to make up for what Russia lost after the Cold War. Thirty years ago they had no leverage to do anything but grant independence to virtually everyone who demanded it. But now, with Volodin in charge, he thinks he can reclaim some of what Russia lost.”

Ryan agreed.

She added, “He wants the Baltic, and to get it, he is leveraging everything. He is threatening Poland, but Poland is his bargaining chip. It’s as if he is saying, ‘If you give me the Baltic, I will turn my tanks away from Poland.’”

“Exactly right.”

She thought about the deeper ramifications. “But this means it’s all a bluff, correct? Everything he has done till now is just him trying to up the stakes, to frighten the West into a place where we would be more amenable to a deal.”

Ryan shook his head slowly. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter if he is bluffing or not. Let’s say he doesn’t want to attack, he wants to win this with hybrid war simply by playing a game of geopolitical chicken with the West. If it fails, if we refuse to get out of his way, there is no way in hell he can ratchet down the saber rattling. He is expecting us to blink, but if we do not blink, he can’t back down. He has arrayed all this potential energy at Lithuania’s doorstep.
How can he possibly set the stage for an attack, and then back away from it? He is a volatile individual who is using this volatility to leverage his power. He’s mobilized his troops, he’s brought his ships to combat readiness, and he’s gone on television and announced the Baltic nations are illegal nonstate actors. If we don’t back down, he will have to attack and hope that once the bodies start piling up, the West will lose its appetite for it.”

Schöngarth said, “And it will only lead to one place.” She paused. “We’re about to go to war with Russia.”

“It certainly appears that way.”

She said, “The Russians have five hundred Iskander missiles in Kaliningrad. These missiles have nuclear warhead capability, although we don’t know if they are armed with nuclear devices. The official range of the Iskander is four hundred kilometers, which places it below the five-hundred-kilometer threshold for the Intermediate Nuclear Forces treaty. But most experts agree the Iskander can reach targets at seven hundred kilometers, with an accuracy of five meters. One decision by Valeri Volodin, and the German parliament can go up in smoke.”

“I know,” Ryan said. “And right now there is a Russian nuclear missile submarine somewhere off the coast of the U.S. Its presence there renders our ballistic missile defense much less likely to be able to track and destroy an incoming Bulava rocket. It’s there because Volodin wanted the United States in the same boat as Europe when he made his deal for a territorial summit.”

The German president said, “Then you are in a similar situation as we are, Mr. President.”

“Similar, but not the same. There is no threat of conventional attack against us like there is here, I recognize this. But I will put every single troop we have in Europe into Lithuania to stop this madman.”

Just then, Arnie Van Damm apologized to the German president and leaned in to Ryan’s ear. “The French president is on the phone. You need to take it.”

Ryan excused himself and stepped over to a table with a phone already off the cradle. “Hello, Henri’.”

The French president said, “Hello, Jack. I wanted to tell you personally. We will stand in the way of the deployment of NATO forces into Lithuania.”

Ryan wasn’t surprised, but he felt defeated. He’d spent most of a week on this goal, and it had failed.

The Frenchman said, “The Baltic States are untenable as NATO nations. When Russia was in NATO, well, yes, it made perfect sense. But with Russia as a threat, and small unprotected nations, all of which more naturally fall under the influence of Russia than they do under Western ideals . . . well . . . I am only concerned about Poland. We will make a counterproposal that NATO’s readiness in Poland be upgraded. This will render an attack there less likely.”

Ryan said, “And an attack in Lithuania more likely. We will be telling Volodin the Baltic is his as long as he doesn’t try for Poland.”

The French president said, “This is my decision. I have the backing of several other member states.”

I’m sure you do,
Ryan thought. He thanked the president for his call and said good-bye; there was nothing else he could do now.

He stepped back over to the German president, told her the news. In minutes he and his entourage were on their way back to his suite.

They did not speak during the walk, because the halls and elevators had not been declared clean by counterintelligence technicians. But the moment they got back in Ryan’s suite, Adler asked, “What are you going to do now?”

Ryan said, “I’m going to go to Sweden. I want to appeal to non-NATO states to get some support for our actions. Show them we care about their concerns.”

Scott Adler broke in here. “You thought that was a tough crowd. Sweden has all but shut down their military. They aren’t going to want to do anything to upset the apple cart any more than Volodin is already doing. The fact Russia knocked their plane out of the sky has them pissed off, but other than a small but decent air force, they aren’t much of a power anymore.”

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“Sweden has a good air force, but that’s it. Our view of Sweden’s current defense condition is not optimistic.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it is our belief that if Sweden decided to begin an aggressive program to build up its military, then in five years it would have the capability to defend itself in place . . . for one week.”

Ryan said, “So Russia could steam west across the Baltic from Kaliningrad, or south from the North Sea, and they could claim Sweden as their own.”

“At will, Mr. President.”

President Jack Ryan rubbed his eyes under his glasses, pressing hard, as if to stanch the overwhelming frustration. “We’ll go to them and ask for overflight rights. Air base access. Supply support for our Navy in the Baltic. We’ll ask for their air force to support our mission in Lithuania. If we pull the trigger and deploy, then we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“That’s not much, Mr. President.”

“Well, it’s all they have. I’d like to get Sweden into NATO down the road. If they help us now, I think both Sweden and the rest of NATO could see their way forward to allowing this to happen.”