Jack Ryan 12 - The Teeth of the Tiger (53 page)

“These are government types. If you get too efficient, they get scared,” Dominic thought aloud. “What about dinner, bro?”

“Fine, we can check their version of Vitello Milanese. You suppose they
have any decent wines here?”

“Only one way to find out, Aldo.” Dominic picked a tie out of his suitcase. The hotel dining room looked about
as formal as Uncle Jack's old house.

STREETCAR

NAMED DESIRED

IT WAS
a new adventure for Jack in two different ways. He'd never been to
Austria
before. He'd damned sure never gone into the field as a spook to join up with an assassination team, and while the idea of terminating the lives of people who liked killing Americans seemed quite a good thing at a desk in West Odenton, Maryland—in Seat 3A of an Airbus 330, thirty-four thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean it was suddenly a dicey state of affairs. Well, Granger had told him he wouldn't really have to do anything. And that was fine with Jack. He still knew how to shoot a pistol—he regularly went shooting at the Secret Service's range in downtown D.C., or sometimes at their academy at
Beltsville
,
Maryland
, if Mike Brennan was around. But Brian and Dom weren't shooting people, were they? Not according to the MI5 report that had come to his computer. Heart attack—how the hell did you fake a heart attack well enough that a pathologist took the bait? He'd have to ask them about that. Presumably, he was cleared for it.

In any case, the food was better than average for airline slop, and even an airline can't ruin the booze when it is still in the bottle. With enough alcohol in him, sleep came fairly easily, and the first-class seat was the old-fashioned kind instead of the new gollywog with a hundred moving
parts, none of which were comfortable. As usual, about half the people up front watched movies all night. Every person had his own way of dealing with travel shock, as his father invariably called it. Jack's was to sleep through it.

THE WIENER
schnitzel was excellent, as were the local wines. “Whoever does this needs to talk to Granddad,” Dominic said, after the last bite. “He may know something that Pop-Pop can learn from.”

“He's probably Italian, bro, or at least somewhere along the line.” Brian finished off his glass of the excellent local white the waiter had recommended. About fifteen seconds later, the waiter took note of it and refilled the glass before vanishing again. “Damn, a man could get used to this eatery. Beats the hell out of MREs.”

“With luck, you may never have to eat that crap again.”

“Sure, if we just continue this line of work,” Aldo responded dubiously. They were essentially alone in a corner booth. “So, what do we know about the new subject?”

“Courier, supposedly. He carries messages in his head—the ones they don't send via the 'Net. Would have been useful to pick his brain some, but that's not the mission. We have a physical description, but no photo this time. That's a little worrisome. He doesn't sound all that important. That's worrisome, too.”

“Yeah, I hear you. He must have pissed the wrong people off. Tough luck.” His pangs of conscience were a thing of the past, but he really wanted to bag one closer to the top of the food chain. The absence of a photo for ID was indeed worrisome. They'd have to be careful. You didn't want to hit the wrong guy.

“Well, he didn't get on the list by singing too loud at church, y'know?”

“And he ain't the Pope's nephew.” Brian completed the litany. “I hear you, man.” He checked his watch. “Time to hit the rack, bro. We have to see who's coming tomorrow. How are we supposed to meet him?”

“Message said he'd come to us. Hell, maybe he's going to stay here, too.”

“The Campus has funny ideas about security, doesn't it?”

“Yeah, it's not like the movies.” Dominic had himself a quiet laugh.

He waved for the check. They'd pass on dessert. In a place like this, it could be lethal. Five more minutes and they were in their beds.

“THINK YOU'RE
clever, eh?” Hendley asked Granger over the secure phones in both their homes.

“Gerry, you told me to send an intel weenie, right? Who else can we spare out of Rick's shop? Everybody's been telling me how sharp the kid is. Okay, let him prove it at the sharp end.”

“But he's a rookie,” Hendley protested.

“And the twins aren't?” Granger asked in reply. Gotcha. From now on, you'll let me run my shop my way, he thought just as loudly as he could. “Gerry, he's not going to get his hands wet, and this will probably make him a better analyst. He's related to them. They know him. He knows them. They will trust and believe what he has to say, and Tony Wills says he's the brightest young analyst he's seen since he left
Langley
. So, he's perfect for the assignment, isn't he?”

“He's too junior.” But Hendley knew he was losing this one.

“Who isn't, Gerry? If we had any guys available with experience in this line of work, we would have put 'em. on the payroll.”

“If this blows up—”

“Then I go up in smoke. I know that. Can I watch some TV now?”

“See you tomorrow,” Hendley said.

“'Night, buddy.”

HONEYBEAR WAS
surfing the 'Net, chatting with somebody named Elsa K 69, who said she was twenty-three years old, 160 centimeters in height, and fifty-four kilograms in weight, with decent but not exceptional measurements, brown hair, blue eyes, and a nasty, inventive mind. She also had good typing skills. In fact, though Fa'ad had no way of knowing it, it was a man, fifty years old, half drunk and rather lonely. They chatted in English. The “girl” on the other end said “she” was a secretary in
London
. It was a city the Austrian accountant knew well.

“She” was real enough for Fa'ad, who soon got deeply into the perverse fantasy. It wasn't as good as a real woman by a long shot, but Fa'ad was careful about indulging his passions in
Europe
. You never knew if the woman you rented might be someone from the Mossad, who'd be just as happy to cut it off as to take it inside. He didn't fear death much, but like all men he did fear pain. In any case, the fantasy lasted almost half an hour, which left him sated enough to take note of the “handle” in case “she” showed up again. He could not know that the Tyrolean accountant made a similar notation in his Buddy File before retiring to a cold and lonely bed.

WHEN JACK
woke up, the window blinds were raised to reveal the purple-gray of mountains about twenty thousand feet below. His watch showed that he'd been aboard about eight hours, and had probably slept for six of them. Not too bad. He had a mild headache from the wine, but the wake-up coffee was good, as was the pastry, which combined to get him semi-awake as Flight 94 cruised in for landing.

The airport was hardly a large one, considering it was the flagship port of entry for a sovereign country, but
Austria
had about the same population as
New York City
, which had
three
airports. The aircraft thumped down, and the captain welcomed them all to his homeland, telling them that the local time was
9:05
A.M.
So, he'd have one day of heavy jet lag to deal with, but with luck maybe he'd be approximately okay tomorrow.

He cleared immigration easily
—the flight had only been about half full—recovered his bags and headed outside for a cab.

“Hotel Imperial, please.”

“Where?” the driver asked.

“Hotel Imperial,” Ryan repeated.

The driver thought for a moment.
“Ach so,
Hotel Imperial, ja?”

“Das ist
richtig
,
”
Junior assured him, and sat back to enjoy the ride. He had a hundred Euros, and assumed that would be enough, unless this guy had attended the
New York City
school of taxi driving. In any case, there'd be ATM machines on the street.

The drive took half an hour, fighting the rush-hour traffic. A block or two from the hotel, he passed a Ferrari dealership, which was something new for him
—he'd seen Ferraris only on TV before, and wondered, as all young men wonder, what it might be like to drive one.

The hotel staff greeted him like an arriving prince, and delivered him to a fourth-floor suite whose bed looked very inviting indeed. He immediately ordered breakfast and unpacked. Then he remembered why he was here, and picked up the phone, asking for a connection with Dominic Caruso's room.

“
HELLO?”
It was Brian. Dom was in the gold-encrusted shower.

“Hey, cuz, it's Jack,” he heard.

“Jack who
—wait a minute, Jack?”

“I'm upstairs, Marine. Just flew in an hour ago. Come on up, so we can talk.”

“Right. Give me ten minutes,” Brian said, and headed into the bathroom. “Enzo, you ain't gonna believe who's upstairs.”

“Who?” Dominic asked, toweling himself off.

“Let it be a surprise, man.” Brian went back to the sitting room, not sure whether to laugh or barf as he read the
International Herald Tribune.

“YOU GOTTA
be fucking kidding,” Dominic breathed as the door opened.

“You ought to see it from my side, Enzo,” Jack answered. “Come on in.”

“Food's good in Motel 6, isn't it?” Brian observed, following his brother.

“Actually, I prefer Holiday Inn Express. I need to pick up a Ph.D.  for my curriculum vitae, y'know?” Jack laughed and waved them to the chairs. “I got extra coffee.”

“They do it well here. I see you discovered the croissants.” Dominic poured himself a cup and stole a pastry. “Why the hell did they send you?”

“I guess because you both know me.” Junior buttered his second.

“Tell you what. Let me finish breakfast and we can take a walk down to the Ferrari dealership and talk about it. How do you like
Vienna
?”

“Just got here yesterday afternoon, Jack,” Dominic informed him.

“I didn't know that. I gather you had a productive time in
London
, though.”

“Not bad,” Brian answered. “Tell you about it later.”

“Right.” Jack continued his breakfast while Brian went back to his
International Trib.
“They're still excited at home about the shootings. Had to take my shoes off at the airport. Good thing I had clean socks. Looks like they're trying to see if anybody's trying to leave town in a hurry.”

“Yeah, that was pretty damned bad, man,” Dominic observed. “Anybody you know get clobbered?”

“No, thank God. Even Dad didn't, with all the people he knows in the investment crowd. What about you guys?”

Brian gave him a funny look. “Nobody we knew, no.” He hoped that little David Prentiss's soul would not be offended.

Jack finished the last croissant. “Let me shower and you guys can show me around.”

Brian finished the paper and turned the TV on to CNN
—the only American station the Imperial had—to check on the news at 0500 in
New York
. The last of the victims had been buried the previous day, and the reporters were asking the bereaved how they felt about their loss.
What a dumbass question!
the Marine raged. You were supposed to leave twisting the knife to the bad guys. And politicians were ranting on about What America Has to Do.

Well
, Brian thought, we're
doing it for you, guys.
But if they found out, they'd probably foul their silk drawers. But that just made him feel better about it. Somebody had to play a little catch-up ball, and that was his job now.

AT THE
Bristol
, Fa'ad was just waking up. He, too, had ordered coffee and pastry. He was scheduled to meet a fellow courier the next day to receive a message that he'd then pass on in due course. The Organization operated with great security for its important communications. The really serious messages were all passed exclusively by word of mouth. The couriers knew only their incoming and outgoing counterparts, so that they were organized in cells of three only, another lesson learned from the dead KGB officer. The inbound courier was Mahmoud Mohamed Fadhil, who'd be arriving from
Pakistan
. Such a system could be broken, but only through painstaking and lengthy police work, which was easily foiled if only one man removed himself from the ratline. The trouble was that the unexpected removal of a rat from the line could prevent a message from reaching its destination entirely, but that had not yet happened, and was not expected to. It was not a bad life for Fa'ad. He traveled a lot, always first-class, resided only in top-of-the-line hostelries, and, all in all, it was rather comfortable. He occasionally felt guilty for this. Others did what he thought were the dangerous and admirable things, but on taking the job he'd been briefed that the organization could not function without him and his eleven comrades, which was good for his morale. So was the knowledge that his function, while of great importance, was also quite safe. He received messages and passed them on, often to the operatives themselves, all of whom treated him with great respect, as though he had originated the mission instructions himself, of which he did not disabuse them. So, in two days, he'd receive more orders for transfer, whether to his nearest geographic colleague
—Ibrahim
Salih al-Adel, home-based in
Paris
—or to an operative currently unknown. Today he would find out, and make such communications as were necessary, and act upon developments. The job could be both boring and exciting at the same time, and with the comfortable hours and zero risk to his person, it was easy to be a hero of the movement, as he sometimes allowed himself to think of himself.

THEY WALKED
east on Kartner Ring, which almost at once angled northeast and changed its name to Schubertring. On the north side of it was the Ferrari dealership.

“So, how are you guys doing?” Jack asked, out in the open, and with the traffic noise beyond the reach of any possible tapping device.

“Two down. One more to go, right here in
Vienna
, then off somewhere else, wherever it is. I kinda thought you would know,” Dominic said.

Jack shook his head. “Nope. I haven't been briefed on that.”