Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (36 page)

inside for the event because he didn't want to cause an 'incident.' This is the only eyewitness report we have aside from the TV people."

“I haven't read the text of his speech yet. I have it here somewhere.” Durling gestured at his desk.

“Might be a good idea to do so. I just did.”

The President nodded. “And what else? I know there's more.”

“And I told Mary Pat to activate T
HISTLE
.” He explained briefly what that was.

“You really should get my permission first.”

“That's what I'm here for, sir. You know a little about
Clark
. He doesn't scare easily. T
HISTLE
includes a couple of people in their Foreign Ministry and MITI. I think we want to know what they're thinking.”

“They're not enemies,” Durling observed.

“Probably not,” Jack conceded, for the first time allowing for the fact that the proper response wasn't certainly not, a fact the President noted with a raised eyebrow. “We still need to know, sir. That's my recommendation.”

“Okay. Approved. What else?”

“I also told her to get Kimberly Norton out, soonest. It ought to happen in the next twenty-four hours.”

“Sending Goto a message, are we?”

“That's part of it. Simpler version is, we know she's there, and she's an American citizen and—”

“And I have kids, too. Also approved. Save the piety for church, Jack,”

Durling ordered with a smile. “How will it go?”

“If she agrees to come out, they drive her to the airport and fly her to
Seoul
. They have clothes for her, and a fresh passport, and first-class tickets for her and an escort she'll meet at the terminal. She changes planes to a KAL flight to
New York
. We check her into a hotel, settle her down, and debrief. We fly her parents in from
Seattle
, and explain to them that it's to be kept quiet. The girl will probably need psychological counseling—I mean, really need it. That will help with the low profile. The FBI will assist on that one. Her father's a cop. He should play along.” And that was neat and tidy enough for anyone, wasn't it?

The President gave Ryan a nod. “So then, what do we tell Goto about it?”

“That's your decision, Mr. President. I would recommend nothing at the moment. Let's debrief the girl first. Say a week or so, and then the Ambassador will check in for the usual courtesy visit to present your greetings to a new head of government—”

“And ask him politely how his countrymen will react if Mr. Nationalist turned out to be dipping his wick in a round-eye. Then we extend a small olive branch, right?” Durling caught on quickly enough, Jack thought.

“That's my recommendation, sir.”

“A very small one,” the President noted dryly.

“Just one olive on it for the moment,” Ryan conceded.

“Approved,” Durling said again, adding more sharply, “Next are you going to suggest what olive branch to offer?”

“No, sir. Have I pushed too much?” Jack asked, realizing just how far he had gone.

Durling almost apologized for speaking crossly to his National Security Advisor. “You know, Bob was right about you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bob Fowler,” Durling said, waving Ryan into a chair. “You ticked me off pretty bad when I brought you in the first time.”

“Sir, I was a burn-out then, remember?” Jack did. The nightmares hadn't stopped yet. He saw himself, sitting there in the
National
Military
Command
Center
, telling people what they had to do, but in the nightmare they couldn't see or hear him, as the Hot Line message kept coming in, taking his country closer and closer to the war he had in fact probably stopped. The full story on that had never been written in the open media. Just as well, everyone who had been there knew.

“I didn't understand that then. Anyway”—Durling raised his arms to stretch—“when we dropped the ball last summer. Bob and I talked some things over up at
Camp David
. He recommended you for the job. Surprised?” the President asked with a twisty grin.

“Very,” Jack admitted quietly. Arnie van Damm had never told him that story. Ryan wondered why.

“He said you're one levelheaded son of a bitch when the crap hits the fan. He also said you were an opinionated, pushy son of a bitch the rest of the time. Good judge of character, Bob Fowler.” Durling gave him a moment to absorb that. “You're a good man in a storm, Jack. Do us both a favor and remember that this is as far as you can act without my approval. You've already had another pissing contest with Brett, haven't you?”

“Yes, sir.” Jack bobbed his head like a schoolboy. “Just a little one.”

“Don't push so hard. He's my Secretary of State.”

“I understand, sir.”

“All ready for
Moscow
?”

“Cathy is really looking forward to it,” Ryan answered, pleased with the change of subject and noting that Durling had handled him very well indeed. “It'll be good to see her again. Anne really likes her. Anything else?”

“Not right now.”

“Jack, thanks for the heads-up,” Durling said to conclude the meeting on a positive note.

Ryan left the office by the west door, walking past the (Teddy) Roosevelt Room and heading toward his office. Ed Kealty was in again, he saw, working in his office. He wondered when that one would break, realizing that the President, however pleased with the events of this day, still had that scandal hanging over him. That sword again, Jack thought. He had gone a little close to the edge this time, and it was his mission to make the President's job easier, not harder. There was more to it, after all, than foreign entanglements—and politics, something he had tried to keep at arm's length for years, was as real as anything else.

Fowler? Damn.

It would be a safe time to do it, they knew. Goto was giving a speech on TV tonight, his maiden broadcast as Prime Minister, and whatever he said, it guaranteed that he wouldn't be with his young mistress that evening. Perhaps the night's mission would be an interesting and useful counterpoint to what the politician had to say, a reply, of sorts, from
America
. They both liked that idea.

John Clark and Ding Chavez were walking along the block at the proper time, looking across the crowded street at the nondescript building. They always seemed that way, John thought. Maybe someone would tumble to the idea that a garish facade or an office tower was actually better camouflage, or maybe not. More likely it was boredom talking again. A man came out and removed his sunglasses with his left hand. He smoothed his hair, stroking the back of his head twice with his left hand, then moved off. Nomuri had never ascertained the location of Kim Norton's room. Moving in that close was a risk, but the orders had come to take that risk, and now, having given the signal, he walked off toward where he'd left his car. Ten seconds later Nomuri was lost in the crowded sidewalk,
Clark
saw. He could do that. He had the right height and looks. So did Ding. With his size, glossy black hair, and complexion, Chavez at a distance could almost blend in here. The haircut he'd imposed on his partner helped even more. From behind he was just another person on the sidewalk. That was useful,
Clark
told himself, feeling ever more conspicuous, especially at a moment like this.

“Showtime,” Ding breathed. Both men crossed the street as unobtrusively as possible.

Clark
was dressed as a businessman, but rarely had he felt more naked. Neither he nor Ding had so much as a folding pocket knife. Though both men were well skilled in unarmed combat, both had enough experience to prefer arms—the better to keep one's enemies at a distance.

Luck smiled on them. There was no one in the tiny lobby of the building to note their presence. The two men took the stairs up. Second floor, all the way back, left side.

Nomuri had done his job well. The corridor was empty.
Clark
had the lead, and headed quickly down the dimly lit passage. The lock was a simple one. With Ding standing guard, he took out his burglar tools and defeated it, then opened the door quickly. They were already inside before they realized that the mission was a bust.

Kimberly Norton was dead. She lay on a futon, wearing a medium-expensive silk kimono that was bunched just below the knees, exposing her lower legs. Postmortem lividity was beginning to color the underside of her body as gravity drew her blood downward. Soon the top of the body would be the color of ash, and the lower regions would be maroon. Death was so cruel, John thought. It wasn't enough that it stole life. It also stole whatever beauty the victim had once possessed. She'd been pretty—well, that was the point, wasn't it? John checked the body against the photograph, a passing resemblance to his younger daughter, Patsy. He handed the picture to Ding. He wondered if the lad would make the same connection.

“It's her.”

“Concur, John,” Chavez observed huskily. “It's her.” Pause. “Shit,” he concluded quietly, examining the face for a long moment that made his face twist with anger. So,
Clark
thought, he sees it too.

“Got a camera?”

“Yeah.” Ding pulled a compact 35mm out of his pants pocket. “Play cop?”

“That's right.”

Clark
stooped down to examine the body. It was frustrating. He wasn't a pathologist, and though he had much knowledge of death, more knowledge still was needed to do this right. There…in the vein on the top of her foot, a single indentation. Not much more than that. So she'd been on drugs? If so, she'd been a careful user, John thought. She'd always cleaned the needle and…He looked around the room. There. A bottle of alcohol and a plastic bag of cotton swabs, and a bag of plastic syringes.

“I don't see any other needle marks.”

“They don't always show, man,” Chavez observed.

Clark
sighed and untied the kimono, opening it. She'd been wearing nothing under it.

“Fuck!” Chavez rasped. There was fluid inside her thighs.

“That's a singularly unsuitable thing to say,”
Clark
whispered back. It was as close as he'd come to losing his temper in many years. “Take your pictures.”

Ding didn't answer. The camera flashed and whirred away. He recorded the scene as a forensic photographer might have done.
Clark
then started to rearrange the kimono, uselessly giving the girl back whatever dignity that death and men had failed to rob from her.

“Wait a minute…left hand.”

Clark
examined it. One nail was broken. All the others were medium-long, evenly coated with a neutral polish. He examined the others. There was something under them.

“Scratched somebody?”
Clark
asked.

“See anyplace she scratched herself, Mr. C?” Ding asked.

“No.”

“Then she wasn't alone when it happened, man. Check her ankles again,” Chavez said urgently.

On the left one, the foot with the puncture, the underside of the ankle revealed bruises almost concealed by the building lividity. Chavez shot his last frame.

“I thought so.”

“Tell me why later. We're out of here,” John said, standing. Within less than a minute they were out the back door, down the meandering alley, and back on a main thoroughfare to wait for their car.

“That was close,” Chavez observed as the police car pulled up to Number 18. There was a TV crew fifteen seconds behind.

“Don't you just love it? They're going to tie up everything real nice and neat…What is it, Ding?”

“Ain't right, Mr. C. Supposed to look like an OD, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You OD on smack, man, it just stops. Boom, bye-bye. I seen a guy go out like that back in the old days, never got the sticker out of his arm, okay? Heart stops, lungs stop, gone. You don't get up and set the needle down and then lay back down, okay? Bruises on the leg. Somebody stuck her. She was murdered, John. And probably she was raped, too.”

“I saw the paraphernalia. All U.S.-made. Nice setup. They close the case, blame the girl and her family, give their own people an object lesson.”
Clark
looked over as the car pulled around the corner. “Good eye, Ding.”

“Thanks, boss.” Chavez fell silent again, his anger building now that he had nothing to do but think it over. “You know, I'd really like to meet that guy.”

“We won't.”

Time for a little perverse fantasy: “I know, but I used to be a Ninja, remember? It might be real fun, especially barehanded.”

“That just breaks bones, pretty often your own bones.”

“I'd like to see his eyes when it happens.”

“So put a good scope on the rifle,”
Clark
advised.

“True,” Chavez conceded. “What kind of person gets off on that, Mr. C?”

“One sick motherfucker, Domingo. I met a few, once.”

Just before they got into the car, Ding's black eyes locked on
Clark
.

“Maybe I will meet this one personally, John. El fado can play tricks. Funny ones.”

“Where is she?” Nomuri asked from behind the wheel.

“Drive,”
Clark
told him.

“You should have heard the speech,” Chet said, moving up the street and wondering what had gone wrong.

“The girl's dead,” Ryan told the President barely two hours later,
1:00 P.M.
,
Washington
time.

“Natural causes?” Durling asked.

“Drug overdose, probably not self-administered. They have photos. We ought to have them in thirty-six hours. Our guys just got clear in time. The Japanese police showed up pretty fast.”

“Wait a minute. Back up. You're saying murder?”

“That's what our people think, yes, Mr. President.”

“Do they know enough to make that evaluation?”

Ryan took his seat and decided that he had to explain a little bit. “Sir, our senior officer knows a few things about the subject, yes.”

“That was nicely phrased,” the President noted dryly. “I don't want to know any more about that subject, do I?”

“No reason for it right now, sir, no.”

“Goto?”

“Possibly one of his people. Actually the best indicator will be how their police report it. If anything they tell us is at variance with what we've learned from our own people, then we'll know that somebody played with the data, and not all that many people have the ability to order changes in police reports.” Jack paused for a moment. “Sir, I've had another independent evaluation of the man's character.” He went on to repeat Kris Hunter's story."