Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (221 page)

“Doctor,” MacGregor persisted, “I am confident in my diagnosis, and I have a professional duty to—”

“It can wait until I come over,” was the casual reply. It was just the African way, MacGregor knew, and there was no sense in fighting it. This battle he could not win. The Sudanese health department could have his visa lifted in minutes, and then who would treat his patients?

“Very well, Doctor. Please come over directly,” he urged.

“I have a few things I must do, and then I will come over.” That could mean all day, or even longer, and both men knew it. “The patient is isolated?”

“Full precautions are in place,” MacGregor assured him.

“You are a fine physician, Ian, and I know I can trust you to see to it that nothing serious will happen.” The line clicked off. He’d scarcely replaced the phone receiver when the instrument rang again.

“Yes?”

“Doctor, please come to Twenty-four,” a nurse’s voice told him.

He was there in three minutes. It was Sohaila. An orderly was carrying out the emesis tray. There was blood in it. She also had come here from Iraq, MacGregor knew. Oh, my God.

“NONE OF YOU have anything to fear.”

The words were somewhat reassuring, though not as much as the members of the Revolutionary Council would have liked. The Iranian mullahs were probably telling the truth, but the colonels and generals around the table had fought against Iran as captains and majors, and one never forgets battlefield enemies.

“We need you to take control of your country’s military,” the senior one went on. “As a result of your cooperation, you will retain your positions. We require only that you swear your loyalty to your new government in God’s name.” There would be more to it than that. They’d be watched closely. The officers all knew that. If they put a single foot wrong, they’d be shot for it. But they had nothing in the way of options, except perhaps to be taken out and shot this afternoon. Summary execution was not exactly unknown in either Iran or Iraq, an efficient way of dealing with dissidents, real or imagined, in both countries.

Facing such a thing was so different from one side to the other. On the side of the guns, one saw it as a quick, efficient, and final way of settling things in one’s favor. From the other side, it had the abrupt injustice of a helicopter crash—just enough time for your spirit to scream No! before the racing earth blotted everything out, the disbelief and outrage of it. Except that in this case, they actually had a choice of sorts. Certain death now, or the chance of death later. The senior surviving officers of the Iraqi military shared furtive looks. They were
not
in control of their country’s military. The military, the soldiers, were with the people, or with their company officers. The former was pleased to have a surplus of food to eat for the first time in almost a full decade. The latter was pleased as well to see a new day for their country. The break from the old regime was complete. It was just a bad memory now, and there was no return to it. The men in this room could reestablish control only through the good offices of the former enemies who stood at the end of the table with the serene smiles that went along with winning, that went along with holding the gift of life in their hands like pocket change, easily given and just as easily put away. They offered no choice, really.

The titular leader of the council nodded his submission, followed in seconds by all the others, and with the gesture, the identity of their country faded into history.

From that point on, it was just a matter of making some telephone calls.

THE ONLY SURPRISE was that it didn’t happen on television. For once, the listening posts at STORM TRACK and PALM BOWL were beaten by analysts elsewhere. The TV cameras were in place, as would later be seen, but first there was business to be done, and that was recorded on satellite.

The first Iranians across the border were in motorized units which speeded down the highways under radio silence, but it was daylight, and overhead came two KH-11 satellites which cross-linked their signals to communications birds, and from there down to the reception points. The nearest to Washington were at Fort Belvoir.

“Yes,” Ryan said, lifting the phone to his ear.

“It’s Ben Goodley, Mr. President. It’s happening now. Iranian troops are crossing the border without any opposition we can see.”

“Announcement?”

“Nothing as yet. It looks like they want to be in control first.”

Jack checked the clock on the night table. “Okay, we’ll handle it at the morning brief.” There was no sense in ruining his sleep. He had people who would work through the night for him, Ryan told himself. He’d done it often enough himself.

“Yes, sir.”

Ryan replaced the phone, and was able to go back to sleep. It was one presidential skill he was learning to master. Maybe, he thought, as he faded out again, maybe he’d learn to play golf during a crisis ... wouldn’t that be...

FITTINGLY, IT WAS one of the pederasts. He’d been looking after a fellow criminal—this one was a murderer—and doing a proper job of it, judging by the videotapes, which had accelerated the process.

Moudi had been careful to tell the medical orderlies to supervise the new caregivers closely. The latter had taken the ordinary precautions, wearing their gloves, washing up carefully, keeping the room clean, mopping up all the fluids. This last task had become increasingly difficult with the advancing disease process in the first group of exposed subjects. Their collective moans came through the sound pickup with enough clarity for him to know what they were going through, especially with the absence of pain medications—a violation of the Muslim rules of mercy, which Moudi set aside. The second group of subjects were doing what they’d been told, but they’d not been issued masks, and that was for a reason.

The pederast was a young man, perhaps early twenties, and he’d been surprisingly attentive to his charge. Whether out of an appreciation for the murderer’s pain or just to appear to be worthy of mercy himself, it didn’t matter. Moudi zoomed the camera in. The man’s skin was flushed and dry, his movements slow and achy. The doctor lifted the phone. A minute later, one of the army medics came into the picture. He spoke briefly with the pederast, then poked the thermometer into his ear before leaving the room and lifting a corridor phone.

“Subject Eight has a temperature of thirty-nine-point-two and reports fatigue and aches in his extremities. His eyes are red and puffy,” the medic reported brusquely. It was to be expected that the medics would not feel the same degree of empathy for any of the test subjects that they’d felt for Sister Jean Baptiste. Even though the latter had been an infidel, at least she’d been a woman of virtue. That was manifestly not true of the men in the room, and it made things easier for everyone.

“Thank you.”

So, it was true, Moudi told himself. The Mayinga strain was indeed airborne. Now it only remained to be seen if it had fully transmitted itself, that this new victim would die from it. When half of the second group showed symptoms, they would be moved across the hall to a treatment room of their own, and the first group—they were all fatally afflicted with the Ebola—would be medically terminated.

The director would be pleased, Moudi knew. The latest step in the experiment had been as successful as those before. It was now increasingly certain that they had a weapon in their hands such as no man had ever wielded. Isn’t that wonderful, the physician observed to himself.

THE FLIGHT OUT was always easier on the disposition. Movie Star walked through the metal detector, stopped, had the magic wand waved over him, resulting in the usual embarrassment over his gold Cross pen, and then he walked to the first-class lounge, without even looking around for the policemen who, if they were about, would stop him here and now. But they weren’t, and they didn’t. His carry-on bag had a leather-bound clipboard in it, but he wouldn’t take that out quite yet. The flight was called in due course, and he walked to the jetway, and quickly found his seat in the front of the 747. The flight was only half full, and that made things very convenient. No sooner had the aircraft lifted off than he took out his pad and started recording all the things he’d not wished to commit to paper just yet. As usual, his photographic memory helped, and he worked for three solid hours until, over mid-Atlantic, he succumbed to the need for sleep. He suspected, correctly, that he’d need it.

29

FULL COURT

I
T MIGHT BE HIS LAST shot, Kealty knew, again using in his own mind a metaphor denoting firearms. The irony of it never registered. He had more important things to do. The previous evening he had been summoning his remaining press contacts—the reliable ones. Others had, if not exactly backed away, at least maintained a discreet distance in their uncertainty, but for most, it wasn’t all that hard to get their attention, and his two-hour midnight meeting had been called on the basis of a few key words and phrases known to excite their professional sensibilities. After that all he had to do was set the rules. This was all on background, not for attribution, not to be quoted. The reporters agreed, of course.

“It’s pretty disturbing. The FBI subjected the whole top floor of the State Department to lie-detector tests,” he told them. It was something they’d heard about but not yet confirmed. This would count as confirmation. “But more disturbingly, look at the policies we’re seeing now. Build up defense under this Bretano guy—a guy who’s grown up within the military-industrial complex. He says he wants to eliminate all the safeguards within the procurement system, wants to slash congressional oversight. And George Winston, what does he want to do? Wreck the tax system, make it more regressive, do away with capital-gains entirely—and why? To lay the country’s whole tax burden on the middle and working classes and give the big shots a free ride, that’s why.

“I never figured Ryan for a professional, for a competent sort of man to occupy the presidency, but I have to tell you, this is not what I expected. He’s a reactionary, a radical conservative—I’m not sure what you’d call him.”

“Are you sure about the thing at State?” the
New York Times
asked.

Kealty nodded. “Positive, hundred percent. You mean you people haven’t—come on, are you doing
your
job?” he asked tiredly. “In the middle of a Mideast crisis, he has the FBI harassing the most senior people we have, trying to accuse them of stealing a letter that was never there.”

“And now,” Kealty’s chief of staff added, seeming to speak out of turn, “we have the
Washington
Post about to run a canonization piece on Ryan.”

“Wait a minute,” the
Post
reporter said, straightening his back, “that’s Bob Holtzman, not my doing. I
told
my AME that it wasn’t a good idea.”

“Who’s the leak?” Kealty asked.

“I don’t have a clue. Bob never lets that out. You know that.”

“So what is Ryan doing at CIA? He wants to
triple
the Directorate of Operations the spies. Just what the country needs, right? What is Ryan doing?” Kealty asked rhetorically. “Beefing up defense. Rewriting the tax code to benefit the fat cats. And taking CIA back to the days of the Cold War. We’re going back to the 1950s—
why?”
Kealty demanded.
“Why
is he doing all this? What is he thinking about? Am I the only one in this city asking questions ? When are you people going to do your job? He’s trying to bully Congress, and succeeding, and where is the media? Who’s protecting the people out there?”

“What are you saying, Ed?” the
Times
asked.

The gesture of frustration was done with consummate skill. “I’m standing in my own political grave here. I have nothing to gain by this, but I
can’t
just stand by and do nothing. Even if Ryan has the entire power of our government behind him, I can’t just let him and his cronies try to concentrate all of the power of our government in a few hands, increase their own ability to spy on us, load the tax system in such a way as to further enrich people who’ve never paid their fair share, reward the defense industry—what’s next, trashing the civil rights laws? He’s flying his wife to work every day, and you people haven’t even remarked that that’s never happened before. This is an imperial presidency like Lyndon Johnson never dreamed of,
without
a Congress to do anything about it. You know what we have here now?” Kealty gave them a moment. “King Jack the First. Somebody’s supposed to care about that. Why is it that you people don’t?”

“What do you know about the Holtzman piece?” the
Boston Globe
wanted to know.

“Ryan has a lively history in CIA. He’s killed people.”

“James fucking Bond,” Kealty’s chief of staff said on cue. The Post reporter then had to defend his publication’s honor:

“Holtzman doesn’t say that. If you mean the time the terrorists came to—”

“No, not that. Holtzman’s going to write about the Moscow thing. Ryan didn’t even set that up. It was Judge Arthur Moore, when he was DCI. Ryan was the front man. It’s bad enough anyway. It interfered with the inner workings of the old Soviet Union, and it never occurred to anyone that
maybe
that wasn’t such a great idea—I mean, what the hell, right, screwing around with the government of a country with ten thousand warheads pointed at us—you know, people, that’s called an act of war, like? And why? To rescue their head thug from a purge for stepping over the line so
that
we could crack a spy ring inside CIA. I bet he didn’t tell Holtzman that, did he?”

“I haven’t seen the story,” the
Post
reporter admitted. “I’ve only heard a few things.” It was almost worthy of a smile. Kealty’s sources inside the paper were better than those of the senior political reporter. “Okay, you say Ryan has killed people like James Bond. Support that,” he said in a flat voice.