Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (336 page)

“Doc?” Ding asked.

“That’s likely,” Bellow agreed with a nod, taking note of Price’s practical experience.

Chavez frowned mightily at that one. Trained as he was, he wasn’t really all that eager to take this one on. He’d seen the interior pictures. There had to be twenty, perhaps thirty, people inside, with three people in their immediate vicinity holding fully automatic weapons. If one of them decided
fuck it
and went rock-and-roll on his Czech machine gun, a lot of those people wouldn’t make it home to the wife and kiddies. It was called the responsibility of command, and while it wasn’t the first time Chavez had experienced it, the burden never really got any lighter—because the price of failure never got any smaller.

“Chavez!” It was Dr. Bellow.

“Yeah, doc,” Ding said, heading over toward him with Price in attendance.

“Model’s getting aggressive. He says he’ll kill a hostage in thirty minutes unless we get him a car to a helicopter pad a few blocks from here, and from there to the airport. After that, he kills a hostage every fifteen minutes. He says he has enough to last more than a few hours. He’s reading off a list of the important ones now. A professor of surgery at the local medical school, an off-duty policeman, a big-time lawyer . . . well, he’s not kidding, Ding. Thirty minutes from—okay, he shoots the first one at eight-thirty.”

“What are the cops saying back?”

“What I told them to say, it takes time to arrange all of that, give us a hostage or two to show good faith—but that’s what prompted the threat for eight-thirty. Ernst is coming a little unglued.”

“Is he serious?” Chavez asked, just to make sure he understood.

“Yeah, he sounds serious as hell. He’s losing control, very unhappy with how things turned out. He’s barely rational now. He’s not kidding about killing somebody. Like a spoiled kid with nothing under the tree on Christmas morning, Ding. There’s no stabilizing influence in there to help him out. He feels very lonely.”

“Super.” Ding keyed his radio. Not unexpectedly, the decision had just been made by somebody else. “Team, this is Chavez. Stand to. I say again, stand to.”

He’d been trained in what to expect. One ploy was to deliver the car—it’d be too small for all the hostages, and you could take the bad guys down on the way out with aimed rifle fire. But he had only two snipers, and their rifle bullets would blast through a terrorist’s head with enough leftover energy to waste two of three people beyond him. SMG or pistol fire was much the same story. Four bad guys was too many for that play. No, he had to take his team in, while the hostages were still sitting down on the floor, below the line of fire. These bastards weren’t even rational enough to want food which he might drug—or maybe they were smart enough to know about the Valium-flavored pizza.

It took several minutes. Chavez and Price crawled to the door from the left. Louis Loiselle and George Tomlinson did the same from the other side. At the rear, Paddy Connolly attached a double thickness of Primacord to the door frame, inserted the detonator, and stood away, with Scotty McTyler and Hank Patterson nearby.

“Rear team in place, Leader,” Scotty told them over the radio.

“Roger that. Front team is in place,” Chavez replied quietly into his radio transmitter.

“Okay, Ding,” Noonan’s voice came over the command circuit, “TV One shows a guy brandishing a rifle, walking around the hostages on the floor. If I had to bet, I’d say it’s our friend Ernst. One more behind him, and a third to the right side by the second wood desk. Hold, he’s on the phone now . . . okay, he’s talking to the cops, saying he’s getting ready to pick a hostage to whack. He’s going to give out his name first. Nice of him,” Noonan concluded.

“Okay, people, it’s gonna go down just like the exercises,” Ding told his troops. “We are weapons-free at this time. Stand by.” He looked up to see Loiselle and Tomlinson trade a look and a gesture. Louis would lead, with George behind. It would be the same for Chavez, letting Price take the lead with his commander immediately behind.

“Ding, he just grabbed a guy, standing him up—on the phone again, they’re going to whack the doctor first, Professor Mario Donatello. Okay, I have it all on Camera Two, he’s got the guy stood up. I think it’s show time,” Noonan concluded.

“Are we ready? Rear team, check in.”

“Ready here,” Connolly replied over the radio. Chavez could see Loiselle and Tomlinson. Both nodded curtly and adjusted their hands on their MP-10s.

“Chavez to team, we are ready to rock. Stand by. Stand by. Paddy, hit it!” Ding ordered loudly. The last thing he could do was cringe in expectation of the blast of noise sure to come.

The intervening second seemed to last for hours, and then the mass of the building was in the way. They heard it even so, a loud metallic
crash
that shook the whole world. Price and Loiselle had placed their flash-bangs at the brass lower lining of the door, and punched the switches on them as soon as they heard the first detonation. Instantly the glass doors disintegrated into thousands of fragments, which mainly flew into the granite and marble lobby of the bank in front of a blinding white light and end-of-the-world noise. Price, already standing at the edge of the door, darted in, with Chavez right behind, and going to his left as he entered.

Ernst Model was right there, his weapon’s muzzle pressed to the back of Dr. Donatello’s head. He’d turned to look at the back of the room when the first explosion had happened, and, as planned, the second one, with its immense noise and blinding flash of magnesium powder, had disoriented him. The physician captive had reacted, too, dropping away from the gunman behind him with his hands over his head, and giving the intruders a blessedly clear shot. Price had his MP-10 up and aimed, and depressed the trigger for a quick and final three-round burst into the center of Ernst Model’s face.

Chavez, immediately behind him, spotted another gunman, standing and shaking his head as though to clear it. He was facing away, but he still held his weapon, and the rules were the rules. Chavez double-tapped his head as well. Between the suppressors integral with the gun-barrels and the ringing from the flash-bangs, the report of the weapons was almost nil. Chavez traversed his weapon right, to see that the third terrorist was already on the floor, a pool of red streaming from what had been a head less than two seconds before.

“Clear!” Chavez shouted.

“Clear!” “Clear!” “Clear!” the others agreed. Loiselle raced to the back of the building, with Tomlinson behind him. Before they’d gotten there, the black-clad figures of McTyler and Patterson appeared, their weapons immediately pointing up at the ceiling:
“Clear!”

Chavez moved farther left to the teller cages, leaping over the barrier to check there for additional people. None. “Clear here! Secure the area!”

One of the hostages started to rise, only to be pushed back down to the floor by George Tomlinson. One by one, they were frisked by the team members while another covered them with loaded weapons—they couldn’t be sure which was a sheep and which a goat at this point. By this time, some Swiss cops were entering the bank. The frisked hostages were pushed in that direction, a shocked and stunned bunch of citizens, still disoriented by what had happened, some bleeding from the head or ears from the flash-bangs and flying glass.

Loiselle and Tomlinson picked up the weapons dropped by their victims, cleared each of them, and slung them over their shoulders. Only then, and only gradually, did they start to relax.

“What about the back door?” Ding asked Paddy Connolly.

“Come and see,” the former SAS soldier suggested, leading Ding to the back room. It was a bloody mess. Perhaps the subject had been resting his head against the door frame. It seemed a logical explanation for the fact that no head was immediately visible, and only one shoulder on the corpse, which had been flung against an interior partition, the Czech M-58 rifle still grasped tightly in its remaining hand. The double thickness of Primacord had been a little too powerful . . . but Ding couldn’t say that. A steel door and a stout steel frame had demanded it.

“Okay, Paddy, nice one.”

“Thank you, sir.” The smile of a pro who’d gotten the job well and truly done.

There were cheers on the street outside as the hostages came out. So, Popov thought, the terrorists he’d recruited were dead fools now. No real surprise there. The Swiss counterterror team had handled the job well, as one would expect of Swiss policemen. One of them came outside and lit a pipe—how very Swiss! Popov thought. The bugger probably climbs mountains for personal entertainment, too. Perhaps he was the leader. A hostage came up to him.

“Danke schön, danke schön!”
the bank director said to Eddie Price.

“Bitte sehr, Herr Direktor,”
the Brit answered, just about exhausting his knowledge of the German language. He pointed the man off to where the Bern police had the other hostages. They probably needed a loo more than anything else, he thought, as Chavez came out.

“How’d we do, Eddie?”

“Rather well, I should say.” A puff on his pipe. “An easy job, really. They were proper wallies, picking this bank and acting as they did.” He shook his head and took another puff. The IRA were far more formidable than this. Bloody Germans.

Ding didn’t ask what a “wally” was, much less a proper one. With that decided, he pulled his cell phone out and hit speed-dial.

“Clark.”

“Chavez.

“Did you catch it on TV, Mr. C?”

“Getting the replay now, Domingo.”

“We got all four, down for the count. No hostages hurt, except for the one they whacked earlier today. No casualties on the team. So, boss, what do we do now?”

“Fly on home for the debrief, lad. Six, out.”

“Bloody good,” Major Peter Covington said. The TV showed the team gathering up their equipment for the next thirty or so minutes, then they disappeared around the corner. “Your Chavez does seem to know his business—and so much the better his first test was an easy one. Confidence builder.”

They looked over at the computer-generated picture that Noonan had uploaded to them on his cellular phone system. Covington had predicted how the take-down would go, and made no mistakes.

“Any traditions I need to know about?” John asked, settling down, finally, and hugely relieved that there were no unnecessary casualties.

“We take them to the club for a few pints, of course.” Covington was surprised that Clark didn’t know about that one.

Popov was in his car, trying to navigate the streets of Bern before police vehicles blocked everything on their way back to their stations. Left there . . . two traffic lights, right, then through the square and . . . there! Excellent, even a place for him to park. He left his rented Audi on the street right across from the half-baked safe house Model had set up. Defeating the lock was child’s play. Upstairs, to the back, where the lock was just as easily dealt with.

“Wer sind sie?”
a voice asked.

“Dmitriy,” Popov replied honestly, one hand in his coat pocket. “Have you been watching the television?”

“Yes, what went wrong?” the voice asked in German, seriously downcast.

“It does not matter now. It is time to leave, my young friend.”

“But my friends—”

“Are dead, and you cannot help them.” He saw the boy in the dark, perhaps twenty years of age, and a devoted friend of the departed fool, Ernst Model. A homosexual relationship, perhaps? If so, it would make things easier for Popov, who had no love for men of that orientation. “Come, get your things. We must leave and leave quickly.” There, there it was, the black-leather-clad suitcase with the D-marks inside. The lad—what was his name? Fabian something? Turned his back and went to get his parka, which the Germans called a
Joppe.
He never turned back. Popov’s silenced pistol came up and fired once, then again, quite unnecessarily, from three meters away. Making sure the boy was indeed dead, he lifted the suitcase, opened it to verify the contents, and then walked out the door, crossed the street, and drove to his downtown hotel. He had a noon flight back to New York. Before that he had to open a bank account in a city well suited for the task.

The team was quiet on the trip back, having caught the last flight back to England—this one to Heathrow rather than Gatwick. Chavez availed himself of a glass of white wine, again sitting next to Dr. Bellow, who did the same.

“So, how’d we do, doc?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Chavez,” Bellow responded.

“For me, the stress is bleeding off. No shakes this time,” Ding replied, surprised at the fact that his hand was steady.

“ ‘Shakes’ are entirely normal—the release of stress energy. The body has trouble letting it go and returning to normal. But training attenuates that. And so does a drink,” the physician observed, sipping his own glass of a nice French offering.

“Anything we might have done differently?”

“I don’t think so. Perhaps if we’d gotten involved earlier, we might have prevented or at least postponed the murder of the first hostage, but that’s never really under our control.” Bellow shrugged. “No, what I’m curious about is the motivation of the terrorists in this case.”

“How so?”

“They acted in an ideological way, but their demands were—not ideological. I understand they robbed the bank along the way.”

“Correct.” He and Loiselle had looked at a canvas bag on the bank’s floor. It had been full of notes, perhaps twenty-five pounds of money. That seemed to Chavez an odd way to count money, but it was all he had. Follow-up work by the Swiss police would count it up. The after-action stuff was an intelligence function, supervised by Bill Tawney. “So . . . were they just robbers?”

“Not sure.” Bellow finished off his glass, holding it up then for the stewardess to see and refill. “It doesn’t seem to make much sense at the moment, but that’s not exactly unknown in cases like this. Model was not a very good terrorist. Too much show, and not enough go. Poorly planned, poorly executed.”