Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (418 page)

“I know Gus. Good chap.”

The FBI has cordial relationships with all manner of businesses. Visa and MasterCard were no exceptions. An FBI agent called the headquarters of both companies from his desk in the Hoover Building, and gave the card numbers to the chiefs of security of both companies. Both were former FBI agents themselves—the FBI sends many retired agents off to such positions, which creates a large and diverse old-boy network—and both of them queried their computers and came up with account information, including name, address, credit history, and most important of all, recent charges. The British Airways flight from London Heathrow to Chicago O’Hare leaped off the screen—actually the faxed page—at the agent’s desk in Washington.

“Yeah?” Gus Werner said, when the young agent came into his office.

“He caught a flight from London to Chicago late yesterday, and then a flight from Chicago to New York, about the last one, got a back-room ticket on standby. Must have dumped the ID right after he got in. Here.” The agent handed over the charge records and the flight information. Werner scanned the pages.

“No shit,” the former chief of the Hostage Rescue Team observed quietly. “This looks like a hit, Johnny.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the young agent, fresh in from the Oklahoma City field division. “But it leaves one thing out—how he got to Europe this time. Everything else is documented, and there’s a flight from Dublin to London, but nothing from here to Ireland,” Special Agent James Washington told his boss.

“Maybe he’s got American Express. Call and find out,” Werner ordered the junior man.

“Will do,” Washington promised.

“Who do I call on this?” Werner asked.

“Right here, sir.” Washington pointed to the number on the covering sheet.

“Oh, good, I’ve met him. Thanks, Jimmy.” Werner lifted his phone and dialed the international number. “Mr. Tawney, please,” he told the operator. “It’s Gus Werner calling from FBI Headquarters in Washington.”

“Hello, Gus. That was very fast of you,” Tawney said, half in his overcoat and hoping to get home.

“The wonders of the computer age, Bill. I have a possible hit on this Serov guy. He flew from Heathrow to Chicago yesterday. The flight was about three hours after the fracas you had at Hereford. I have a rental car, a hotel bill, and a flight from Chicago to New York City after he got here.”

“Address?”

“We’re not that lucky. Post office box in lower Manhattan,” the Assistant Director told his counterpart. “Bill, how hot is this?”

“Gus, it’s bloody hot. Sean Grady gave us the name, and one of the other prisoners confirmed it. This Serov chap delivered a large sum of money and ten pounds of cocaine shortly before the attack. We’re working with the Swiss to track the money right now. And now it appears that this chap is based in America. Very interesting.”

“No shit. We’re going to have to track this mutt down if we can,” Werner thought aloud. There was ample jurisdiction for the investigation he was about to open. American laws on terrorism reached across the world and had draconian penalties attached to them. And so did drug laws.

“You’ll try?” Tawney asked.

“You bet your ass on that one, Bill,” Werner replied positively. “I’m starting the case file myself. The hunt is on for Mr. Serov.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Gus.”

Werner consulted his computer for a codeword. This case would be important and classified, and the codeword on the file would read . . . no, not that one. He told the machine to pick another. Yes. PREFECT, a word he remembered from his Jesuit high school in St. Louis.

“Mr. Werner?” his secretary called. “Mr. Henriksen on line three.”

“Hey, Bill,” Werner said, picking up the phone.

“Cute little guy, isn’t he?” Chavez asked.

John Conor Chavez was in his plastic crib-tray, sleeping peacefully at the moment. The name card in the slot on the front established his identity, helped somewhat by an armed policeman in the nursery. There would be another on the maternity floor, and an SAS team of three soldiers on the hospital grounds—they were harder to identify, as they didn’t have military haircuts. It was, again, the horse-gone-lock-the-door mentality, but Chavez didn’t mind that people were around to protect his wife and child.

“Most of ’em are,” John Clark agreed, remembering what Patsy and Maggie had been like at that age—only yesterday, it so often seemed. Like most men, John always thought of his children as infants, never able to forget the first time he’d held them in their hospital receiving blankets. And so now, again, he basked in the warm glow, knowing exactly how Ding felt, proud and a little intimidated by the responsibility that attended fatherhood. Well, that was how it was supposed to be.
Takes after his mother,
John thought next, which meant after
his
side of the family, which, he thought, was good. But John wondered, with an ironic smile, if the little guy was dreaming in Spanish, and if he learned Spanish growing up, well, what was the harm in being bilingual? Then his beeper went off. John grumbled as he lifted it from his belt. Bill Tawney’s number. He pulled his shoe-phone from his pants pocket and dialed the number. It took five seconds for the encryption systems to synchronize.

“Yeah, Bill?”

“Good news. John, your FBI are tracking down this Serov chap. I spoke with Gus Werner half an hour ago. They’ve established that he took a flight from Heathrow to Chicago yesterday, then on to New York. That’s the address for his credit cards. The FBI are moving very quickly on this one.”

The next step was checking for a driver’s license, and that came up dry, which meant they were also denied a photograph of the subject. The FBI agents checking it out in Albany were disappointed, but not especially surprised. The next step, for the next day, was to interview the postal employees at the station with the P.O. box.

“So, Dmitriy, you got back here in a hurry,” Brightling observed.

“It seemed a good idea,” Popov replied. “The mission was a mistake. The Rainbow soldiers are too good for such an attack on them. Sean’s people did well. Their planning struck me as excellent, but the enemy was far too proficient. The skill of these people is remarkable, as we saw before.”

“Well, the attack must have shaken them up,” his employer observed.

“Perhaps,” Popov allowed. Just then, Henriksen walked in.

“Bad news,” he announced.

“What’s that?”

“Dmitriy, you goofed up some, son.”

“Oh? How did I do that?” the Russian asked, no small amount of irony in his voice.

“Not sure, but they know there was a Russian involved in cueing the attack on Rainbow, and the FBI is working the case now. They may know you’re here.”

“That is not possible,” Popov objected. “Well . . . yes, they have Grady, and perhaps he talked . . . yes, he did know that I flew in from America, or he could have figured that out, and he knows the cover name I used, but that identity is gone—destroyed.”

“Maybe so, but I was just on the phone with Gus Werner. I asked him about the Hereford incident, if there was anything I needed to know. He told me they’ve started a case looking for a Russian name, that they had reason to believe a Russian, possibly based in America, had been in contact with the PIRA. That means they know the name, Dmitriy, and that means they’ll be tracking down names on airline passenger lists. Don’t underestimate the FBI, pal,” Henriksen warned.

“I do not,” Popov replied, now slightly worried, but only slightly. It would not be all that easy to check every transatlantic flight, even in the age of computers. He also decided that his next set of false ID papers would be in the name of Jones, Smith, Brown, or Johnson, not that of a disgraced KGB chairman from the 1950s. The Serov ID name had been a joke on his part. Not a good one, he decided now. Joseph Andrew Brown, that would be the next one, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich Popov thought, sitting there in the top-floor office.

“Is this a danger to us?” Brightling asked.

“If they find our friend here,” Henriksen replied.

Brightling nodded and thought quickly. “Dmitriy, have you ever been to Kansas?”

“Hello, Mr. Maclean,” Tom Sullivan said.

“Oh, hi. Want to talk to me some more?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind,” Frank Chatham told him.

“Okay, come on in,” Maclean said, opening the door all the way, walking back to his living room, and telling himself to be cool. He sat down and muted his TV. “So, what do you want to know?”

“Anyone else you remember who might have been close to Mary Bannister?” The two agents saw Maclean frown, then shake his head.

“Nobody I can put a name on. I mean, you know, it’s a singles bar, and people bump into each other and talk, and make friends and stuff, y’know?” He thought for a second more. “Maybe one guy, but I don’t know his name . . . tall guy, ’bout my age, sandy hair, big guy, like he works out and stuff . . . but I don’t know his name, sorry. Mary danced with him and had drinks with him, I think, but aside from that, hey, it’s too dark and crowded in there.”

“And you walked her home just that one time?”

“ ’Fraid so. We talked and joked some, but we never really hit it off. Just casual. I never, uh, made a move on her, if you know what I mean. Never got that far, like. Yeah, sure, I walked her home, but didn’t even go in the building, didn’t kiss her good night, even, just shook hands.” He saw Chatham taking notes. Was this what he’d told them before? He thought so, but it was hard to remember with two federal cops in his living room. The hell of it was he
didn’t
remember much about her. He’d selected her, loaded her into the truck, but that was all. He had no idea where she was now, though he imagined she was probably dead. Maclean knew what that part of the project was all about, and
that
made him a kidnapper and accessory to murder, two things he didn’t exactly plan to give to these two FBI guys. New York had a death penalty statute now, and for all he knew so did the federal government. Unconsciously, he licked his lips and rubbed his hands on his slacks as he leaned back on the couch. Then he stood and faced toward the kitchen. “Can I get you guys anything?”

“No, thanks, but you go right ahead,” Sullivan said. He’d just seen something he hadn’t noticed in their first interview. Tension. Was it the occasional flips people got talking to FBI agents, or was this guy trying to conceal something? They watched Maclean build a drink and come back.

“How would you describe Mary Bannister?” Sullivan asked.

“Pretty, but no knockout. Nice, personable—I mean, pleasant, sense of humor, sense of fun about her. Out-of-town girl in the big city for the first time—I mean, she’s just a girl, y’know?”

“But nobody really close to her, you said?”

“Not that I know of, but I didn’t know her that well. What do other people say?”

“Well, people from the bar said you were pretty friendly with her . . .”

“Maybe, yeah, but not
that
friendly. I mean, it never went anywhere. I never even kissed her.” He was repeating himself now, as he sipped at his bourbon and water. “Wish I did, but I didn’t,” he added.

“Who at the bar
are
you close to?” Chatham asked.

“Hey, that’s kinda private, isn’t it?” Kirk objected.

“Well, you know how it goes. We’re trying to get a feel for the place, how it works, that sort of thing.”

“Well, I don’t kiss and tell, okay? Not my thing.”

“I can’t blame you for that,” Sullivan observed with a smile, “but it is kinda unusual for the singles bar crowd.”

“Oh, sure, there’s guys there who put notches on their guns, but that’s not my style.”

“So, Mary Bannister disappeared, and you didn’t notice?”

“Maybe, but I didn’t think much about it. It’s a transient community, y’know? People come in and out, and some you never see again. They just disappear, like.”

“Ever call her?”

Maclean frowned. “No, I don’t remember that she gave me her number. I suppose she was in the book, but, no, I never called her.”

“Just walked her home only that one time?”

“Right, just that one time,” Maclean confirmed, taking another pull on his drink and wishing these two inquisitors out of his home. Did they—could they know something? Why had they come back? Well, there was nothing in his apartment to confirm that he knew
any
female from the Turtle Inn. Well, just some phone numbers, but not so much as a loose sock from the women he’d occasionally brought here. “I mean, you guys looked around the first time you were here,” Maclean volunteered.

“No big deal. We always ask to do that. It’s just routine,” Sullivan told their suspect. “Well, we have another appointment in a few minutes up the street. Thanks for letting us talk to you. You still have my card?”

“Yeah, in the kitchen, stuck on the refrigerator.”

“Okay. Look, this case is kinda hard for us. Please think it over and if you come up with anything—anything at all, please call me, okay?”

“Sure will.” Maclean stood and walked them to the door, then came back to his drink and took another swallow.

“He’s nervous,” Chatham said, out on the street.

“Sure as hell. We have enough to do a background check on him?”

“No problem,” Chatham replied.

“Tomorrow morning,” the senior agent said.

It was his second trip to Teterboro Airport, in New Jersey, across the river from Manhattan, but this time it was a different aircraft, with HORIZON CORP. painted on the rudder fin. Dmitriy played along, figuring that he could escape from any place in the United States, and knowing that Henriksen would warn Brightling not to try anything drastic. There was an element of anxiety to the trip, but no greater than his curiosity, and so Popov settled into his seat on the left side and waited for the aircraft to start its engines and taxi out. There was even a flight attendant, a pretty one, to give him a shot of Finlandia vodka, which he sipped as the Gulfstream V started rolling. Kansas, he thought, a state of wheat fields and tornadoes, less than three hours away.