Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (433 page)

What exactly had he learned this day? How did it fit in with all the other things he’d learned at the building complex in western Kansas? The answer to the second question was easier than the first: whatever hard data he’d learned today contradicted
nothing
about the project’s nature, location, or even its decor. It hadn’t contradicted the magazines by his bedside, nor the videotapes next to the TV, nor the conversations he’d overheard in the corridors or in the building’s cafeteria. Those maniacs were planning to end the world in the name of their pagan beliefs—but
how the hell
could he persuade anyone that this was so? And exactly what hard data did he have to give to someone else—and to
which
someone else? It had to be someone who would both believe him and be able to take action. But who? There was the additional problem that he’d murdered Foster Hunnicutt—he’d had no choice in the matter; he’d had to get away from the Project, and that had been his only chance to do so covertly. But now they could accuse him rightfully of murder, which meant that some police force might try to arrest him, and then how could he get the word out to stop those fucking druids from doing what they said they’d do? No policeman in the known world would believe his tale. It was far too grotesque to be absorbed by a normal mind—and surely those people in the Project had a cover story or legend which had been carefully constructed to shunt aside any sort of official inquiry. That was the most rudimentary security concern, and that Henriksen fellow would have worked on that himself.

Carol Brightling stood in her office. She’d just printed up a letter to the chief of staff saying that she’d be taking a leave of absence to work on a special scientific project. She’d discussed this matter with Arnie van Damm earlier in the day and gotten no serious objection to her departure. She would not be missed, his body language had told her quite clearly.
Well,
she thought with a cold look at the computer screen,
neither would he,
when it came to that.

Dr. Brightling tucked the letter in an envelope, sealed it, and left it on her assistant’s desk for transfer into the White House proper the next day. She’d done her job for the Project and for the planet, and it was now time for her to leave. It had been so long, so very long, since she’d felt John’s arms around her. The divorce had been well publicized. It had had to be. She would never have gotten the White House job if she’d been married to one of the country’s richest men. And so, she’d forsworn him, and he’d publicly forsworn the movement, the beliefs they’d both held ten years before when they’d formulated the idea for the Project, but he’d never stopped believing, any more than she had. And so she’d gotten all the way inside the government, and gotten a security clearance that gave her access to literally everything, even operational intelligence, which she then forwarded to John when he needed it. Most especially, she’d gotten access to biological-warfare information, so that they knew what USAMRIID and others had done to protect America, and so knew how to engineer Shiva in such a way as to defeat
any
proposed vaccine except those which Horizon Corporation had formulated.

But it had had its own price. John had been seen in public with all manner of young women, and had doubtless dallied with many of them, for he’d always been a passionate man. It was something they hadn’t discussed before their public divorce, and for that reason it had come to her as an unpleasant surprise to see him at those occasional social functions they both had to attend, always with a pretty young thing on his arm—always a different one, since he’d never formed a real relationship with anyone but her. Carol Brightling told herself that this was good, since it meant that
she
was the only woman really a part of John’s life, and thus those annoying young women were merely a way for him to dissipate his male hormones. . . . But it hadn’t been easy to see, and harder still to think about, alone in her home, with only Jiggs for company, and often as not weeping in her loneliness.

But set against that small personal consideration was the Project. The White House job had merely fortified her beliefs. She’d seen it all here, Carol Brightling reminded herself, from the specifications for new nuclear weapons to bio-war reports. The Iranian attempt at a national plague, which had predated her government job, had both frightened and encouraged her. Frightened, because it had been a real threat to the country, and one that could have begun a massive effort to counter a future attack. Encouraged, because she’d learned in short order that a really effective defense was difficult at best, because vaccines had to be tailored for specific bugs. And, when one got down to it, the Iranian plague had merely heightened the public’s appreciation of the threat, and
that
would make distribution of the “A” vaccine the easier to sell to the public . . . and to the government bureaucrats here and around the world who would leap at the offered cure. She would even return to her OEOB office at the proper time to urge approval for this essential public health measure, and on this issue she would be trusted.

Dr. Carol Brightling walked out of her office, turned left down the wide corridor, then left again and down the steps to her parked car. Twenty minutes later, she locked the car and walked up the steps of her apartment building, there to be greeted by the faithful Jiggs, who jumped into her arms and rubbed his furry head against her breast, as he always did. Her ten years of misery were over, and though the sacrifice had been hard to endure, the reward for it would be a planet turning back to green, and a Nature restored to Her deserved Glory.

It was somehow good to be back in New York. Though he didn’t dare to return to his apartment, this was at least a city, and here he could disappear as easily as a rat in a junkyard. He told the taxi driver to take him to Essex House, an upscale hotel on Central Park South, and there he checked in under the name of Joseph Demetrius. Agreeably, there was a minibar in his room, and he mixed a drink with two miniatures of an American brand of vodka, whose inferior taste he was too anxious to be concerned about. Then, having come to his decision, he called the airline to confirm flight information, checked his watch, then called the front desk and instructed the clerk there to give him a wake-up call at the hellish hour of 3:30 A.M. The Russian collapsed into the bed without undressing. He’d have to do some quick shopping in the morning, and also visit his bank to pull his Demetrius passport out of the safe-deposit box. Then he’d get five hundred dollars out of an ATM cash machine, courtesy of his Demetrius MasterCard, and he’d be safe . . . well, if not truly safe, then safer than he was now, enough to be somewhat confident in himself and his future, such as it was, if the Project could be stopped. And if not, he told himself behind closed and somewhat drunken eyes, then at least he’d know what to avoid in order to keep himself alive. Probably.

Clark awoke at his accustomed hour. JC was sleeping better now, after two weeks of life, and this morning he’d at least synchronized himself with the master of the house, John found, as he emerged from his morning shave to hear his grandson’s first wake-up chirps in the bedroom where he and Patsy were currently quartered. Sandy was awakened by the sounds, though she’d managed to ignore the alarm on John’s side of the bed, her maternal or grand-maternal instincts obviously having their own selective power. Clark headed down to the kitchen to flip on the coffee machine, then opened the front door to collect his morning copies of the
Times,
the
Daily Telegraph,
and the
Manchester Guardian
for his morning news brief. One thing about Brit papers, he’d learned, the quality of the writing was better than in most American newspapers, and the articles were rather more concise.

The little guy was growing, John told himself when Patsy came into the kitchen with JC affixed to her left breast and Sandy in tow behind. But his daughter wasn’t drinking coffee, evidently fearful that the caffeine might find its way into her breast milk. Instead she drank milk herself, while Sandy got breakfast going. John Conor Chavez was fully engaged with his breakfast, and in ten minutes, his grandfather was similarly engaged with his own, the radio now on a BBC channel to catch the morning news to supplement the print in front of him. Both modalities confirmed that the world was essentially at peace. The lead story was the Olympic Games, which Ding had reported on every night for them—the morning for him, all those time zones away—the reports usually ending with the phone held to JC’s little face so that his proud father might hear the mewings he occasionally made, though rarely on cue.

By 6:30, John was dressed and heading out the door, and this morning, unlike a few others, he drove to the athletic field for his morning exercises. The men of Team-1 were there, their numbers still short because of the losses at the hospital shoot-out, but proud and tough as ever. Sergeant First Class Fred Franklin led the team this morning, and Clark followed his instructions, not as ably as the younger men, but trying still to keep up, and so earn their respect if also a few disparaging looks at the old fart who thought he was something else. The also short-numbered Team-2 was at the other side of the field, led by Sergeant Major Eddie Price, John saw. Half an hour later, he showered again—doing so twice in ninety minutes almost every day had often struck him as strange, but the wake-up shower was so firm a part of his life that he couldn’t dispense with it, and after working up a sweat with the troops, he always needed another. After that, dressed in his “boss’s” suit, he entered the headquarters building, checked the fax machine first, as always, and found a message from FBI headquarters that told him that nothing new had developed on the Serov case. A second fax told him that a package would be couriered to him early that morning from Whitehall, without saying exactly what it was. Well, John thought, flipping on the office coffee-drip machine, he’d find out in due course.

Al Stanley came in just before eight, still showing the effects of his wounds, but bouncing back well for a man of his age. Bill Tawney was in just two minutes later, and the senior leadership of Rainbow was in place for another working day.

The phone woke him up with a jolt. Popov reached for it in the darkness, missed, then reached again. “Yes.”

“It’s three-thirty, Mr. Demetrius,” the operator said.

“Yes, thank you,” Dmitriy Arkadeyevich replied, switching on the light and swiveling to get his feet on the carpeted floor. The note next to his phone told him how to dial the number he wanted: nine . . . zero-one-one-four four . . .

Alice Foorgate came in a few minutes early. She put her purse in a desk drawer and sat down, and began reviewing her notes on the things that were supposed to happen today. Oh, she saw, a budget meeting. Mr. Clark would be in a foul mood until after lunch. Then her phone rang.

“I need to speak to Mr. John Clark,” the voice said.

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“No,” the voice said. “You may not.”

That made the secretary blink with puzzlement. She almost said that she could hardly forward a call under such circumstances, but didn’t. It was too early in the morning for unpleasantness. She placed the incoming call on hold and punched another button.

“A call for you on line one, sir.”

“Who is it?” Clark asked.

“He didn’t say, sir.”

“Okay,” John grumbled. He switched buttons and said, “This is John Clark.”

“Good morning, Mr. Clark,” the anonymous voice said in greeting.

“Who is this?” John asked.

“We have a mutual acquaintance. His name is Sean Grady.”

“Yes?” Clark’s hand tightened on the instrument, and he punched the RECORD button for the attached taping system.

“You may know my name, therefore, as Iosef Andreyevich Serov. We should meet, Mr. Clark.”

“Yes,” John replied evenly, “I’d like that. How do we do it?”

“Today, I think, in New York. Take the British Airways Concorde Flight 1 into JFK, and I will meet you at one in the afternoon at the entrance to the Central Park Zoo. The redbrick building that looks like a castle. I shall be there at eleven o’clock exactly. Any questions?”

“I suppose not. Okay, eleven A.M. in New York.”

“Thank you. Good-bye.” The line went dead, and Clark switched buttons again.

“Alice, could you have Bill and Alistair join me, please?”

They came in less than three minutes later. “Listen to this one, guys,” John said, hitting the PLAY button on the tape machine.

“Bloody hell,” Bill Tawney observed, a second before Al Stanley could do the same. “He wants to meet you? I wonder why.”

“Only one way to find out. I have to catch the Concorde for New York. Al, could you get Malloy awake so he can chopper me to Heathrow?”

“You’re going?” Stanley asked. The answer was obvious.

“Why not? Hell”—John grinned—“it gets me out of the fucking budget meeting.”

“Quite so. There could be dangers involved.”

“I’ll have the FBI send some people to look after me, and I’ll have a friend with me,” Clark pointed out, meaning his .45 Beretta. “We’re dealing with a professional spook here. There’s more danger to him than there is to me, unless he’s got a very elaborate operation set up at the other end, and we should be able to spot that. He wants to meet with me. He’s a pro, and that means he wants to tell me something—or maybe ask me something, but I’d lean the other way, right?”

“I’d have to agree with that,” Tawney said.

“Objections?” Clark asked his principal subordinates. There were none. They were just as curious as he was, though they’d want good security in New York for the meeting. But that would not be a problem.

Clark checked his watch. “It’s short of four in the morning there—and he wants the meet to be today. Pretty fast for this sort of thing. Why the hurry? Any ideas?”