Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (556 page)

“What an ambush we could lay, if we only had the men,” Tolkunov breathed.

“When I was in America, watching them train, I heard a good if-only joke. If only your aunt had balls, then she’d be your uncle, Vladimir Konstantinovich.”

“Quite so, Comrade General.” They both turned back to the maps and the photos.

S
o, they know what we’re doing,” Qian Kun observed. ”This is not a good development.”

“You can know what a robber will do, but if he has a pistol and you don’t, what difference does it make?” Zhang Han San asked in return. “Comrade Marshal?”

“One cannot hide so large a movement of troops,” Marshal Luo said blandly. “Tactical surprise is always hard to achieve. But we do have strategic surprise.”

“That is true,” Tan Deshi told the Politburo. “The Russians have alerted some of their divisions for movement, but they are all in the west, and days away, and all will approach down this rail line, and our air force can close it, can’t you, Luo?”

“Easily,” the Defense Minister agreed.

“And what of the Americans?” Fang Gan asked. “In that note we just got, they have told us that they regard the Russians as allies. How many times have people underestimated the Americans, Zhang? Including yourself,” he added.

“There are objective conditions which apply even to the Americans, for all their magic,” Luo assured the assembly.

“And in three years we will be selling them oil and gold,” Zhang assured them all in turn. “The Americans have no political memory. They always adapt to the changing shape of the world. In 1949, they drafted the NATO Treaty, which included their bitter enemies in Germany. Look at what they did with Japan, after dropping atomic bombs on them. The only thing we should consider: though few Americans will be deployed, and they will have to take their chances along with everyone else, perhaps we should avoid inflicting too many casualties. We would also do well to treat prisoners and captured civilians gently—the world does have sensibilities we must regard somewhat, I suppose.”

“Comrades,” Fang said, summoning up his courage for one last display of his inner feelings. “We still have the chance to stop this from happening, as Marshal Luo told us some days ago. We are not fully committed until shots are fired. Until then, we can say we were running a defense exercise, and the world will go along with that explanation, for the reasons my friend Zhang has just told us. But once hostilities are begun, the tiger is out of the cage. Men defend what is theirs with tenacity. You will recall that Hitler underestimated the Russians, to his ultimate sorrow. Iran underestimated the Americans just last year, causing disaster for them and the death of their leader. Are we
sure
that we can prevail in this adventure?” he asked. “Sure? We gamble with the life of our country here. We ought not to forget that.”

“Fang, my old comrade, you are wise and thoughtful as ever,” Zhang responded graciously. “And I know you speak on behalf of our nation and our people, but as we must not underestimate our enemies, so we ought not to underestimate ourselves. We fought the Americans once before, and we gave them the worst military defeat in their history, did we not?”

“Yes, we did surprise them, but in the end we lost a
million
men, including Mao’s own son. And why? Because we
over
estimated our own abilities.”

“Not this time, Fang,” Luo assured them all. “Not this time. We will do to the Russians the same thing we did to the Americans at the Yalu River. We will strike with power and surprise. Where they are weak, we will rush through. Where they are strong, we will encircle and surround. In 1950, we were a peasant army with only light weapons. Today,” Luo went on, “we are a fully modern army. We can do things today such as even the Americas could not dream of back then. We
will
prevail,” the Defense Minister concluded with firm conviction.

“Comrades, do we wish to stop now?” Zhang asked, to focus the debate. “Do we wish to doom our country’s economic and political future? For that is the issue at hand. If we stand still, we risk national death. Who among us wishes to stand still then?”

Predictably no one, not even Qian, moved to pick up that gauntlet. The vote was entirely pro forma, and unanimous. As always, the Politburo achieved collegiality for its own sake. The ministers returned to their various offices. Zhang buttonholed Tan Deshi for several minutes before heading back to his. An hour after that, he dropped in on his friend, Fang Gan.

“You are not cross with me?” Fang asked.

“The voice of caution is something that does not offend me, my old friend,” Zhang said, graciously taking his seat opposite the other’s desk. He could afford to be gracious. He had won.

“I am afraid of this move, Zhang. We
did
underestimate the Americans in 1950, and it cost us many men.”

“We have the men to spare,” the senior Minister Without Portfolio pointed out. “And it will make Luo feel valuable.”

“As if he needs that.” Fang gestured his displeasure with that strutting martinet.

“Even a dog has his uses,” his visitor pointed out.

“Zhang, what if the Russians are more formidable than you think?”

“I’ve taken care of that. We will create instability in their country in two days, the very day our attack begins.”

“How?”

“You’ll recall we had that failed attempt against Grushavoy’s senior advisor, that Golovko fellow.”

“Yes, and I counseled against that, too,” Fang reminded his visitor.

“And there, perhaps, you were right,” Zhang acknowledged, to smooth his host’s feathers. “But Tan has developed the capability, and what better way to destabilize Russia than to eliminate their president? This we can do, and Tan has his orders.”

“You assassinate a government chief in a foreign land?” Fang asked, surprised at this level of boldness. “What if you fail?”

“We commit an act of war against Russia anyway. What have we to lose by this? Nothing—but there is much to gain.”

“But the political implications ...” Fang breathed.

“What of them?”

“What if they turn the tables on us?”

“You mean attempt to attack Xu personally?” The look on his face provided the real answer to the question:
China would be better off without the nonentity.
But even Zhang would not say that aloud, even in the privacy of this room. “Tan assures me that our physical security is perfect. Perfect, Fang. There are no foreign intelligence operations of consequence in our country.”

“I suppose every nation says such a thing—right before the roof caves in on them. We’ve done well with our spying in America, for example, and for that our good Comrade Tan is to be congratulated, but arrogance falls before the blow, and such blows are never anticipated. We would do well to remember that.”

Zhang dismissed the thought: “One cannot fear everything.”

“That is true, but to fear nothing is also imprudent.” Fang paused to mend fences. “Zhang, you must think me an old woman.”

That made the other minister smile. “Old woman? No, Fang, you are a comrade of many years’ standing, and one of our most thoughtful thinkers. Why, do you suppose, I brought you onto the Politburo?”

To get my votes, of course,
Fang didn’t answer. He had the utmost respect for his senior colleague, but he wasn’t blind to his faults. “For that I am grateful.”

“For that the
people
ought to be grateful, you are so solicitous to their needs.”

“Well, one must remember the peasants and workers out there. We serve them, after all.” The ideological cant was just perfect for the moment. “This is not an easy job we share.”

“You need to relax a little. Get that girl Ming out there, take her to your bed. You’ve done it before.” It was a weakness both men shared. The tension of the moment abated, as Zhang wished it to.

“Chai sucks better,” Fang replied, with a sly look.

“Then take her to your flat. Buy her some silk drawers. Get her drunk. They all like that.”

“Not a bad idea,” Fang agreed. “It certainly helps me sleep.”

“Then do it by all means! We’ll need our sleep. The next few weeks will be strenuous for us—but more so for our enemies.”

“One thing, Zhang. As you said, we must treat the captives well. One thing the Americans do not forgive rapidly is cruelty to the helpless, as we have seen here in Beijing.”

“Now,
they
are old women. They do not understand the proper use of strength.”

“Perhaps so, but if we wish to do business with them, as you say, why offend them unnecessarily?”

Zhang sighed and conceded the point, because he knew it to be the smart play. “Very well. I will tell Luo.” He checked his watch. “I must be off. I’ve having dinner with Xu tonight.”

“Give him my best wishes.”

“Of course.” Zhang rose, bowed to his friend, and took his leave. Fang took a minute or so before rising and walking to the door. “Ming,” he called, on opening it. “Come here.” He lingered at the door as the secretary came in, allowing his eyes to linger on Chai. Their eyes met and she winked, adding a tiny feminine smile. Yes, he needed his sleep tonight, and she would help.

“The Politburo meeting ran late this day,” Fang said, settling into his chair and doing his dictation. It took twenty-five minutes, and he dismissed Ming to do her daily transcription. Then he had Chai come in, gave her an order, and dismissed her. In another hour, the working day ended. Fang walked down to his official car, with Chai in trail. Together they rode to his comfortable apartment, and there they got down to business.

M
ing met her lover at a new restaurant called the Jade Horse, where the food was better than average.

“You look troubled,” Nomuri observed.

“Busy time at the office,” she explained. “There is big trouble to come.”

“Oh? What sort of trouble?”

“I cannot say,” she demurred. “It will probably not affect your company.”

And Nomuri saw that he’d taken his agent to the next—actually the last—step. She no longer thought about the software on her office computer. He never brought the subject up. Better that it should happen below the visible horizon. Better that she should forget what she was doing. Your conscience doesn’t worry about things you’ve forgotten. After dinner, they walked back to Nomuri’s place, and the CIA officer tried his best to relax her. He was only partially successful, but she was properly appreciative and left him at quarter to eleven. Nomuri had himself a nightcap, a double, and checked to make sure his computer had relayed her almost-daily report. Next week he hoped to have software he could cross-load to hers over the ’Net, so that she’d be transmitting the reports directly out to the recipe network. If Bad Things were happening in Beijing, NEC might call him back to Japan, and he didn’t want SONGBIRD’S reports to stop going to Langley.

A
s it happened, this one was already there, and it had generated all manner of excitement.

It was enough to make Ed Foley wish he’d lent a STU to Sergey Golovko, but America didn’t give away its communications secrets that readily, and so the report had been redrafted and sent by secure fax to the U.S. Embassy in Moscow, then hand-carried to SVR headquarters by a consular officer not associated with the CIA. Of course, now they’d assume that he was a spook, which would cause the Russians to shadow him everywhere he went, and use up trained personnel of the FSS. Business was still business, even in this New World Order.

Golovko, predictably, bounced hard off his high office ceiling.

J
ohn Clark got the news over his secure satellite phone. “What the hell?” RAINBOW Six asked, sitting still in his personal car not far from Red Square.

“You heard me,” Ed Foley explained.

“Okay, now what?”

“You’re tight with their special-operations people, right?”

“Somewhat,” Clark allowed. “We’re training them.”

“Well, they might come to you for advice of some sort. You have to know what’s happening.”

“Can I tell Ding?”

“Yes,” the DCI agreed.

“Good. You know, this proves the Chavez Premise.”

“What’s that?” Foley asked.

“He likes to say that international relations is largely composed of one nation fucking another.”

It was enough to make Foley laugh, five thousand miles and eight time zones away. “Well, our Chinese friends are sure playing rough.”

“How good is the information?”

“It’s Holy Writ, John. Take it to the bank,” Ed assured his distant field officer.

We have some source in Beijing,
Clark didn’t observe aloud. “Okay, Ed. If they come to me, I’ll let you know. We cooperate, I presume.”

“Fully,” the DCI assured him. “We’re allies now. Didn’t you see CNN?”

“I thought it was the Sci-Fi Channel.”

“You ain’t the only one. Have a good one, John.”

“You, too, Ed. Bye.” Clark thumbed the END button and went on just to himself: “Holy jumpin’ Jesus.” Then he restarted the car and headed off to his rendezvous with Domingo Chavez.

Ding was at the bar that RAINBOW had adopted during its stay in the Moscow area. The boys congregated in a large corner booth, where they complained about the local beer, but appreciated the clear alcohol preferred by the natives.

“Hey, Mr. C,” Chavez said in greeting.

“Just got a call from Ed on my portable.”

“And?”

“And John Chinaman is planning to start a little war with our hosts, and that’s the good news,” Clark added.

“What the fuck is the bad news?” Chavez asked, with no small incredulity in his voice.

“Their Ministry of State Security just put a contract out on Eduard Petrovich,” John went on.

“Are they fuckin’ crazy?” the other CIA officer asked the booth.

“Well, starting a war in Siberia isn’t exactly a rational act. Ed let us in because he thinks the locals might want our help soon. Supposedly they know the local contact for the ChiComms. You have to figure a hot takedown’s going to evolve from this, and we’ve been training their troopies. I figure we might be invited in to watch, but they probably won’t want us to assist.”