Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (625 page)

There was a joke he remembered from his time in the Marine Corps, Ryan thought, as the green English countryside slid past his window: The motto of the intelligence services was “We bet
your
life.” That was now his business. He had to wager the lives of others. Theoretically, he might even come up with an intelligence estimate that risked the fate of his country. You had to be so damned sure of yourself and your data. . . .

But you couldn’t always be sure, could you? He’d scoffed at many official CIA estimates to which he’d been exposed back at Langley, but it was a damned sight easier to spit on the work of others than it was to produce something better yourself. His Halsey book, tentatively titled
Fighting Sailor,
would upset a few conventional-wisdom apple carts, and deliberately so. Ryan thought that the conventional thinking in some areas was not merely incorrect, but stuff that could not possibly be true. Halsey had acted rightly in some cases where the all-seeing eye of hindsight had castigated him for being wrong. And that was unfair. Halsey could only be judged responsible for the information that was available to him. To say otherwise was like castigating doctors for not being able to cure cancer. They were smart people doing their best, but there were some things they didn’t know yet—they were working like hell to find them out, but the process of discovery took time then, and it was still taking time now, Ryan thought. Was it ever. And Bill Halsey could only know what he was given, or what a reasonably intelligent man might deduce from that information, given a lifetime of experience and what he knew of the psychology of his enemy. And even then the enemy did not willingly cooperate in his own destruction, did he?

That’s my job, all right,
Ryan thought behind blank eyes. It was a quest for Truth, but it was more than that. He had to replicate for his own masters the thinking processes of others, to explain them to his own superiors, so that they, Ryan’s bosses, could better understand their adversaries. He was playing pshrink without a diploma. In a way, that was amusing. It was less so when you considered the magnitude of the task and the potential consequences of failure. It came down to two words:
dead people.
In the Basic School at Quantico Marine Base, they’d hammered the same lesson home often enough. Screw up leading your platoon, and some of your Marines don’t go home to their mothers and wives, and that would be a heavy burden to carry on your conscience for the rest of your life. The profession of arms attached a large price tag to mistakes. Ryan hadn’t served long enough to learn that lesson for himself, but it had frightened him on quiet nights, feeling the roll of the ship on her way across the Atlantic. He’d talked it over with Gunny Tate, but the sergeant—then an “elderly” man of thirty-four—had just told him to remember his training, trust his instincts, and to think before acting if he had the time, and then warned that you didn’t always have the luxury of time. And he’d told his young boss not to worry, because he seemed pretty smart for a second lieutenant. Ryan would never forget that. The respect of a Marine gunnery sergeant didn’t come cheaply.

So he had the brains to make good intelligence estimates and the guts to put his name behind them, but he had to be damned sure they were good stuff before he put them out. Because he
was
betting the lives of other people, wasn’t he?

The train slowed to a stop. He walked up the steps, and there were a few cabs topside. Jack imagined they had the train schedule memorized.

“Good evening, Sir John.” Jack saw it was Ed Beaverton, his morning pickup.

“Hi, Ed. You know,” Ryan said, getting into the front seat for a change. Better legroom. “My name is actually Jack.”

“I can’t call you that,” Beaverton objected. “You’re a knight.”

“Only honorary, not a real one. I do not own a sword—well, only my Marine Corps one, and that’s back home in the States.”

“And you were a lieutenant, and I was only a corporal.”

“And you jumped out of airplanes. Damned if I ever did anything that stupid, Eddie.”

“Only twenty-eight times. Never broke anything,” the taxi driver reported, turning up the hill.

“Not even an ankle?”

“Just a sprain or two. The boots help with that, you see,” the cabbie explained.

“I haven’t learned to like flying yet—damned sure I’ll never jump out of an airplane.” No, Jack was sure, he never would have opted for Force Recon. Those Marines just weren’t wired right. He’d learned the hard way that flying over the beach in helicopters was scary enough. He still had dreams about it—the sudden sensation of falling, and seeing the ground rush up—but he always woke up just before impact, usually lurching up to a sitting position in the bed and then looking around the darkened bedroom to make sure he wasn’t in that damned CH-46 with a bad aft rotor, falling to the rocks on Crete. It was a miracle that he and a lot of his Marines hadn’t been killed. But his had been the only major injury. The rest of his platoon had gotten away with nothing worse than sprains.

Why the hell are you thinking about that?
he demanded of himself. It was more than eight years in his past.

They were pulling up in front of the house in Grizedale Close. “Here we are, sir.”

Ryan handed him his fare, plus a friendly tip. “The name’s Jack, Eddie.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Roger that.” Ryan walked off, knowing he’d never win that battle. The front door was unlocked in anticipation of his arrival. His tie went first, as he headed to the kitchen.

“Daddy!” Sally fairly screamed, as she ran to his arms. Jack scooped her up and gave and got a hug. “How’s my big girl?”

“Fine.”

Cathy was at the stove, fixing dinner. He set Sally down and headed to his wife for a kiss. “How is it,” her husband asked, “that you’re always home first? At home you’re usually later.”

“Unions,” she replied. “Everybody clocks out on time here, and ‘on time’ is usually pretty early—not like Hopkins.” Where, she didn’t add, just about everyone on the professional staff worked late.

“Must be nice to work bankers’ hours.”

“Even dad doesn’t leave his office this early, but everybody over here does. And lunch means a full hour—half the time away from the hospital. Well,” she allowed, “the food’s a little better that way.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Spaghetti.” And Jack saw that the pot was full of her special meat sauce. He turned to see a baguette of French bread on the counter.

“Where’s the little guy?”

“Living room.”

“Okay.” Ryan headed that way. Little Jack was in his crib. He’d just mastered sitting up—it was a little early for that, but that was fine with his dad. Around him was a collection of toys, all of which found their way into his mouth. He looked up to see his father and managed a toothless smile. Of course, that merited a pickup, which Jack accomplished. His diaper felt dry and fresh. Doubtless, Miss Margaret had changed him before scooting off—as always, before Jack made it home from the shop. She was working out fairly well. Sally liked her, and that was the important part. He set his son back down, and the little guy resumed playing with a plastic rattle and watching the TV—especially the commercials. Jack went off to the bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes, then back to the kitchen. Then the doorbell chimed, much to everyone’s surprise. Jack went to answer it.

“Dr. Ryan?” the voice asked in American English. It was a guy of Ryan’s height and general looks, dressed in a jacket and tie, holding a large box.

“That’s right.”

“I got your STU for you, sir. I work comms at the embassy,” the guy explained. “Mr. Murray said I should bring this right over.”

The box was a cardboard cube about two and a half feet on a side, and blank, with no printing on it. Ryan let the man into the house and led him directly to his den. It took about three minutes to extract the oversized phone from the box. It went next to Jack’s Apple IIe computer.

“You’re NSA?” Ryan asked.

“Yes, sir. Civilian. Used to be in the Army Security Agency, E-5. Got out and got a pay increase as a civilian. Been over here two years. Anyway, here’s your encryption key.” He handed over the plastic device. “You know how these things work, right?”

“Oh yeah.” Ryan nodded. “Got one on my desk downtown.”

“So you know the rules about this. If anything breaks, you call me”—he handed over his card—“and nobody but me or one of my people is allowed to look at the inside. If that happens, the system self-destructs, of course. Won’t start a fire or anything, but it does stink some, ’cause of the plastic. Anyway, that’s it.” He broke down the box.

“You want a Coke or anything?”

“No, thanks. Gotta get home.” And with that, the communications expert walked back out the door to his car.

“What was that, Jack?” Cathy asked from the kitchen.

“My secure phone,” Jack explained, returning to his wife’s side.

“What’s that for?”

“So I can call home and talk to my boss.”

“Can’t you do that from the office?”

“There’s the time difference and, well, there are some things I can’t talk about there.”

“Secret-agent stuff,” she snorted.

“That’s right.” Just like the pistol he had in his closet. Cathy accepted the presence of his Remington shotgun with some equanimity—he used it for hunting, and she was prepared to tolerate that, since you could cook and eat the birds, and the shotgun was unloaded. But she was less comfortable with a pistol. And so, like civilized married people, they didn’t talk about it, so long as it was well out of Sally’s reach, and Sally knew that her father’s closet was off-limits. Ryan had gotten fond of his Browning Hi-Power 9mm automatic, which
was
loaded with fourteen Federal hollow-point cartridges and two spare magazines, plus tritium match sights and custom-made grips. If he ever needed a pistol again, this would be the one. He’d have to find a place to practice shooting, Ryan reminded himself. Maybe the nearby Royal Navy base had a range. Sir Basil could probably make a phone call and straighten it out. As an honorary knight, he didn’t own a sword, but a pistol was the modern equivalent, and it could be a useful tool on occasion.

So could a corkscrew. “Chianti?” Ryan asked.

Cathy turned. “Okay, I don’t have anything scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Cath, I’ve never understood what a glass or two of wine tonight would have to do with surgery tomorrow—it’s ten or twelve hours away.”

“Jack, you don’t mix alcohol with surgery,” she explained patiently. “Okay? You don’t drink and drive. You don’t drink and cut, either. Not ever. Not once.”

“Yes, doctor. So tomorrow you just set glasses prescriptions for people?”

“Uh-huh, simple day. How about you?”

“Nothing important. Same crap, different day.”

“I don’t know how you stand it.”

“Well, it’s interesting, secret crap, and you have to be a spook to understand it.”

“Right.” She poured the spaghetti sauce into a bowl. “Here.”

“I haven’t got the wine open yet.”

“So work faster.”

“Yes, Professor the Lady Ryan,” Jack responded, taking the bowl of sauce and setting it on the table. Then he pulled the cork out of the Chianti.

Sally was too big a girl for a high chair but still small enough for a booster seat, which she carried to the chair herself. Since the dinner was “pisgetty,” her father tucked the cloth napkin into her collar. The sauce would probably get to her pants anyway, but it would teach his little girl about napkins, and that, Cathy thought, was important. Then Ryan poured the wine. Sally didn’t ask for any. Her father had indulged her once (over his wife’s objections), and that had ended that. Sally got some Coca-Cola.

SVETLANA WAS ASLEEP, finally. She liked to stay up as long as she could, every night the same, or so it seemed, until she finally put her head down. She slept with a smile, her father saw, like a little angel, the sort that decorated Italian cathedrals in the travel books he used to read. The TV was on. Some World War II movie, it sounded like. They were all the same. The Germans attacked cruelly—well, occasionally there was a German character with something akin to humanity, usually a German communist, it would be revealed along the way, torn by conflicting loyalties to his class (working class, of course) and his country—and the Soviets resisted bravely, losing a lot of defiant men at first until turning the tide, usually outside Moscow in December 1941, at Stalingrad in January 1943, or the Kursk Bulge in the summer of 1943. There was always a heroic political officer, a courageous private soldier, a wise old sergeant, and a bright young junior officer. Toss in a grizzled general who wept quietly and alone for his men, then had to set his feelings aside and get the job done. There were about five different formulas, all of them variations of the same theme, and the only real difference was whether Stalin was seen as a wise, godlike ruler or simply wasn’t mentioned at all.
That
depended on when the film had been shot. Stalin had fallen out of fashion in the Soviet film industry about 1956, soon after Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev had made his famous but then-secret speech revealing what a monster Stalin had been—something Soviet citizens still had trouble with, especially the cabdrivers, or so it seemed. Truth in his country was a rare commodity, and almost always one hard to swallow.

But Zaitzev wasn’t watching the movie now. Oleg Ivanovich sipped at his vodka, eyes focused on the TV screen, without seeing it. It had just struck him how huge a step he’d taken that afternoon on the metro. At the time, it had almost been a lark, like a child playing a prank, reaching into that American’s pocket like a sneak-thief, just to see if he could do it. No one had noticed. He’d been clever and careful about it, and even the American hadn’t noticed, or else he would have reacted.

So he’d just proven that he had the ability to . . .
what?
To
do
what? Oleg Ivan’ch asked himself with surprising intensity.

What the hell had he done on the metro coach? What had he been thinking about? Actually, he hadn’t really thought about it at all. It had just been some sort of foolish impulse . . . hadn’t it?