Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (683 page)

“Perhaps he was in a hurry to leave?” Hendley suggested.

“He’s a professional, George. How many chances do such people take? In retrospect, it’s rather amazing that the Yard got a line on him at all.”

“So, you think he might be in Italy.” A statement, not a question.

“It’s a possibility, but whom can we tell?” C asked. “The Italians have criminal jurisdiction to a point. The Lateran Treaty gives them discretionary jurisdiction, subject to a Vatican veto,” Charleston explained. He’d had to look into the legalities of the situation. “The Vatican has its own security service—the Swiss Guards, you know—but however good the men are, it’s necessarily a thin reed, what with the restrictions imposed on them from above. And the Italian authorities cannot flood the area with their own security forces, for obvious reasons.”

“So, the PM has saddled you with an impossible task.”

“Yes, again, George,” Sir Basil had to agree.

“So, what can you do?”

“All I can really come up with is to put some officers in the crowd and look for this Strokov fellow.”

“And if they see him?”

“Ask him politely to depart the area?” Basil wondered aloud. “It would work, probably. He is a professional, and being spotted—I suppose we’d ostentatiously take photographs of him—would give him serious pause, perhaps enough to abandon the mission.”

“Thin.” Hendley thought of that idea.

“Yes, it is,” C had to agree. But it would at least give him something to tell the Prime Minister.

“Whom to send?”

“We have a good Station Chief in Rome, Tom Sharp. He has four officers in his shop, plus we could send a few more from Century House, I suppose.”

“Sounds reasonable, Basil. Why did you call me over?”

“I was hoping you’d have an idea that’s eluded me, George.” A final sip from the snifter. As much as he felt like some more brandy for the night, he demurred.

“One can only do what one can,” Hendley sympathized.

“He’s too good a man to be cut down this way—at the hands of the bloody Russians. And for what? For standing up for his own people. That sort of loyalty is supposed to be rewarded, not murdered in public.”

“And the PM feels the same way.”

“She is comfortable taking a stand.” For which the PM was famous throughout the world.

“The Americans?” Hendley asked.

Charleston shrugged. “They haven’t had a chance to speak to the defector yet. They trust us, George, but not that much.”

“Well, do what you can. This KGB operation probably will not happen in the immediate future, anyway. How efficient are the Soviets, anyway?”

“We shall see” was all C had to say.

IT WAS QUIETER HERE than in his own house, despite the nearby presence of the motorway, Ryan thought, rolling out of bed at 6:50. The sink continued the eccentric British way of having two faucets, one hot and one cold, making sure that your left hand boiled while the right one froze when you washed your hands. As usual, it felt good to shave and brush and otherwise get yourself ready for the day, even if you had to start it with Taster’s Choice.

Kingshot was already in the kitchen when Jack got there. Funny how people slept late on Sunday but frequently not on Saturday.

“Message from London,” Al said by way of greeting.

“What’s that?”

“A question. How would you feel about a flight to Rome this afternoon?”

“What’s up?”

“Sir Basil is sending some people to the Vatican to suss things out. He wants to know if you want to go. It’s a CIA op, after all.”

“Tell him yes,” Jack said without a moment’s thought. “When?” Then he realized he was being impetuous again. Damn.

“Noon flight out of Heathrow. You ought to have time to go home and change clothes.”

“Car?”

“Nick will drive you over,” Kingshot told him.

“What are you going to tell Oleg?”

“The truth. It ought to make him feel more important,” Al thought aloud. It was always a good thing for defectors.

RYAN AND THOMPSON left within the hour, with Jack’s bags in the “boot.”

“This Zaitzev chap,” Nick said out on the motorway. “He seems rather an important defector.”

“Bet your ass, Nick. He’s got all kinds of hot information between his ears. We’re going to treat him like a hod full of gold bricks.”

“Good of CIA to let us talk to him.”

“It’d be kinda churlish not to. You guys got him out for us, and covering the defection up was pretty slick.” Jack couldn’t say too much more. As trusted as Nick Thompson was, Jack couldn’t know how much clearance he had.

The good news was that Thompson knew what not to ask. “So, your father was a police officer?”

“Detective, yeah. Mainly homicide. Did that more than twenty years. He topped out at lieutenant. Said captains never got to do anything more than administrative stuff, and dad wasn’t into that. He liked busting bad guys and sending them to the joint.”

“The what?”

“Prison. The Maryland State Prison is one evil-looking structure in Baltimore, by Jones Falls. Kinda like a medieval fortress, but more forbidding. The inmates call it Frankenstein’s Castle.”

“Fine with me, Sir John. I’ve never had much sympathy for murderers.”

“Dad didn’t talk about them much. Didn’t bring his work home. Mom didn’t like hearing about it. Except once, a father killed his son over a crab cake. That’s like a little hamburger made out of crab meat,” Jack explained. “Dad said it seemed like a shitty thing to get killed over. The father—the killer—copped right out, all broken up about it. But it didn’t do his son much good.”

“Amazing how many murderers react that way. They gather up the rage to take a life, then afterwards they are consumed by remorse.”

“Too soon old, too late smart,” Jack quoted from the Old West.

“Indeed. The whole business can be so bloody sad.”

“What about this Strokov guy?”

“Different color of horse, entirely,” Thompson replied. “You don’t see many of those. For them it’s part of the job, ending a life. No motive in the usual sense, and they leave little behind in the way of physical evidence. They can be very difficult to find, but mainly we do find them. We have time on our side, and sooner or later someone talks and it gets to our ear. Most criminals talk their own way into prison,” Nick explained. “But people like this Strokov fellow, they do not talk—except when he gets home and writes up his official report. But we never see those. Getting a line on him was plain luck. Mr. Markov remembered being poked by the umbrella, remembered the color suit the man was wearing. One of our constables saw him wearing the same suit and thought there was something odd about him—you know, instead of flying right home, he waited to make sure Markov died. They’d bungled two previous attempts, you see, and so they called him in because of his expertise. Good professional, Strokov. He wanted to be completely sure, and he waited to read the death notice in the newspapers. In that time, we talked to the staff at his hotel and started assembling information. The Security Service got involved, and they were helpful in some ways but not in others—and the government got involved. The government was worried about creating an international incident, and so they held us up—cost us two days, I reckon. On the first of those two days, Strokov took a taxi to Heathrow and flew off to Paris. I was on the surveillance team. Stood within fifteen feet of him. We had two detectives with cameras, shot a lot of pictures. The last was of Strokov walking down the jetway to the Boeing. Next day, the government gave us permission to detain him for questioning.”

“Day late and a dollar short, eh?”

Thompson nodded. “Quite. I would have liked to put him in the dock at the Old Bailey, but that fish got away. The French shadowed him at De Gaulle International, but he never left the international terminal, never talked with anyone. The bugger showed no remorse at all. I suppose for him it was like chopping firewood,” the former detective said.

“Yeah. In the movies you make your hit and have a martini, shaken not stirred. But it’s different when you kill a good guy.”

“All Markov ever did was broadcast over BBC World Service,” Nick said, gripping the wheel a little tightly. “I imagine the people in Sofia were somewhat put out with what he said.”

“The people on the other side of the Curtain aren’t real big on Freedom of Speech,” Ryan reminded him.

“Bloody barbarians. And now this chap is planning to kill the Pope? I am not a Catholic, but he is a man of God, and he seems rather a good chap. You know, the most vicious criminal hesitates before trifling with a man of the clergy.”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t do to piss God off. But they don’t believe in God, Nick.”

“Fortunate for them that I am not God.”

“Yeah, it would be nice to have the power to right all the wrongs in the world. The problem is, that’s what Markov’s bosses think they’re doing.”

“That is why we have laws, Jack—yes, I know, they make up their own.”

“That’s the problem,” Jack agreed as they came into Chatham.

“This is a pleasant area,” Thompson said, turning up the hill on City Way.

“Not a bad neighborhood. Cathy likes it. I would have preferred closer to London, but, well, she got her way.”

“Women usually do.” Thompson chuckled, turning right onto Fristow Way and then left on Grizedale Close. And there was the house. Ryan got out and retrieved his bags.

“Daddy!” Sally screamed when he walked in the door. Ryan dropped his bags and scooped her up. Little girls, he’d long since learned, gave the best hugs, though their kisses tended to be a little sloppy.

“How’s my little Sally?”

“Fine.” It was oddly like a cat, coming out of her mouth.

“Oh, hello, Dr. Ryan,” Miss Margaret said in greeting. “I didn’t expect you.”

“Just making a low pass. Have to change cleans for dirties and head back out.”

“You going away
again
?” Sally asked with crushing disappointment in her voice.

“Sorry, Sally. Daddy has business.”

Sally wriggled out of his arms. “Phooey.” And she went back to the TV, putting her father firmly in his place.

Jack took the cue to go upstairs. Three—no, four—clean shirts, five sets of underwear, four new ties, and . . . yes, some casual wear, too. Two new jackets, two pairs of slacks. His Marine tie bar. That about did it. He left the pile of dirties on the bed and, with his bags packed, headed back down. Oops. He set his bags down and went back upstairs for his passport. No sense using the fake Brit one anymore.

“Bye, Sally.”

“Bye, Daddy.” But then she thought again and jumped to her feet to give him another hug. She wouldn’t grow up to break hearts, but to rip them out and cook them over charcoal. But that was a long way off, and for now her father had the chance to enjoy her. Little Jack was asleep on his back in the playpen, and his father decided not to disturb him.

“See ya, buddy,” Ryan said as he turned to the door.

“Where are you going?” Miss Margaret asked.

“Out of the country. Business,” Jack explained. “I’ll call Cathy from the airport.”

“Good trip, Dr. Ryan.”

“Thanks, Margaret.” And back out the door.

“How are we on time?” Ryan asked, back in the car.

“No problem,” Thompson thought out loud. If they were late, this airliner, too, would have a minor mechanical problem.

“Good.” Jack adjusted his seat to lean back and get a few winks.

He awoke just outside Heathrow Terminal Three. Thompson drove up to where a man in civilian clothes was standing. He looked like some sort of government worker.

He was. As soon as Ryan alighted from the car, the man came over with a ticket envelope.

“Sir, your flight leaves in forty minutes, Gate Twelve,” the man reported. “You’ll be met in Rome by Tom Sharp.”

“What’s he look like?” Jack asked.

“He will know you, sir.”

“Fair enough.” Ryan took the tickets and headed to the back of the car for his bags.

“I’ll take care of that for you, sir.”

This sort of traveling had its possibilities, Jack thought. He waved at Thompson and headed into the terminal, looking for Gate Twelve. That proved easy enough. Ryan took a seat close by the gate and checked his ticket—1-A again, a first-class ticket. The SIS must have had a comfortable understanding with British Airways. Now all he had to do was survive the flight.

He boarded twenty minutes later, sitting down, strapping in, and turning his watch forward one hour. He endured the usual rigmarole of useless safety briefing and instructions on how to buckle his seat belt, which, in Jack’s case, was already clicked and snugged in.

The flight took two hours, depositing Jack at Leonardo da Vinci Airport at 3:09 local time. Jack walked off the aircraft and looked for the Blue Channel to get his diplomatic passport stamped after a wait of about five seconds—one other diplomat had been ahead of him, and the bonehead had forgotten which pocket his passport was in.

With that done, he retrieved his bags off the carousel and headed out. A man with a gray and brown beard seemed to be eyeballing him.

“You’re Jack Ryan?”

“You must be Tom Sharp.”

“Correct. Let me help you with your bags.” Why people did this, Ryan didn’t know, though on reflection, he’d done it himself often enough, and the Brits were the world champions at good manners.

“And you are?” Ryan asked.

“Station Chief Rome,” Sharp replied. “C called to say you were coming in, Sir John, and that I ought to meet you personally.”

“Good of Basil,” Jack thought out loud.

Sharp’s car was, in this case, a Bentley sedan, bronze in color, with left-hand driver’s seat in deference to the fact that they were in a barbarian country.

“Nice wheels, fella.”

“My cover is Deputy Chief of Mission,” Sharp explained. “I could have had a Ferrari, but it seemed a little too ostentatious. I do little actual field work, you see, just administrative things. I actually
am
the DCM of the embassy. Too much diplomatic work—that can drive one mad.”

“How’s Italy?”

“Lovely place, lovely people. Not terribly well organized. They say we Brits muddle through things, but we’re bloody Prussians compared to this lot.”