Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (685 page)

“Churchill called it KBO—keep buggering on.” He shrugged. “We do the best we can, Jack.”

“I suppose I’d feel a hell of a lot better with a platoon of Marines to back my play.”

“As would I, my boy, but one does the best one can with what one has.”

“Tommy,” Mrs. Sharp said. “What exactly are you two talking about?”

“Can’t say, my dear.”

“But you are CIA,” she said next, looking at Jack.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ryan confirmed. “Before that, I taught history at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, and before that I traded stocks, and before that I was a Marine.”

“Sir John, you’re the one who—”

“And I’ll never live it down, either.” Why the hell, Jack wondered, hadn’t he just kept his wife and daughter behind that tree on the Mall in London and let Sean Miller do his thing? Cathy would have gotten some pictures and that would have helped with the police, after all. No good—or dumb—deed ever went unpunished, he supposed. “And you can stop the Sir John stuff. I do not own a horse or a steel shirt.” And his only sword was the Mameluke that the Marine Corps gave to its officers upon graduation at Quantico.

“Jack, a knight is ceremonially one who will take up arms in protection of the sovereign. You’ve done that twice, if memory serves. You are, therefore, entitled to the honorific,” Sharp pointed out.

“You guys never forget, do you?”

“Not something like that, Sir John. Courage under fire is one of the things worth remembering.”

“Especially in nightmares, but in those the gun never works, and, yeah, sometimes I have them,” Jack admitted, for the first time in his life. “What are we doing tomorrow, Tom?”

“I have embassy work in the morning. Why don’t you scout the area some more, and I can join you for lunch.”

“Fair enough. Meet where?”

“Just inside the Basilica, to the right, is Michelangelo’s
Pietá.
Just there at one fifteen exactly.”

“Fair enough,” Jack agreed.

“SO, WHERE IS RYAN?” the Rabbit asked.

“Rome,” Alan Kingshot answered. “He’s looking into what you told us.” All of this day had been occupied with uncovering what he knew of KGB operations in the UK. It turned out to be quite a lot, enough that the three-man Security Service team had positively drooled as they took their notes. Ryan had been wrong, Kingshot thought over dinner. This fellow wasn’t a gold mine. No, he was Kimberly, and the diamonds just spilled out from his mouth. Zaitzev was relaxing a little more, enjoying his status.
As well he might,
Alan thought. Like the man who’d invented the computer chip, this Rabbit was set for life, all the carrots he could eat, and men with guns would protect his hole in the ground against all bears.

The Bunny, as he thought of her, had discovered Western cartoons today. She especially liked “Roadrunner,” immediately noting the similarity to the Russian “Hey, Wait a Minute,” and laughing through every one of them.

Irina, on the other hand, was rediscovering her love for the piano, playing the big Bösendorfer in the home’s music room, making mistakes but learning from them, and starting to recover her former skills, to the admiring looks of Mrs. Thompson, who’d never learned to play herself, but who’d found reams of sheet music in the house for Mrs. Zaitzev to try her hand at.

This family,
Kingshot thought,
will do well in the West.
The child was a child. The father had tons of good information. The mother would breathe free and play her music to her heart’s content. They would wear their newfound freedom like a loose and comfortable garment. They were, to use the Russian word,
kulturniy,
or cultured people, fit representatives of the rich culture which had long predated communism. Good to know that not all defectors were alcoholic ruffians.

“LIKE A CANARY on amphetamines, Basil says,” Moore told his senior people in the den of his home. “He says this guy will give us more information than we can easily use.”

“Oh, yeah? Try us,” Ritter thought out loud.

“Indeed, Bob. When do we get him over here?” Admiral Greer asked.

“Basil asked for two more days to get him over. Say, Thursday afternoon. I’m having the Air Force send a VC-137 over. Might as well do it first class,” the Judge observed generously. It wasn’t
his
money, after all. “Basil’s alerted his people in Rome, by the way, just in case KGB is running fast on their operation to whack the Pope.”

“They’re not that efficient,” Ritter said with some confidence.

“I’d be careful about that, Bob,” the DDI thought out loud. “Yuriy Vladimirovich isn’t noted for his patience.” Greer was not the first man to make that observation.

“I know, but their system grinds slower than ours.”

“What about the Bulgarians?” Moore asked. “They think the shooter is a guy named Strokov, Boris Strokov. He’s probably the guy who killed Georgiy Markov on Westminster Bridge. Experienced assassin, Basil thinks.”

“It figures they’d use the Bulgars,” Ritter observed. “They’re the Eastern Bloc’s Murder Incorporated, but they’re still communists, and they’re chess players, not high-noon types. But we still haven’t figured out how to warn the Vatican. Can we talk to the Nuncio about this?”

They’d all had a little time to think through that question, and now it was time to face it again. The Papal Nuncio was the Vatican’s ambassador to the United States, Giovanni Cardinal Sabatino. Sabatino was a longtime member of the Pope’s own diplomatic service and was well regarded by the State Department’s career foreign-service officers, both for his sagacity and his discretion.

“Can we do it in such a way as not to compromise the source?” Greer wondered.

“We can say some Bulgarian talked too much—”

“Pick that fictional source carefully, Judge,” Ritter warned. “Remember, the DS has that special subunit. It reports directly to their Politburo, and they don’t write much down, according to what sources we have over there. Kinda like the commie version of Albert Anastasia. This Strokov guy is one of them, or so we have heard.”

“We could say their party chairman talked to a mistress. He has a few,” Greer suggested. The Director of Intelligence had all manner of information on the intimate habits of world leaders, and the Bulgarian party boss was a man of the people in the most immediate of senses. Of course, if this ever leaked, life might get difficult for the women in question, but adultery had its price, and the Bulgarian chairman was such a copious drinker that he might not remember to whom he’d (never) said what would be attributed to him. That might serve to salve their consciences a little.

“Sounds plausible,” Ritter opined.

“When could we see the Nuncio?” Moore asked.

“Middle of the week, maybe?” Ritter suggested again. They all had a full week before them. The Judge would be on The Hill doing budget business until Wednesday morning.

“Where?” They couldn’t bring him here, after all. The churchman wouldn’t come. Too much potential unpleasantness if anyone noticed. And Judge Moore couldn’t go to the Nuncio. His face, also, was too well known by the Washington establishment.

“Foggy Bottom,” Greer thought out loud. Moore went to see the Secretary of State often enough, and the Nuncio wasn’t exactly a stranger there.

“That’ll work,” the DCI decided. “Let’s get it set up.” Moore stretched. He hated having to do work on a Sunday. Even a judge of the appeals court got weekends off.

“There’s still the issue of what they can actually do with the information,” Ritter warned them. “What is Basil doing?”

“He’s got his Rome Station rooting around, only five of them, but he’s going to send some more troops from London tomorrow just in case they try to make their hit on Wednesday—that’s when His Holiness appears in public. I gather he has a pretty busy work schedule, too.”

“Shame he can’t call off the ride around the plaza, but I guess he wouldn’t listen if anybody asked.”

“Not hardly,” Moore agreed. He didn’t bring up the word from Sir Basil that Ryan had been dispatched to Rome. Ritter would just throw another conniption fit, and Moore wasn’t up to that on a Sunday.

RYAN AROSE EARLY, as usual, had his breakfast, and caught a taxi to St. Peter’s. It was good to walk around the square—which was almost entirely round, of course—just to stretch his legs. It seemed odd that here, inside the capital of the Italian Republic, was a titularly sovereign state whose official language was Latin. He wondered if the Caesars would have liked that or not, the last home of their language also being the home of the agency that had brought down their world-spanning empire, but he couldn’t go to the Forum to ask whatever ghosts lived there.

The church commanded his attention. There were no words for something that large. The funds to build it had necessitated the indulgence selling that had sparked Martin Luther to post his protest on the cathedral door and so start the Reformation, something the nuns at St. Matthew’s had not approved of, but for which the Jesuits of his later life had taken rather a broader view. The Society of Jesus also owed its existence to the Reformation—they’d been founded to fight against it.

That didn’t much matter at the moment. The basilica beggared description, and it seemed a fit headquarters for the Roman Catholic Church. He walked in and saw that, if anything, the interior seemed even more vast than the outside. You could play a football game in there. A good hundred yards away was the main altar, reserved for use by the Pope himself, under which was the crypt where former popes were buried, including, tradition had it, Simon Peter himself. “Thou art Peter,” Jesus was quoted in the Gospel, “and upon this rock I shall build my church.” Well, with the help of some architects and what must have been an army of workers, they’d certainly built a church here. Jack felt drawn into it as though it were God’s own personal house. The cathedral in Baltimore would scarcely have been an alcove here. Looking around, he saw the tourists, also staring at the ceiling with open mouths.
How had they built this place without structural steel?
Jack wondered. It was all stone resting on stone.
Those old guys really knew their stuff
, Ryan reflected. The sons of those engineers now worked for Boeing or NASA. He spent a total of twenty minutes walking around, then reminded himself that he wasn’t, after all, a tourist.

This had once been the site of the original Roman Circus Maximus. The big racetrack for chariots, like those in the movie
Ben-Hur
, had then been torn down and a church built here, the original St. Peter’s, but over time that church had deteriorated, and so a century-plus-long project to build this one had been undertaken and was finished in the sixteenth century, Ryan remembered. He went back outside to survey the area once again. Much as he looked for alternatives, it seemed that his first impression had been the correct one. The Pope got in his car
there
, drove around
that way
, and the place of greatest vulnerability was . . .
right about there.
The problem was that
there
was a semicircular space perhaps two hundred yards long.

Okay,
he thought,
time to do some analysis.
The shooter would be a pro. A pro would have two considerations: one, getting a good shot off; and two, getting the hell out of here alive.

So Ryan turned to see potential exit routes. To the left, closest to the façade of the church, people would really pile up there in their desire to get the first look at the Pope as he came out. Farther down, the open vehicle path widened somewhat, increasing the range of the shot—something to be avoided. But the shooter still needed to get his ass out of Dodge City, and the best way to do that was toward the side street where Sharp had parked the day before. You could stash a car there, probably, and if you made it that far, you’d go pedal-to-the-metal and race the hell off to wherever you had a backup car parked—a backup, because the cops would sure as hell be looking for the first one, and Rome had a goodly supply of police officers who’d run through fire to catch whoever had popped a cap on the Pope.

Back to the shooting place. He wouldn’t want to be in the thickest part of the crowd, so he wouldn’t want to be too close to the church. But he’d want to boogie out through
that
arch. Maybe sixty or seventy yards. Ten seconds, maybe? With a clear path, yeah, about that. Double it, just to be sure. He’d probably yell something like
“There he goes!”
as a distraction. It might make him easier to identify later, but Colonel Strokov will be figuring to sleep Wednesday night in Sofia.
Check flight times
, Jack told himself.
If he takes the shot and gets away, he won’t be swimming home, will he? No, he’ll opt for the fastest way out—unless he has a really deep hidey-hole here in Rome
.

That was a possibility. The problem was that he was dealing with an experienced field spook, and he could have a lot of things planned. But this was reality, not a movie, and professionals kept things simple, because even the simplest things could go to shit in the real world.

He’ll have at least one backup plan. Maybe more, but sure as hell he’ll have one.

Dress up like a priest, maybe?
There were a lot of them in evidence. Nuns, too—more than Ryan had ever seen.
How tall is Strokov?
Anything over five-eight and he’d be too tall for a nun. But if he dressed as a priest, you could hide a fucking RPG in a cassock. That was a pleasant thought. But how fast could one run in a cassock? That was a possible downside.

You have to assume a pistol, probably a suppressed pistol
. A rifle—no, its dangers lay in its virtues. It was so long that the guy standing next to him could bat the barrel off target, and he’d never get a good round off. An AK-47, maybe, able to go rock-and-roll? But, no, it was only in the movies that people fired machine guns from the hip. Ryan had tried it with his M-16 at Quantico. It felt real John Wayne, but you just couldn’t hit shit that way. The sights, the gunnery sergeants had all told his class at the Basic School, are there for a reason. Like Wyatt Earp shooting on TV—draw and fire from the hip. It just didn’t work unless your other hand was on the fucker’s shoulder. The sights are there for a reason, to tell you where the weapon is pointed, because the bullet you’re shooting is about a third of an inch in diameter, and you are, in fact, shooting
at
a target just that small, and a hiccup could jerk you off target, and under stress your aim just gets worse . . . unless you’re used to the idea of killing people. Like Boris Strokov, colonel of the
Dirzhavna Sugurnost
. What if he was one of those who just didn’t rattle, like Audie Murphy of the Third Infantry Division in WWII? But how many people like that were around? Murphy had been one in eight million American soldiers, and nobody had seen that deadly quality in him before it just popped out on the battlefield, probably surprising even him. Murphy himself probably never appreciated how different he was from everybody else.