Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (696 page)

“Bingo,” Hardesty confirmed. “And you know, God Himself might be able to fix it, but even He would have to have a really good day to bring it off. The bureaucracies are too entrenched. It’s not so bad in the military. People there shuffle in and out of jobs, and they have this idea of ‘mission,’ and everybody generally works to accomplish it, especially if it helps them all hustle up the ladder individually. Generally speaking, the farther you are from the sharp end, the more likely you are to immerse yourself in the minutiae. So, we’re looking for people who know about the sharp end.”

“And the mission is—what?”

“To identify, locate, and deal with terrorist threats,” the spook answered.

“‘Deal with’?” Caruso asked.

“Neutralize—shit, okay, when necessary and convenient, kill the son of a bitches. Gather information on the nature and severity of the threat, and take whatever action is necessary, depending on the specific threat. The job is fundamentally intelligence-gathering. The Agency has too many restrictions on how it does business. This special sub-group doesn’t.”

“Really?”
That
was a considerable surprise.

Hardesty nodded soberly. “Really. You won’t be working for CIA. You may use Agency assets as resources, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“So, who am I working for?”

“We have a little way to go before we can discuss that.” Hardesty lifted what had to be the Marine’s personnel folder. “You score in the top three percent among the Marine officers in terms of intelligence. Four-point-oh in nearly everything. Your language skills are particularly impressive.”

“My dad is an American citizen—native-born, I mean—but his dad came off the boat from Italy, ran—still runs—a restaurant in Seattle. So, Pop actually grew up speaking mostly Italian, and a lot of that came down on me and my brother, too. Took Spanish in high school and college. I can’t pass for a native, but I understand it pretty well.”

“Engineering major?”

“That’s from my dad, too. It’s in there. He works for Boeing—aerodynamicist, mainly designs wings and control surfaces. You know about my mom—it’s all in there. She’s mainly a mom, does things with the local Catholic schools, too, now that Dominic and I are grown.”

“And he’s FBI?”

Brian nodded. “That’s right, got his law degree and signed up to be a G-man.”

“Just made the papers,” Hardesty said, handing over a faxed page from the Birmingham papers. Brian scanned it.

“Way to go, Dom,” Captain Caruso breathed when he got to the fourth paragraph, which further pleased his host.

IT WAS
scarcely a two-hour flight from Birmingham to Reagan National in Washington. Dominic Caruso walked to the Metro station and hopped a subway train for the Hoover Building at Tenth and Pennsylvania. His badge absolved him of the need to pass through the metal detector. FBI agents were supposed to carry heat, and his automatic had earned a notch in the grip—not literally, of course, but FBI agents occasionally joked about it.

The office of Assistant Director Augustus Ernst Werner was on the top floor, overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. The secretary waved him right in.

Caruso had never met Gus Werner. He was a tall, slender, and very experienced street agent, an ex-Marine, and positively monkish in appearance and demeanor. He’d headed the FBI Hostage Rescue Team and two field divisions, and been at the point of retirement before being talked into his new job by his close friend, Director Daniel E. Murray. The Counter-Terrorism Division was a stepchild of the much larger Criminal and Foreign CounterIntelligence divisions, but it was gaining in importance on a daily basis.

“Grab yourself a seat,” Werner said, pointing, as he finished up a call. That just took another minute. Then Gus replaced the phone and hit the DO NOT DISTURB button.

“Ben Harding faxed this up to me,” Werner said, holding the shooting report from the previous day. “How did it go?”

“It’s all in there, sir.” He’d spent three hours picking his own brain and putting it all down on paper in precise FBI bureaucratese. Strange that an act requiring less than sixty seconds to perform should require so much time to explain.

“And what did you leave out, Dominic?” The question was accompanied by the most penetrating look the young agent had ever encountered.

“Nothing, sir,” Caruso replied.

“Dominic, we have some very good pistol shots in the Bureau. I’m one of them,” Gus Werner told his guest. “Three shots, all in the heart from a range of fifteen feet, is pretty good range shooting. For somebody who just tripped over an end table, it’s downright miraculous. Ben Harding didn’t find it remarkable, but Director Murray and I do—Dan’s a pretty good marksman, too. He read this fax last night and asked me to render an opinion. Dan’s never whacked a subject before. I have, three times, twice with HRT—those were cooperative ventures, as it were—and once in Des Moines, Iowa. That one was a kidnapping, too. I’d seen what he’d done to two of his victims—little boys—and, you know, I really didn’t want some psychiatrist telling the jury that he was the victim of an adverse childhood, and that it really wasn’t his fault, and all that bullshit that you hear in a nice clean court of law, where the only thing the jury sees are the pictures, and maybe not even them if the defense counsel can persuade the judge that they’re overly inflammatory. So, you know what happened? I got to be the law. Not to enforce the law, or write the law, or explain the law. That one day, twenty-two years ago, I got to
be
the law. God’s Own Avenging Sword. And you know, it felt good.”

“How did you know . . . ?”

“How did I know for sure that he was our boy? He kept souvenirs. Heads. There were eight of them there in his house trailer. So, no, there wasn’t any doubt at all in my mind. There was a knife nearby, and I told him to pick it up, and he did, and I put four rounds in his chest from a range of ten feet, and I’ve never had a moment’s regret.” Werner paused. “Not many people know that story. Not even my wife. So, don’t tell me you tripped over a table, drew your Smith, and printed three rounds inside the subject’s ventricle standing on one foot, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Caruso responded ambiguously. “Mr. Werner—”

“Name’s Gus,” the Assistant Director corrected.

“Sir,” Caruso persisted. Senior people who used first names tended to make him nervous. “Sir, were I to say something like that, I’d be confessing to the next thing to murder, in an official government document. He
did
pick up that knife, he
was
getting up to face me, he
was
just ten or twelve feet away, and at Quantico they taught us to regard that as an immediate and lethal threat. So, yes, I took the shot, and it was righteous, in accordance with FBI policy on the use of lethal force.”

Werner nodded. “You have your law degree, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I’m admitted to the bar in Virginia and D.C. both. I haven’t taken the Alabama bar exam yet.”

“Well, stop being a lawyer for a minute,” Werner advised. “This was a righteous shooting. I still have the revolver I whacked that bastard with. Smith Model 66 four-inch. I even wear it to work sometimes. Dominic, you got to do what every agent would like to do just once in his career. You got to deliver justice all by yourself. Don’t feel bad about it.”

“I don’t, sir,” Caruso assured him. “That little girl, Penelope—I couldn’t save her, but at least that bastard won’t ever do it again.” He looked Werner right in the eye. “You know what it feels like.”

“Yeah.” He looked closely at Caruso. “And you’re sure you have no regrets?”

“I caught an hour’s nap on the flight up, sir.” He delivered the statement without a visible smile.

But it generated one on Werner’s face. He nodded. “Well, you’ll be getting an official attaboy from the office of the Director. No OPR.”

OPR was the FBI’s own “Internal Affairs” office, and while respected by rank-and-file FBI agents, was not beloved of them. There was a saying, “If he tortures small animals and wets his bed, he’s either a serial killer or he works for the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

Werner lifted Caruso’s folder. “Says here you’re pretty smart... good language skills, too . . . Interested in coming to Washington? I’m looking for people who know how to think on their feet, to work in my shop.”

Another move,
was what Special Agent Dominic Caruso heard.

GERRY HENDLEY
was not an overly formal man. He wore a jacket and tie to work, but the jacket ended up on a clothes tree in his office within fifteen seconds of arrival. He had a fine executive secretary—like himself, a native of South Carolina—named Helen Connolly, and after running through his day’s schedule with her, he picked up his
Wall Street Journal
and checked the front page. He’d already devoured the day’s
New York Times
and
Washington Post
to get his political fix for the day, grumbling as always how they never quite got it right. The digital clock on his desk told him that he had twenty minutes before his first meeting, and he lit up his computer to get the morning’s
Early Bird
as well, the clipping service that went to senior government officials. This he scanned to see if he’d missed anything in his morning read of the big-time papers. Not much, except for an interesting piece in the
Virginia Pilot
about the annual Fletcher Conference, a circle-think held by the Navy and Marine Corps every year at the Norfolk Navy Base. They talked about terrorism, and fairly intelligently, Hendley thought. People in uniform often did. As opposed to elected officials.

We kill off the Soviet Union,
Hendley thought,
and we expected everything in the world to settle down. But what we
didn’t
see coming was all these lunatics with leftover AK-47s and education in kitchen chemistry, or simply a willingness to trade their own lives for those of their perceived enemies.

And the other thing they hadn’t done was prepare the intelligence community to deal with it. Even a president experienced in the black world and the best DCI in American history hadn’t managed to get all that much done. They’d added a lot more people—an extra five hundred personnel in an agency of twenty thousand didn’t sound like a lot, but it had doubled the operations directorate. That had given the CIA a force only half as horribly inadequate as it had been before, but that wasn’t the same as adequate. And in return for it, the Congress had further tightened oversight and restrictions, thus further crippling the new people hired to flesh out the governmental skeleton crew. They never learned. He himself had talked at infinite length to his colleagues in the World’s Most Exclusive Men’s Club, but while some listened, others did not, and almost all of the remainder vacillated. They paid too much attention to the editorial pages, often of newspapers not even native to their home states, because
that,
they foolishly figured, was what the American People thought. Maybe it was this simple: Any newly elected official was seduced into the game the same way Cleopatra had snookered Gaius Julius Caesar. It was the staffs, he knew, the “professional” political helpers who “guided” their employers into the right way to be reelected, which had become the Holy Grail of public service. America did not have a hereditary ruling class, but it did have plenty of people happy to lead their employers onto the righteous path of government divinity.

And working inside the system just didn’t work.

So, to accomplish anything, you just had to be outside the system.

Way the hell outside the system.

And if anybody noticed, well, he was already disgraced anyway, wasn’t he?

He spent his first hour discussing financial matters with some of his staff, because that was how Hendley Associates made its money. As a commodities trader, and as a currency arbitrageur, he’d been ahead of the curve almost from the beginning, sensing the momentary valuation differences—he always called them “Deltas”—which were generated by psychological factors, by perceptions that might or might not turn out to be real.

He did all his business anonymously through foreign banks, all of which liked having large cash accounts, and none of which were overly fastidious about where the money came from, so long as it was not overtly dirty, which his certainly was not. It was just another way of keeping outside the system.

Not that every one of his dealings was strictly legal. Having Fort Meade’s intercepts on his side made the game a lot easier. In fact, it was illegal as hell, and not the least bit ethical. But in truth Hendley Associates did little in the way of damage on the world stage. It could have been otherwise, but Hendley Associates operated on the principle that pigs got fed and hogs got slaughtered, and so they ate only a little out of the international trough. And, besides, there was no real governing authority for crimes of this type and this magnitude. And tucked away in a safe within the company vault was an official Charter signed by the former President of the United States.

Tom Davis came in. The titulary head of bond trading, Davis’s background was similar in some ways to Hendley’s, and he spent his days glued to his computer. He didn’t worry about security. In this building all of the walls had metal sheathing to contain electronic emanations, and all of the computers were tempest-protected.

“What’s new?” asked Hendley.

“Well,” Davis answered, “we have a couple of potential new recruits.”

“Who might they be?”

Davis slid the files across Hendley’s desk. The CEO took them and opened both.

“Brothers?”

“Twins. Fraternals. Their mom must have punched out two eggs instead of one that month. Both of them impressed the right people. Brains, mental agility, fitness, and between them a good mix of talents, plus language skills. Spanish, especially.”

“This one speaks Pashtu?” Hendley looked up in surprise.

“Just enough to find the bathroom. He was in country eight weeks or so, took the time to learn the local patois. Acquitted himself pretty well, the report says.”