Jack Ryan 12 - The Teeth of the Tiger (52 page)

“Assumptions are always a bad thing. I know that, Gerry. But so are complications. How do we know we're sending the right guy? What if it just adds a level of uncertainty? Do we want to do that?” Hendley, thought Granger, was suffering from the deadliest congressional disease. It was too easy to oversight something to death.

“What I'm saying is that it's a good idea to have somebody out there who thinks a little different, who takes a different kind of approach to the data that goes out there. The Caruso boys are pretty good. I know that. But they are inexperienced. The important thing is to have a different brain out there to take a different view of the facts and the situation.”

Granger felt himself being backed into a corner. “Okay, look, I can see the logic of that, but it's a level of complication that we don't need.”

“Okay, so look at it this way—what if they see something for which they are not prepared? In that case, they need a second—whatever you call it—opinion of the data at hand. That will make them less likely to make a mistake in the field. The one thing that bothers me is that they make a mistake, and it's a fatal mistake for some poor schlub, and that the error affects the way they carry out their missions in the future. Guilt, remorse, and maybe then they start talking about it, okay? Can we completely discount that?”

“No, maybe not entirely, but it also means that we just add an additional element to the equation that can say no when a yes is the right way to go. Saying no is something anybody can do. It isn't necessarily right. You can take caution too far.”

“I don't think so.”

“Fine. So, who do you want to send?” Granger asked.

“Let's think about it. Ought to be—has to be somebody they know and trust . . .” His voice trailed off.

Hendley had made his operations chief nervous. He had an idea fixed in his head, and Hendley knew all too well that he was the head of The Campus, and that within this building his word was law, and there was nobody to appeal it to. So, if Granger was to select a name for this notional job, it had to be somebody who would not screw everything up.

TH
E AUTOBAHN
was superbly, even brilliantly, engineered. Dominic found himself wondering who'd set it up. Then he thought that the road looked as though it had been there for a long time. And it linked
Germany
and
Austria
. . . maybe Hitler himself had ordered this road built? Wasn't that a hoot? In any case, there was no speed limit here, and the Porsche's six-cylinder engine was purring like a stalking tiger on the scent of some warm meat. And the German drivers were amazingly polite. All you had to do was flash your lights, and they hustled out of your way as though having received a divine edict. Definitely unlike
America
, where some little old lady in her overage Pinto was in the far-left lane because she was left-handed and liked holding up the maniacs in their Corvettes. The
Bonneville Salt Flats
could scarcely have been more fun.

For his part, Brian was doing his best not to cringe. He closed his eyes occasionally, thinking back to nap-of-the-earth flying in the Recon Marines through mountain passes in the
Sierra Nevada
, often enough in CH-46 helicopters older than he was. They hadn't killed him. This probably wouldn't either, and, as a Marine officer, he wasn't allowed to show fear or weakness. And it was exciting. Rather like riding in a roller coaster without the safety bar across the seat. But he saw that Enzo was having the time of his life, and he consoled himself with the fact that his seat belt was attached, and that this little German car was probably engineered by the same design crew that had done the Tiger tank. Getting through the mountains was the scariest part, and when they entered farm country, the land got flatter and the road straighter, thanks be to God.

“The hills are alive with the sound of myoosikkkk,” Dominic sang, horribly.

“If you sing like that in church, God'll strike your ass dead,” Brian warned, pulling out the city maps for the approach to Wien, as
Vienna
was known to its citizens.

And the city streets were a rat warren. The capital of Austria—Osterreich—predated the Roman legions, with no street straight for a longer distance than would be needed by a legion to parade past its tribunus
militaris on the emperor's birthday. The map showed inner and outer ring roads, which probably marked the former site of medieval walls—the Turks had come here more than once hoping to add
Austria
to their empire, but that trinket of military history had not been part of the official Marine Corps reading list. A largely Catholic country, because the ruling House of Hapsburg had been so, it had not kept the Austrians from exterminating its prominent and prosperous Jewish minority after Hitler had subsumed Osterreich into the Greater German Reich. That had been after the Anschluss
plebiscite of 1938. Hitler had been born here, not in
Germany
as widely believed, and the Austrians had repaid that loyalty with some of their own, becoming more Nazified than Hitler himself, or so objective history reported, not necessarily the Austrians' now. It was the one country in the world where The Sound of Music had fallen flat at the box office, maybe because the movie had been uncomplimentary toward the Nazi party.

For all that,
Vienna
looked like what it was, a former imperial city with wide, tree-lined boulevards and classical architecture, and remarkably well-turned-out citizens. Brian navigated them to the Hotel Imperial on Kartner Ring, a building that looked to be an adjunct to the well-known
Schonbrunn
Palace
.

“You have to admit they put us up in nice places, Aldo,” Dominic observed.

It was even more impressive inside, with gilt plaster and lacquered woodwork, every segment of which appeared to have been installed by master craftsmen imported from Renaissance Florence. The lobby was not spacious, but the reception desk was impossible to miss, manned as it was by people wearing clothing that marked them as hotel staff as surely as a Marine in dress blues.

“Goad day,” the concierge said in greeting. “Your name is Caruso?”

“Correct,” Dominic said, surprised at the concierge's ESP “You should have a reservation for my brother and myself?”

“Yes, sir,” the concierge replied with enthusiastic subordination. His English might have been learned at Harvard. “Two connecting rooms, overlooking the street.”

“Excellent.” Dominic fished out his American Express black card and handed it across.

“Thank you.”

“Any messages for us?” Dominic asked.

“No, sir,” the concierge assured him.

“Can you have the valet attend to our car? It's rented. We're' not sure if we'll be keeping it or not.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you. Can we see our rooms?”

“Yes. You are on the first floor—excuse me, the second floor, as you say in
America
. Franz,” he called.

The bellman's English was just as good. “This way, if you please, gentlemen.” No elevator, but rather a walk up a flight of red-carpeted steps directly toward a full-length portrait of somebody who looked very important indeed, in his white military uniform and beautifully combed-out chin whiskers.

“Who might that be?” Dominic asked the bellman.

“The Emperor Franz Josef, sir. He visited the hotel upon its opening in the nineteenth century.”

“Ah. ” It explained the attitude of the staff here, but you couldn't knock the style of this place. Not by a long shot.

In another five minutes, they were settled into their accommodations. Brian came wandering into his brother's room. “God damn, the Residence Level at the White House isn't this good.”

“Think so?” Dominic asked.

“Dude, I know so. Been there, done that. Uncle Jack had me up after I got my commission—no, actually it was after I came through the
Basic
School
. Shit, this place is something. I wonder what it costs?”

“What the hell, it's on my card, and our friend is nearby at the
Bristol
. Kinda interesting to hunt rich bastards, isn't it?” That brought them back to business. Dominic pulled his laptop out of his bag. The Imperial was used to guests with computers, and the setup for it was very efficient indeed. For the moment, he opened the most recent file. He'd only scanned it before. Now he took his time with every single word.

GRANGER WAS
thinking it through. Gerry wanted somebody to baby-sit the twins, and it seemed as though his mind was fixed on it. There were a lot of good people in the intelligence department under Rick Bell, but as former intelligence officers at CIA and elsewhere, they were all too old to be proper companions for the twins, young as the Caruso kids were. It wouldn't look right to have people in their late twenties chumming around
Europe
with somebody in his middle fifties. So, better somebody younger. There weren't many of those, but there was one . . .

He picked up his phone.

FA'AD WAS
only two blocks away on the third floor of the Bristol Hotel, a famous and very upper-crust accommodation known particularly for its superior dining room and its nearness to the State Opera, which sat just across the street, consecrated to the memory of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who had been the court musician for the House of Hapsburg before dying an early death, right here in Vienna. But Fa'ad wasn't the least bit interested in such history. Current events were his obsession. Watching Anas Ali Atef die right before his eyes had shaken him badly. That had not been the death of infidels, something you could watch on TV and smile quietly about. He'd been standing there, watching the life drain invisibly from his friend's body, watching the German paramedics fight vainly for his life—evidently doing their very best even for a person they must have despised. That was a surprise. And, yes, they were Germans just doing their job, but they'd done that job with obstinate determination, then they'd raced his comrade to the nearest hospital, where the German doctors had probably done the same, only to fail. A doctor had come to him in the waiting room and sadly told him the news, saying unnecessarily that they'd done everything that could have been done, and that it had looked like a massive heart attack, and that further laboratory work would be done to make certain that this indeed had been the cause of death, and finally asking for information on his family, if any, and who would see about the body after they were done picking it apart. Strange thing about the Germans, how precise they always were about everything. Fa'ad had made what arrangements he could, and then boarded a train for
Vienna
, sitting alone in a first-class seat and trying to come to terms with the dreadful event.

He was making his report to the organization. Mohammed Hassan al-Din was his gateway for that. He was probably in
Rome
at the moment, though Fa'ad Rahman
Yasin was not quite sure. He didn't have to be sure. The Internet was a good enough address, formless as it was. It was just so very sad for a young and vigorous and valuable comrade to fall down dead on the street. If it served any purpose at all, only Allah Himself knew what it might be—but Allah had His Plan for everything, and it was not always something for men to know. Fa'ad took a minibottle of cognac from his minibar and drank it right out of the glass container instead of pouring it into one of the snifters on top of the cabinet. Sinful or not, it helped steady his nerves, and anyway he never, did it in public. Damn such bad luck! He took another look at the minibar. Two more cognacs remained, and after that, several miniatures of Scotch whisky, the favorite drink of
Saudi Arabia
, Shar'ia or not.

“GOT YOUR
passport?” Granger asked as soon as he'd sat down.

“Well, sure. Why?” Ryan asked.

“You're going to
Austria
. Plane leaves tonight from Dulles. Here's your ticket.” The director of operations tossed the folder across the desk.

“What for?”

“You're booked into the Imperial Hotel. There you will link up with Dominic and Brian Caruso to keep them advised of intelligence developments. You can use your regular e-mail account, and your laptop is equipped with the proper encryption technology.”

What the hell?
Jack wondered. “Excuse me, Mr. Granger. Can we go back a couple of steps? Exactly what's going on here?”

“Your father asked that question once or twice, I bet.” Granger managed a smile that would chill the ice in a highball. “Gerry thinks the twins need backup on the intelligence side. So, you are detailed to provide that backup, kind of a consultant to them while they're in the field. This does not mean that you'll actually be doing anything but keeping an eye on intel developments through the virtual office. You've done some pretty good work on that. You have a good nose for tracking things on the 'Net—damned sight better than Dom and Brian. Getting your eyes in the field might be useful. That's why. You can decline the job, but in your place, I'd take it. Okay?”

“When's the flight?”

“It's on your ticket folder.”

Jack looked. “Damn, I'll have to hustle.”

“So, hustle. There'll be a car to take you to Dulles. Get going.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack replied, coming to his feet. Just as well he had a car service heading his way. He didn't like the idea of leaving his Hummer in the Dulles parking lot. Thieves had fallen in love with the things. “Oh, who is cleared to know this?”

“Rick Bell will let Wills know. Aside from that, nobody, I repeat, nobody. Clear?”

“Clear, sir. Okay, I'm out of here.” He looked in the ticket folder
to find an American Express black card. At least the trip was on the company dime. How many of these things did The Campus have sitting around in its file drawers? he wondered. But for damned sure it was all he needed for this day.

“WHAT'S THIS?”
Dominic asked his computer. “Aldo,
we've got company coming over tomorrow morning.”

“Who?” Brian asked.

“Doesn't say. It says to take no action until he links up with us, though.”

“Jesus, who do they think
we are, Louis the Fish? It's not our fault the last guy jumped right into our lap. Why fuck around?”