Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (48 page)

Vice President Edward Kealty, whatever his personal failings, knows government, and his middle-of-the-road position on most national issues offers a steady course until elections can select a new administration. But are his claims true?

“Do you care?” Ryan asked the lead editorial for the next day's Times.

“They know him. They don't know you,” Arnie answered. Then the phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Foley for you, Mr. President. He says it's important.”

“Okay . . . Ed? Putting you on speaker.” Jack pushed the proper button and replaced the receiver. “Arnie's listening in.”

“It's definite.
Iran
's making a move, big and fast. I have a TV feed for you if you have the time.”

“Roll it.” Jack knew how to do that. In this office and others were televisions fed off secure fiber-optic cables to the Pentagon and elsewhere. He pulled the controller from a drawer and turned the set on. The “show” lasted only fifteen seconds, was rerun again, then freeze-framed.

“Who are they?” Jack asked.

Foley read off the names. Ryan had heard two of them before. “Mid- and top-level advisers to Daryaei. They're in
Baghdad
, and somebody decided to get the word out. Okay, we know senior generals are flying out. Now we have five mullahs talking about rebuilding an important mosque on national TV. Tomorrow they'll be talking louder,” the DCI-designate promised.

“Anything from people on the ground?”

“Negative,” Ed admitted. “I was talking to station chief
Riyadh
about sneaking up there for a sit-down, but by the time he gets there, there won't be anyone to sit down with.”

“T
HAT
'
S A LITTLE
big,” an officer said aboard the duty AWACS. He read off the alpha-numeric display. “Colonel,” the lieutenant called over the command line, “I have what appears to be a 737 charter inbound Mehrabad to
Baghdad
, course two-two-zero, speed four-five-zero knots, twenty thousand feet. P
ALM
B
OWL
reports encrypted voice traffic to
Baghdad
from that track.”

Farther aft, the senior officer commanding the aircraft checked his display. The elltee in front was right. The colonel lit up his radio to report to KKMC.

T
HE REST OF
them arrived together. They should have waited longer, Badrayn thought. Better to show up with the aircraft already here, the quicker to—but, no.

It was amusing to see them this way, these powerful men. A week earlier they'd strutted everywhere, sure of their place and their power, their khaki shirts decorated with various ribbons denoting some heroic service or other. That was unfair. Some had led men into battle, once or twice. Maybe one or two of them had actually killed an enemy. Iranian enemies. The same people to whom they would now entrust their safety, because they feared their own countrymen more. So now they stood about in little worried knots, unable to trust even their own bodyguards. Especially them. They had guns and were close, and they would not have been in this fix had bodyguards been trustworthy.

Despite the danger to his own life, Badrayn could not help but be amused by it. He'd spent his entire adult life dedicated to bringing about a moment such as this. How long had he dreamed of seeing senior Israeli officials standing about an airport like this—leaving their own people to an uncertain fate, defeated by his. . . that irony was not amusing, was it? Over thirty years, and all he'd accomplished was the destruction of an Arab country?
Israel
still stood.
America
still protected her, and all he was doing was adjusting the chairs of power around the
Persian Gulf
.

He was running away no less than they were, Badrayn admitted. Having failed in the mission of his life, he had done this one mercenary job, and then what? At least these generals had money and comfort before them. He had nothing ahead, and only failure behind. With that thought, Ali Badrayn swore, and sat back in his seat, just in time to see a dark shape race across the near runway in its rollout. A bodyguard at the door gestured at the people in the room. Two minutes later, the 737 came back into view. Additional fuel was not needed. The truck-borne stairway headed off, stopping only when the aircraft did. The stairs were in place before the door opened, and the generals, and their families, and one bodyguard each, and for most of them a mistress, hurried out the door into the cold drizzle that had just begun. Badrayn walked out last. Even then he had to wait. The Iraqis had all arrived at the bottom of the stairs in a tight little knot of jostling humanity, forgetting their importance and their dignity as they elbowed their way onto the steps. At the top was a uniformed crew member, smiling a mechanical greeting to people he had every reason to hate. Ali waited until the stairs were clear before heading up, arriving at the small platform and turning to look back. There hadn't really been all that much reason to rush. There were as yet no green trucks approaching with their confused soldiers. Another hour, it turned out, would have been fine. In due course they'd come here and find nothing but an empty lounge. He shook his head and entered the aircraft. The crewman closed the door behind him.

Forward, the flight crew radioed the tower for clearance to taxi, and that came automatically. The tower controllers had made their calls and passed along their information, but without instructions, they just did their jobs. As they watched, the aircraft made its way to the end of the runway, increased power, and lifted off into the darkness about to descend on their country.

RECIPES

I
T
'
S BEEN A WHILE
, M
R
. C
LARK
."

“Yes, Mr. Holtzman, it has,” John agreed. They were in the same booth as before, all the way in the back, close to the jukebox. Esteban's was still a nice family place off
Wisconsin Avenue
, and still well patronized by nearby
Georgetown
University
. But
Clark
remembered that he'd never told the reporter what his name was.

“Where's your friend?”

“Busy tonight,”
Clark
replied. Actually Ding had left work early and driven down to
Yorktown
, and was taking Patsy out to dinner, but the reporter didn't need to know that. It was clear from his face that he already knew too much. “So, what can I do for you?” the field officer asked.

“We had a little deal, you'll recall.”

Clark
nodded. “I haven't forgotten. That was for five years. Time isn't up yet.” The reply wasn't much of a surprise.

“Times change.” Holtzman lifted the menu and scanned it. He liked Mexican food, though of late the food didn't seem to like him very much.

“A deal's a deal.”
Clark
didn't look at his menu. He stared straight across the table. His stare was something people often had trouble dealing with.

“The word's out. Katryn is engaged to be married to some fox-chaser out in
Winchester
.”

“I didn't know,”
Clark
admitted. Nor did he especially care.

“Didn't think you would. You're not an SPO anymore. Like it back in the field?”

“If you want me to talk about that, you know I can't—”

“More's the pity. I've been checking up on you for a couple of years now,” the reporter told his guest. “You have one hell of a service reputation, and the word is that your partner is a comer. You were the guy in
Japan
,” Holtzman said with a smile. “You rescued Koga.”

A scornful look concealed John's real feelings of alarm. “What the hell would give you that idea?”

“I talked with Koga when he was over. Two-man rescue team, he said. Big guy, little guy. Koga described your eyes—blue, hard, intense, he said, but he also said that you were a reasonable man in your speech. How smart do I have to be to figure that one out?” Holtzman smiled. “Last time we talked, you said I would have made a good spook.” The waiter showed up with two beers. “Ever have this before? Pride of Maryland, a new local micro on the
Eastern Shore
.” Then the waiter went away.
Clark
leaned across the table.

“Look, I respect your ability, and the last time we talked, you played ball, kept your word, and I respect that, too, but I would like you to remember that when I go out in the field, my life rides on—”

“I won't reveal your identity. I don't do that. Three reasons, it's wrong, it's against the law, and I don't want to piss off somebody like you.” The reporter sipped his beer. “Someday I'd sure as hell like to do a book about you. If half the stories are true—”

“Fine, get Val Kilmer to play me in the movies.”

“Too pretty.” Holtzman shook his head with a grin. “Nick Cage has a better stare. Anyway, what this meet is about. . .” He paused. “It was Ryan who got her father out, but I'm not clear on how. You went on the beach and got Katryn and her mother out, took them out by boat to a submarine. I don't know which one, but I know it was one of our nuclear subs. But that's not the story.”

“What is?”

“Ryan, like you, the Quiet Hero.” Robert Holtzman enjoyed seeing the surprise in
Clark
's eyes. “I like the guy. I want to help him.”

“Why?” John asked, wondering if he could believe his host.

“My wife, Libby, got the goods on Kealty. Published it too soon, and we can't go back to it now. He's scum, even worse than most of the people down there. Not everybody in the business feels that way, but Libby's talked to a couple of his victims. Once upon a time a guy could get away with that, especially if his politics were 'progressive.' Not anymore. Not supposed to, anyway,” he corrected himself. “I'm not so sure Ryan's the right guy, either, okay? But he's honest. He'll try to do the right thing, for the right reasons. As Roger Durling liked to say, he's a good man in a storm. I have to sell my editors on that idea.”

“How do you do that?”

“I do a story about how he did something really important for his country. Something old enough that it isn't sensitive anymore, and recent enough that people know it's the same guy. Jesus Christ,
Clark
, he saved the Russians! He prevented an internal power play that could have dialed the Cold War back in for another decade. That's a big fucking deal—and he never told anybody about it. We'll make it clear that Ryan didn't leak this. We'll even approach him before we run it, and you know what he'll say—”

“He'd tell you not to run it,”
Clark
agreed. Then he wondered whom Holtzman might have talked with. Judge Arthur Moore? Bob Ritter? Would they have talked? Ordinarily he'd be sure the answer to that one was an emphatic no, but now? Now he wasn't so sure. You got to a certain level and people figured breaking the rules was part of some higher duty to the country. John knew about “higher duty” stuff. It had landed him in all manner of trouble, more than once.

“But it's too good a story not to run. It took me years to figure it all out. The public has a right to know what kind of man is sitting in the Oval Office, especially if he's the right man,” the reporter went on. Holtzman clearly was a man who could talk a nun right out of her habit.

“Bob, you don't know the half of it.”
Clark
stopped talking an instant later, annoyed with himself for saying that much. This was deep water, and he was trying to swim with a weight belt on. Oh, what the hell. . . “Okay, tell me what you know about Jack.”

I
T WAS AGREED
that they'd use the same aircraft, and somewhat to the relief of both sides, that they wouldn't stay one unnecessary minute in
Iran
. There was the problem that the 737 didn't have the range of the smaller G-IVs, however, and it was agreed that the airliner would land in
Yemen
to refuel. The Iraqis never left the plane at Mehrabad, but when the stairs pulled up, Badrayn did, without a single word of thanks from the people he'd saved. A car was waiting. He didn't look back. The generals were part of his past, and he part of theirs.

The car took him into town. There was just a driver, who took his time negotiating the streets. Traffic wasn't all that dense at this time of night, and the going was easy. Forty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a three-story building. Here there was security. So, Badrayn thought, he was living in
Tehran
now? He got out of the car on his own. A uniformed security guard compared a photograph with his face and gestured him toward the door. Inside another guard, this one a captain by the three pips at his shoulders, patted him down politely. From there it was upstairs to a conference room. By now it was three in the morning, local time.

He found Daryaei sitting in a comfortable chair reading some papers stapled together at the corner, the quintessential government briefing document instead of the Holy Koran. Well, Daryaei must have had it memorized by now, so long had he studied it.

“Peace be unto you,” Ali said.

“And unto you, peace,” Daryaei replied, not so mechanically as Badrayn had expected. The older man rose and came to him for the expected embrace. The face was far more relaxed than he'd expected. Tired, certainly, since it had been a long day or two for the cleric, but old or not, the man was buoyed by the events. “You are well?” he asked solicitously, waving his guest to a chair.

Ali allowed himself a long breath as he took his seat. “I am now. I'd wondered how long the situation in
Baghdad
would remain stable.”

“There was nothing to be gained from discord. My friends tell me that the old mosque is in need of repair.”

Badrayn might have said that he didn't know—he didn't—but the reason was that he hadn't seen the inside of a mosque in rather a long time, a fact not calculated to please Daryaei. “There is much to do,” he decided to respond.

“Yes, there is.” Mahmoud Haji Daryaei returned to his chair, setting the papers aside. “Your services were very valuable. Were there any difficulties?”

Badrayn shook his head. “Not really, no. It's surprising how fearful such men can be, but I was prepared for that. Your proposal was generous. They had no choice but to take it. You will not.. . ?” Ali allowed himself to ask.

He shook his head. “No, they shall go in peace.”

And that, if true, was something of a surprise, though Ali didn't allow his face to show it. Daryaei had little reason to love those men. All had played a role in the Iran-Iraq war, and been responsible for the deaths of thousands, a wound still raw on this nation. So many young men had died. The war was one of the reasons why
Iran
had played no major role in the world for years. But that was about to change, wasn't it?

“So, may I ask what you will do next?”

“
Iraq
has been a sick country for so long, kept away from the True Faith, wandering in the darkness.”

“And strangled by the embargo,” Badrayn added, wondering what information this observation would elicit.

“It is time for that to end,” Daryaei agreed. Something in his eyes congratulated Ali for the observation. Yes, that was the obvious play, wasn't it? A sop to the West. The embargo would be lifted. Food would then flood the country, and the population would be delighted with the new regime. He would please everybody at once, all the while planning to please no one but himself. And Allah, of course. But Daryaei was one of those who was sure that his policies were inspired by Allah, an idea Badrayn had long since disposed of.

“
America
will be a problem, as will others closer to you.”

“We are examining those issues.” This statement was delivered comfortably. Well, that made sense. He must have been thinking about this move for years, and at a moment like this one he must have felt invincible. That also made sense, Badrayn knew. Daryaei always thought Allah was on his side—at his side was more accurate. And perhaps He was, but there was much more to it than that. There had to be if you wanted success. Miracles most often appeared when summoned by preparation. Why not a play to see if he might take a hand in the next miracle, Ali thought.

“I've been looking at the new American leader.”

“Oh?” Daryaei's eyes focused a little more tightly.

“It's not difficult, gathering information in the modern age. The American media publishes so much, and it can all be easily accessed now. I have some of my people working on it even now, building a careful dossier.” Badrayn kept his voice casual. It wasn't hard. He was bone-tired. “It really is quite remarkable how vulnerable they are now.”

“Indeed. Tell me more.”

“The key to
America
is this Ryan fellow. Is that not obvious?”

“T
HE KEY TO
changing
America
.is a constitutional convention,” Ernie Brown said, after long days of silent contemplation. Pete Holbrook was flipping the controller on his slide projector. He'd shot three rolls of film of the Capitol building, and a few more of other buildings like the White House, unable completely to avoid being the tourist. He grumbled, seeing that one of the slides was in the caddie upside-down. This idea had gestated long enough, and the result wasn't all that impressive.

“We've talked about that for a long time,” Holbrook agreed as he lifted the caddie off the projector. “But how do you—”

“Force it? Easy. If there's no President and no way to select one within the Constitution, then something has to happen, doesn't it?”

“Kill the President?” Pete snorted. “Which one?”

There was the problem. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Take out Ryan, and Kealty would step in. Take out Kealty, and Ryan was in like Flynn. It would be tough enough now. Both men remembered all the security they'd seen at the White House. Kill either one, and the American SS would put a wall around the one who was left that you'd need a nuke to breach. The Mountain Men didn't have any of those. They preferred traditional American weapons, like rifles. Even those had their limitations. The South Lawn of the White House was thoroughly forested with trees, and, they'd noticed, also shielded by skillfully concealed earthen berms. Just seeing the White House was possible down only one visual avenue, past the fountain at the building itself. The surrounding buildings were all government-owned, and atop them would always be people with binoculars—and rifles. The American SS were determined to keep the people away from “their” President, the servant of the people, whose guards didn't trust the people at all. But if the man who lived in that house was really one of the people, there would have been no need, would there? Once Teddy Roosevelt had thrown open the doors and shaken hands with ordinary citizens for four whole hours. No way that would happen anymore!

“Both at once. The way I figure, Ryan will be the hard target, right?” Brown asked. “I mean, he's there where most of the protection is. Kealty has to move around a lot, talking to the newspaper pukes, and he won't be as well protected, will he?”

Holbook replaced the slide caddie. “Okay, that makes sense.”

“So, if we figure a way to do Ryan, taking Kealty out will be much easier to do on the fly.” Brown took the cellular phone out of his pocket. “Easy to coordinate.”

“Keep going.”

“It means getting a fix on his schedule, learning his routine, and picking our time.”

“Expensive,” Holbrook observed, flipping to the next slide. It was one so often taken by so many people, from the top of the
Washington
Monument
, the tiny north window, looking down on the White House. Ernie Brown had taken one, too, and had the print blown up to poster size in the local photo shop. Then he'd stared at it for hours. Then he'd gotten a map and checked the scale. Then he'd done some rough calculations.

“The expensive part's buying the cement truck, and renting a place not too far out of town.”

“What?”

“I know what the spot is, Pete. And I know how to bring it off. Just a matter of picking the time.”