Dead or Alive (29 page)

“Refresh my memory.”

“Bus attack. Fourteen dead, including the shooters.”

“Suspected URC.”

“Yes, sir.”

McMullen knew his boss well enough to read the expression he now wore: In choosing Jack Ryan as a target, the URC had focused the media spotlight on the former President. Half of the cable networks were rerunning biography pieces on Ryan, who had so far been downplaying the incident, releasing a brief press statement and declining interview requests. For his part, Kealty had handled the incident with a prearranged questioning during a press conference: glad that former President Ryan was uninjured, etc. The words had come out sincerely enough, McMullen admitted, but he had no doubt they’d burned his boss’s throat during trainsit.

Kealty moved on: “Wes, this business with Netters ...”

Uh-oh,
McMullen thought. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“I think we’re nearing a time for a change.”

“I see.”

“You disagree?”

McMullen chose his words carefully. “I’d like to suggest, Mr. President, that a little dissent can be a healthy thing. Admiral Netters is plain-spoken, perhaps to a fault, but he’s widely respected, not only in the services but in Congress as well.”

“Christ, Wes, I’m not going to keep him on board just because he’s popular.”

“That’s not my point—”

“Then what is?”

“He’s respected because he knows his business. My dad used to say, ‘You don’t ask directions from somebody who hasn’t been where you’re going.’ Admiral Netters has been where we’re going.”

Kealty turned down his mouth, then flashed a smile. “That’s good, really good. Mind if I use it? Okay, we’ll see where it goes. I’m making this happen, though, Wes. We’re getting out of that damned country, one way or another. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You look like your dog just died, Scott. Let’s hear it.”

Kilborn laid a file folder on Kealty’s desk, then said, “Last week, a raid on a cave in the Hindu Kush mountains—a Ranger team looking for the Emir.”

“Ah, Jesus, that guy?” Kealty said, flipping through the file. “We’re still wasting resources on him?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Anyway, the team’s CO was injured, so his first sergeant took over—Driscoll, Sam Driscoll. Got to the cave, took out a couple guards, but when they went inside there was nothing.”

“No big surprise there.”

“No, sir, but if you’ll take a look at page four ...”

Kealty did so, his eyes narrowing as he read.

Kilborn said, “As far as we can tell, none of them were armed, per se, but they were certainly sleeping.”

“And he just shot ’em all in the head,” Kealty grumbled, shoving the file aside. “It’s sickening.”

McMullen said, “Mr. President, I’m clearly a little behind here. What’re we talking about?”

“Murder, Wes, plain and simple. This sergeant, this Driscoll, murdered nine unarmed men. Period.”

“Sir, I don’t think—”

“Listen, my predecessor let the military run rampant. He got them all jazzed up and let them off their leashes. It’s high time we put the collar back on. We can’t have U.S. soldiers going around shooting sleeping men in the head. Scott, can we do it?”

“There’s precedent both ways, but I think a case can be made to stick. We’d have to start the ball at the Pentagon, then have it bumped to justice, then bring in Army CID.”

Kealty nodded. “Do it. Time to let the grunts know who’s in charge.”

 

 

 

A damned fine day for fishing, Arlie Fry decided, but then again, just about any day was a fine day for fishing—at least here, that was. Not like Alaska, where they shot that show,
Deadliest Catch.
Fishing there had to be hell on earth.

The fog was thick, but it was a Northern California morning, after all, so a little muck was to be expected. Arlie knew it would lift within a couple of hours.

His boat, a twenty-one-foot Atlas Acadia 20E with a Ray Electric outboard motor, was just three months old, a retirement gift from his wife, Eunice, who’d chosen the inshore saltwater launch model in hopes of keeping him close to dry land. And there the blame lay again at the feet of the boob tube, specifically that George Clooney movie,
The Perfect Storm.
In his younger days he’d had dreams of sailing across the Atlantic, but he knew the stress of that would outright kill Eunice, so he satisfied himself with biweekly coastal fishing trips, most often alone, but today he’d talked his son into coming along. Chet, now fifteen, was more interested in girls, his iPod, and when he could get his learner’s permit than he was in catching yellowtails and lingcods—though he did perk up when Arlie mentioned having seen a shark on his last outing. The story had been true, but the shark was only two feet long.

Currently Chet sat in the bow, earbuds in his ears, as he leaned over the gunwale and trailed his hand in the water.

The sea was mostly flat, with a slight chop, and high above Arlie could see the sun, a fuzzy pale circle, trying to burn its way through the clouds. Be bright and hot within the hour, he thought. Eunice had packed them plenty of soft drinks, half a dozen baloney sandwiches, and a plastic Baggie filled with Fig Newtons.

Suddenly something thumped against the Acadia’s hull. Chet jerked his hand out of the water and stood up, causing the boat to rock. “Whoa!”

“What is it?”

“Something hit the side. . . . There, see it?”

Arlie looked where Chet was pointing, just off the stern, and caught a glimpse of something orange just before the fog swallowed it.

“You get a look at it?” Arlie asked.

“Not really. Scared the shit—heck—out of me. Looked like maybe a life jacket or bumper float.”

Arlie briefly considered continuing on, but the object, whatever it was, hadn’t been just orange but international orange, which was generally reserved for distress and emergencies. And life jackets.

“Sit down, son, I’m coming about.” Arlie turned the wheel and brought the Acadia back on a reverse course, slowing as he did so. “Keep an eye out.”

“Yeah, Dad, I am. Jeez.”

Thirty seconds later Chet called out and pointed off the port bow. Just visible through the fog was an orange blob about the size of a soccer ball.

“I see it,” Arlie said, and steered that way, bringing the object alongside. Chet leaned over and snagged it.

It wasn’t a life jacket, Arlie saw, but a diamond-shaped rubber float. Attached to it was a two-foot painter line, and attached to that was a black metal box, roughly four inches wide, eight long, and about as thick as a good-sized paperback book.

“What is it?” Chet asked.

Arlie wasn’t sure, but he’d seen enough movies and television shows to have a hunch. “Black box,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“Flight data recorder.”

“Whoa . . . You mean like from a plane?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

 

 

 

T
he facility’s security was decent enough, Cassiano knew, but three things were working in his favor: One, he’d been working for Petrobras for eleven years, long before the discovery of Tupi. Two, the industry was unique above all others, so hired security personnel could competently check only so much of the facility’s inner workings. The rest had to be done by workers who knew what they were looking at and how things worked, and so while such double-duty provided a good paycheck and ensured the smooth running of the facility, it also gave Cassiano unfettered access to high-security areas. And three, the demo-graphics of Brazil itself.

Of Brazil’s estimated population of 170 million, less than one percent is Muslim, and of that number only one percent are made up of Brazilian-born Islamic converts. The rising tide of Islamic radicals so feared in other Western hemisphere countries was in Brazil a virtual nonissue. No one cared what mosque you went to or whether you hated the war in Iraq; those subjects rarely came up and certainly had no bearing on your job fitness, whether it be at a restaurant or at Petrobras.

Cassiano kept his thoughts to himself, prayed in private, was never late for work, and rarely took sick days. Muslim or not, he was the ideal worker, for both Petrobras and for his new employer, which certainly paid much better.

The details they’d asked him to provide made their intentions fairly transparent, and while Cassiano didn’t particularly like the idea of playing the role of industrial spy, he took comfort in their assurances that the only damage his actions and information would cause would be monetary. Besides, he told himself, with the extent of the Santos Basin find growing by leaps and bounds, the government of Brazil, which was a majority share-holder in Petrobras, would have money to burn for decades to come.

There was no reason he shouldn’t share in that boon, was there?

C
ARPENTER IS INBOUND,” the radio chirped next to where Andrea was sitting.

“Want me to get him, boss?” she asked.

“No, I’ll get it.” Ryan got up from his computer and walked to the front door. “He’ll be staying for dinner, by the way.”

“Sure, boss.”

Arnie van Damm had never been one to stand on ceremony. He’d rented a car at BWI Airport and driven himself down. Still wore those L.L.Bean shirts and khaki pants, too, Jack saw, as he got out of his Hertz Chevy.

“Hey, Jack,” the former Chief of Staff called in greeting.

“Arnie, it’s been a while. How was the flight?”

“Slept for most of it.” They headed inside. “How’s the book coming?”

“It’s kinda hard on the ego to write about yourself, but I’m trying to tell the truth.”

“Whoa, boy, that ought to confuse the reviewers at the
Times.
”

“Well, hell, they never did like me much. I wouldn’t expect them to change now.”

“Hell, Jack, you just fought off an attempt on your life—”

“Bullshit, Arnie.”

“Perception, my friend. The public hears about that kind of thing, all they absorb is that somebody tried to kill you and paid the price.”

“So what, omnipotence by proxy?”

“You got it.”

By this time they were in the kitchen and Jack was pouring the coffee. It’d be an hour before Cathy got home, and Jack still had time for a little unauthorized afternoon caffeine. “So give me the gossip. I heard the Supreme Court’s giving Kealty fits.”

“You mean not being able to make appointments? Yeah, he’s going quietly nuts about it. During the campaign he promised a seat to Professor Mayflower at Harvard Law.”

“That guy? Christ, he wants to rewrite the Gospel of Saint Matthew.”

“God didn’t go to Harvard. Otherwise He would have been better informed,” van Damm offered.

Ryan chuckled at this. “So: Why this visit?”

“I think you know, Jack. Moreover, I think you’ve been thinking about it yourself. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Another thing I always loved about you, Jack: You never could tell a lie worth a damn.”

Ryan grumbled.

“Being a bad liar ain’t a bad thing,” Arnie said. “Kealty is already heading off the rails, Jack. Just my opinion, but—”

“He’s a crook. Everybody knows that, but the papers won’t say it.”

“He’s a crook, but he’s their crook. They think they can control him. They understand him and how he thinks.”

“Who says he thinks at all? He doesn’t think. He has a vision of the way he wants the world to be. He’s willing to do anything to make the world conform with that idea—if you can call it an idea.”

“What about your ideas, Jack?”

“It’s called principle; there’s a difference. You sell the principle as best you can and hope the public understands. Anything more than that and you’re a used-car salesman.”

“A famous politician once said that politics is the art of the possible.”

“But if you limit yourself to what’s possible—to what’s already been done—how the hell does progress happen? Kealty wants to bring back the thirties, with FDR and all that goes with that.”

“Thought much about this, Jack?” Arnie said with a hint of a smile.

“You know I have. The Founding Fathers would turn over in their crypts over what that bonehead is doing.”

“So replace him.”

“And go through all that again—to what end?”

“Edmund Burke, remember? ‘All that is required for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”

“I should have seen that coming,” Jack responded. “I served my time. I fought two wars. I set up my own line of succession. I did everything a man is supposed to do.”

“And you did it well,” the former Chief of Staff admitted. “Jack, here’s the bottom line: The country needs you.”

“No, Arnie. The country doesn’t need me. We still have a good Congress.”

“Yeah, they’re fine, but they haven’t generated a real leader yet. Owens, from Oklahoma, he has possibilities, but he has a way to go yet. Not seasoned enough, too small-town and too idealistic. He’s not ready for major league ball yet.”