Jack Ryan 12 - The Teeth of the Tiger (33 page)

“What is it, Jerry?” Hendley asked.

“The folks at Meade and over across the river just got excited about something,” Rounds replied, handing some papers across.

The former senator read the traffic for a minute or so and handed it all back. In a moment, he knew he'd seen most of it before. “So?”

“So, this time they may be right, boss. I've been keeping an eye on the background stuff. The thing is, we have a combination of reduced message traffic from known players, and then this flies over the transom. I spent my life in DIA looking at coincidences. This here's one of them.”

“Okay, what are they doing about it?”

“Airport security is going to be a little tighter starting today. The FBI is going to set people at some departure gates.”

“Nothing on TV about it?”

“Well, the boys and girls at Homeland Security may have gotten a little smarter about advertising. It's counterproductive. You don't catch a rat by shouting at him. You do it by showing him what he wants to see, and then breaking his goddamned neck.”

Or maybe by having a cat spring on him unexpectedly,
Hendley didn't say. But that was a harder mission.

“Any ideas for us?” he asked instead.

“Not at the moment. It's like seeing a front move in. There may be heavy rain and hail in it, but there's no convenient way to stop it”

“Jerry, how good is our data on the planning guys, the ones who give the orders?”

“Some of it's pretty good. But it's the people who convey the orders, not the ones who originate them.”

“And if they drop off the table?”

Rounds nodded immediate agreement. “Now you're talking, boss. Then the real big shots might poke their heads up out of their holes. Especially if they don't know that storm's coming in.”

“For now, what's the biggest threat?”

“The FBI is thinking car bombs, or maybe somebody with a C-4 overcoat, like in Israel. It's possible, but from an operational point of view, I'm not so sure.” Round sat down in the offered chair. “It's one thing to give the guy his explosives package and put him on a city bus for the ride to his objective, but, as applied to us, it's more complicated. Bring the bomber here, get him outfitted—which means having the explosives in place, which is a further complication—then
getting him familiar with the objective, then getting him there. The bomber is then expected to maintain his motivation a long way from his support network. A lot of things can go wrong, and that's why black operations are kept as simple as possible. Why go out of your way to purchase trouble?”

“Jerry, how many hard targets do we have?” Hendley asked.

“Total? Six or so. Of those, four are real, no-shit targets.”

“Can you get me locations and profiles?”

“Any time you say.”

“Monday.” No sense thinking about it over the weekend. He had two days of riding all planned out. He was entitled to a couple of days off once in a while.

“Roger that, boss.” Rounds stood and headed out. Then he stopped at the door. “Oh, there's a guy at Morgan and Steel, bond department. He's a crook. He's playing fast and very loose with some client money, about one-fifty worth.” By which he meant a hundred and fifty million dollars of other people's money.

“Anybody on to him?”

“Nope, I ID'd this guy on my own. Met him two months ago up in New York, and he didn't sound quite right, and so I put a watch on his personal computer. Want to see his notes?”

“Not our job, Jerry.”

“I know, I shorted our business with him to make sure he didn't dick with our funds, but I think he knows it's time to leave town, like maybe a trip overseas, one-way ticket. Somebody ought to have a look. Maybe Gus Werner?”

“I'll have to think about that. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Roger that.” And Rounds disappeared out the door.

“SO, WE
just try to sneak up on her without being noticed, right?” Brian asked.

“That's the mission,” Pete agreed. “How close?”

“Close as you can get”

“You mean close enough to put one in the back of her head?” the Marine asked.

“Close enough to see her earrings,” Alexander decided was the most polite way of putting it. It was even accurate, since Mrs. Peters wore her hair fairly long.

“So, not to shoot her in the head, but to cut her throat?” Brian pressed the question.

“Look, Brian, you can put it any way you want. Close enough to touch her, okay?”

“Okay, just so's I understand,” Brian said. “We have to wear our fanny packs?”

“Yes,” Alexander replied, though it wasn't true. Brian was being a pain in the ass again. Who'd ever heard of a Marine with conscience attacks?

“It'll make us easier to spot,” Dominic objected.

“So, disguise it somehow. Be creative,” the training officer suggested a little testily.

“When do we find out what all of this is for, exactly?” Brian asked.

“Soon.”

“You keep saying that, man.”

“Look, you can drive back to North Carolina whenever you want.”

“I've thought about it,” Brian told him.

“Tomorrow's Friday. Think about it over this weekend, okay?”

“Fair enough.” Brian backed off. The tone of the interplay had gotten a little uglier than he'd actually wanted. It was time to back down. He didn't dislike Pete at all. It was the not knowing, and his distaste for what it looked like. Especially with a woman as the target. Hurting women was not part of his creed. Or children, which was what had set his brother off—not that Brian disapproved. He wondered briefly if he might have done the same thing, and told himself, sure, for a kid, but without being quite sure. When dinner was finished, the twins handled the cleanup, then settled in front of the downstairs TV for some drinks and the History Channel.

IT WAS
much the same the next state up, with Jack Ryan, Jr., drinking a rum and Coke and flipping back and forth between History and History International, with an occasional sojourn to Biography, which was showing a two-hour look at Joseph Stalin. That guy, Junior thought, was one seriously cold motherfucker. Forcing one of his own confidants to sign the imprisonment order for his own wife. Damn. But how did that physically unprepossessing man exercise such control over people who were his own peers? What was the power he'd wielded over others? Where had it come from? How had he maintained it? Jack's own father had been a man of considerable power, but he had never dominated people in anything like that way. Probably never even thought about it, much less killing people for what amounted to the fun of it. Who were these people? Did they still exist?

Well, they had to. The one thing that never changed in the world was human nature. The cruel and the brutal still existed. Perhaps society no longer encouraged them as they had in, say, the Roman Empire. The gladiatorial games had trained people to accept and even to be entertained by violent death. And the dark truth of the matter was that if Jack had been given access to a time machine, he might—he would—have journeyed back to the Flavian Amphitheater to see it, just once. But that was human curiosity, not blood lust. Just a chance to gain historical knowledge, to see and read a culture connected to, yet different from, his own. He might even toss his cookies watching . . . or maybe not. Maybe his curiosity was that strong. But for damned sure, if he ever went back, he'd take a friend along for the ride. Like the Beretta .45 he'd learned to shoot with Mike Brennan. He wondered how many others might have taken the trip. Probably quite a few. Men. Not women. Women would have needed a lot of societal conditioning to want to look at that. But men? Men grew up on movies like Silverado and Saving Private Ryan
. Men wanted to know how well they might have handled such things. So, no, human nature didn't really change. Society tended to stomp on the cruel ones, and since man was a creature of reason, most people shied away from behavior that could put them in prison or the death chamber. So, man could learn over time, but the basic drives probably did not, and so you fed the nasty little beast with fantasies, books and movies, and dreams, thoughts that walked through your consciousness while waiting for sleep to come. Maybe cops had a better time. They could exercise the little critter by handling those who stepped over the line. There was probably satisfaction in that, because you got both to feed the critter and to protect the society.

But if the beast still lived in the hearts of men, somewhere there would be men who would use whatever talents they had to—not so much control it as harness it to their own will, to use it as a tool in their personal quest for power. Such men were called Bad Guys. The unsuccessful ones were called sociopaths. The successful ones were called . . . Presidents.

Where did all this leave him? Jack Jr. wondered. He was still a kid, after all, even though he denied it and as a matter of law he was a grown man. Did a grown man stop growing? Stop wondering and asking questions? Stop seeking after information—or, as he thought of it, truth?

But once you had truth, what in hell did you do with it? He didn't know that one yet. Maybe it was just one more thing to learn. Surely he had the same drive to learn as his father, else why was he watching this program instead of some mindless sitcom? Maybe he'd buy a book on Stalin and Hitler. Historians were always digging into old records. Problem was, then they applied their own personal ideas to what they found. He probably really needed a shrink to look things over. They had their ideological prejudices, too, but at least there was a patina of professionalism to their thought processes. It annoyed Junior that he went to sleep every night with thoughts unresolved and truths unfound. But that, he figured, was the whole point to this thing called life.

THEY WERE
all praying. All quietly. Abdullah was murmuring through the words of his Koran. Mustafa was running through the same book in the sanctity of his own mind—not all of it, of course, just the parts that supported his mission for the coming day. To be brave, to remember their Holy Mission, to accomplish it without mercy. Mercy was Allah's business.

What if we survive?
he asked himself, and was surprised at the thought. They had a plan for this, of course. They'd drive back west and try to find their way back to Mexico, and then fly back home—to be welcomed with great rejoicing by their other comrades. In truth, he didn't expect this to happen, but hope was something no man sets completely aside, and however Paradise might beckon, life on earth was all that he actually knew.

That thought startled him, too. Did he just express doubt in his Faith? No, not that. Not that, exactly. Just a random thought. There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His messenger, he chanted in his own mind, expressing the Shahada
, which was the very foundation of Islam. No, he couldn't deny his Faith now. His Faith had brought him across the world, to the very location of his martyrdom. His Faith had raised and nurtured his life, through childhood, through the anger of his father, into the very home of the infidels who spat upon Islam and nurtured the Israelis, there to affirm his Faith with his life. And his death, probably. Almost certainly, unless Allah Himself desired otherwise. Because all things in life were written by Allah's Own Hand . . .

THE ALARM
went off just before six. Brian knocked on his brother's door.

“Wake up, G-man. We're wasting sunlight”

“Is that a fact?” Dominic observed from the far end of the corridor. “Beat ya, Aldo!” Which was a first.

“Then let's get it done, Enzo,” Brian responded, and together they headed outside. An hour and a quarter later, they were back and at the breakfast table.

“It's a good day to be alive,” Brian observed with his first sip of coffee.

“The Marine Corps must brainwash your ass, bro,” Dominic observed, with a sip of his own.

“No, the endorphins just kick in. That's how the human body lies to itself.”

“You grow out of it,” Alexander told them. “All ready for your little field exercise?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Brian replied with a smile. “We get to whack Michelle for lunch.”

“Only if you can track her without being spotted.”

“It would be easier in the woods, you know. I'm trained in that particular skill.”

“Brian, what do you think we've been doing here?” Pete inquired gently.

“Oh, is that what it is?”

“First get new shoes,” Dominic advised.

“Yeah, I know These are just about dead.” The canvas uppers were separating from the rubber bottoms, and the bottoms were pretty shot, too. He hated doing it. He'd put a lot of miles in his running shoes, and a man can be sentimental about such things, which was frequently a matter of annoyance to his spouse.

“We'll hit the mall early. Foot Locker right next to the place they rent strollers,” Dom reminded his brother.

“Yeah, I know. Okay, Pete, any advice on Michelle?” Brian asked. “You know, if we're out on a mission, we usually get a mission brief.”

“That's a fair question, Captain. I'd suggest you look for her at Victoria's Secret, just across from The Gap. If you get close enough without being spotted, you win. If she says your name when you're more than ten feet away, you lose.”

“This isn't strictly fair,” Dominic pointed out. “She knows what we look like—especially height and weight. A real bad guy wouldn't have that information in his pocket. You can fake being taller, but not being shorter.”

“And my ankles can't take high heels, y'know?” Brian added.

“You don't have the legs for it anyway, Aldo,” Alexander needled. “Who ever said this job was easy?”

Except we still don't know what the fucking job is,
Brian didn't respond. “Fair enough, we improvise, adapt, and overcome.”

“Who are you now, Dirty Harry?” Dominic asked, finishing off his McMuffin.

“In the Corps, he's our favorite civilian, bro. Probably would have made a pretty good gunny.”

“Especially with his .44 Smith.”

“Kinda noisy for a handgun. Kinda tough on the hand, too. Except maybe the Auto-Mag. Ever shot one of those?”

“No, but I handled the one in the gun locker at Quantico. Damned thing ought to come with a trailer to haul it around with, but I bet it makes nice holes.”