Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (60 page)

For his part, the President listened impassively, letting Arnie show the anger and Hanson show the shock, Jack saw. Good for him.

“Mr. Ambassador, war with the
United States of America
is not a trivial thing,” the Secretary of State said when the opening statement was concluded.

The Ambassador didn't flinch. “It is only a war if you wish it to be. We do not have the desire to destroy your country, but we do have our own security interests.” He went on to state his country's position on the
Marianas
. They'd been Japanese territory before, and now they were again. His country had a right to its own defensive perimeter. And that, he said, was that.

“You do know,” Hanson said, “that we have the ability to destroy your country?”

A nod. “Yes, I do. We well remember your use of nuclear weapons on our country.”

Jack's eyes opened a little wider at that answer. On his pad he wrote, nukes?

“You have something else to say,” Durling observed, entering the conversation.

“Mr. President—my country also has nuclear arms.”

“Delivered how?” Arnie asked with a snort. Ryan blessed him silently for the question. There were times when an ass had his place.

“My country has a number of nuclear-tipped intercontinental missiles. Your own people have seen the assembly plant. You can check with NASA if you wish.” The Ambassador read off the name and the dates in a very matter-of-fact way, noting that Ryan took them down like a good functionary. The room became so quiet that he could hear the scratching of the man's pen. More interesting still were the looks on the other faces.

“Do you threaten us?” Durling asked quietly.

The Ambassador looked straight into the man's eyes, twenty feet away. “No, Mr. President, I do not. I merely state a fact. I say again, this is a war only if you wish it so. Yes, we know you can destroy us if you wish, and we cannot destroy you, though we can cause you great harm. Over what, Mr. President? A few small islands that are historically our possessions anyway? They have been Japanese in all but name for years now.”

“And the people you killed?” van Damm asked.

“I regret that sincerely. We will of course offer compensation to the families. It is our hope that we can conclude matters. We will not disturb your embassy or its personnel, and we hope that you will grant us the same courtesy, to maintain communications between our governments. Is it so hard,” he asked, “to think of us as equals? Why did you feel the need to hurt us? There was a time when a single airplane crash, due to a mistake made by your people at Boeing, killed more of my citizens than the number of American lives lost in the Pacific. Did we scream at you? Did we threaten your economic security, your very national survival? No. We did not. The time has come for my country to take her place in the world. You've withdrawn from the Western Pacific. We must now look to our own defenses. To do that we need what we need. How can we be sure that, having crippled our nation in economic terms, you will not at some later time seek to destroy us physically?”

“We would never do that!” Hanson objected.

“Easily said, Mr. Secretary. You did it once before, and as you yourself just pointed out, you retain that ability.”

“We didn't start that war,” van Damm pointed out.

“You did not?” the Ambassador asked. “By cutting off our oil and trade, you faced us with ruin, and a war resulted. Just last month you threw our economy into chaos, and you expected us to do nothing—because we had not the ability to defend ourselves. Well, we do have that ability,” the Ambassador said. “Perhaps now we can treat as equals. So far as my government is concerned, the conflict is over. We will take no further action against Americans. Your citizens are welcome in my country. We will amend our trade practices to accommodate your laws. This entire incident could be presented to your public as an unfortunate accident, and we can reach an agreement between ourselves on the
Marianas
. We stand ready to negotiate a settlement that will serve the needs of your country and of mine. That is the position of my government.” With that, the Ambassador opened his portfolio and extracted the “note” which the rules of international behavior required. He rose and handed it to the Secretary of State.

“If you require my presence, I stand at your service. Good day.” He walked back to the door, past the National Security Advisor, who didn't follow the Ambassador with his eyes as the others did. Ryan had said nothing at all. That might have been disturbing in a Japanese, but not in an American, really. He'd simply had nothing to say. Well, he was a European specialist, wasn't he?

The door closed and Ryan waited another few seconds before speaking.

“Well, that was interesting,” Ryan observed, checking his page of notes. “He only told us one thing of real importance.”

“What do you mean?” Hanson demanded.

“Nuclear weapons and the delivery systems. The rest was embroidery, really meant for a different audience. We still don't know what they're really doing.”

25

All the King's Horses

It hadn't made the media yet, but that was about to change. The FBI was already looking for Chuck Searls. They already knew that it wouldn't be easy, and the truth of the matter is that all they could do, on the basis of what they had, was to question him. The six programmers who'd worked to some greater or lesser extent on the Electra-Clerk 2.4.0 program had all been interviewed, and all of them denied knowledge of what they all referred to as the “Easter Egg,” in every case with a mixture of outrage at what had been done and admiration at how. Only three widely separated lines of code, and it had taken all six of them working together twenty-seven hours to find it. Then had come the really bad news: all six of them, plus Searls, had had access to the raw program. They were, after all, the six senior programmers at the firm, and like people with identical security clearances, each could access it whenever he or she wished, up to the very moment that it left the office on the toaster-disk. In addition, while there were records of access, each of them also had the ability to fiddle the coding on the master computer and either erase the access-time reference or mix it with the others. For that matter, the Easter Egg could have been in there for the months it had taken to perfect the program, so finely crafted it was. Finally, one of them admitted quite freely, any of them could have done it. There were no fingerprints on computer programs. Of greater importance for the moment, there was no way of undoing what Electra-Clerk 2.4.0 had done.

What it had done was sufficiently ghastly that the FBI agents on the case were joking grimly that the advent of sealed thermopane windows in Wall Street office buildings was probably saving thousands of lives. The last identifiable trade had been put up at
12:00:00
, and beginning at
12:00:01
, all the records were gobbledygook. Literally billions—in fact, hundreds of billions of dollars in transactions had disappeared, lost in the computer data records of the Depository Trust Company.

The word had not yet gotten out. The event was still a secret, a tactic first suggested by the senior executives of DTC, and so far approved by both the governors of the Securities and Exchange Commission and the New York Stock Exchange. They'd had to explain the reasons for it to the FBI. In addition to all the money lost in a crash such as had taken place on Friday, there would also have been quite a bit of money made through “puts,” the name for derivative trades used by many brokers as hedges, and a means that allowed profit on a falling market. In addition, every house kept its own records of trades, and therefore, theoretically, it was possible over time to reconstruct everything that had been erased by the Easter Egg. But if word of the DTC disaster got out, it was possible that unscrupulous or merely desperate traders would fiddle their own records. It was unlikely in the case of the larger houses, but virtually inevitable in the case of smaller ones, and such manipulation would be nearly impossible to prove—a classic case of one person's word against another's, the worst sort of criminal evidence. Even the biggest and most honorable trading houses had their miscreants, either real or potential. There was just too much money involved, further complicated by the ethical duty of traders to safeguard the money of their clients.

For that reason, over two hundred agents had visited the offices and homes of the chief executive officers of every trading establishment within a hundred-mile radius of
New York
. It was a feat easier than most had feared, since many of the executives were using their weekend as a frantic work period, and in most cases they cooperated, turning over their own computerized records. It was estimated that 80 percent of the trades that had taken place after
noon
Friday were now in the possession of federal authorities. That was the easy part. The hard part, the agents had just learned, would be to analyze them, to connect the trade made by every house with the corresponding trade of every other. As irony would have it, a programmer from Searls' company had, without prompting, sketched out the minimum requirements for the task: a high-end workstation for every company-set of records, integrated through yet another powerful mainframe no smaller than a Cray Y-MP (there was one at CIA, and three more at NSA, he told them), along with a very slick custom program. There were thousands of traders and institutions, some of whom had executed millions of transactions. The permutations, he'd said to the two agents who were able to keep up with his fast-forward discourse, were probably on the order of ten to the sixteenth power…maybe eighteenth. The latter number, he'd had to explain, was a million cubed, a million times a million times a million. A very large number. Oh, one other thing: they'd better be damned sure that they had the records of every house and every trade or the whole thing could fall apart. Time required to resolve all the trades? He'd been unwilling to speculate on that, which didn't please the agents who had to return to their office in the
Javits
Federal
Office
Building
and explain all this to their boss, who refused even to use his office computer to type letters. The term
Mission
: I
MPOSSIBLE
came to their minds on the short drive back to their offices.

And yet it had to be done. It wasn't just a matter of stock trades, after all. Each transaction had also held a monetary value, real money that had changed electronic hands, moving from one account to another, and though electronic, the complex flow of money had to be accounted for. Until all of the transactions were resolved, the amount of money in the account of every trading house, every institution, every bank, and ultimately every private citizen in
America
—even those who did not play the market—could not be known. In addition to paralyzing Wall Street, the entire American banking system was now frozen in place, a conclusion that had been reached about the time that Air Force One had touched down at Andrews Air Force Base.

“Oh, shit,” commented the Deputy Director in Charge of the New York Field Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. In this he was more articulate than investigators from other federal agencies who were using his northwest-corner office as a conference room. The others mainly just looked at the cheap carpet on the floor and gulped.

The situation had to get worse, and it did. One of the DTC employees told the tale to a neighbor, an attorney, who told someone else, a reporter, who made a few phone calls and drafted a story for The New York Times. That flagship paper called the Secretary of the Treasury who, just back from
Moscow
and not yet briefed on the magnitude of the situation, declined to comment but forgot to ask the Times to demur. Before he could correct that mistake, the story was set up to run.

Secretary of the Treasury Bosley Fiedler practically ran through the tunnel connecting the
Treasury
Building
with the White House. Not a man accustomed to strenuous exercise, he was puffing hard when he made it into the Roosevelt Room, just missing the departure of the Japanese Ambassador.

“What is it, Buzz?” President Durling asked.

Fiedler caught his breath and gave a five-minute summary of what he'd just learned via teleconference with
New York
. “We can't let the markets open,” he concluded. “I mean, they can't open. Nobody can trade. Nobody knows how much money they have. Nobody knows who owns what. And the banks…Mr. President, we have a major problem here. Nothing even remotely like this has ever happened before.”

“Buzz, it's just money, right?” Arnie van Damm asked, wondering why it all had to happen in one day after what had been a rather pleasant few months.

“No, it's not just money.” Heads turned because Ryan was the one who answered the question. “It's confidence. Buzz here wrote a book about that back when I was working for Merrill Lynch.” Perhaps a friendly reference would steady the man down some, he thought.

“Thank you, Jack.” Fiedler sat down and sipped a glass of water. “Use the 1929 crash as an example. What was really lost? The answer in monetary terms is, nothing. A lot of investors lost their shirts, and margin calls made it all worse, but what people don't often grasp is that the money they lost was money already given to others.”

“I don't understand,” Arnie said.

“Nobody really does. It's one of those things that's too simple. In the market people expect complexity, and they forget the forest is made up of individual trees. Every investor who lost money first gave his money to another trader, in return for which he received a stock certificate. He traded money for something of value, but that something of value fell, and that's what the crash was. But the first guy, the guy who gave the certificate and got the money before the crash—notionally he did the smart thing, he didn't lose anything, did he? Therefore the amount of money out in the economy in 1929 did not change at all.”

“Money doesn't just evaporate, Arnie,” Ryan explained. “It goes from one place to another place. It doesn't just go away. The Federal Reserve Bank controls that.” It was clear, however, that van Damm didn't understand.