Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (71 page)

Ryan nodded. “Through SecDef, yes.
Europe
?”

“Nice and quiet, ditto our hemisphere, ditto
Africa
. You know, if the Chinese are just being their usual obnoxious selves, then the only real problem is the
Persian Gulf
—and the truth of the matter is that we've been there and done that, sir. We've told the Saudis that we're not going to back off of them. That word will get to the other side in due course, and it ought to make the other side stop and think before making any plans to go farther. I don't like the UIR thing, but I think we can deal with it.
Iran
is fundamentally unstable; the people in that country want more freedom, and when they get a taste, that country will change. We can ride it out.”

Ryan smiled and poured himself a cup of decaf. “You're getting very confident, Dr. Goodley.”

“You pay me to think. I might as well tell you what's moving around between the ears, boss.”

“Okay, get on with your work and keep me posted. I have to figure a way to reconstitute the Supreme Court today.” Ryan sipped his coffee and waited for Arnie to come in. This job wasn't all that tough, was it? Not when you had a good team working for you.

“I
T
'
S ABOUT SEDUCTION
,”
Clark
said to the shiny new faces in the auditorium, catching Ding's grin in the back of the room and cringing. The training film they'd just watched had gone over the history of six important cases. There were only five prints of the film, and this one was already being rewound for the walk back to the vault. Two of the cases he'd worked himself. One of the agents had been executed in the basement of
2 Dzerzhinskiy Square
after being burned by a KGB mole inside
Langley
. The other had a small farm in the birch country of northern
New Hampshire
, probably still wishing that he could go home- but
Russia
was still
Russia
, and the narrow view their culture took of high treason wasn't an invention of the previous regime. Such people were forever orphans . . .
Clark
turned the page and continued from his notes.

"You will seek out people with problems. You will sympathize with those problems. The people with whom you will work are not perfect. They will all have beefs. Some of them will come to you. You don't have to love them, but you do have to be loyal to them.

"What do I mean by seduction? Everyone in this room has done it once or twice, right? You listen more than you talk. You nod. You agree. Sure, you're smarter than your boss—I know about him, we have the same sort of jerk in our government. I had a boss like that once myself. It's hard to be an honest man in that kind of government, isn't it? You bet, honor really is important.

“When they say that, you know they want money. That's fine,”
Clark
told them. "They never expect as much as they ask for. We have the budget to pay anything they want—but the important thing is getting them on the hook. Once they lose their virginity, people, they can't get it back.

"Your agents, the people you recruit, will get addicted to what they do. It's fun to be a spy. Even the most ideologically pure people you recruit will giggle from time to time because they know something nobody else knows.

"They will all have something wrong with them. The most idealistic ones are often the worst. They experience guilt. They drink. Some might go to their priest, even— I've had that happen to me. Some break the rules for the first time and figure no rules matter anymore. Those kind will start boffing every girl that crosses their path and taking all sorts of chances.

“Handling agents is an art. You are mother, father, priest, and teacher to them. You have to settle them down. You have to tell them to look after their families, and look after their own ass, especially the 'good' ideological recruits. They're dependable for a lot of things, but one of them is to get too much into it. A lot of these agents self-destruct. They can turn into crusaders. Few of the crusaders,”
Clark
went on, "died of old age.

"The agent who wants money is often the most reliable. They don't take too many chances. They want out eventually, so they can live the good life in
Hollywood
and get laid by a starlet or something. Nice thing about agents who work for money—they want to live to spend it. On the other hand, when you need something done in a hurry, when you need somebody to take a risk, you can use a money guy—just be ready to evac him the next day. Sooner or later he'll figure that he's done enough, and demand to be got out.

“What am I telling you? There are no hard and fast rules in this business. You have to use your heads. You have to know about people, how they are, how they act, how they think. You must have genuine empathy with your agents, whether you like them or not. Most you will not like,” he promised them. "You saw the film. Every word was real. Three of those cases ended with a dead agent. One ended with a dead officer. Remember that.

“Okay, you now have a break. Mr. Revell will have you in the next class.”
Clark
assembled his notes and walked to the back of the room while the trainees absorbed the lessons in silence.

“Gee, Mr. C., does that mean seduction is okay?” Ding asked.

“Only when you get paid for it, Domingo.”

A
LL OF
G
ROUP
T
WO
was sick now. It was as though they'd all punched in on some sort of time clock. Within ten hours, they'd all complained of fever and aches—flu symptoms. Some knew, Moudi saw, or certainly suspected what had happened to them. Some of them continued to help the sicker subjects to whom they were assigned. Others called for the army medics to complain, or just sat on the floor in the treatment room and did nothing but savor their own illness in fear that they would become what they saw. Again the conditions of their prior imprisonment and diet worked against them. The hungry and debilitated are more easily controlled than the healthy and well fed. The original group was deteriorating at the expected rate. Their pain grew worse, to the point that their slow writhing lessened because it hurt more to move than to remain still. One seemed very close to death, and Moudi wondered if, as with Benedict Mkusa, this victim's heart was unusually vulnerable to the Ebola Mayinga strain— perhaps this sub-type of the disease had a previously unsuspected affinity for heart tissue? That would have been interesting to learn in the abstract, but he'd gone well beyond the abstract study of the disease.

“We gain nothing by continuing this phase, Moudi,” the director observed, standing beside the younger man and watching the TV monitors. “Next step.”

“As you wish.” Dr. Moudi lifted the phone and spoke for a minute or so.

It took fifteen minutes to get things moving, and then the medical orderlies entered the picture, taking all of the nine members of the second group out of that room, then across the corridor to a second large treatment room, where, on a different set of monitors, the physicians saw that each was assigned a bed and given a medication which, in but a few minutes, had them all asleep. The medics then returned to the original group. Half of them were asleep anyway, and all the others stuporous, unable to resist. The wakeful ones were killed first, with injections of Dilaudid, a powerful synthetic narcotic into whatever vein was the most convenient. The executions took but a few minutes and were, in the end, merciful. The bodies were loaded one by one onto gurneys for transport to the incinerator. Next the mattresses and bedclothes were bundled for burning, leaving only the metal frames of the beds. These, along with the rest of the room, were sprayed with caustic chemicals. The room would be sealed for several days, then sprayed again, and the collective attention of the facility's staff would transfer to Group Two, nine condemned criminals who had proven, or so it would seem, that Ebola Zaire Mayinga could be transmitted through the air.

T
HE HEALTH DEPARTMENT
official took a whole day to arrive, doubtless delayed, Dr. MacGregor suspected, by a pile of paperwork on his desk, a fine dinner, and a night with whatever woman spiced up his daily life. And probably the paperwork was still there on his desk, the Scot told himself.

At least he knew about the proper precautions. The government doctor barely entered the room at all—he had to come an additional, reluctant step so that the door could be closed behind him, but moved no farther than that, standing there, his head tilting and his eyes squinting, the better to observe the patient from two meters away. The lights in the room were turned down so as not to hurt Saleh's eyes. Despite that the discoloration of his skin was obvious. The two hanging units of type-O blood and the morphine drip told the rest, along with the chart, which the government official held in his gloved, trembling hands.

“The antibody tests?” he asked quietly, summoning his official dignity.

“Positive,” MacGregor told him.

The first documented Ebola outbreak—no one knew how far back the disease went, how many jungle villages it might have exterminated a hundred years earlier, for example—had gone through the nearest hospital's staff with frightening speed, to the point that the medical personnel had left the facility in panic. And that, perversely, had helped end the outbreak more rapidly than continued treatment might have done—the victims died, and nobody got close enough to them to catch what they had. African medics now knew what precautions to take. Everyone was masked and gloved, and disinfection procedures were ruthlessly enforced. As casual and careless as many African personnel often were, this was one lesson they'd taken to heart, and with that feeling of safety established, they, like medical personnel all over the world, did the best they could.

For this patient, that was very little use. The chart showed that, too.

“From
Iraq
?
” the official asked.

Dr. MacGregor nodded. “That is what he told me.”

“I must check on that with the proper authorities.”

“Doctor, I have a report to make,” MacGregor insisted. “This is a possible outbreak and—”

“No.” The official shook his head. “Not until we know more. When we make a report, if we do, we must forward all of the necessary information for the alert to be useful.”

“But—”

“But this is my responsibility, and it is my duty to see that the responsibility is properly executed.” He pointed the chart to the patient. His hand wasn't shaking now that he had established his power over the case. “Does he have a family? Who can tell us more about him?”

“I don't know.”

“Let me check that out,” the government doctor said. “Have your people make copies of all records and send them to me at once.” With a stern order given, the health department representative felt as though he had done his duty to his profession and his country.

MacGregor nodded his submission. Moments like this made him hate
Africa
. His country had been here for more than a century. A fellow Scot named Gordon had come to the
Sudan
, fallen in love with it—was the man mad? MacGregor wondered—-and died right in this city 120 years earlier. Then the
Sudan
had become a British protectorate. A regiment of infantry had been raised from this country, and that regiment had fought bravely and well under British officers. But then
Sudan
had been returned to the Sudanese—too quickly, without the time and money spent to create the institutional infrastructure to turn a tribal wasteland into a viable nation. The same story had been told in the same way all over the continent, and the people of
Africa
were still paying the price for that disservice. It was one more thing neither he nor any other European could speak aloud except with one another—and sometimes not even then—for fear of being called a racist. But if he were a racist, then why had he come here?

“You will have them in two hours.”

“Very well.” The official walked out the door. There the head nurse for the unit would take him to the disinfection area, and for that the official would follow orders like a child under the eye of a stern mother.

P
AT
M
ARTIN CAME
in with a well-stuffed briefcase, from which he took fourteen folders, laddering them across the coffee table in alphabetical order. Actually they were labeled A to M, because President Ryan had specifically asked that he not know the names at first.

“You know, I'd feel a lot better if you hadn't given me all this power,” Martin said without looking up.

“Why's that?” Jack asked.

“I'm just a prosecutor, Mr. President. A pretty good one, sure, and now I run the Criminal Division, and that's nice, too, but I'm only—”

“How do you think I feel?” Ryan demanded, then softened his voice. “Nobody since
Washington
has been stuck with this job, and what makes you think I know what I'm supposed to be doing? Hell, I'm not even a lawyer to understand all this stuff without a crib sheet.”

Martin looked up with half a smile. “Okay, I deserved that.”

But Ryan had set the criteria. Before him was a roster of the senior federal judiciary. Each of the fourteen folders gave the professional history of a judge in the United States Court of Appeals, ranging from one in
Boston
to another in
Seattle
. The President had ordered Martin and his people to select judges of no less than ten years' experience, with no less than fifty important written decisions (as distinguished from routine matters like which side won in a liability case), none of which had been overturned by the Supreme Court—or if one or two had been overturned, had been vindicated by a later reversal in Washington.

“This is a good bunch,” Martin said.

“Death penalty?”

“The Constitution specifically provides for that, remember. Fifth Amendment,” Martin quoted from memory: “ 'Nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law.' So with due process, you can take a person's life, but you can only try him once for it. The Court established the criteria for that in a number of cases in the '70s and '80s—guilt trial followed by penalty trial, with the penalty phase dependent upon 'special' circumstances. All of these judges have upheld that rule—with a few exceptions. D here struck down a
Mississippi
case on the basis of mental incompetence. That was a good call, even though the crime was pretty gruesome—the Supreme Court affirmed it without comment or hearing. Sir, the problem with the system is one that nobody can really fix. It's just the nature of law. A lot of legal principles are based on decisions from unusual cases. There's a dictum that hard cases make for bad law. Like that case in England, remember? Two little kids murder a younger kid. What the hell is a judge supposed to do when the defendants are eight years old, definitely guilty of a brutal murder, but only eight years old? What you do then is, you pray some other judge gets stuck with it. Somehow we all try to make cohesive legal doctrine out of that. It's not really possible, but we do it anyway.”