Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (128 page)

“Sure.” Ryan turned away, walking south, just wandering really, toward the big parking garages. He saw a man smoking a cigarette there, a black man about forty, in defiance of the signs that prohibited the vice within sight of this shrine of medical learning. POTUS walked up to him, heedless of the three agents and two soldiers behind him.

“Got a spare?”

“Sure.” The man didn't even look up as he sat on the edge of the brick planter, looking down at the concrete. His left hand held out the pack and a butane lighter at arm's length. By unspoken consent they didn't sit close together.

“Thanks.” Ryan sat down about four feet away from the man, reaching to hand the items back.

“You, too, man?”

“What do you mean?”

“My wife's in there, got the sickness. She work with a family, nanny, like. They're all sick. Now she is, too.”

“My wife's a doc, she's up there with 'em.”

“Ain't gonna matter, man. Ain't gonna matter at all.”

“I know.” Ryan took a long pull and let it out.

“Won't even let me in, say it too dangerous. Takin' my blood, say I gotta stay close, won't let me smoke, won't let me see her. Sweet Jesus, man, how come?”

“If it was you who was sick, and you knew that you might give it to your wife, what would you do?”

He nodded with angry resignation. “I know. The doctor said that. He's right. I know. But that don't make it right.” He paused. “Helps to talk.”

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

“The fuckers did this, like they say on TV, somebody did this. Fuckers gotta pay, man.”

Ryan didn't know what to say then. Somebody else did. It was Andrea Price:

“Mr. President? I have the DCI for you.”

That turned the man's head. He looked at Ryan in the yellow-orange lighting. “You're him.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack answered quietly.

“You say your wife is workin' up there?”

A nod. A sigh. “Yeah, she's been working here for fifteen years. I came in to see her, and see how it is, how it's going. I'm sorry . . .”

“What'd'ya mean?”

“They won't let you in, but they let me in.”

He grimaced. “Guess you gotta see, eh? Tough what happened with your little girl last week. She okay?”

“Yeah, she's fine. At that age, well, you know how it is.”

“Good. Hey, thanks for talking with me.”

“Thanks for the smoke,” the President said, standing and walking to Agent Price. He took the phone. “Ed, it's Jack.”

“Mr. President, we need you back. We have something you need to see,” Ed Foley told him. He wondered how he would explain that the evidence was hanging on the wall of a conference room in CIA Headquarters.

“Give me an hour, Ed.”

“Yes, sir. We're getting it organized now.”

Jack hit the E
ND
switch on the phone and handed it back. “Let's move.”

SNIE

B
EFORE FLYING HOME, EVERYONE
had to be decontaminated. Hopkins had set up a large room with separation of the sexes this time. The water was hot, and stank of chemicals, but the smell gave Ryan a needed sense of safety. Then he donned a new set of greens. He'd worn them before, when he'd attended the births of his children. Happy connotations. No longer, he thought, as he headed for the Suburban for the drive back to Fort McHenry and the helicopter hop back to the White House. At least the shower had enlivened him. It might even last a few hours, POTUS thought, as the VH-3 lifted off and turned southwest. If he were lucky.

I
T WAS THE
most lackluster performance in the history of the National Training Center. The troopers of the 11th Cav and the tankers of the Carolina Guard had blundered about for five hours, barely executing the plans that both had set up. The replay in the Star Wars Room showed cases where tanks had been less than a thousand meters apart and in plain sight, yet hadn't exchanged fire. Nothing had worked on either side, and the simulated engagement had not so much ended as stopped by apathetic consent. Just before midnight, the units formed up for the drive back to their respective laagers, and the senior commanders went to General Diggs's home on the hill.

“Hi, Nick,” Colonel Hamm said.

“Hi, Al,” Colonel Eddington replied, in about the same tone of voice.

“And what the hell was that all about?” Diggs demanded.

“The men are coming a little unglued, sir,” the Guardsman replied first. “We're all worried about our people back home. We're safe here. They're in danger there. I can't blame them for being distracted, General. They're human.”

“Best thing I can say is that our immediate families seem to be safe here, General,” Hamm agreed with his older comrade in arms. “But we all got family back in the world.”

“Okay, gentlemen, we've all had a chance to cry in our beer. I don't like this shit, either, y'hear? But your job is to lead your people, and that means lead, God damn it! In case you two warrior chiefs haven't noticed yet, the whole fuckin' United States Army is tied up in this epidemic—except us! You two colonels want to think about that? Maybe get your people thinking about it? Nobody ever told me soldiering was an easy job, and damned sure command isn't, but it is the job we do, and if you gentlemen can't get it done, well, there are others who can.”

“Sir, that isn't going to work. Ain't nobody to relieve us with,” Hamm pointed out wryly.

“Colonel—”

“The man's right, Diggs,” Eddington said. “Some things are too much. There's an enemy out there we can't fight. Our people'll come around once they have a chance to get used to it, maybe get some good news for a change. Come on, General, you know better. You know history. Those are people out there—yes, soldiers, but people first. They're shook. So am I, Diggs.”

“I also know that there are no bad regiments, only bad colonels,” Diggs retorted, with one of Napoleon's best aphorisms, but he saw that neither man rose to the bait. Jesus, this really was bad.

“H
OW WAS IT
?” van Damm asked.

“Horrible,” Ryan replied. “I saw six or seven people who're going to die. One of 'em's a kid. Cathy says there'll be more of them showing up.”

“How's she doing?”

“Pretty stressed, but okay. She really let a reporter have it.”

“I know, it was on TV,” the chief of staff informed him.

“Already?”

“You were on live.” Arnie managed a smile. “You looked great. Concerned. Sincere as hell. You said nice things about your wife. You even apologized for what she said—really good, boss, especially since she looked wonderful. Dedicated. Intense. Just like a doctor is supposed to be.”

“Arnie, this isn't theater.” Ryan was too tired to be angry. The reviving effects of the shower, disappointingly, had already worn off.

“No, it's leadership. Someday you're going to learn that—shit, maybe not. Just keep goin' like you're goin',” Arnie advised. “You do it without even knowing it, Jack. Don't think about it at all.”

NBC
SHARED THEIR
tape with the whole world. As competitive as the news business was, a consciousness of public responsibility did pervade the profession, and the tape of the President's brief conversation went out an hour later on television sets across the globe.

She'd been right from the first instant, the Prime Minister told herself. He was far out of his depth. He couldn't even stand up straight. His words rambled. He let his wife speak for him—and she was frantic, emotional, weak. America's time as a major power was ending, because the country lacked firm leadership. She didn't know who had caused this plague to happen, but it was easy to guess. It had to be the UIR. Why else had he called them together in western China? With her fleet at sea guarding the approaches to the Persian Gulf, she was doing her part. She was sure she would be rewarded for it in due course.

“Y
OUR
P
RESIDENT IS
distracted,” Zhang said. “Understandably so.”

“Such a great misfortune. You have our deepest sympathy,” the Foreign Minister added. The three, plus the translator, had also just seen the tape.

Adler had been slow in getting the news of the epidemic, but he was up to speed now. He had to set it all aside, however. “Shall we proceed?”

“Does our distant province agree to our compensation demand?” the Foreign Minister asked.

“Unfortunately not. They take the position that the entire incident results from your extended maneuvers. Viewed abstractly, that point of view is not entirely without merit,” the Secretary of State told them in diplo-speak.

“But the situation is not abstract. We are conducting peaceful exercises. One of their pilots saw fit to attack our aircraft, and in the process another of their foolish aviators destroyed an airliner. Who is to say if it was an accident or not?”

“Not an accident?” Adler asked. “What possible purpose could there be for such a thing?”

“Who can say with these bandits?” the Foreign Minister asked in return, stirring the pot a little more.

E
D AND
M
ARY
Pat Foley came in together. Ed was carrying a large rolled poster or something, Jack saw as he sat in the Cabinet Room, still wearing greens with
HOPKINS
stenciled on them. Next came Murray, with Inspector O'Day in his wake. Ryan stood to go to him.

“I owe you, sorry I didn't get to see you sooner.” He took the man's hand.

“That was pretty easy compared to this,” Pat said. “And my little girl was there, too. But, yeah, glad I was there. I won't have any nightmares about that shoot.” He turned. “Oh, hi, Andrea.”

Price smiled for the first time that day. “How's your daughter, Pat?”

“Home with the sitter. They're both okay,” he assured her.

“Mr. President?” It was Goodley. “This is pretty hot.”

“Okay, then shall we get to work? Who starts?”

“I do,” the DCI said. He slid a sheet of paper across the table. “Here.”

Ryan took it and scanned it. It was some sort of official form, and the words were all in French. “What's this?”

“It's the immigration and customs clearance form for an airplane. Check the ID box, top-left corner.”

“HX-NJA. Okay, so?” S
WORDSMAN
asked. His chief of staff sat at his side, keeping his peace. He felt the tension that the executives had brought into the room.

The blowup of Chavez's photo at Mehrabad Airport was actually larger than a poster, and had been printed up mainly as a joke. Mary Pat unrolled it, and laid it flat on the table. Two briefcases were used to keep it from rolling back up. “Check the tail,” the DDO advised.

“HX-NJA. I don't have time for Agatha Christie, people,” the President warned them.

“Mr. President.” This was Dan Murray. "Let me walk you through this, but I'll say up front, that photo is something I could take into court and get a conviction with.

“The customs form identifies a business jet, a Gulf-stream G-IV belonging to this Swiss-based corporation.” A piece of paper went down on the conference table. “Flown by this flight crew.” Two photos and fingerprint cards. “It left Zaire with three passengers. Two were nuns, Sister Jean Baptiste and Sister Maria Magdalena. They were both nurses at a Catholic hospital down there. Sister Jean treated Benedict Mkusa, a little boy who contracted Ebola and died of it. Somehow, Sister Jean caught it, too, and the third passenger, Dr. Mohammed Moudi—we don't have a photo of him yet; we're working on it—decided to fly the sick one to Paris for treatment. Sister Maria tagged along, too. Dr. Moudi is an Iranian national working with the WHO. He told the boss-nun that she might have a chance there and said that he could whistle up a private jet to get her there. With me so far?”

“And this is the jet.”

“Correct, Mr. President. This is the jet. Except for one thing. This jet supposedly crashed into the sea after taking off after a refueling stop in Libya. We have a ton of paperwork about that. Except for one thing.” He tapped the poster again. “That photo was taken by Domingo Chavez—”

“You know him,” Mary Pat put in.

“Go on. When did Ding shoot the frame?”

“Clark and Chavez accompanied Secretary Adler to Tehran, just last week.”

“The aircraft was reported lost some time before that. It was even tracked by one of our destroyers when it squawked emergency. No trace was ever found, however,” Murray went on. “Ed?”

“When Iraq came apart, Iran allowed the senior military leadership to skip. They all had golden parachutes. Our friend Daryaei let them jump out of the airplane. He even provided transport, all right? This started the day after the jet disappeared,” Foley told them. “They were flown to Khartoum, in the Sudan. Our station chief there is Frank Clayton, and he drove to the airport and shot these pictures to confirm our intelligence information.” The DCI slid them across.

“Looks like the same airplane, but what if somebody just played with the numbers—letters, whatever?” Ryan asked.

“Next indicator,” Murray said. “There were two Ebola cases in Khartoum.”

“Clark and Chavez talked to the attending physician a few hours ago,” Mary Pat added.

“Both the patients flew on this airplane. We have photos of them getting off. So,” the FBI Director said, “now, we have an airplane with a sick person aboard. The airplane disappears—but it turns up less than twenty-four hours later somewhere else, and two of the passengers come down with the same illness that the nun had. The passengers came from Iraq, via Iran, to the Sudan.”

“Who owns the airplane?” Arnie asked.

“It's a corporation. We should have further details in a few hours from the Swiss. But the flight crew is Iranian. We have info on them because they learned how to fly over here,” Murray explained. "And, finally, we have our friend Daryaei here on the same airplane. Looks like it's been taken out of international service. Maybe Daryaei is using it to hop around his new country now. So, Mr. President, we have the disease, the airplane, and the owner, all tied up. Tomorrow we'll work with Gulfstream to see if the aircraft has any unique characteristics that we can identify in addition to the registration code. We'll have the Swiss pull info on the ownership and the flight logs for the rest of their fleet.

“We now know who did this, sir,” Murray concluded. “This chain of evidence is hard to beat.”

“There are more details to flesh out,” Mary Pat said. “Background on this Dr. Moudi. Tracking down some monkey shipments—they use monkeys to study the disease. How they staged the faked airplane crash—you believe it? The bastards even made an insurance claim.”

“We're going to suspend this meeting for a moment. Andrea?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Get Secretary Bretano and Admiral Jackson in here.”

“Yes, sir.” She left the room.

Ed Foley waited for the door to close behind her. “Uh, Mr. President?”

“Yeah, Ed?”

“There is one other thing. I haven't even told Dan this yet. We now know that the UIR—really, our friend Mahmoud Haji Daryaei—is behind this. Chavez brought something up before we sent him and John off. The other side could well expect us to trace this back to them. Operational security for something like this is almost impossible to achieve.”

“So?”

“So, two things, Jack. First, whatever they're planning, they may think it's irreversible, and therefore it doesn't matter whether we figure this out or not. Second, let's remember how they knocked off Iraq. They got somebody all the way inside.”

Those were two very big thoughts. Ryan started pondering the first one. Dan Murray's head turned to his roving inspector and they traded looks on the second.

“Christ, Ed,” the FBI Director said a moment later.

“Think it through, Dan,” the DCI said. “We have a President. We have a Senate. We have a third of the House. We do not have a Vice President yet. The presidential succession is still dicey, no really powerful figures, and the top level of the government is still gutted. Toss in this epidemic, which has the whole country tied up in knots. To almost anybody outside, we look weak and vulnerable.”

Ryan looked up as Andrea came back in. “Wait a minute. They made a play for Katie. Why do that if they want me out of the way?”

“What's this?” Price asked.

“The other side has demonstrated a frightening capability. One,” Foley said, “they got all the way into the Iraqi President's security detail and blew him away. Two, the operation last week was run by a sleeper agent who's been here more than a decade, and in that time did nothing at all, but when he woke up, he cared enough to assist in an attempt on a child.”

Murray had to agree with that: “That's occurred to us, too. The Intelligence Division is thinking about it right now.”

“Wait a minute,” Andrea objected. “I know every person on the Detail. For God's sake, we lost five of them defending S
ANDBOX
!”

“Agent Price,” Mary Pat Foley said. “You know how many times CIA's been burned by people we knew all about—people I knew. Hell, I lost three agents to one of those fucking moles. I knew them, and I knew the guy who shopped 'em. Don't tell me about paranoia. We are up against a very capable enemy here. And it only takes one.”