Authors: Tom Clancy,Mark Greaney
Present day
C
lark, Chavez, and Caruso had returned from the action in the Crimea to a capital city rife with protest marches and riots. Political infighting dominated the news, and criminal gangs shot it out with local police in the streets of Kiev.
After reuniting with the rest of their team at the safe-house flat, Igor Kryvov drove Clark to the Fairmont Grand Hotel, where he expected to slip right back into his cover as a disaffected journalist who had decided to put the deluxe room at a five-star hotel on his expense account.
But as soon as he arrived at the front door of the hotel, Clark realized there had been some changes made during his two-day absence.
His first indication that all was not as before came when he was stopped outside the door to the lobby by a uniformed officer from Kiev’s Ministry of Internal Affairs and asked for his passport. Clark handed over his cover credos, and while the stern-faced officer looked at them Clark helpfully mentioned that he was a guest at the Fairmont.
The officer passed back the passport and said, “Not anymore. The hotel is closed.”
Before Clark could respond, a hotel employee appeared, took Clark’s name and room number, and with profuse, embarrassed apologies explained that his luggage would be brought down, but Clark would have to find other arrangements in the city.
Clark responded with confusion and insolence, but only because it fit his cover to do so. In truth, he’d had a look inside the lobby when the employee came out, and he could tell exactly what was going on now. The Seven Strong Men had taken over the entire hotel, and local police and even Ministry of Internal Affairs men were now protecting the building, keeping out anyone who did not belong.
This was an interesting development. To Clark it meant that some portion of the Ukrainian government, at both the local and the state level, was blatantly supporting the actions of Gleb the Scar and the Seven Strong Men.
Clark wondered if an actual coup would be the next step, or if all the supporters of the Russian criminals here in the city planned on just sitting tight and waiting for the Russians to invade and take over the country.
Clark retrieved his luggage from the hotel and then returned to the safe house. He knew he would need to find a new safe house closer to the hotel so they could monitor the comings and goings. It was beginning to look like the Fairmont was ground zero for some sort of an insurrection here in Ukraine, and Clark wanted to be close enough to the action to understand the players and the game.
They spent the evening tracking down potential places to move in the city center. While checking into this, the men dug into a dinner of steaks and salads picked up by Igor at a nearby restaurant. As always, the TV was on Ukraine’s ICTV channel and the volume was up disturbingly high to render any listening devices useless. The six men in the flat had spent the evening tuning out the sounds, but a news story at the top of the eleven p.m. news turned the head of Igor Kryvov first, and then, seconds later, John and Ding, because they understood Russian well enough to decipher the Ukrainian on TV.
Igor translated for the others: “There’s going to be a speech in an hour in front of the Verkhovna Rada building, that’s the parliament building in Constitution Square. The press is going to cover it live. Oksana Zueva will be there.”
“Who’s that?” Driscoll asked.
“She’s the head of the pro-Russian bloc in our parliament. If the nationalists get thrown out of power, she is a lock to become the next prime minister.”
Chavez asked, “She’s that popular?”
Igor shrugged. “Valeri Volodin supports her, so her party gets money and backing in secret from the Russians.”
While they were talking, Gavin, who had been sitting at his desk tracking the GPS transmitters throughout the city, looked up. “Did you say something about Constitution Square?”
Igor said, “Yeah. I was saying that’s where the speech is about to take place.”
Gavin grabbed a notepad off the table and jotted something down, then passed it to Driscoll. He read it, then passed it on to the next man in the room.
When it came to Ding, he read it. “The first vehicle we tagged the other day—designated Target Vehicle Number One—is in Constitution Square right now and stationary. Appears to be parked.”
Ding looked at Dom. Aloud, and for the benefit of any mikes that could pick up his voice over the television, he said, “You know, we really ought to take a camera down to that speech and get some footage.”
Dom quickly cut off a huge bite of his steak. Before he stuck it in his mouth, he said, “Let’s do it. I’ll grab the gear.”
—
F
orty-five minutes later, Chavez and Caruso pulled up to the Verkhovna Rada building, where the national parliament of Ukraine met. It took a while to find a place to park on Constitution Square; the space was by no means packed, but several hundred people were milling about near a riser and a dais in front of the huge neoclassical building, listening to speeches and waiting for the main event.
Dozens of media groups were represented in the crowd, pressed together in a gaggle directly in front of the riser. Ding and Dom took their video camera, checked to make sure their press credentials were hanging around their necks, and headed toward the pack.
They had their Bluetooth earpieces in so they could stay in constant communication with Gavin Biery back in the safe house. Gavin spoke softly when he spoke at all; usually, he did his best to obfuscate his comments in case anyone was able to hear him through the FSB listening devices that were certainly in the safe house.
As they walked toward the riser across the square, Gavin directed the two men to the parking lot where the target vehicle was parked. When they arrived, however, they found the lot was behind a locked gate inside the Verkhovna Rada building itself.
This was interesting, in that even though they couldn’t get close enough to the SUV to learn anything about its owners, it showed them that the guys who had met with Gleb the Scar the other day somehow had the juice to park their ride on Ukrainian government property.
They headed over to the riser and barged through the crowd toward the front as if they were members of an actual media outlet.
There were several politicians present at the made-for-TV rally; some had already spoken, but the headline act was just about to get under way.
The lone female on the riser was Oksana Zueva, and every reporter in attendance was here because of her. Zueva was the leader of the Ukrainian Regional Unity Party, the leading pro-Russian party in the country, and she had not been shy about her interest in running for prime minister in the next election.
Today’s speech was expected to be little more than a list of grievances against the pro-nationalist One Ukraine Party. This declaration against the party in power would bring Oksana even closer to pro-Russians in the east, it would endear her to Moscow, and it would put her well on the way to earning the complete backing of Moscow in the next election, a crucial component to victory.
Although Zueva and her husband had been accused of all sorts of corruption in her time as a powerful parliamentarian, the One Ukraine Party had failed in its attempts to marginalize her or pin any sort of corruption directly on her, and her intelligence as well as her ease in front of the cameras had gone a long way to softening her image, even though the votes she had cast in the building behind her were among the most hard-line in the Ukrainian parliament.
Regardless of one’s politics, though, one had to admit Oksana was a beautiful and striking woman. A fifty-year-old blonde, she usually kept her hair braided in a traditional Ukrainian style, and she wore chic designer clothes that had subtle but unmistakable influences of Ukrainian traditional dress.
While Ding and Dom watched and recorded the event, they had their eyes open for the two men they photographed at the Fairmont getting into the vehicle designated Target One. They scanned the crowd here in the square, but there were a lot of faces in poor light, so they knew that chances were slim they would get lucky and make a positive ID.
While they looked around, Zueva was introduced by one of her party leaders. She rose from her chair and, with a practiced wave and a smile that even managed to charm the two Americans firmly on the side of the opposition to her pro-Russian cause, she began walking to the microphone.
She never made it.
There was a loud crack; many press outlets in attendance would later report it sounded like a car’s backfire, but Dom and Ding knew instantly it was the sound of a high-powered rifle.
Oksana Zueva rocked back on her feet onto the heels of her stilettos, her smile disappeared and a look of confusion was caught in all the cameras, and then she crumpled softly to the carpeted riser, ending up on her back.
Blood appeared on her breasts.
The bouncing echoes of the gunshot across the neoclassical façade of the Verkhovna Rada building made determining the location of the gunshot all but impossible. Security men spun around with their weapons in the air while the dozens of journalists ducked to the ground. The crowd began screaming and shouting and running in all directions.
Ding and Dom dove down on the ground like all the journalists and spectators around them, but their eyes scanned the area, and they tried to determine the direction from which the gunshot had come by the location of the wound on the woman’s chest.
They focused on the park to the west on the other side of Grushevsky Street.
They leapt to their feet and ran toward their car across the square, but by the time they began driving in the direction of the park, traffic had ground to a halt as police began setting up roadblocks.
Chavez slammed his hand onto the steering wheel in frustration.
Caruso spoke into his headset: “Gavin. Target One. Is the vehicle moving?”
There was a pause. “Yes. It’s heading west through the park.”
Chavez looked at the roadblock ahead. The SUV with the slap-on was already on the other side, and it would be long gone by the time they got through.
“Shit. They are gone.”
Dom said, “I don’t get it. Gleb the Scar is here working on behalf of the Russians, right?”
“It sure as hell seems that way. He’s working as a proxy for the FSB.”
“But that woman who just got assassinated was Russia’s favorite politician in Ukraine. Why the hell would Russia be involved with her death?”
Ding would have answered the question, had Dom not answered it himself.
Dom said, “Of course, if the head of the pro-Russian party gets whacked, all the blame is going to go on the pro-nationalists.”
“Yep,” Chavez said. “It’s going to increase the fighting between the two sides. And who the fuck do you think is going to come in and restore order?”
Caruso whistled softly. “Shit, Ding. If the Kremlin killed their own politician in Kiev, that’s pretty cold-blooded.”
They peeled out of the line of cars and turned in the opposite direction. There was no point in trying to track the tagged vehicle now; they could pick up surveillance on it at any time.
Thirty years earlier
C
IA analyst Jack Ryan found himself once again in the plush office of the director general of MI6, Sir Basil Charleston. It was late afternoon, the day after Jack called David Penright in Zug to let him know the CIA was unable to find any alternative motive for the murder of Tobias Gabler. Ryan assumed Basil would have spoken directly to CIA director Judge Arthur Moore today, because Greer had mentioned CIA was going to formally ask SIS to make the source in the Swiss bank bilateral.
Now Jack was up here in Basil’s office, and since Jack was the CIA liaison, he assumed he was about to find out just how involved the United States was going to be with the asset in Ritzmann Privatbankiers.
“Well, now,” Charleston said. “I have spoken to your directors in Langley, and they are quite insistent that they be more involved in the situation developing in Switzerland. I have agreed to this.”
Before Ryan could respond, Basil said, “Our agent in Ritzmann Privatbankiers is code-named Morningstar. He is an executive with the bank, and, therefore, he has access to a wide range of information about both the accounts and the clients.”
Well,
Ryan thought. This day was gearing up to be an interesting one.
Basil went on to tell Ryan much of the same information that Ryan had heard from Penright a few evenings earlier: that it looked much like the KGB was somewhat recklessly hunting for a large amount of stolen money stashed in a numbered account at RPB.
After listening to Basil outline the situation, Jack said, “I assume CIA offered something in return for this prize.”
Charleston raised an eyebrow. “They did not tell you?”
Jack cocked his head. “Tell me what?”
“They offered you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. We will be sending you to Switzerland straightaway.”
Ryan sat up straighter. “To do
what
, exactly?”
“We’d like you to go to Zug and to support Penright in the field. He will be getting more account information out of our source in the bank: account numbers, wire-transfer information, information about the trusts and public foundations used to set up the shell corporation involved with the large account. Obviously, this intelligence will need to be quite carefully researched, but I’ve agreed to have a representative of the CIA there, and on-site, in order to send anything of interest back to Langley as soon as we get it. CIA will, in return, provide support to exploit the intelligence.”
Jack said, “This is happening very fast.”
“Indeed. This is a very fluid situation.”
“Fluid in the sense that your source might not last long in his position?”
“Sadly, yes, although David’s job is to keep the man safe.”
“How long have you been running Morningstar?”
“He came to us the day after those KGB men sat down in his office and threatened him.”
“He was a walk-in?”
“Yes. He doesn’t like his bank working with the Russians, and the personal threats were enough to send him over to the other side, as it were.”
“So he’s so new, you really haven’t exploited him as an asset yet.”
“We have received nothing from him other than the client and employee list we’ve already shared with you. As I said, he will be delivering more records of the account. It is our hope that we can somehow shield him from whatever is going on, so we can exploit his intel in the future. But for now, he needs our help.”
Basil put his hand on Jack’s knee. “Will you go?”
Jack did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked out the window at the Thames for a moment.
Charleston noted the hesitation. “I know you aren’t a banker.”
“It’s not that I’m not a banker, it’s that I’m not a field operative.”
“Jack, you were brilliant in Rome, and you were beyond brilliant last year dealing with the Northern Irish terrorists. You may be an analyst, but you are more than capable. Besides, you will be based in our safe house there. I haven’t seen it myself, but I am certain it is quite secure and quite comfortable.”
Jack knew he was going to say yes. He always said yes when asked.
“When do I leave?”
Charleston said, “I’d like to have a driver run you home and pack a bag right now.”
“But . . . Cathy. I need to talk to Cathy.”
Sir Basil winced. “Yes, of course. My apologies. I am accustomed to directing field men like Penright. They can go anywhere with a snap of the fingers.”
“That’s not me, Basil. I’m a team player, but I’ve got a team at home, too.”
Charleston nodded. “Of course you do. Let’s send you off tomorrow. Talk to Lady Caroline this evening and come in with a bag in the morning.”
Jack realized that if he was being instructed to show up with bags packed tomorrow, he would not be
asking
Cathy anything tonight.
—
M
r. and Mrs. Ryan met in Victoria Station and took the 6:10 train back to Chatham. Jack did not mention his impending trip to Switzerland, even when Cathy asked him about his day, and he wondered if he would catch hell for that when he got home. But he knew a public train was no place to tell his wife MI6 and CIA were jointly sending him on a secret mission.
On the way home from the train station, Jack suggested they stop at a Chinese restaurant for carryout. Cathy loved the idea; she had spent several hours in surgery today, and the thought of going home and sitting down to an already prepared meal put her in a great mood.
This, of course, was Jack’s plan.
They ate dinner and played with the kids, and then, only when Sally and Jack Junior were sound asleep, did Jack ask Cathy to sit down on the sofa in the living room.
Cathy saw the two glasses of red wine on the coffee table in front of the couch, and she tensed up instantly.
“Where are you going, and for how long?”
“Well . . .”
“You can’t tell me where. I get it. But for how long?”
“Honey, I don’t know. A few days, at least.”
Cathy sat down, and Jack saw a change come over her. She could be playful, she could be loving, she could be matronly. But when things got serious, Cathy had a tendency to flip a switch and go very businesslike, almost dispassionate. Jack was certain it came from her work as a surgeon. She was able to distance herself from a problem in order to, if not solve it, at least deal with it.
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
“It’s sort of an emergency. I wish I could tell you more details, but—”
“You are leaving
tomorrow
? Just like that?”
Sometimes Jack wondered if he only needed to think something for Cathy to know it. She was intuitive like no one he’d ever met.
“Yes. I’m being sent by Greer and Charleston.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Both the CIA and SIS. Is it going to be dangerous?”
“No. Not at all.”
Cathy said, “Last time you went away for a couple of days, you told me the same thing. When you came back you admitted you got more than you bargained for. Have you forgotten, have Greer and Charleston forgotten, that your job description describes you as an analyst?”
“I am an analyst. I will be going to a house in a friendly Western nation, and there I will be looking over reports.”
“But you can’t do that from Century House?”
Jack shrugged, not sure what he could say. After a moment, he said, “There is an urgency to this. We need someone on the ground there to look over the information, to evaluate it, and to send it on to Langley and London.”
“Why the rush?”
Jack could see it in Cathy’s eyes. She’d already gotten more information out of him than he’d wanted to provide, and now she was hunting for more.
His wife would have been one hell of a spy.
He said, “Everything will be okay. I have to go, but I promise you I won’t be away one minute longer than I have to be.”
He kissed her, and soon she kissed him back.
Jack apologized profusely, but he had to go upstairs to the den and make a call to Switzerland on the STU. He kissed her again, and left her sitting there on the couch.
Cathy sat with her wine. She wasn’t happy. Although her husband had proven that he was able to handle himself in dangerous situations, he had never gone through the Farm, the CIA training facility for operations personnel.
She knew he would do his best, and he would do all he could to come home to his family, but there were dangers out there that he could not seem to turn away from.
And more than anything else, Cathy Ryan simply did not understand why Jack—a husband, a father, a historian, and a desk analyst—had somehow turned into a spy.