Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

Logan shrugged. “Done. We can keep each ship’s data for a week, then dump it. That should be long enough, shouldn’t it? No, scratch that. Make it a month’s worth, just in case. If a boat goes down again, I want that video evidence available to assist in the investigation and capture.”

Nunn typed notes into her tablet. “My team will take point on the technical side and make the necessary purchases.” She turned to Admiral Gannon. “And we’ll coordinate with your people to set up the install schedule and the rest of the details, if that works for you.”

Gannon nodded. “Done.”

Logan frowned. “I don’t want this to take six months or even six weeks. I want it done in the next thirty days, at most. Even sooner, if possible. I don’t care if you gotta fly your tech people out to Timbuktu to get these things put on, I want it done pronto. Am I clear?”

Nunn and Gannon nodded.

Logan turned his withering gaze toward Kyle Reicher, former Army major, 75th Ranger Regiment, and head of his security division.

“Kyle, I want you to start thinking about how we’re going to put at least three of your best people on each of our ships, each team member doing eight-hour shifts. We also need to talk about what security measures you can come up with.” Logan smiled. “And so as not to play footsie with you, I mean kinetic measures: anti-air, anti-sea, anti-pirate, anti-sumbitch. Any goat-humpin’ muttonhead gets over, on, under, or near one of my boats, I want a 5.56 round shot through his damn skull or a Stinger shoved up his exhaust pipe.”

“I have a few ideas, Buck, but we’re a little shorthanded at the moment. Our operations in Africa—”

“To hell with our operations in Africa. Unless doing so puts our guys or any of the people in our care at risk, I want you to strip away everyone and everything that isn’t nailed down over there and get it deployed to where it really matters. Understood?”

“HUA, sir.” Heard, understood, acknowledged.

—

The emergency meeting went on like that for another hour.

Werley was damned impressed by Logan’s command of the facts, and his determination to get ahead of this thing. Logan was pushing hard. It would be a hell of a test for whoever was out there sinking his ships to stand up to the effort Buck was putting into this. He could imagine Buck as a young tight end at the academy trying to smash his way across the goal line on a fourth and goal play against overwhelming odds.

He’d always been impressed with Buck Logan, and that’s why he left government service to join his organization—well, that, and a mid-six-figure salary plus stock options. But today Buck really showed his stuff. Werley thought he would have made a fine admiral or Marine general. He even seemed presidential in this moment of crisis. Who knows? If Buck had gone into military service, it would have been the perfect platform for a presidential bid, much like the twelve previous presidents who achieved general’s rank before reaching the White House. Werley had even heard rumors among the old hands at White Mountain that that was the plan old Scooter had made for his son.

It was a crying shame. Buck Logan might have pulled it off. So much potential cut short, and so early. How does he even live with that? Werley wondered.

No matter. He needed to touch base with his old boss, DNI Foley, and fill her in on today’s events. Buck didn’t need to be informed he’d be making that call but Werley knew the man was smart enough to know it would probably happen. He’d let her know that Buck was doing his part to win this war—or whatever the hell it was.

27

BARCELONA, SPAIN

Getting into Ryan’s apartment cost Bykov a hundred euros, but it was worth it. The Guatemalan maid cleaned several Airbnbs in the Barceloneta neighborhood. He had bribed her before for just fifty, but she got smart and decided he could afford double. She also threw in a quick roll in the sheets of the place she was cleaning when he came to pick up the keys, and that alone was worth the hundred. Besides, it was Guzmán’s money, not his. So really, it was a freebie for him.

Ryan’s apartment building had its own front door lock, and then the third-floor apartment had yet another keyed lock. Bykov could have picked them both but it was daylight and the cops in the city were on edge with the rumor of another mass protest in the afternoon. More than three hundred thousand people were expected to rally at the old post office across from the marina where the big, multimillion-dollar yachts were crowded into their berths.

Besides the blue-and-white Mossos d’Esquadra cars cruising the neighborhood, a storefront police station was just around the corner with a couple of official Vespas parked out front.

Bykov slipped a white paper mask over his face and pulled on a black Nike ball cap as he charged up the narrow, twisting marble staircase, two steps at a time. This was a working-class neighborhood so nobody should be home. If there were other Airbnbs in the building he might bump into a curious tourist and he didn’t want to reveal his face or he’d have to kill them and dispose of the body.

A real pain the ass.

It was easier to wear a mask.

More important, if Ryan was some kind of an agent or operator, he might have a camera planted in his place for security. It would be a disaster if Ryan uncovered his identity—the opposite result of what Bykov was attempting today.

Standing in the postage-stamp-size hallway next to the shoulder-wide miniature elevator, Bykov got to work. The heavy door lock chunked open with a twist of the big brass skeleton key and Bykov slipped in, pushing open the thick wooden door with his big hands gloved in latex.

Inside, he glanced around the small kitchen and living area on the bottom floor of the two-story unit. His practiced eyes searched for any small portable video cameras that might have planted but he saw nothing.

Bykov checked his watch. His hired lookout had eyes on Ryan, who was with the CNI agent at a restaurant in the Jewish Quarter. He was instructed to call Bykov as soon as Ryan left. Even if Ryan grabbed a taxi it would take him at least twenty minutes to get back here, and closer to thirty if he walked. That was more than enough time to get the job done. He set the alarm on his watch for twenty minutes and got to work.

The kitchen counter was within arm’s reach of the front door. Ryan kept a clean place. A few dishes, glasses, and cups were washed and neatly stacked on the counter. Too bad. Those would have been a good source for the DNA samples and fingerprints he was looking for.

However, it was doubtful Ryan did a thorough cleaning of the kitchen, and the stainless-steel faucet would still be covered in fingerprints. He removed a latent-fingerprint-lifting sheet from his coat pocket, peeled off the protective paper, and pressed it against the knobs, but the decorative plastic surfaces were too uneven to pick anything up. He crumpled up that film sheet and stuck it into his back pocket, then pulled out a fresh one and pressed it against the smooth stainless steel of the long spout. He pulled it off and examined it. There were fragments of prints, at best. Nothing usable. Damn it.

He saw a closed laptop on the small kitchen table. Unless Ryan was OCD, he wouldn’t have cleaned the keyboard. That was the jackpot he was looking for.

If Ryan was an operator, there was every chance his laptop was designed to engage the onboard camera and record whoever was using it. The only problem with that kind of security system was that it depended on a total idiot to open the laptop all the way—and Bykov was no idiot.

The Russian mercenary lifted the laptop lid just enough to be able to access the keyboard, but not enough to take the laptop out of sleep mode and activate the camera. He was also careful not to move the device at all, or anything else in the apartment, for that matter, since Ryan might have used some kind of security app like Photo Trap, which overlaid “before” photos with a live photo of any object to determine if it had been moved. Bykov used Photo Trap himself when he traveled.