Том Клэнси - The Teeth of the Tiger

RYAN THOUGHTabout a nightcap at the bar, but on reflection decided against it and walked out. There was somebody there already, and he got in the elevator first. There was a casual meeting of the eyes, as Ryan moved to punch the 3 button but saw it already lighted. So, this well-dressed Brit – he looked like a Brit – was on his floor . . .

. . . wasn’t that interesting . . ?

It took only a few seconds for the car to stop and the door to open.

The Excelsior is not a tall hotel, but it is an expansive one, and it was a lengthy walk, and the elevator man was heading in the right direction, Ryan slowed his pace to follow from a greater distance, and sure enough, he passed Jack’s room and kept going, one . . . two . . . and at the third door he stopped and turned. Then he looked back at Ryan, wondering, perhaps, if he was being tailed. But Jack stopped and fished out his own key, then, looking down at the other man, in the casual, stranger-to-stranger voice that all men know, said, “G’nite.”

“And to you, sir,” was the reply in well-educated English English.

Jack walked into the room, thinking he’d heard that accent before . . . like the Brit diplomats whom he’d met in the White House, or on trips to London with his dad. It was either the speech of someone to the manor born, or who planned to buy his own when the time came and who’d banked enough pounds sterling to pretend to be a Peer of the Realm. He had the peaches-and-cream skin of a Brit, and the upper-class accent–

–and he was checked in under the name of Nigel Hawkins.

“And I got one of your e-mails, pal,” Jack whispered to the rug. “Son of a bitch.”

IT TOOKalmost an hour to navigate through the streets of Rome, whose city fathers may not have been married to the city mothers, and none of whom had known shit about city planning, Brian thought, working to find a way to Via Vittorio Veneto. Eventually, he knew they were close when he passed through what may once have been a gate in the city walls designed to keep Hannibal Barca out, but then a left and a right, and they learned that in Rome streets with the same name do not always go straight, which necessitated a circle on the Palazzo Margherita to return back to the Hotel Excelsior, where Dominic decided he’d had quite enough driving for the next few days. Within three minutes, their bags were out of the trunk and they were at the reception desk.

“You have a message to call Signor Ryan when you get in. Your rooms are just next to his,” the clerk told them, then he waved at the bellman, who guided them to the elevator.

“Long drive, man,” Brian said, leaning back against the paneled walls.

“Tell me about it,” Dominic agreed.

“I mean, I know you like fast cars and fast women, but next time how about a damned airliner? Maybe you can score with a stew, y’know?”

“You friggin’ jarhead.” Followed by a yawn.

“This way, signori,” the bellman suggested, with a wave of his arm.

“The message at the desk, where is he?”

“Signor Ryan? He is right here.” The bellman pointed.

“That’s convenient,” Dominic thought aloud, until he remembered something else. He let himself get moved in, and the connecting door to Brian’s room opened, and he gave the bellman a generous tip. Then he took the message slip out of his pocket and called.

“HELLO?”

“We’re right next door, ace. What’s shaking?” Brian asked.

“Two rooms?”

“Roger that.”

“Guess who’s just down from you?”

“Tell me.”

“A British guy, a Mr. Nigel Hawkins,” Jack told his cousin, and waited for the shock to subside. “Let’s talk.”

“Come right on over, Junior.”

That took no more time than Jack needed to slip into his loafers.

“Enjoy the drive?” Jack asked.

Dominic had poured his minibar wine into a glass. There wasn’t much left. “It was long.”

“You did all the driving?”

“Hey, I wanted to get here alive, man.”

“You turkey,” Brian snarled. “He thinks driving a Porsche is like sex, except better.”

“It is if you have the right technique, but even sex can wear a man out. Okay.” Dominic set his glass down. “Did you say . . ?”

“Yeah, right there.” Jack pointed at the wall. And moved his hand to his eyes. I’ve seen the mutt. The reply was just nods. “Well, you guys get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow, and we can think about our appointment. Cool?”

“Very cool,” Brian agreed. “Ring us up about nine, okay?”

“You bet. Later.” And Jack headed for the door. Soon thereafter, he was back on his computer. And then it hit him. He wasn’t the only guy here with one of those, was he? That might be valuable . . .

EIGHT O’CLOCKcame earlier than it should have. Mohammed was up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and on his machine checking his e-mail. Mahmoud was in Rome as well, having arrived the previous night, and near the top of 56MoHa’s mailbox was a letter from Gadfly097, requesting a meeting site. Mohammed thought about that and then decided to exercise his sense of humor.

RISTORANTE GIOVANNI, PIAZZA DI SPAGNA, he replied: 13:30. BE CAREFUL IN YOUR ROUTINE. By which he meant to employ countersurveillance measures. There was no definite reason to suspect foul play in the loss of three field personnel, but he hadn’t lived to the age of thirty-one in the business of intelligence by being foolish. He had the ability to tell the harmless from the dangerous, he thought. He’d gotten David Greengold six weeks earlier, because the Jew hadn’t seen the False Flag play even when it bit him on the ass – well, the back of the neck, Mohammed thought with a lowercase smile, remembering the moment. Maybe he should start carrying the knife again, just for good luck. Many men in his line of work believed in luck, as a sportsman or athlete might. Perhaps the Emir had been right. Killing the Mossad officer had been a gratuitously unnecessary risk, since it courted enemies. The Organization had enough of those, even if the enemies did not know who and what the organization was. Better that they should be a mere shadow to the infidels . . . a shadow in a darkened room, unseen and unknown. Mossad was hated by his colleagues, but it was hated because it was feared. The Jews were formidable. They were vicious, and they were endlessly clever. And who could say what knowledge they had, what Arab traitors bought with American money for Jewish ends. There was not a hint of treachery in the Organization, but he remembered the words of the Russian KGB officer Yuriy: Treason is only possible from those whom you trust. It had probably been a mistake to kill the Russian so quickly. He’d been an experienced field officer who’d operated most of his career in Europe and America, and there’d probably been no end to the stories he could have told, each of them with a lesson to be learned. Mohammed remembered talking to him and remembered being impressed with the breadth of his experience and judgment. Instinct was nice to have, but instinct often merely mimicked mental illness in its rampant paranoia. Yuriy had explained in considerable detail how to judge people, and how to tell a professional from a harmless civilian. He could have told many more stories, except for the 9mm bullet he’d gotten in the back of the head. It had also violated the Prophet’s strict and admirable rules of hospitality. If a man eat your salt, even though he be an infidel, he will have the safety of your house. Well, the Emir was the one who’d violated that rule, saying lamely that he’d been an atheist and therefore beyond the law.

But he’d learned a few lessons, anyway. All his e-mails were encrypted on the best such program there was, individually keyed to his own computer, and therefore beyond anyone’s capacity to read except himself. So, his communications were secure. He hardly looked Arab. He didn’t sound Arabic. He didn’t dress Arabic. Every hotel he stayed at knew that he drank alcohol, and such places knew that Muslims did not drink. So, he ought be completely safe. Well, yes, the Mossad knew that someone like him had killed that Greengold pig, but he didn’t think they’d ever gotten a photo of him, and unless he’d been betrayed by the man whom he’d hired to fool the Jew, they had no idea of who and what he was. Yuriy had warned him that you could never know everything, but also that being overly paranoid could alert a casual tail as to what he was, because professional intelligence officers knew tricks that no one else would ever use – and they could be seen to use them from careful observation. It was all like a big wheel, always turning, always coming back to the same place and moving on in the same way, never still, but never moving off its primary path. A great wheel . . . and he was just a cog, and whether his function was to help it move or make it slow down, he didn’t really know.