Tom Clancy - Command Authority

Midas saw the problem. From the Belarussian border down to the Crimea, he had only eighteen teams to cover about thirty-five possible attack vectors the Russians could be using. It was impossible to man them all, and although the Ukrainian Army was out there on the ground, their technology wasn’t giving them the punch in this fight they needed, considering their smaller strength and subpar training.

What Midas needed was another team to fire the laser. He looked down at the controller. “You talk to Ukrainian SF? They got anybody who knows how to do this?”

“Negative, sir. Their equipment is their equipment, and they are all deployed.”

He’d been told in no uncertain terms not to use the Rangers on base for forward operations. There simply weren’t enough men to protect the American helos and the JOC and also task them with operating the SOFLAM.

Midas thought it over. “Okay. Send the Kiowa, Black Wolf Two Six, and any Reapers that are in range.”

“That’s not going to be enough Hellfires to stop that attack.”

“I know. They’ll have to do a hit-and-run, try to slow them down tonight to buy some time for the Ukrainians to get their shit together and rush some tanks over there by morning.”

“You got it, boss,” said the controller, and he reached for his walkie-talkie.

Malcolm Galbraith was not a pleasant man.

Ryan had learned enough about the seventy-year-old Scottish billionaire in the past few months to know that although he’d had the misfortune of losing ten billion U.S. dollars when his company was stolen out from under him in Russia, he retained a personal net worth somewhere north of five billion.

The Galbraith Rossiya scandal hadn’t exactly left him homeless, either. His main residence was a restored eighteenth-century castle in the Scottish village of Juniper Green, and he possessed homes all over Europe, as well as yachts, private jets, and two state-of-the-art Eurocopters.

But wealth had not bought him happiness—this was clear to Ryan the moment he met the man face-to-face in Galbraith’s private office in his Juniper Green castle.

Ryan was unable to detect anything but sourness and mistrust in his demeanor, and he hadn’t even told Galbraith the bad news yet.

Ryan had asked for the surprise meeting this morning and the request had been granted immediately, even though he had requested discretion and that the conversation be between just the two of them. Jack arrived alone—Sam and Dom had driven him in a rental car and dropped him off at the front gate; then they pulled up the street within sight of the gate and kept the car running.

Jack had expected a robust security force here protecting the man—he was, after all, worth more than the GDP of some small nations—but there had been only a couple of uniformed men at the gate and a rent-a-cop driving around in the golf cart that ran him up the driveway, and here inside the building he was shown into Galbraith’s study by a well-dressed man who may or may not have been carrying a weapon under his suit.

But that was it. Even the man’s dogs were corgis. Not rottweilers or Dobermans or German shepherds.

It occurred to Ryan that a man who was considering legal action against the Russian government might want to take a few more measures to keep his person secure.

There was a lot about Galbraith that Jack found odd. Jack had not been offered coffee or tea when he arrived, which he suspected was a major breach of protocol for a business meeting in a castle. And when Galbraith himself stepped into the room, Jack was surprised to see the man wearing faded blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt that looked like he’d used it to clean axle grease off his hands.

Galbraith walked past Ryan, who had his hand extended, and then sat behind his desk, put his elbows on it, and asked, “So, what are we going to talk about?”

Either the man didn’t know Ryan was the President’s son, or else he didn’t give a damn. It was just as well for Ryan that the man hadn’t offered to shake hands. Ryan was not overly meticulous about his appearance, but Galbraith’s body odor was extreme.

Ryan sat back down in the chair. “Mr. Galbraith, as I explained to your secretary, I have been working on your case for Castor and Boyle for the past few months.”

No response, so Ryan continued. “It’s been a difficult maze, and the illegal raiding tactic used by the government against you makes it almost impossible to identify anyone in the private sector who is culpable.”

“So Hugh Castor has been telling me for nearly half a year.”

“Yes. But I decided to dig a little deeper into other transactions made by some of the same corporate entities that were involved in the auction of your assets, and by doing this, I have identified a company that benefited from the sale of Galbraith Rossiya Energy.”

The seventy-year-old let out an annoyed grunt. “So have I. Gazprom. Why the fuck am I paying you to tell me something I already know?”

Jack took a deep breath. “No, sir. Another company. A smaller company that seems like it was only set up to receive a payoff from the proceeds of the sale.”

“A shell company?”

“Yes, but I know who is on the board of directors. Are you familiar with a man named Dmitri Nesterov?”

He shook his head. “Who is he?”

“I am told he is affiliated with the FSB.”

Galbraith shrugged like that was no surprise. “And how much did he get?”

“As far as I can tell, Mr. Galbraith, he got all of it. One-point-two billion U.S.”

Galbraith leaned forward over his heavy desk now. “Hugh Castor hasn’t told me a word of this. How is it you have all the answers?”

“It’s a complicated scheme, and uncovering it involved some… some tactics that Castor and Boyle does not fully support.”

“And that is why you are here and not your boss?”

Jack nodded. “I have identified the bank where Nesterov’s Antigua-based bank launders money in Europe.”

“Where is this bank?”

“It’s in Zug, Switzerland.”

Galbraith immediately said, “Let me guess. RPB?”

Jack was astonished. There had to have been a dozen banks in Zug. “That’s a good guess.”

Galbraith waved away the compliment. “Lot of dirty money at RPB. Dirty, old money. Dirty, old Russian money.”

Jack cocked his head. “I have to ask. How do you know that?”

With a shrug, the Scotsman said, “There’s a bit of old Scot money there as well.”

“You have accounts at RPB?”

“Nothing I want to talk about. Not even to some kid who sneaks up here, hiding from his boss, to try to shake me down for a cut.”

“A cut? A cut of what ?”

“I know your type. Seen a hundred like you, I have… What did you say your name was?”

So this guy didn’t know him. Jack found himself surprised, but pleasantly so. He just said, “Jack.”

Galbraith chuckled, but it was an angry sound. “Okay, Jack. Let me have a go at it. Your boss doesn’t give me what I want, so here you come, young, hungry, with a story about how you just want what’s best for my company and my bottom line, and if I’ll cut you in a wee bit we can do a go-around on your boss and your company and you can recover me assets. What’s the pitch? Computer hacking? One look at you and I think it’s computer hacking. You can steal my money back or work as a go-between in the middle between me and the Russian mob. Only catch is I slip ten percent of the return to you, paid into your account in BVI or Luxembourg or Singapore. Right? How did I do? Nail on the head?” He stood up, ready to end the meeting.

“Look, Malcolm,” Jack said, keeping his seat while the lord of the castle stood there. Jack had given up on polite and respectful. “I don’t want one pence of your fucking money. Yesterday, a bunch of Russian mafia goons tried to fucking kill me for what I know about your shitty business, so I am trying to get answers.”