Tom Clancy - Command Authority

Ryan started his post-military life at Merrill Lynch, where he made a small fortune in the markets. After a few years of this, he decided to go back to school; he earned his doctorate in history, and then, after teaching for a while at the Naval Academy, he’d gone to work for the CIA.

In just thirty-two years Jack Ryan had experienced more than the average man does in a lifetime. As he stood under the hot water he smiled, taking comfort in the certainty that his next thirty-two years wouldn’t be nearly as eventful. As far as he was concerned, watching his kids grow up was all the excitement he’d ever need.

By the time Jack and Cathy were ready to leave for work, the nanny had arrived. She was a young South African redhead named Margaret, and she immediately began her workday by wiping jam from Sally’s face with one hand while holding Junior in her other.

The taxi honked out on the street, so Jack and Cathy gave the kids one last hug and kiss, and then they headed out the door into what now had devolved into a heavy mist.

Ten minutes later they were in the train station in Chatham. They climbed aboard the train to London, sat in a first-class cabin, and read most of the way.

They parted in Victoria Station with a good-bye kiss, and by ten till nine Jack was walking along under his umbrella on Westminster Bridge Road.

Although Jack was officially an employee of the U.S. embassy, in truth he almost never set foot in the embassy. Instead, he worked at Century House, 100 Westminster Bridge Road, the offices of the Secret Intelligence Service.

Ryan had been sent over by his boss at the CIA, Director of Intelligence Admiral James Greer, to serve as a liaison between the two friendly services. He was assigned to Simon Harding and his Russian Working Group, and here Ryan pored through any and all intelligence MI6 wanted shared with the CIA relating to the USSR.

Although he knew they had every right to protect their sources and methods, even from the United States, Jack considered the Brits to be somewhat stingy with their information. More than once he found himself wondering if his counterpart SIS analyst working at Langley came across some of the same roadblocks when trying to get information out of the CIA. He had come to the conclusion that his own service was probably even more tightfisted. Still, the arrangement seemed to work well enough for both nations.

Just before ten a.m., the phone on Ryan’s desk rang. He was engrossed in a report on Russia’s Kilo-class submarines stationed in Paldiski, Estonia, so he reached for the handset distractedly.

“This is Ryan.”

“Good morning, Jack.” It was Sir Basil Charleston himself, director general of the Secret Intelligence Service.

Ryan sat up straighter and put the dot-matrix printout he’d been reading down on the blotter in front of him. “Morning, Basil.”

“I was wondering if I could borrow you away from Simon for a few minutes. Would you be so good as to pop round?”

“Now? Sure. I’ll be right up.”

“Splendid.”

Ryan took the executive elevator to Sir Basil’s corner office on the top floor. When he walked in, he saw the director of the Secret Intelligence Service standing by a window that overlooked the Thames. He was talking to a blond man about Jack’s age who wore an expensive-looking charcoal-gray pin-striped suit.

“Oh, hello, Jack. There you are,” said Basil. “I’d like to introduce you to David Penright.”

The two men shook hands. Penright’s blond hair was slicked back, and his sharp blue eyes stood out on his clean-shaven face.

“Sir John, it’s a pleasure.”

“Please, call me Jack.”

Basil said, “Jack is a little self-conscious about his knighthood.”

“ Honorary knighthood,” Ryan hastened to add.

Penright said with a smile, “I see what you mean. Very well. Jack it is.”

The three men sat in chairs around a coffee table, and a tea service was brought in.

Charleston said, “David is an operational officer, based in Zurich, mostly, aren’t you, David?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tough post,” Ryan joked with a smile. Neither of the two men smiled back.

Oops, Jack thought.

On the coffee table next to the service was that morning’s copy of The Times of London. Penright picked it up. “Have you had a chance to look over the paper?”

“I get the International Tribune . I glanced at it.”

“Did you see the article about the dreadful affair in Switzerland yesterday afternoon?”

“In Zug, you mean? Pretty awful. A man was killed, some others were wounded. The paper says it didn’t look like robbery, since nothing was taken.”

Penright said, “The man’s name was Tobias Gabler. He was killed not in Zug, but in a nearby burg called Rotkreuz.”

“Right. He was a banker?”

Penright replied, “He was indeed. Are you familiar with his bank, Ritzmann Privatbankiers?”

Ryan said, “No. There are dozens of small, family-owned banks in Switzerland. They’ve been around forever, so they must be successful, but like most Swiss banks, knowing just how successful they are is difficult.”

“And why is that?” Charleston asked.

“The Swiss Banking Act of 1934 essentially codified their bank secrecy procedures. Swiss banks don’t have to share any information with any third party, including foreign governments, unless so ordered by a Swiss court.”

Penright said, “And good luck with that.”

“Exactly,” agreed Ryan. “The Swiss are tight when it comes to giving up information. They use numbered accounts, which draws dirty money to them like a bee to honey.”

Ryan added, “The numbered accounts aren’t really as anonymous as many make them out to be, because the bank itself has to fully verify the identity of the person opening the account. That said, they do not have to fix the name to the account itself. And this makes transactions anonymous, because anyone with the correct code can deposit to or withdraw from the account.”

The two Englishmen looked at each other, as if deciding whether the conversation was to continue.

After a moment, Sir Basil nodded to David Penright.

The younger man said, “We have reason to believe a certain nefarious enterprise maintains accounts at RPB.”

This didn’t surprise Ryan in the slightest. “Cartel? Mafia?”

“We think there is a strong possibility that the man who was killed, Tobias Gabler, was managing numbered accounts for the KGB.”

This did surprise Ryan. “Interesting.”

“Is it?” Penright asked. “We were wondering if, perhaps, CIA had come to the same conclusion about the bank.”

“I can tell you with some degree of confidence that Langley doesn’t know of specific numbered accounts in Switzerland. I mean, sure, we know they exist. Russian intelligence has to stash black funds in the West so their operatives on this side of the Iron Curtain can have a steady stream of cash, but we don’t have their accounts pinned down.”

“You’re quite sure?” Penright asked. He seemed disappointed.

“I am pretty sure, but I can cable Jim Greer, just to double-check. I’d hope that if we had that kind of information, we’d either find a way to shut down the KGB’s access to the account or, better yet—”

Penright finished the thought. “Or, better yet, monitor the account, to see who makes withdrawals.”

“Right,” Jack said. “That could prove to be a treasure trove of intel about KGB ops.”

Charleston spoke up. “That was our idea. The interesting thing here, however, is there is one particular account in question that we are curious about, because it is quite large, and it’s just sitting there.”