Tom Clancy - Command Authority

Greer said, “A source in a family-owned Swiss bank has incredible potential. Arthur and I will call Basil tomorrow morning and press him a little.”

“Well, okay. Obviously, that’s your call, but we are going to need to find something to offer the Brits in exchange. I don’t think us looking over the client list is enough for them to warrant their sharing operational control over their asset.”

Greer said, “I agree. We’ll find something they want, and we’ll make a fair trade for access.”

As soon as Ryan got off the phone with Greer, he called Penright’s hotel in Zug. He gave the code they had set up between them, which sent the MI6 man to a secure phone somewhere else in the city.

It took Penright thirty minutes to call Ryan back.

“Good evening,” Ryan said.

“Evening. What’s the latest from the cousins?”

“We ran a check on the employee list. Came up with nothing.”

“I expected that.”

“As to the client list, the preliminary report shows no ties to any criminal organization.”

“Nothing?”

“I’m afraid not. We did find that one of the accounts is in the name of a front company owned by a large diamond merchant who has an account at RPB.” Ryan passed on the name of the Belgian company, though Penright didn’t seem terribly impressed with that information.

“Okay, Ryan. I have a meeting with my agent tomorrow. My main objective is to allay any fears he has, but I will also try to get a little more out of him. He might be able to provide us with internal documents about the holder of the two-hundred-four-million-dollar account.”

Ryan said, “I can guarantee the account will be held by a shell corporation. It’s going to be tough to dig into it.”

“Have any ideas on something that might prove helpful?” Penright asked.

“Yes. If he can provide you information about how the money was transferred into the bank, that might be more helpful than him giving us the account-holder information.”

“Really? How so?”

“Because different countries have different banking secrecy laws. If the money was transferred in from another Western bank, we might have more luck ID’ing the owner by looking into the account there.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Jack added, “Obviously, I don’t know anything about your asset. It might be the case that he wouldn’t have access to account-transfer data. If he snoops around too much, it might be dangerous for him.”

Penright said, “Understood, old boy. I’ll make sure he proceeds with caution.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” Jack asked.

“Just keep thinking. We men of action can always do with a more sedate brain behind us.”

Ryan thought this to be some sort of an unintentional slight, but he let it go.

Clark, 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.”

Forty-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.