Tom Clancy - The Bear and the Dragon

“What are you saying, John?” Ding asked in surprise.

“I’m saying two good men died yesterday, and I imagine God’ll look after both of them.”

“Ever been to China?”

He shook his head. “Taiwan once, for R and R, long time ago. That was okay, but aside from that, no closer than North Vietnam. I don’t speak the language and I can’t blend in.” Both factors were distantly frightening to Clark. The ability to disappear into the surroundings was the sine qua non of being a field-intelligence officer.

They were in a hotel bar in Moscow after their first day of lecturing their Russian students. The beer on tap was acceptable. Neither of them was in a mood for vodka. Life in Britain had spoiled them. This bar, which catered to Americans, had CNN on a large-screen TV next to the bar, and this was CNN’s lead story around the globe. The American government, the report concluded, hadn’t reacted to the incident yet.

“So, what’s Jack going to do?” Chavez wondered.

“I don’t know. We have that negotiations team in Beijing right now for trade talks,” Clark reminded him.

“The diplomatic chatter might get a little sharp,” Domingo thought.

Scott, we can’t let this one slide,” Jack said. A call from the White House had brought Adler’s official car here instead of Foggy Bottom.

“It is not, strictly speaking, pertinent to trade talks,” the Secretary of State pointed out.

“Maybe you want to do business with people like that,” Vice President Jackson responded, “but the people outside the Beltway might not.”

“We have to consider public opinion on this, Scott,” Ryan said. “And, you know, we have to damn well consider my opinion. The murder of a diplomat is not something we can ignore. Italy is a NATO member. So is Germany. And we have diplomatic relations with the Vatican and about seventy million Catholics in the country, plus millions more Baptists.”

“Okay, Jack,” EAGLE said, with raised, defensive hands. “I am not defending them, okay? I’m talking about the foreign policy of the United States of America here, and we’re not supposed to manage that on the basis of emotions. The people out there pay us to use our heads, not our dicks.”

Ryan let out a long breath. “Okay, maybe I had that coming. Go on.”

“We issue a statement deploring this sorry incident in strong language. We have Ambassador Hitch make a call on their foreign ministry and say the same thing, maybe even stronger, but in more informal language. We give them a chance to think this mess through before they become an international pariah, maybe discipline those trigger-happy cops-hell, maybe shoot them, given how the law works over there. We let common sense break out, okay?”

“And what do I say?”

Adler thought that one over for a few seconds. “Say whatever you want. We can always explain to them that we have a lot of churchgoers here and you have to assuage their sensibilities, that they have inflamed American public opinion, and in our country, public opinion counts for something. They know that on an intellectual level, but deep down in the gut they don’t get it. That’s okay,” SecState went on. “Just so they get it in the brain, because the brain talks to the gut occasionally. They have to understand that the world doesn’t like this sort of thing.”

“And if they don’t?” the Vice President asked.

“Well, then we have a trade delegation to show them the consequences of uncivilized behavior.” Adler looked around the room. “Are we okay on that?”

Ryan looked down at the coffee table. There were times when he wished he were a truck driver, able to scream out bloody murder when certain things happened, but that was just one more freedom the President of the United States didn’t have. Okay, Jack, you have to be sensible and rational about all this. He looked up. “Yes, Scott, we’re sort of okay on that.”

“Anything from our, uh, new source on this issue?”

Ryan shook his head. “No, MP hasn’t sent anything over yet.”

“If she does …”

“You’ll get a copy real fast,” the President promised. “Get me some talking points. I’ll have to make a statement-when, Arnie?”

“Eleven-ish ought to be okay,” van Damm decided. “I’ll talk to some media guys about this.”

“Okay, if anybody has ideas later today, I want to hear them,” Ryan said, standing, and adjourning the meeting.

Fang Gan had worked late that day because of the incident that had Washington working early. As a result, Ming hadn’t transcribed his discussion notes and her computer hadn’t gotten them out on the ’Net as early as usual, but Mary Pat got her e-mail about 9:45. This she read over, copied to her husband, Ed, and then shot via secure fax line to the White House, where Ben Goodley walked it to the Oval Office. The cover letter didn’t contain Mary Pat’s initial comment on reading the transmission: “Oh, shit…”

“Those cocksuckers!” Ryan snarled, to the surprise of Andrea Price, who happened to be in the room just then.

“Anything I need to know about, sir?” she asked, his voice had been so furious.

“No, Andrea, just that thing on CNN this morning.” Ryan paused, blushing that she’d heard his temper let go again-and in that way. “By the way, how’s your husband doing?”

“Well, he bagged those three bank robbers up in Philadelphia, and they did it without firing a shot. I was a little worried about that.”

Ryan allowed himself a smile. “That’s one guy I wouldn’t want to have a shoot-out with. Tell me, you saw CNN this morning, right?”

“Yes, sir, and we replayed it at the command post.”

“Opinion?”

“If I’d’ve been there, my weapon would have come out. That was cold-blooded murder. Looks bad on TV when you do dumb stuff like that, sir.”

“Sure as hell does,” the President agreed. He nearly asked her opinion on what he ought to do about it. Ryan respected Mrs. O’Day’s (she still went by Price on the job) judgment, but it wouldn’t have been fair to ask her to delve into foreign affairs, and, besides, he already had his mind pretty well made up. But then he speed-dialed Adler’s direct line on his phone.

“Yes, Jack?” Only one person had that direct line.

“What do you make of the SORGE stuff?”

“It’s not surprising, unfortunately. You have to expect them to circle wagons.”

“What do we do about it?” SWORDSMAN demanded.

“We say what we think, but we try not to make it worse than it already is,” SecState replied, cautious as ever.

“Right,” Ryan growled, even though it was exactly the good advice he’d expected from his SecState. Then he hung up. He reminded himself that Arnie had told him a long time ago that a president wasn’t allowed to have a temper, but that was asking a hell of a lot, and at what point was he allowed to react the way a man needed to react? When was he supposed to stop acting like a goddamned robot?

“You want Callie to work up something for you in a hurry?” Arnie asked over the phone.

“No,” Ryan replied, with a shake of the head. “I’ll just wing it.”

“That’s a mistake,” the Chief of Staff warned.

“Arnie, just let me be me once in a while, okay?”

“Okay, Jack,” van Damm replied, and it was just as well the President didn’t see his expression.

Don’t make things worse than they already are, Ryan told himself at his desk. Yeah, sure, like that’s possible …

Hi, Pap,” Robby Jackson was saying in his office at the northwest comer of the West Wing.