Tom Clancy - The Bear and the Dragon

“Company coming?” Special Agent Price-O’Day asked. She looked a little pale, Jack thought.

“The usual suspects. You feeling okay?” the President asked.

“Stomach is a little upset. Too much coffee with breakfast.”

Morning sickness? Ryan wondered. If so, too bad. Andrea tried so hard to be one of the boys. Admitting this female failing would scar her soul as though from a flamethrower. He couldn’t say anything about it. Maybe Cathy could. It was a girl thing.

“Well, the DCI’s coming over with something he says is important. Maybe they’ve changed the toilet paper in the Kremlin, as we used to say at Langley back when I worked there.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled. Like most Secret Service agents, she’d seen the people and the secrets come and go, and if there were important things for her to know, she’d find out in due course.

General-Lieutenant Kirillin liked to drink as much as most Russians, and that was quite a lot by American standards. The difference between Russians and Brits, Chavez had learned, was that the Brits drank just as much, but they did it with beer, while the Russians made do with vodka. Ding was neither a Mormon nor a Baptist, but he was over his capacity here. After two nights of keeping up with the local Joneses, he’d nearly died on the morning run with his team, and only avoided falling out for fear of losing face before the Russian Spetsnaz people they were teaching to come up to Rainbow standards. Somehow he’d managed not to puke, though he had allowed Eddie Price to take charge of the first two classes that day while he’d wandered off to drink a gallon of water to chase down three aspirins. Tonight, he’d decided, he’d cut off the vodkas at two … maybe three.

“How are our men doing?” the general asked.

“Just fine, sir,” Chavez answered. “They like their new weapons, and they’re picking up on the doctrine. They’re smart. They know how to think before they act.”

“Does this surprise you?”

“Yes, General, it does. It was the same for me once, back when I was a squad sergeant in the Ninjas. Young soldiers tend to think with their dicks rather than their brains. I learned better, but I had to learn it the hard way in the field. It’s sometimes a lot easier to get yourself into trouble than it is to think yourself out of it. Your Spetsnaz boys started off that way, but if you show them the right way, they listen pretty good. Today’s exercise, for example. We set it up with a trap, but your captain stopped short on the way in and thought it through before he committed, and he passed the test. He’s a good team leader, by the way. I’d say bump him to major.” Chavez hoped he hadn’t just put the curse of hell on the kid, realizing that praise from a CIA officer wasn’t calculated to be career-enhancing for a Russian officer.

“He’s my nephew. His father married my sister. He’s an academician, a professor at Moscow State University.”

“His English is superb. I’d take him for a native of Chicago.” And so Captain Leskov had probably been talent-scouted by KGB or its successor agency. Language skills of that magnitude didn’t just happen.

“He was a parachutist before they sent him to Spetsnaz,” Kirillin went on, “a good light-infantryman.”

“That’s what Ding was, once upon a time,” Clark told the Russian.

“Seventh Light Infantry. They de-established the division after I left. Seems like a long time now.”

“How did you go from the American army into CIA?”

“His fault,” Chavez answered. “John spotted me and foolishly thought 1 had potential.”

“We had to clean him up and send him to school, but he’s worked out pretty well-even married my daughter.”

“He’s still getting used to having a Latino in the family, but I made him a grandfather. Our wives are back in Wales.”

“So, how did you emerge from CIA into Rainbow?”

“My fault, again,” Clark admitted. “I did a memo, and it perked to the top, and the President liked it, and he knows me, and so when they set the outfit up, they put me in charge of it. I wanted Domingo here to be part of it, too. He’s got young legs, and he shoots okay.”

“Your operations in Europe were impressive, especially at the park in Spain.”

“Not our favorite. We lost a kid there.”

“Yeah,” Ding confirmed with a tiny sip of his drink. “I was fifty yards away when that bastard killed Anna. Homer got him later on. Nice shot it was.”

“I saw him shoot two days ago. He’s superb.”

“Homer’s pretty good. Went home last fall on vacation and got himself a Dall sheep at eight hundred-plus yards up in Idaho. Hell of a trophy. He made it into the Boone and Crockett book in the top ten.”

“He should go to Siberia and hunt tiger. I could arrange that,” Kirillin offered.

“Don’t say that too loud.” Chavez chuckled. “Homer will take you up on it.”

“He should meet Pavel Petrovich Gogol,” Kirillin went on.

“Where’d I hear that name?” Clark wondered at once.

“The gold mine,” Chavez handled the answer.

“He was a sniper in the Great Patriotic War. He has two gold stars for killing Germans, and he’s killed hundreds of wolves. There aren’t many like him left.”

“Sniper on a battlefield. The hunting must get real exciting.”

“Oh, it is, Domingo. It is. We had a guy in Third SOG who was good at it, but he damned near got his ass killed half a dozen times. You know-” John Clark had a satellite beeper, and it started vibrating in his belt. He picked it up and checked the number. “Excuse me,” he said and looked for a good place. The Moscow officers’ club had a court-yard, and he headed for it.

What does this mean?” Arnie van Damm asked. The executive meeting had started with copies of the latest SORGE/SONGBIRD being passed out. Arnie was the fastest reader of the group, but not the best strategic observer.

“It doesn’t mean anything good, pal,” Ryan observed, turning to the third page.

“Ed,” Winston asked, looking up from page two. “What can you tell me about the source? This looks like the insider-trading document from hell.”

“A member of the Chinese Politburo keeps notes on his conversations with the other ministers. We have access to those notes, never mind how.”

“So, this document and the source are both genuine?”

“We think so, yes.”

“How reliable?” TRADER persisted.

The DCI decided to take a long step out on a thin limb. “About as reliable as one of your T-bills.”

“Okay, Ed, you say so.” And Winston’s head went back down. In ten seconds, he muttered, “Shit …”

“Oh, yeah, George,” POTUS agreed. “‘Shit’ about covers it.”

“Concur, Jack,” SecState agreed.

Of those present, only Ben Goodley managed to get all the way through it without a comment. For his part, Goodley, for all the status and importance that came from his job as the President’s National Security Adviser, felt particularly junior and weak at the moment. Mainly he knew that he was far the President’s inferior in knowledge of national-security affairs, that he was in his post mainly as a high-level secretary. He was a carded National Intelligence Officer, one of whom, by law and custom, accompanied the President everywhere he went. His job was to convey information to the President. Former occupants of his corner office in the West Wing of the White House had often told their presidents what to think and what to do. But he was just an information-conveyor, and at the moment, he felt weak even in that diminished capacity.

Finally, Jack Ryan looked up with blank eyes and a vacant face. “Okay. Ed, Mary Pat, what do we have here?”