Mark Greaney - Full Force and Effect

He looked to the nurse. “That bad?”

She said, “If you order us to clean you up, we will do it, but you really need to rest, and your collarbone needs to stay right where it is, which means we can’t put a shirt on you.”

Jack addressed Arnie Van Damm again. “You go live now, and I’ll do an audio statement. We’ll get one of the press people up here to record it.”

Detmer had been standing back, but he said, “Sorry, Mr. President. Secret Service didn’t let any press on the plane before we took off.”

“Shit,” said Ryan.

“I can record you,” Detmer offered.

“Yeah,” said Jack. “Coming from the White House, some will say it’s faked, but that and a picture of my face will have to do till we land.”

Maura said, “I’ll put a bandage on your forehead. We’ll make you presentable.”

61

Emilio, the two Maldonado cowboys, and Adel Zarif arrived at the safe-house apartment thirty-five minutes after the attack. As they climbed the stairs all four men looked to the south and saw the thick hanging cloud of smoke. It was diffusing now, but it, and the half-dozen helicopters circling around, would remain in the air over the city for some time.

Zarif was looking forward to watching the news broadcasts while he waited for nightfall. The plan was for the Maldonado men to take him all the way into Guerrero, where they would then fly him from Acapulco to Cuba. There, North Korean agents would be waiting to take him to Pyongyang.

And Zarif couldn’t wait to get out of here.

One of the rough-looking men unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment, followed close on his heels by his partner. Emilio entered, and then Zarif followed him in.

All three Mexicans headed for the kitchen to get beers, but Zarif walked straight down the hallway to the bathroom in the back. He hadn’t taken the time to piss since he’d left hours earlier, and the TV would have to wait while he took care of business. He didn’t even take off his backpack before he unzipped his fly, but as soon as he did this, he heard a shout from the living room, and then a second shout, this time from Emilio.

He leaned out of the bathroom and looked up the hallway into the living room. Three Asian men in the blue coveralls of sanitation workers had entered the apartment right behind Zarif and the Maldonado men. In their hands were black pistols with long silencers. While Emilio and the other two stood by the television with beers in their hands, the three men opened fire, shooting each Mexican several times.

Their bodies spasmed and spun and dropped to the blood-spattered carpet.

Zarif leapt back into the bathroom, he shut and locked the door, then he climbed into the bathtub. Above the tub was a window high on the wall. He reached up and pulled it open, and then he struggled to heft himself up to it.

Behind him the bathroom door splintered with a dozen bullet holes. Zarif pushed through the window as hard as he could, then fell outside onto a small overhang. He rolled to the edge, then tipped over the side and dropped down one floor to a dusty parking lot.

As he looked back over his shoulder he heard scuffling in the bathroom, and then more gunfire erupted from the window, pocking the parking lot around him. Zarif dove between a parked Ford Bronco and an old Winnebago and crawled as fast as he could to the other side.

He then rose to a crouch and sprinted into the street, racing through moving traffic. On the far side he ran along the sidewalk for blocks.

And as he ran, his dream of the Asian girls and the beach house evaporated. He had no idea where to go or what to do, so he just ran on through the city, still in disbelief that he had done everything asked of him and the infidel North Koreans had sent killers anyway.

—

In his Pyongyang office, General Ri sat patiently waiting for the call from his RGB director in Mexico. Once the word finally came that the Iranian bomber had been killed, he would go home and sleep for a few hours before returning to work. He expected to be contacted by the office of the Dae Wonsu, invited to the Ryongsong Residence and congratulated personally, and he wanted to be fresh for this event.

While he bided his time he had the woman with him keep up the running translations from CNN, and he watched the feed with rapt fascination. There was footage now of a burning limousine, and although the image had been obscured to cover burning bodies in the middle of the wreckage, his translator said the reporter was claiming the dead to be the President and the ambassador.

The translator kept talking over with the English words: “. . . devastating attack on the motorcade carrying President Jack Ryan. We have been told there are casualties, a significant number of casualties. Perhaps in the dozens, perhaps many, many more.”

Ri had tuned out. Now he was thinking about how to pay quiet honor to Zarif. The bomb maker was likely already dead, killed under his instruction. Still, something was in order for the man’s contribution to the North Korean people. There could be no official announcement, of course. If ever word made it back to the United States that North Korea was complicit in the assassination of their leader, then the Americans would fire every last one of their nuclear missiles. They were a warlike people who had been looking for the right time, and the right excuse, for seventy years.

Ri worried any mistake in his operation would give them that excuse, but he had confidence in his plan, and as the TV screen in front of him now showed an overhead view, from a helicopter, perhaps, of an entire city block of wrecked and burning vehicles, shattered shop windows, and debris in the streets, General Ri allowed himself to feel even more confident.

The television feed switched to the White House now. The translator said a press secretary was due to make a statement. Ri smiled. This would be the announcement he had waited for. The man who walked out was in his sixties and bald, and he wore small glasses that made him look like a professor. Ri could tell the man had never served in his nation’s military, and to the general that alone was reason for derision.

Never mind that he was American.

The translator said, “Comrade General, this man’s name is Arnold Van Damm. He is the principal adjutant to the President, and his closest adviser.”

Ri chuckled. “If he was his closest adviser, he would have been in the car with him.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

The American appeared somewhat rushed and irresolute, and he took a moment to control his emotion, looking down at a small sheet of paper in front of him. Finally he looked into the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen. Approximately forty minutes ago, at twelve thirty-five local time in Mexico City, one thirty-five here in Washington, a vicious and cowardly attack was perpetrated not just against the United States of America but also against the entire free world. The motorcade carrying the President was ambushed by unknown individuals using explosives, rifles, and rockets. President Ryan was traveling in an armored vehicle that was disabled by the initial explosion, and several other vehicles were also disabled or destroyed.”

A male reporter all but screamed: “Is the President alive?”

Arnie Van Damm nodded instantly. “The President is very much alive. He is currently on Air Force One and returning to Washington.”

Ri snatched the translator by her arm and yanked her closer. “Alive?”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

A female reporter on television shouted now, and the translator spoke in Korean. “Is he injured?”

“The President was slightly wounded, it appears he has some fractures. He is in good spirits. His injuries were tended to on the aircraft by his personal doctor.”