The Teeth of the Tiger Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER 1 - THE CAMPUS

  CHAPTER 2 - JOINING UP

  CHAPTER 3 - GRAY FILES

  CHAPTER 4 - BOOT CAMP

  CHAPTER 5 - ALLIANCES

  CHAPTER 6 - ADVERSARIES

  CHAPTER 7 - TRANSIT

  CHAPTER 8 - CONVICTION

  CHAPTER 9 - GOING WITH GOD

  CHAPTER 10 - DESTINATIONS

  CHAPTER 11 - CROSSING THE RIVER

  CHAPTER 12 - ARRIVING

  CHAPTER 13 - MEETING PLACE

  CHAPTER 14 - PARADISE

  CHAPTER 15 - RED COATS AND BLACK HATS

  CHAPTER 16 - AND THE PURSUING HORSES

  CHAPTER 17 - AND THE LITTLE REDFOX, AND THE FIRST FENCE

  CHAPTER 18 - AND THE DEPARTING FOXHOUNDS

  CHAPTER 19 - BEER AND HOMICIDE

  CHAPTER 20 - THE SOUND OF HUNTING

  CHAPTER 21 - STREETCAR NAME DESIRED

  CHAPTER 22 - SPANISH STEPS

  “TOM CLANCY HAS PASSED THE TORCH TO A NEW GENERATION.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  A man named Mohammed sits in a café in Vienna, about to propose a deal to a Colombian. What if they combined his network of Middle East agents and sympathizers with the Colombian’s drug network in America? The potential for profits would be enormous—and the potential for destruction unimaginable.

  A young man in suburban Maryland, who has grown up around intrigue, is about to put his skills to the test. Taught the ways of the world firsthand by agents, statesmen, analysts, Secret Servicemen, and black-ops specialists, he crosses the radar of “The Campus”—a secret organization set up to identify local terrorist threats and deal with them by any means necessary.

  His name:

  JACK RYAN, JR.

  “INCREDIBLY ADDICTIVE . . . 400-odd tightly-woven, adrenaline-fueled pages of intelligence interception, 6 A.M. fitness training, shootings, and hard men. Such fun!”

  —Daily Mail (London)

  “THE AUTHOR KNOWS THIS STUFF LIKE NO ONE ELSE and delivers it all in his inimitable clipped manner.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “CLANCY TAKES A NEW PATH WITH TIGER . . . [He] is still the top draw in a field filled with contemporaries.”

  —San Antonio Express-News

  “SATISFYING . . . CHILLINGLY PLAUSIBLE.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “ENTERTAINING . . . SUSPENSEFUL.”

  —The Seattle Times

  Novels by Tom Clancy

  THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

  RED STORM RISING

  PATRIOT GAMES

  THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

  CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

  THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

  WITHOUT REMORSE

  DEBT OF HONOR

  EXECUTIVE ORDERS

  RAINBOW SIX

  THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

  RED RABBIT

  THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

  SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE

  Nonfiction

  SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP

  ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT

  FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING

  MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT

  AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE

  CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER

  SPECIAL FORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES

  INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND

  (written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret.)

  EVERY MAN A TIGER

  (written with General Charles Horner, Ret.)

  SHADOW WARRIORS: INSIDE THE SPECIAL FORCES

  (written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

  Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: LINE OF CONTROL

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MISSION OF HONOR

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: SEA OF FIRE

  TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: CALL TO TREASON

  TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE

  TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS

  TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES

  TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: BREAKING POINT

  TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: POINT OF IMPACT

  TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CYBERNATION

  TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: STATE OF WAR

  TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CHANGING OF THE GUARD

  Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg

  TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA

  TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM

  TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH

  TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: BIO-STRIKE

  TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: COLD WAR

  TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: CUTTING EDGE

  TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: ZERO HOUR

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

  are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and

  any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

  establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with

  Rubicon, Inc.

  Copyright © 2003 by Rubicon, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form

  without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of

  this book via the Internet or via any other means without the

  permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please

  purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate

  in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-00230-8

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the “B” design

  are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Chris and Charlie.

  Welcome aboard

  . . . and, of course, Lady Alex, whose light burns

  as brightly as ever

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Marco, in Italy, for navigation instructions

  Ric and Mort for the medical education

  Mary and Ed for the maps

  Madam Jacque for the records

  UVA for the look at TJ’s place

  Roland, again, for Colorado

  Mike for the inspiration

  And a raft of others for small but important tidbits of

  knowledge

  “People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”

  —GEORGE ORWELL

 
; “This is a war of the unknown warriors; but let all strive without failing in faith or in duty . . .”

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL

  Whether the State can loose and bind

  In Heaven as well as on Earth:

  If it be wiser to kill mankind

  Before or after the birth—

  These are matters of high concern

  Where State-kept schoolmen are;

  But Holy State (we have lived to learn)

  Endeth in Holy War.

  Whether The People be led by The Lord,

  Or lured by the loudest throat:

  If it be quicker to die by the sword

  Or cheaper to die by vote—

  These are things we have dealt with once,

  (And they will not rise from their grave)

  For Holy People, however it runs,

  Endeth in wholly Slave.

  Whatsoever for any cause,

  Seeketh to take or give

  Power above or beyond the Laws,

  Suffer it not to live!

  Holy State or Holy King—

  Or Holy People’s Will—

  Have no truck with the senseless thing.

  Order the guns and kill!

  Saying—after—me:—

  Once there was The People—Terror gave it birth;

  Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth

  Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, O ye slain!

  Once there was The People—it shall never be again!

  —RUDYARD KIPLING, “Macdonough’s Song”

  PROLOGUE

  THE OTHER SIDE OF THE RIVER

  DAVID GREENGOLD had been born in that most American of communities, Brooklyn, but at his Bar Mitzvah, something important had changed in his life. After proclaiming “Today I am a man,” he’d gone to the celebration party and met some family members who’d flown in from Israel. His uncle Moses was a very prosperous dealer in diamonds there. David’s own father had seven retail jewelry stores, the flagship of which was on Fortieth Street in Manhattan.

  While his father and his uncle talked business over California wine, David had ended up with his first cousin, Daniel. His elder by ten years, Daniel had just begun work for the Mossad, Israel’s main foreign-intelligence agency, and, a quintessential newbie, he had regaled his cousin with stories. Daniel’s obligatory military service had been with the Israeli paratroopers, and he’d made eleven jumps, and had seen some action in the 1967 Six Day War. For him, it had been a happy war, with no serious casualties in his company, and just enough kills to make it seem to have been a sporting adventure—a hunting trip against game that was dangerous, but not overly so, with a conclusion that had fitted very well indeed with his prewar outlook and expectations.

  The stories had provided a vivid contrast to the gloomy TV coverage of Vietnam that led off every evening news broadcast then, and with the enthusiasm of his newly reaffirmed religious identity, David had decided on the spot to emigrate to his Jewish homeland as soon as he graduated from high school. His father, who’d served in the U.S. Second Armored Division in the Second World War, and on the whole found the adventure less than pleasing, had been even less happy by the possibility of his son’s going to an Asian jungle to fight a war for which neither he nor any of his acquaintances had much enthusiasm—and so, when graduation came, young David flew El Al to Israel and really never looked back. He brushed up on his Hebrew, served his uniformed time, and then, like his cousin, he was recruited by the Mossad.

  In this line of work, he’d done well—so well that today he was the Station Chief in Rome, an assignment of no small importance. His cousin Daniel, meanwhile, had left and gone back to the family business, which paid far better than a civil servant’s wage. Running the Mossad Station in Rome kept him busy. He had three full-time intelligence officers under his command, and they took in a goodly quantity of information. Some of this information came from an agent they called Hassan. He was Palestinian by ancestry, and had good connections in the PFLP, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, and the things he learned there he shared with his enemies, for money—enough money, in fact, enough to finance a comfortable flat a kilometer from the Italian parliament building. David was making a pickup today.

  The location was one he’d used before, the men’s room of the Ristorante Giovanni near the foot of the Spanish Steps. First taking the time to enjoy a lunch of Veal Francese—it was superb here—he finished his white wine and then rose to collect his package. The dead drop was on the underside of the leftmost urinal, a theatrical choice but it had the advantage of never being inspected or cleaned. A steel plate had been glued there, and even had it been noticed, it would have looked innocent enough, since the plate bore the embossed name of the manufacturer, and a number that meant nothing at all. Approaching it, he decided to take advantage of the opportunity by doing what men usually do with a urinal, and, while engaged, he heard the door creak open. Whoever it was took no interest in him, however, but, just to make sure, he dropped his cigarette pack, and as he bent down to retrieve it with his right hand, his left snatched the magnetic package off its hiding place. It was good fieldcraft, just like a professional magician’s, attracting attention with the one hand and getting the work done with the other.

  Except in this case it didn’t work. Scarcely had he made the pickup when someone bumped into him from behind.

  “Excuse me, old man—signore, that is,” the voice corrected itself in what sounded like Oxford English. Just the sort of thing to make a civilized man feel at ease with a situation.

  Greengold didn’t even respond, just turned to his right to wash his hands and take his leave. He made it to the sink, and turned on the water, when he looked in the mirror.

  Most of the time, the brain works faster than the hands. This time he saw the blue eyes of the man who had bumped into him. They were ordinary enough, but their expression was not. By the time his mind had commanded his body to react, the man’s left hand had reached forward to grab his forehead, and something cold and sharp bit into the back of his neck, just below the skull. His head was pulled sharply backward, easing the passage of the knife into his spinal cord, severing it completely.

  Death did not come instantly. His body collapsed when all of the electrochemical commands to his muscles ceased. Along with that went all feeling. Some distant fiery sensations at his neck were all that remained, and the shock of the moment didn’t allow them to grow into serious pain. He tried to breathe, but couldn’t comprehend that he would never do that again. The man turned him around like a department store mannequin and carried him to the toilet stall. All he could do now was look and think. He saw the face, but it meant nothing to him. The face looked back, regarding him as a thing, an object, without even the dignity of hatred. Helplessly, David scanned with his eyes as he was set down on the toilet. The man appeared to reach into his coat to steal his wallet. Was that what this was, just a robbery? A robbery of a senior Mossad officer? Not possible. Then the man grabbed David by the hair to lift up his drooping head.

  “Salaam aleikum,” his killer said: Peace be unto you. So, this was an Arab? He didn’t look the least bit Arabic. The puzzlement must have been evident on his face.

  “Did you really trust Hassan, Jew?” the man asked. But he displayed no satisfaction in his voice. The emotionless delivery proclaimed contempt. In his last moments of life, before his brain died from lack of oxygen, David Greengold realized that he’d fallen for the oldest of espionage traps, the False Flag. Hassan had given him information so as to be able to identify him, to draw him out. Such a stupid way to die. There was time left for only one more thought:

  Adonai echad.

  The killer made sure his hands were clean, and checked his clothing. But knife thrusts like this one didn’t cause much in the way of bleeding. He pocketed the wallet, and the dead-drop package, and after adjusting his clothing made his way out. He stopped at his table to leave twenty-three Euros for his own meal, inc
luding only a few cents for the tip. But he would not be coming back soon. Finished with Giovanni’s, he walked across the square. He’d noticed a Brioni’s on his way in, and he felt the need for a new suit.

  HEADQUARTERS, United States Marine Corps, is not located in the Pentagon. The largest office building in the world has room for the Army, Navy, and Air Force, but somehow or other the Marines got left out, and have to satisfy themselves with their own building complex called the Navy Annex, a quarter of a mile away on Lee Highway in Arlington, Virginia. It isn’t that much of a sacrifice. The Marines have always been something of a stepchild of the American military, technically a subordinate part of the Navy, where their original utility was to be the Navy’s private army, thus precluding the need to embark soldiers on warships, since the Army and the Navy were never supposed to be friendly.

  Over time, the Marine Corps became a rationale unto itself, for more than a century the only American land fighting force that foreigners ever saw. Absolved of the need to worry about heavy logistics, or even medical personnel—they had the squids to handle that for them—every Marine was a rifleman, and a forbidding, sobering sight to anyone who did not have a warm spot in his heart for the United States of America. For this reason, the Marines are respected, but not always beloved, among their colleagues in America’s service. Too much show, too much swagger, and too highly developed a sense of public relations for the more staid services.

  The Marine Corps acts like its own little army, of course—it even has its own air force, small, but possessed of sharp fangs—and that now included a chief of intelligence, though some uniformed personnel regarded that as a contradiction in terms. The Marine intelligence headquarters was a new establishment, part of the Green Machine’s effort to catch up with the rest of the services. Called the M-2—“2” being the numerical identifier of someone in the information business—the chief’s name was Major General Terry Broughton, a short, compact professional infantryman who’d been stuck with this job in order to bring a little reality to the spook trade: The Corps had decided to remember that at the end of the paper trail was a man with a rifle who needed good information in order to stay alive. It was just one more secret of the Corps that the native intelligence of its personnel was second to none—even to the computer wizards of the Air Force whose attitude was that anyone able to fly an airplane just had to be smarter than anybody else. Eleven months from now, Broughton was in line to take command of the Second Marine Division, based at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. This welcome news had just arrived a week before, and he was still in the best of good moods from it.