Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 Page 18

  No shit, Clark almost said. That Ryan had gotten him out alive was somewhere to the right of a miracle. Lyalin had been tried for treason with the normal KGB attention to a speedy trial, had been in a death cell, and known the routine as exactly as any man could. Told that his execution date was a week hence, he’d been marched to the prison commandant’s office, informed of his right as a Soviet citizen to appeal directly to the President for executive clemency, and invited to draft a handwritten letter to that end. The less sophisticated might have thought the gesture to be genuine. Lyalin had known otherwise. Designed to make the execution easier, after the letter was sealed, he would be led back to his cell, and the executioner would leap from an open door to his right, place a pistol right next to his head and fire. As a result it was not overly surprising that his hand had shaken while holding the ballpoint pen, and that his legs were rubbery as he was led out. The entire ritual had been carried out, and Oleg Yurievich remembered his amazement on actually reaching his basement cell again, there to be told to gather up what belongings he had and to follow a guard, even more amazingly back to the commandant’s office, there to meet someone who could only have been an American citizen, with his smile and his tailored clothes, unaware of KGB’s wry valedictory to its traitorous officer.

  “I would’ve pissed my pants,” Ding observed, shuddering at the end of the story.

  “I was lucky there,” Lyalin admitted with a smile. “I’d urinated right before they took me up. My family was waiting for me at Sheremetyevo. It was one of the last PanAm flights.”

  “Hit the booze pretty hard on the way over?” Clark asked with a smile.

  “Oh, yes,” Oleg assured him, not adding how he’d shaken and then vomited on the lengthy flight to New York’s JFK International Airport, and had insisted on a taxi ride through New York to be sure that the impossible vision of freedom was real.

  Chavez refilled his mentor’s glass. Lyalin was trying to work his way off hard liquor, and contented himself with Coors Light. “I’ve been in a few tight places, tovarich, but that one must have been really uncomfortable.”

  “I have retired, as you see. Domingo Estebanovich, where did you learn Russian so well?”

  “The kid’s got a gift for it, doesn’t he?” Clark noted. “Especially the slang.”

  “Hey, I like to read, okay? And whenever I can I catch Russian TV at the home office and stuff. What’s the big deal?” The last sentence slipped out in English. Russian didn’t quite have that euphemism.

  “The big deal is that you’re truly gifted, my young friend,” Major Lyalin said, saluting with his glass.

  Chavez acknowledged the compliment. He hadn’t even had a high-school diploma when he’d sneaked into the U.S. Army, mainly by promising to be a grunt, not a missile technician, but it pleased him that he had indeed raced through George Mason University for his subsequent undergraduate degree, and was now within a dissertation of his master’s. He marveled at his luck and wondered how many others from his barrio could have done as well, given an equal smile from Chance.

  “So does Mrs. Foley know that you left a network behind?”

  “Yes, but all her Japanese speakers must be elsewhere. I don’t think they would have tried to reactivate without letting me know. Besides, they will only activate if they are told the right thing.”

  “Jesus,” Clark whispered, also in English, since one only swears in his native tongue. That was a natural consequence of the Agency’s deemphasis of human intelligence in favor of electronic bullshit, which was useful but not the be-all and end-all that the paper-pushers thought it to be. Of CIA’s total of over fifteen thousand employees, somewhere around four hundred fifty of them were field officers, actually out on the street or in the weeds, talking to real people and trying to learn what their thoughts were instead of counting beans from overheads and reading newspaper articles for the rest. “You know, sometimes I wonder how we ever won the fuckin’ war.”

  “America tried very hard not to, but the Soviet Union tried harder.” Lyalin paused. “THISTLE was mainly concerned with gathering commercial information. We stole many industrial designs and processes from Japan, and your country’s policy is not to use intelligence services for that purpose.” Another pause. “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that, Oleg?” Chavez asked, popping another Coors open.

  “There’s no real difference, Domingo. Your people—I tried for several months to explain that to them. Business is the government over there. Their parliament and ministries, they are the ‘legend,’ the maskirovka for the business empires.”

  “In that case there’s one government in the world that knows how to make a decent car.” Chavez chuckled. He’d given up on buying the Corvette of his dreams—the damned things just cost too much—and settled on a “Z” that was almost as sporty for half the price. And now he’d have to get rid of it, Ding told himself. He had to be more respectable and settled if he were going to marry, didn’t he?

  “Nyet. You should understand this: the opposition is not what your country thinks it is. Why do you suppose you have such problems negotiating with them? I discovered this fact early on, and KGB understood it readily.”

  As they had to, Clark told himself, nodding. Communist theory predicted that very “fact,” didn’t it? Damn, wasn’t that a hoot! “How were the pickings?” he asked.

  “Excellent,” Lyalin assured him. “Their culture, it’s so easy for them to take insults, but so hard for them to respond. They conceal much anger. Then, all you need do is show sympathy.”

  Clark nodded again, this time thinking, This guy is a real pro. Fourteen well-placed agents, he still had the names and addresses and phone numbers in his head, and, unsurprisingly, nobody at Langley had followed up on it because of those damned-fool ethics laws foisted on the Agency by lawyers—a breed of government servant that sprouted up like crabgrass everywhere you looked, as though anything the Agency did was, strictly speaking, ethical at all. Hell, he and Ding had kidnapped Corp, hadn’t they? In the interests of justice, to be sure, but if they had brought him to America for trial, instead of leaving him with his own countrymen, some high-priced and highly ethical defense attorney, perhaps even acting pro bono—obstructing justice for free, Clark told himself—would have ranted and raved first before cameras and later before twelve good men (and women) about how this patriot had resisted an invasion of his country, et cetera, et cetera.

  “An interesting weakness,” Chavez noted judiciously. “People really are the same all over the world, aren’t they?”

  “Different masks, but the same flesh underneath,” Lyalin pronounced, feeling ever more the teacher. The offhand remark was his best lesson of the day.

  Of all human lamentations, without doubt the most common is, If only I had known. But we can’t know, and so days of death and fire so often begin no differently from those of love and warmth. Pierce Denton packed the car for the trip to Nashville. It was not a trivial exercise. Both twin girls had safety seats installed in the back of the Cresta, and in between went the smaller seat for their brand-new brother, Matthew. The twin girls, Jessica and Jeanine, were three and a half years old, having survived the “terrible twos” (or rather, their parents had) and the parallel adventures of learning to walk and talk. Now, dressed in identical short purple dresses and white tights, they allowed Mom and Dad to load them into their seats. Matthew went in after them, restless and whining, but the girls knew that the vibration of the car would soon put him back to sleep, which is what he mostly did anyway, except when nursing from his mother’s breasts. It was a big day, off for a weekend at Grandmother’s house.

  Pierce Denton, twenty-seven, was a police officer in Greeneville, Tennessee’s, small municipal department, still attending night school to finish up his college degree, but with no further ambition other than to raise his family and live a comfortable life in the tree-covered mountains, where a man could hunt and fish with friends, attend a friendly community church, and ge
nerally live as good a life as any person might desire. His profession was far less stressful than that of colleagues in other places, and he didn’t regret that a bit. Greeneville had its share of trouble, as did any American town, but far less than he saw on TV or read about in the professional journals that lay on tables in the station. At quarter after eight in the morning, he backed onto the quiet street and headed off, first toward U.S. Route 11E. He was rested and alert, with his usual two cups of morning coffee already at work, chasing away the cobwebs of a restful night, or as restful as one could be with an infant sleeping in the same bedroom with him and his wife, Candace. Within fifteen minutes he pulled onto Interstate Highway 81, heading south with the morning sun behind him.

  Traffic was fairly light this Saturday morning, and unlike most police officers Denton didn’t speed, at least not with his family in the car. Rather, he cruised evenly at just under seventy miles per hour, just enough over the posted limit of sixty-five for the slight thrill of breaking the law just a little. Interstate 81 was typical of the American interstates, wide and smooth even as it snaked southwest through the mountain range that had contained the first westward expansion of European settlers. At New Market, 81 merged with I-40, and Denton merged in with westbound traffic from North Carolina. Soon he would be in Knoxville. Checking his rearview mirror, he saw that both daughters were already lulled into a semiconscious state, and his ears told him that Matthew was the same. To his right, Candy Denton was dozing as well. Their infant son had not yet mastered the skill of sleeping through the night, and that fact took its toll on his wife, who hadn’t had as much as six straight hours of sleep since ... well, since before Matt’s birth, actually, the driver told himself. His wife was petite, and her small frame had suffered from the latter stages of pregnancy. Candy’s head rested on the right-side window, grabbing what sleep she could before Matthew woke up and announced his renewed hunger, though with a little luck, that might just last until they got to Nashville.

  The only hard part of the drive, if you could call it that, was in Knoxville, a medium-sized city mostly on the north side of the Tennessee River. It was large enough to have an inner ring highway, I-640, which Denton avoided, preferring the direct path west.

  The weather was warm for a change. The previous six weeks had been one damned snow-and-ice storm after another, and Greeneville had already exhausted its budget for road salt and overtime for the crews. He’d responded to at least fifty minor traffic accidents and two major ones, but mainly he regretted not having gotten the new Cresta to the car wash the previous night. The bright paint was streaked with salt, and he was glad the car came with underbody coating as a “standard option,” because his venerable old pickup truck didn’t have that, and it was corroding down to junk even as it sat still in their driveway. Beyond that, it seemed a competent little car. A few inches more leg room would have been nice, but it was her car, not his, and she didn’t really need the room. The automobile was lighter than his police radio car, and had only half the engine power. That made for somewhat increased vibration, largely dampened out by the rubberized engine mounts but still there. Well, he told himself, that helped the kids to clonk out.

  They must have had even more snow here, he saw. Rock salt had accumulated in the center of his lane like a path of sand or something. Shame they had to use so much. Really tore up the cars. But not his, Denton was sure, having read through all the specifications before deciding to surprise Candy with her red Cresta.

  The mountains that cut diagonally across this part of America are called the Great Smokies, a name applied, according to local lore, by Dan’l Boone himself. Actually part of a single range that ran from Georgia to Maine and beyond, changing local names almost as often as it changed states, in this area humidity from the numerous lakes and streams combined with atmospheric conditions to generate fog that occurred on a year-round basis.

  Will Snyder of Pilot Lines was on overtime, a profitable situation for the union driver. The Fruehauf trailer attached to his Kenworth diesel tractor was filled with rolls of carpeting from a North Carolina mill en route to a distributorship in Memphis for a major sale. An experienced driver, Snyder was perfectly happy to be out on a Saturday, since the pay was better, and besides, football season was over and the grass wasn’t growing yet. He fully expected to be home for dinner in any case. Best of all, the roads were fairly clear during this winter weekend, and he was making good time, the driver told himself, negotiating a sweeping turn to the right and down into a valley.

  “Uh-oh,” he murmured to himself. It was not unusual to see fog here, close to the State Route 95 North exit, the one that headed off to the bomb people at Oak Ridge. There were a couple of trouble spots on I-40, and this was one. “Damned fog.”

  There were two ways to deal with this. Some braked down slowly for fuel economy, or maybe just because they didn’t like going slow. Not Snyder. A professional driver who saw major wrecks on the side of the highway every week, he slowed down immediately, even before visibility dropped below a hundred yards. His big rig took its time stopping, and he knew a driver who’d converted some little Japanese roller-skate into tinfoil, along with its elderly driver, and his time wasn’t worth the risk, not at time-and-a-half it wasn’t. Smoothly downshifting, he did what he knew to be the smartest thing, and just to be sure, flipped on his running lights.

  Pierce Denton turned his head in annoyance. It was another Cresta, the sporty C99 version that they made only in Japan so far, this one black with a red stripe down the side that whizzed past, at eighty or a little over, his trained eye estimated. In Greeneville that would have been a hundred-dollar ticket and a stern lecture from Judge Tom Anders. Where had those two kids come from? He hadn’t even noticed their approach in his mirror. Temporary tag. Two young girls, probably one had just got her license and her new car from Daddy to go with it and was taking her friend out to demonstrate what real freedom was in America, Officer Denton thought, freedom to be a damned fool and get a ticket your first day on the road. But this wasn’t his jurisdiction, and that was a job for the state boys. Typical, he thought with a shake of the head. Chattering away, hardly watching the road, but it was better to have them in front than behind.

  “Lord,” Snyder breathed. Locals, he’d heard in a truck stop once, blamed it on the “crazy people” at Oak Ridge. Whatever the reason, visibility had dropped almost instantly to a mere thirty feet. Not good. He flipped his running lights to the emergency-blinker setting and slowed down more. He’d never done the calculation, but at this weight his tractor-trailer rig needed over sixty feet to stop from thirty miles per hour, and that was on a dry road, which this one was not. On the other hand ... no, he decided, no chances. He lowered his speed to twenty. So it cost him half an hour. Pilots knew about this stretch of 1-40, and they always said it was better to pay the time than to pay off the insurance deductible. With everything in hand, the driver keyed his CB radio to broadcast a warning to his fellow truckers.

  It was like being inside a Ping-Pong ball, he told them over Channel 19, and his senses were fully alert, staring ahead into a white mass of water vapor when the hazard was approaching from the rear.

  The fog caught them entirely by surprise. Denton’s guess had been a correct one. Nora Dunn was exactly eight days past her sixteenth birthday, three days past getting her temporary permit, and forty-nine miles into her sporty new C99. First of all she’d selected a wide, nice piece of road to see how fast it would go, because she was young and her friend Amy Rice had asked. With the compact-disc player going full blast, and trading observations on various male school chums, Nora was hardly watching the road at all, because, after all, it wasn’t all that hard to keep a car between the solid line to the right and the dashy one to the left, was it, and besides, there wasn’t anybody in the mirror to worry about, and having a car was far better than a date with a new boy, because they always had to drive anyway, for some reason or other, as though a grown woman couldn’t handle a car herself.
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br />   The look on her face was somewhat startled when visibility went down to not very much—Nora couldn’t estimate the exact distance—and she took her foot off the accelerator pedal, allowing the car to slow down from the previous cruising speed of eighty-four. The road behind was clear, and surely the road ahead would be, too. Her driving teachers had told her everything she needed to know, but as with the lessons of all her other teachers, some she’d heard and some she had not. The important ones would come with experience. Experience, however, was a teacher with whom she was not yet fully acquainted, and whose grading curve was far too steep for the moment at hand.

  She did see the running lights on the Fruehauf trailer, but she was new to the road, and the amber spots might have been streetlights, except that most interstate highways didn’t have them, a fact she hadn’t been driving long enough to learn. It was scarcely a second’s additional warning in any case. By the time she saw the gray, square shadow, it was simply too late, and her speed was only down to sixty-five. With the tractor-trailer’s speed at twenty, it was roughly the equivalent of hitting a thirty-ton stationary object at forty-five miles per hour.

  It was always a sickening sound. Will Snyder had heard it before, and it reminded him of a truckload of aluminum beer cans being crunched in a compressor, the decidedly unmusical crump of a car body’s being crushed by speed and mass and laws of physics that he’d learned not in high school but rather by experience.

  The jolt to the left-rear corner of the trailer slewed the front end of the forty-foot van body to the right, but fortunately, his low speed allowed him to maintain control enough to get his rig stopped quickly. Looking back and to his left, he saw the remains of that cute new Jap car that his brother wanted to get, and Snyder’s first ill-considered thought was that they were just too damned small to be safe, as though it would have mattered under the circumstances. The center- and right-front were shredded, and the frame was clearly bent. A blink and further inspection showed red where clear glass was supposed to be ...