Command Authority Read online

  Ryan started his post-military life at Merrill Lynch, where he made a small fortune in the markets. After a few years of this, he decided to go back to school; he earned his doctorate in history, and then, after teaching for a while at the Naval Academy, he’d gone to work for the CIA.

  In just thirty-two years Jack Ryan had experienced more than the average man does in a lifetime. As he stood under the hot water he smiled, taking comfort in the certainty that his next thirty-two years wouldn’t be nearly as eventful. As far as he was concerned, watching his kids grow up was all the excitement he’d ever need.

  By the time Jack and Cathy were ready to leave for work, the nanny had arrived. She was a young South African redhead named Margaret, and she immediately began her workday by wiping jam from Sally’s face with one hand while holding Junior in her other.

  The taxi honked out on the street, so Jack and Cathy gave the kids one last hug and kiss, and then they headed out the door into what now had devolved into a heavy mist.

  Ten minutes later they were in the train station in Chatham. They climbed aboard the train to London, sat in a first-class cabin, and read most of the way.

  They parted in Victoria Station with a good-bye kiss, and by ten till nine Jack was walking along under his umbrella on Westminster Bridge Road.

  Although Jack was officially an employee of the U.S. embassy, in truth he almost never set foot in the embassy. Instead, he worked at Century House, 100 Westminster Bridge Road, the offices of the Secret Intelligence Service.

  Ryan had been sent over by his boss at the CIA, Director of Intelligence Admiral James Greer, to serve as a liaison between the two friendly services. He was assigned to Simon Harding and his Russian Working Group, and here Ryan pored through any and all intelligence MI6 wanted shared with the CIA relating to the USSR.

  Although he knew they had every right to protect their sources and methods, even from the United States, Jack considered the Brits to be somewhat stingy with their information. More than once he found himself wondering if his counterpart SIS analyst working at Langley came across some of the same roadblocks when trying to get information out of the CIA. He had come to the conclusion that his own service was probably even more tightfisted. Still, the arrangement seemed to work well enough for both nations.

  —

  Just before ten a.m., the phone on Ryan’s desk rang. He was engrossed in a report on Russia’s Kilo-class submarines stationed in Paldiski, Estonia, so he reached for the handset distractedly.

  “This is Ryan.”

  “Good morning, Jack.” It was Sir Basil Charleston himself, director general of the Secret Intelligence Service.

  Ryan sat up straighter and put the dot-matrix printout he’d been reading down on the blotter in front of him. “Morning, Basil.”

  “I was wondering if I could borrow you away from Simon for a few minutes. Would you be so good as to pop round?”

  “Now? Sure. I’ll be right up.”

  “Splendid.”

  Ryan took the executive elevator to Sir Basil’s corner office on the top floor. When he walked in, he saw the director of the Secret Intelligence Service standing by a window that overlooked the Thames. He was talking to a blond man about Jack’s age who wore an expensive-looking charcoal-gray pin-striped suit.

  “Oh, hello, Jack. There you are,” said Basil. “I’d like to introduce you to David Penright.”

  The two men shook hands. Penright’s blond hair was slicked back, and his sharp blue eyes stood out on his clean-shaven face.

  “Sir John, it’s a pleasure.”

  “Please, call me Jack.”

  Basil said, “Jack is a little self-conscious about his knighthood.”

  “Honorary knighthood,” Ryan hastened to add.

  Penright said with a smile, “I see what you mean. Very well. Jack it is.”

  The three men sat in chairs around a coffee table, and a tea service was brought in.

  Charleston said, “David is an operational officer, based in Zurich, mostly, aren’t you, David?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tough post,” Ryan joked with a smile. Neither of the two men smiled back.

  Oops, Jack thought.

  On the coffee table next to the service was that morning’s copy of The Times of London. Penright picked it up. “Have you had a chance to look over the paper?”

  “I get the International Tribune. I glanced at it.”

  “Did you see the article about the dreadful affair in Switzerland yesterday afternoon?”

  “In Zug, you mean? Pretty awful. A man was killed, some others were wounded. The paper says it didn’t look like robbery, since nothing was taken.”

  Penright said, “The man’s name was Tobias Gabler. He was killed not in Zug, but in a nearby burg called Rotkreuz.”

  “Right. He was a banker?”

  Penright replied, “He was indeed. Are you familiar with his bank, Ritzmann Privatbankiers?”

  Ryan said, “No. There are dozens of small, family-owned banks in Switzerland. They’ve been around forever, so they must be successful, but like most Swiss banks, knowing just how successful they are is difficult.”

  “And why is that?” Charleston asked.

  “The Swiss Banking Act of 1934 essentially codified their bank secrecy procedures. Swiss banks don’t have to share any information with any third party, including foreign governments, unless so ordered by a Swiss court.”

  Penright said, “And good luck with that.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Ryan. “The Swiss are tight when it comes to giving up information. They use numbered accounts, which draws dirty money to them like a bee to honey.”

  Ryan added, “The numbered accounts aren’t really as anonymous as many make them out to be, because the bank itself has to fully verify the identity of the person opening the account. That said, they do not have to fix the name to the account itself. And this makes transactions anonymous, because anyone with the correct code can deposit to or withdraw from the account.”

  The two Englishmen looked at each other, as if deciding whether the conversation was to continue.

  After a moment, Sir Basil nodded to David Penright.

  The younger man said, “We have reason to believe a certain nefarious enterprise maintains accounts at RPB.”

  This didn’t surprise Ryan in the slightest. “Cartel? Mafia?”

  “We think there is a strong possibility that the man who was killed, Tobias Gabler, was managing numbered accounts for the KGB.”

  This did surprise Ryan. “Interesting.”

  “Is it?” Penright asked. “We were wondering if, perhaps, CIA had come to the same conclusion about the bank.”

  “I can tell you with some degree of confidence that Langley doesn’t know of specific numbered accounts in Switzerland. I mean, sure, we know they exist. Russian intelligence has to stash black funds in the West so their operatives on this side of the Iron Curtain can have a steady stream of cash, but we don’t have their accounts pinned down.”

  “You’re quite sure?” Penright asked. He seemed disappointed.

  “I am pretty sure, but I can cable Jim Greer, just to double-check. I’d hope that if we had that kind of information, we’d either find a way to shut down the KGB’s access to the account or, better yet—”

  Penright finished the thought. “Or, better yet, monitor the account, to see who makes withdrawals.”

  “Right,” Jack said. “That could prove to be a treasure trove of intel about KGB ops.”

  Charleston spoke up. “That was our idea. The interesting thing here, however, is there is one particular account in question that we are curious about, because it is quite large, and it’s just sitting there.”

  “Maybe they are setting it up for some future operation,” Ryan suggested.

  Sir Basil Charleston said, “I quite hope that is not the case.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Basil leaned toward Ryan. “Because the account we are talki
ng about has a balance in excess of two hundred million dollars. With regular high-dollar deposits coming in monthly.”

  Jack’s eyes went wide. “Two hundred million?”

  Penright said, “Yes. Two hundred four million, as a matter of fact. And if the money keeps coming in at the same pace, in another year there will be twice that.”

  “All in one account? That’s unbelievable.”

  “Quite,” said Charleston.

  Ryan said, “Obviously, this isn’t being set up for an intelligence operation in the West. That’s way too much money. I . . . are you sure it’s KGB money?”

  “We are not sure, but we believe so.”

  That didn’t tell Jack much, but he assumed the Brits were holding back to protect their source. He thought for a moment. “I understand if you aren’t going to give me information about your source for this intelligence, but I can’t think of any possibility other than the fact you have someone in the inside of that bank.”

  Basil looked at Penright and nodded again. He clearly was giving the younger intelligence officer the okay to share information with the CIA analyst.

  Penright said, “We have a source at the bank. Let’s just leave it there.”

  “And the source has reason to suspect the two hundred mil is KGB money?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And now Gabler, the account manager, is dead.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said David Penright.

  “You think the KGB found out their moneyman was compromised somehow, so they killed him?”

  Basil said, “That is one operating theory, but there is a major hole in it.”

  Jack said, “Nothing about the assassination of Gabler looks like a KGB hit.”

  Penright said, “Quite right. We are confused by that bit. The witnesses say he was crossing a two-lane street, on foot, at six p.m., when an assault rifle appeared out a window of a supposedly unoccupied hotel room. An entire thirty-round magazine was fired at him at a range of less than fifty feet. He was hit three times out of thirty, which isn’t terribly impressive accuracy.”

  Penright added, “Sir Basil’s house cat could do that.”

  Basil raised his eyebrows but did not respond to the quip. Instead, he said, “Four other passersby were wounded.”

  “And no one saw the shooter?”

  Penright replied, “No. A van came screeching out of an underground garage, nearly ran down a group of onlookers, but no one got a glance at the driver.”

  Jack said, “It’s not exactly a poison umbrella in the back of the leg.” He was referring to the 1978 assassination of Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markov, who was assassinated just a few hundred yards from where Ryan, Penright, and Charleston now sat.

  “No,” Sir Basil admitted. “Nevertheless, we are very concerned that Herr Gabler was not a victim of a random act of violence. Could he have been assassinated by another intelligence agency that became aware of his association with the Russians? Could he have been killed by other clients of his, for some perceived violation of their trust? We would like to know if your agency has any knowledge of either the nefarious affairs of the bank or of any names on this list.”

  Penright handed over several sheets of paper folded in half. Ryan opened them and saw literally hundreds of names.

  “Who are they?”

  “RPB’s employees and clients. As you may know, some numbered accounts are set up by shell corporations, so, despite the rules, even the bank itself doesn’t know who actually owns the funds. It’s another layer of secrecy.”

  Ryan understood. “You want us to check our files to see if we have anything on any of the names, in the hopes you can find someone else who had a reason to kill Gabler.”

  Penright added, “That, and also we’d like you to try and weed through the corporate accounts. U.S. banking is not as private as it is in Switzerland. You might find some similar data sets that can link actual names to these shell companies.”

  Ryan said, “You need to be certain your source in the bank has not been compromised.”

  “That’s it exactly,” Charleston agreed.

  “Okay. I’ll get to work on this immediately. I don’t want to cable this list to Langley, it’s too sensitive. I’ll go over to the embassy right now and send it over in the diplomatic bag. It will take a few days to get answers back to you.”

  Penright said, “The sooner the better. I’m trying to get in touch with our inside man in Zug. It’s a good bet he is going to be shaken up by all this. If we don’t hear from him by tomorrow, I’m going to have to start making preparations to go over there to make contact. I’d like to be able to tell him he has nothing to worry about.”

  Jack started to get up, but he stopped himself. “Sir Basil. You know as well as I do that Langley will ask to be dealt in to this hand. This autonomous asset of yours . . . are you offering to make him bilateral?”

  Basil had been expecting the question. “We will share the intelligence we get from this source with our friends in Washington. And we will readily take any advice you might have for us on the operation. But I am afraid, at this juncture, we are not prepared to go bilateral with this relationship.”

  “I’ll let Greer and Moore know,” Jack said, and he stood up. “They might want more involvement, but I am certain they will understand that the main focus right now should be on finding out if your agent is in any danger—for his sake, of course, but also for yours. I can’t imagine what two hundred million dollars’ worth of KGB money is doing sitting in a Western bank, but we need that inside man right where he is so we can keep an eye on it.”

  Charleston stood and shook Ryan’s hand, as did David Penright.

  Sir Basil said, “I had no doubt at all that you would see the urgency of this matter.”

  37

  Present day

  Jack Ryan, Jr., arrived at the Belgravia town house of Sir Basil Charleston during a midafternoon squall. He’d called first, of course, even though he’d been warned by his dad that the octogenarian might not be able to communicate by phone. Ryan was surprised when a younger-sounding man answered the phone. He introduced himself as Phillip, Charleston’s personal assistant, which Ryan assumed meant bodyguard.

  Two hours later, Ryan was invited inside Charleston’s home by a housekeeper who was herself up in years, and he met Phillip in the hall. Although the man was well into his fifties, Jack could tell right away he was carrying a weapon and he knew how to use it.

  Phillip went to the kitchen to help the housekeeper with the tea, and while Jack waited for Sir Basil in the library, he wandered around the room, taking the opportunity to look through shelves of books, photos, and memorabilia.

  He saw pictures of children and grandchildren and several prominently displayed photos of an infant who, Jack assumed, must have been a great-grandchild.

  Displayed on the shelves was a British Army helmet from World War One and a set of leather leggings, and a Second World War helmet as well. A German Nazi Luger in pristine condition hung under glass, and various medals, commendations, and letters from the British government adorned the shelves and walls. Ryan marveled at a photo of Sir Basil with Margaret Thatcher, and another picture of Basil with Jack’s father. Ryan recognized the era; it was during his dad’s first term, when he’d visited the UK.

  Prominently displayed on the shelf next to this picture was his father’s first book, Options and Decisions. He opened the front cover and saw that his dad had signed it.

  Just then Sir Basil Charleston stepped into the library. He was tall and thin, and he’d dressed up for his afternoon meeting with the U.S. President’s son; he wore a blue blazer with a red ascot and a carnation boutonniere. Basil walked into the library with a cane and a pronounced stoop to his posture, which gave Jack the initial impression that his health had seriously declined since the last time he’d seen him. But this notion was quickly dispelled when the ex–British spymaster crossed the room quickly with a wide smile and a shout.

&nbs
p; “My heavens! Look at you, boy. You’ve grown since I’ve seen you, or is it just the beard that makes you look so mature?”

  “Pleased to see you again, Sir Basil.”

  Charleston’s housekeeper brought tea, and though Jack would have preferred a cup of coffee to give him a kick on this rainy afternoon, he had to admit the tea was quite good.

  Charleston and Ryan talked for several minutes, and the older man kept Ryan in the crosshairs during the conversation. Questions about his work at Castor and Boyle, his family, and the inevitable question of whether there was a special woman in his life. Jack had to lean forward and repeat himself often, but despite his hearing loss, Basil was very much engaged in the conversation.

  Finally Sir Basil asked, “What is it I can do for your father?”

  Jack said, “He is very interested in Roman Talanov, the new head of the FSB.”

  Charleston nodded somberly. “As someone who lived the majority of his life going toe-to-toe with the KGB, nothing makes my blood run colder than seeing Russian state security’s comeback. It’s a bloody shame.”

  “I agree.”

  “The bastards will be invading Ukraine, mark my words.”

  “That’s what people are saying,” said Ryan.

  “Yes, well, people are saying they will just move on the Crimea, but I know these Russians, how they think. They will take Crimea in a couple of days, and then they will see how easy it was, how muted the reaction from the West is, and then they will keep going, all the way to Kiev. Look at Estonia. If your father hadn’t pressured NATO to stop them cold, the Russians would have taken Lithuania by now as well.”

  Sir Basil knew more about this topic than Ryan did. Jack silently chastised himself for having his head so deep in illegal acquisitions and shell-company shenanigans that he was only remotely aware of an impending war.

  Charleston continued, “But I can’t say I know a thing about Talanov. Most of the upper-level chaps running Russia now were, at least, lower-level chaps at KGB or FSB back when I was in the service, but Roman Talanov was not someone we knew about when I was at Century House.”