Locked On Part 44

NCTC had more information on Riaz Rehan, some of it courtesy of The Campus and much of it thanks to the work of Melanie Kraft, so Jack Ryan and his fellow a.n.a.lysts found themselves virtually looking over the shoulder of Kraft for much of the time. It made Ryan feel creepy, but if there was anything actionable that Melanie found in her research, The Campus was in a position to act immediately.

Tony Wills had been working with Ryan; more than once he had looked at Melanie Kraft's research and commented, "Your girlfriend is smarter than you are, Ryan."

Jack thought Wills was half right. She was smarter than he was, true, but he wasn't sure she was his girlfriend.

The Pakistanis did an admirable job hiding the loss of the two nuclear devices from their own public and from the world's press for forty-eight hours. During this time they scrambled to find the culprits and locate the bombs, but the Pakistani Federal Investigation Agency came up empty. There was an immediate fear that it had been an inside job, and there was a related fear that the ISI was involved. But the ISI and the PDF were infinitely more powerful than the FIA, so these fears were not effectively explored as part of the investigation.

But when the news finally got out that there had been a ma.s.sive terrorist act within Pakistan on a rail line, the Pakistani press put together, through their sources in the government, that nuclear devices had been on board the train. When it was confirmed, within hours, that the two devices, type and yield unspecified, had been hijacked by parties unknown, it came with a very public and very specific promise from the highest corridors of power in the military, civilian government, and the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission that the theft of the weapons was of no great consequence. It was explained that the devices were equipped with fail-safe arming codes that one would need to render the devices active.

All the parties who said this publicly firmly believed what they were saying, and it was true, although one of the parties did leave out a critical morsel of information that was highly relevant.

The director of the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission did not tell his peers in the government and military, and he did not tell the public at large, that two of his top weaponization physicists, two men able to bypa.s.s the arming codes and reconfigure the detonation systems, had gone missing at the exact moment the bombs were lost.

The next morning the two crates claiming to be property of Textile Manufacturing, Ltd, sat on a dusty concrete floor in the center of a warehouse at a school bus fleet maintenance yard on Kurban Rakhimov, in the northern part of Dushanbe. General Rehan and Georgi Safronov both were very happy with the choice of facility for this portion of the mission. The property was ma.s.sive and fenced and gated on all sides, blocking the view from the tree-lined streets of the more than fifty foreign men working and patrolling the grounds inside. Dozens of trucks and school busses sat in various states of operational condition, which made the Dagestani and Pakistani trucks invisible, even from the air. And the large maintenance building was large enough for several busses, which made it more than large enough for the huge bombs. Further, there was a large array of hoists and rolling stands to lift and move the ma.s.sive school bus engines that were scattered around the facility.

Of the people present, the only ones doing anything more than standing around were the two scientists who worked for PAEC, Pakistan's Atomic Energy Commission. They were missing back in Pakistan, and the few people who knew about their disappearance but did not know the men themselves suspected they had been kidnapped by a terrorist force. But those who knew them and knew of the missing nukes did not think for a moment that anyone was forcing them to do anything. That they were Islamic radicals was widely known among their peers. On this matter some had been accepting, and some had been uncomfortable yet quiet.

Both of these groups of people suspected these men were involved.

The two scientists, Dr. Nishtar and Dr. Noon, were united in their belief that Pakistan's nuclear weapons were not the property of the civilian government, nor were they fabricated and stockpiled, at great cost and at great risk they would hasten to add, only to be used as some sort of hypothetical deterrent. An invisible chess piece.

No. Pakistan's nuclear weapons belonged to the Ummah, the community of Muslims, and they could and should be used for the good of all believers.

And the two scientists believed in Riaz Rehan, and they trusted that now was the right time because he said that now was the right time.

The dour foreign men from the Caucasus all around them in the school bus maintenance facility were of the faithful, even if they were not Pakistani Muslims. Drs. Noon and Nishtar did not understand all of what was going on, but they were quite clear on their mission. They were to arm the weapons, they were to oversee the loading of the weapons into the rocket payload containers, and then they were to return to Pakistan with the ISI general, where they would remain in hiding until Rehan told them it was safe to come out in public and take their bow as heroes of the state.

Noon and Nishtar had been working for more than three hours in the cold warehouse, taking moments to warm their hands over a coal brick stove that had been lit in the corner so that their fingers would remain pliant for the intricate work of removing the nuclear devices from their MK84 bomb casings, necessary for them to fit in the payload containers. A group of Rehan's personal security force stood by, ready to help with engine hoists and rolling racks. Safronov offered up Jamaat Shariat men for this work but Rehan refused, told him to keep his gunmen inside the perimeter gates but ready for any threat from the outside. Once the bombs left Dushanbe, Rehan explained, they would be Safronov's, but for now Rehan retained possession and his people would handle them.

As Noon and Nishtar checked some data on a laptop on a table next to the first payload container, Rehan and Safronov stepped up behind them. The general reached out and put his thick hands on the two men's backs. They continued to work. "Doctors, how is your progress?"

Dr. Nishtar answered while he peered into the container, looking at the configuration of the warhead. "Minutes more for this one, and then we begin on the second weapon. We have bypa.s.sed the launch code mechanisms, and we have installed the radio altimeter fuses."

"Show us."

Noon pointed out a device bolted to the side of the bomb. It looked like a metal briefcase, and it contained several mechanical parts wired together, as well as a computer keypad and an LED readout. He said, "There is a radio altimeter that is already set. When the devices reach an alt.i.tude of sixty thousand feet it will arm the weapon, and when it descends to one thousand feet it will detonate. There is a backup barometer on the detonator, as well as a manual override for a timed detonation, which you will not need for a warhead launch. Also, we will rig a tamper trigger on the door of the payload container, so that if anyone tries to open it to remove the weapon, the nuclear bomb will detonate."

Georgi smiled and nodded, appreciative of the men's work on behalf of the Dagestani cause. "And you will do the same for the other device?"

"Of course."

"Excellent," Rehan said as his hands patted the men on their shoulders. "Carry on."

Safronov left the warehouse minutes later, but Rehan lagged behind. He returned to the two nuclear scientists and said, "I have one small request for you both."

"Anything, General," said Dr. Noon.

Ninety minutes later, General Rehan embraced Georgi Safronov outside the maintenance garage, and he shook the hand of each one of the Dagestani fighters. He called them brave brothers, and he promised them that if they should be martyred he would name streets in his country in their honor.

Then Rehan, Khan, the PAEC officials, and Rehan's protection detail departed through the front gates of the bus farm in four vehicles, removing with them every trace of their work, and leaving behind the Dagestani fighters and the two Dnepr-1 payload containers.

Minutes after that, the Dagestanis themselves departed, the gifts from Pakistan loaded carefully into their tractor-trailers for the long drive to the north.

John Clark spent an entire morning on a stakeout on a tiny park bench in Pushkin Square, central Moscow. Two inches of fresh snowfall surrounded him, but the sky was clear and bright. He took full tactical advantage of the temperatures by wearing a heavy coat with a thick fur hood. He imagined that if his own wife sat next to him on this park bench she would have no idea as to his ident.i.ty.

And that was coming in handy at the moment. Two muscular Frenchmen were also in the park, also looking at the same location Clark had come to stake out. He'd spotted them and a pair of their colleagues the day before. The others were stationed in a van up on Uspenskiy Pereulok, a van that they'd kept running throughout the day and night. Clark had noticed the steaming exhaust on one of his "lazy eight" strolls through the neighborhood, just one of dozens of anomalies his fertile tactical mind had seen in the streets surrounding his target's house. The other anomalies he had, after checking them out, eliminated as potential tip-offs to watchers, but the two Frenchmen in the park, and the van that ran all day long in its parking spot, meant the men after him were using his target as bait.

It did not work for them in Tallinn, but here in Moscow, they would be determined to not fail again.

Clark used peripheral vision to watch the front door of the apartment of Oleg Kovalenko. The old Russian spy had not left his home at all the day before, but that had not surprised John Clark much. A pensioner his age would not want to stroll the icy streets of Moscow unless it was necessary; there were likely tens of thousands of elderly shut-ins filling tiny apartments throughout the frozen city this weekend.

The day before he'd bought a mobile phone with prepaid credits in a shopping center. He'd found Kovalenko's phone number in the phone book, and he'd considered just calling the man and asking him for a minute of his time somewhere safe. But Clark had no way of knowing if the exKGB officer's phone had been bugged by the French, so he discarded that plan.

Instead he had spent most of the day looking for a way into the Russian's apartment that would not tip off the Frenchmen. He got an idea around two in the afternoon, when an old woman in a purple cap pushed an old metal rolling cart out of the front entrance of the building and headed west through the square. He followed her into a market, where she bought several staples. In the checkout line Clark stood next to her, used his rusty Russian to strike up a friendly conversation. He was apologetic about his language abilities, explaining he was an American newspaper reporter in town working on a story about how "real" Muscovites deal with harsh winters.

Clark offered to pay for her groceries if she would sit down with him for a quick interview.

Svetlana Gasanova was thrilled with the opportunity for company with a handsome young foreigner, and she insisted on taking him back to her flat-she lived right up the street, after all-and making him a cup of tea.

The watchers in the park were not looking for a couple entering the apartment, and Clark was bundled up in his coat and hood to the point where they could not have identified him without standing six inches from his nose. He even carried a bag of groceries to give the impression he belonged in the building.

John Clark spent a half-hour chatting with the old pensioner. His Russian was strained every minute of his time in her flat, but he smiled a lot and nodded a lot, and he drank the jam-sweetened tea she made for him while she talked about the gas company, her landlord, and her bursitis.

Finally, after four p.m., the woman seemed to grow tired. He thanked her for her hospitality, took down her address, and promised to send her a copy of the newspaper. She led him to the door of her flat and he promised to return for a visit on his next trip into Moscow.

He headed to the stairwell, tossed the woman's address in an ashtray, and went upstairs instead of down.

Clark did not knock at Oleg Kovalenko's door. He had noticed when he entered Ms. Gasanova's flat that the heavy oaken doors in this old building were secured with large, easy-to-defeat pin tumbler locks. John had created lock picks days earlier by buying a small set of dental instruments at a p.a.w.nshop here in Moscow and then bending them to approximate lock picks he had used in the past in Russia.

From a pouch in his coat pocket he retrieved his homemade facsimiles of a half-diamond pick, a rake pick, and a tension wrench.

Checking up and down the wooden-floored hallway to make certain no one was around, he put the picks in his mouth, then manipulated the tension wrench inside the keyhole, turning it counterclockwise slightly and holding the tension on the wrench with his right pinky finger. Then, with his left hand, he took the rake pick from his mouth and slid it above the tension wrench, inside the keyhole. Using both hands while maintaining the pressure on his pinky finger he slid the pick in and out over the spring-loaded pins, pushing them down into place.

After he'd defeated all but two of the pins, he replaced the rake pick in his mouth, then took the half-diamond pick, slid it into place in the lock, and slowly manipulated the last two pins, pushing them down from back to front.

With a satisfying click that he hoped had not made much noise inside the flat, the tension wrench turned on the open cylinder and the bolt opened on the door.

Quickly John placed everything back in his pocket and drew his pistol.

He pushed open the door and slid into the kitchen of the tiny flat. Past this he found himself looking into a darkened and tiny living room. A couch, a tiny coffee table, a television set, an eating table with several liquor bottles on it. Big Oleg Kovalenko sat in a chair at the window looking outside through dirty blinds, his back to the room.

In English Clark said, "How much time before they know I'm here?"

Kovalenko started, stood from the chair, and turned around. His hands were empty, otherwise Clark would have pumped a .45-caliber round into his fat belly.

The big Russian grabbed at his chest, his heart pounding after he was startled, but soon he sat back down. "I do not know. Did they see you enter?"

"No."

"Then do not worry. You have more than enough time to kill me."

Clark lowered the pistol and looked around. This place wasn't even as nice as Manfred Kromm's little flat. s.h.i.t, the American thought. So little thanks for all our years of service to our countries. This old Russian spy, the old East German spy Kromm, and John Clark, himself an old American spy.

Three f.u.c.king peas in a pod.

"I'm not going to kill you." Clark nodded toward the empty vodka bottles. "You don't look like you need any help."

Kovalenko thought this over. "Then you want information?"

Now Clark shrugged. "I know you met Paul Laska in London. I know your son, Valentin, is involved as well."

"Valentin follows orders from his leaders, as do you. As did I. He has nothing personal against you."

"Who are those guys out there in the park?"

Kovalenko said, "They were sent by Laska, I think, in order to capture you. They work for the French detective Fabrice Bertrand-Morel. My son is back in London, his part in this affair was political, and it was benign, he had nothing to do with men chasing after you." The old Russian nodded toward the gun low in Clark's right hand. "I would be surprised if my boy has ever touched a gun." He chuckled. "He is so f.u.c.king civilized."

"So are you in contact with the men in the street?"

"In contact? No. They came here. They told me about you. Told me you would come here, but they would protect me. I knew nothing of you before yesterday. I only set up the meeting between Valentin and Pavel. Sorry . . . Paul. I was not told what was discussed."

"Laska worked for the KGB in Czechoslovakia." Clark said it as a statement.

Kovalenko did not deny it. He only said, "Pavel Laska has been an enemy of every state he has ever lived in."

But John did not render judgment on Laska. The American exCIA man knew that the ruthless KGB could have destroyed the spirit of a young Paul Laska, turned him into something not of his own choosing.

The Cold War was littered with broken men.

Oleg said, "I am going to make myself a drink if you promise you won't shoot me in the back." Clark waved him toward his bottles and the big Russian lumbered over to the table. "Would you like something?"

"No."

Kovalenko said, "So what have you learned from me? Nothing. Go back home. You will have a new president in a few weeks. He will protect you."

Clark did not say it, but he wasn't looking for protection from Jack Ryan. Quite the opposite. He needed to protect Ryan from exposure to him, to The Campus.

Kovalenko stood at his table and poured himself a tall straight vodka into a water gla.s.s. He walked back over to the chair with the bottle and the gla.s.s in his hands.

"I want to talk to your son."

"I can call his office at the emba.s.sy in London. But I doubt he'd call me back." Kovalenko swigged half the gla.s.s and put the bottle down on the windowsill, rattling the blinds in the process. "You would have better luck calling him yourself."

The Russian seemed, to Clark, like he was telling the truth. He did not have much of a relationship with his son, and his son definitely was not here. Could Clark get to him in London, somehow?

He'd have to try. Coming to Moscow to bleed Oleg Kovalenko for information had been a dry hole.

Clark slipped his gun in his pocket. "I'll leave you with your vodka. If you do talk to your boy, tell him I would like a word. Just a friendly conversation. He'll be hearing from me."

The American turned to leave through the kitchen, but the Russian pensioner called after him. "Sure you won't join me for a drink? It will warm you from the cold."

"Nyet," John said as he reached the door.

"Maybe we could talk about old times."

Clark's hand stopped on the door latch. He turned, walked back into the living room.

Oleg cracked a little smile. "I do not get many visitors. I can't be choosy, can I?"

Clark's eyes sharpened as he scanned the room quickly.

"What?"

His eyes stopped scanning, locked onto the vodka bottle on the windowsill. It pressed against the blinds, closing them.

A signal to the men in the park. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Clark shouted, and he shot back through the kitchen, out the door, and up the hallway.

He heard noises in the stairwell, the chirping of a walkie-talkie and the slapping, echoing footfalls of two men. John ran to the top of the stairs and grabbed a heavy, round metal ashtray/garbage can that had been positioned there. He laid the cylinder on its side at the edge of the top stair, waited until the sounds of the men told him they were just around the corner below, and then he kicked the metal can. He just caught a glimpse of the first man turning at the landing; he wore a heavy black coat and carried a small black pistol and a radio. John drew his pistol and adopted a combat stance at the top of the stairs.

The metal garbage can picked up speed as it bounced down the stairs. As the men turned onto the flight just below Clark, the can bounced head high and banged into them, sending both men crashing to the tile floor. One man dropped his pistol, but the other retained his weapon and tried to aim it up the stairwell at the man standing above them.

John fired a single round. The .45-caliber bullet burned a red crease into the man's left cheek.

"Drop it!" Clark shouted in English.

The man on the tile floor below did as he was told. Along with his partner he raised his hands into the air as he lay there.

Even with the silencer on his SIG Sauer .45 the echo of Clark's pistol in the stairwell was painfully loud, and he had no doubt residents would be on the phone to the police in seconds. He descended to the landing and stepped between the two men, keeping his pistol trained on them all the while. He liberated them of their guns and their walkie-talkies and their mobile phones. One of the men cursed Clark in French, but he kept his hands in the air while doing so, and John ignored him. John did not say another word to the men before continuing down the stairs.

He exited the back door of the apartment building a minute later, and here he dumped the men's equipment in a trash can.

He thought, for a fleeting hopeful moment, that he was in the clear, but a white panel truck pa.s.sed by on the opposite side of the road, and then it slammed on its brakes. Four men leapt out, there were eight lanes of afternoon traffic between John and the four, but they began running through the cars, heading right for him.

John broke into a run. His original objective had been the Pushkinskaya Metro station. But the men were on his heels, not fifty yards back, and they were a lot faster than he. The underground station would slow his escape-he would never make it on a train before they caught him. He ran across busy Tverskaya Street, eight lanes of traffic that he had to negotiate like a violent dance.

On the other side of the street he chanced a glance behind him. The four men were joined by two more in the street. The six hunters were only twenty-five yards back now.

They were going to catch him, it was quickly becoming apparent. There were too many men, they were too well trained, too well coordinated, and, he had to admit, they were too motherf.u.c.king young and fit for him to outrun them all across Moscow.

He could not get away from them, but he could, with a little cunning and guile, "game" his capture.

John picked up the pace now, trying to put a little s.p.a.ce between himself and the six behind. As he did so, he pulled the prepaid phone he'd purchased the day before from his coat pocket.

The phone had an "auto answer" key that set the device to pick up automatically any incoming call after two rings. He enabled this feature with a few taps of his thumb, and then he turned down a side street that ran perpendicular to Pushkin Square. It was little more than an alley, but Clark saw what he was looking for. A munic.i.p.al garbage truck rolled slowly in the opposite direction after just loading up with refuse from a dumpster outside the McDonald's. John took his phone, looked down at the number on the screen, and then hurled it into the back of the truck just as it made a left behind the McDonald's.

Then Clark turned into the doors of the restaurant as the men chasing him turned the corner behind.

John shot through the door, ran past smiling employees asking if they could help him, and pushed through a crowd that pushed him back.