The Bear and the Dragon - Страница 5

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Yes, if there were a hell in creation, a political campaign was its most tangible form, listening to yourself saying the same things over and over until your brain started rebelling and you started wanting to make random, crazy changes, which might amuse yourself, but it would make you appear crazy to the audience, and you couldn’t do that, because a presidential candidate was expected to be a perfect automaton rather than a fallible man.

There had been an upside to it. Ryan had bathed in a sea of love for the ten weeks of the endurance race. The deafening cheers of the crowds, whether in a parking lot outside a Xenia, Ohio, shopping mall, or in Madison Square Garden in New York City, or Honolulu, or Fargo, or Los Angeles-it had all been the same. Huge crowds of ordinary citizens who both denied and celebrated the fact that John Patrick Ryan was one of them … kind of, sort of, something like that-but something else, too. From his first formal speech in Indianapolis, soon after his traumatic accession to the Presidency, he’d realized just how strong a narcotic that sort of adulation was, and sure enough, his continued exposure to it had given him the same sort of rush that a controlled substance might. With it came a desire to be perfect for them, to deliver his lines properly, to seem sincere-as indeed he was, but it would have been far easier doing it once or twice instead of three hundred and eleven times, as the final count had been reckoned.

The news media in every place asked the same questions, written down or taped the same answers, and printed them as new news in every local paper. In every city and town, the editorials had praised Ryan, and worried loudly that this election wasn’t really an election at all, except on the congressional level, and there Ryan had stirred the pot by giving his blessing to people of both major parties, the better to retain his independent status, and therefore to risk offending everyone.

The love hadn’t quite been universal, of course. There were those who’d protested, who got their heads on the nightly commentary shows, citing his professional background, criticizing his drastic actions to stop the terrorist-caused Ebola plague that had threatened the nation so desperately in those dark days-“Yes, it worked in this particular case, but …!”-and especially to criticize his politics, which, Jack said in his speeches, weren’t politics at all, but plain common sense.

During all of this, Arnie had been a godsend, preselecting a response to every single objection. Ryan was wealthy, some said. “My father was a police officer” had been the answer. “I’ve earned every penny I have-and besides [going on with an engaging smile], now my wife makes a lot more money than I do.”

Ryan knew nothing about politics: “Politics is one of those fields in which everybody knows what it is, but nobody can make it work. Well, maybe I don’t know what it is, but I am going to make it work!”

Ryan had packed the Supreme Court: “I’m not a lawyer, either, sorry,” he’d said to the annual meeting of the American Bar Association. “But I know the difference between right and wrong, and so do the justices.”

Between the strategic advice of Arnie and the preplanned words of Callie Weston, he’d managed to parry every serious blow, and strike back with what was usually a soft and humorous reply of his own-leavened with strong words delivered with the fierce but quiet conviction of someone who had little left to prove. Mainly, with proper coaching and endless hours of preparation, he’d managed to present himself as Jack Ryan, regular guy.

Remarkably, his most politically astute move had been made entirely without outside expertise.

Morning, Jack,” the Vice President said, opening the door unannounced.

“Hey, Robby.” Ryan looked up from his desk with a smile. He still looked a little awkward in suits, Jack saw. Some people were born to wear uniforms, and Robert Jefferson Jackson was one of them, though the lapel of every suit jacket he owned sported a miniature of his Navy Wings of Gold.

“There’s some trouble in Moscow,” Ryan said, explaining on for a few seconds.

“That’s a little worrisome,” Robby observed.

“Get Ben to give you a complete briefin on this. What’s your day look like?” the President asked.

“Sierra-square, Delta-square.” It was their personal code: SSDD-same shit, different day. “I have a meeting of the Space Council across the street in twenty minutes. Then tonight I have to fly down to Mississippi for a speech tomorrow morning at Ole Miss.”

“You taking the wheel?” Ryan asked.

“Hey, Jack, the one good thing about this damned job is that I get to fly again.” Jackson had insisted on getting rated on the VC-20B that he most often flew around the country on official trips under the code name “Air Force Two.” It looked very good in the media, and it was also the best possible therapy for a fighter pilot who missed being in control of his aircraft, though it must have annoyed the Air Force flight crew. “But it’s always to shit details you don’t want,” he added with a wink.

“It’s the only way I could get you a pay raise, Robby. And nice quarters, too,” he reminded his friend.

“You left out the flight pay,” responded Vice Admiral R. J. Jackson, USN, retired. He paused at the door and turned. “What does that attack say about the situation over there in Russia?”

Jack shrugged. “Nothing good. They just can’t seem to get ahead of things, can they?”

“I guess,” the Vice President agreed. “Problem is, how the hell do we help them?”

“I haven’t figured that one out yet,” Jack admitted. “And we have enough potential economic problems on our horizon, with Asia sliding down the tubes.”

“That’s something I have to learn, this economic shit,” Robby admitted.

“Spend some time with George Winston,” Ryan suggested. “It’s not all that hard, but you have to learn a new language to speak. Basis points, derivatives, all that stuff. George knows it pretty good.”

Jackson nodded. “Duly noted, sir.”

“ ‘Sir’? Where the hell did that come from, Rob?”

“You still be the National Command Authority, oh great man,” Robby told him with a grin and a lower-Mississippi accent. “I just be da XO, which means Ah gits all the shit details.”

“So, think of this as PCO School, Rob, and thank God you have a chance to learn the easy way. It wasn’t like that for me-”

“I remember, Jack. I was here as J-3, remember? And you did okay. Why do you think I allowed you to kill my career for me?”

“You mean it wasn’t the nice house and the drivers?”

The Vice President shook his head. “And it wasn’t to be a first-black, either. I couldn’t say ‘no’ when my President asks, even if it’s a turkey like you. Later, man.”

“See ya at lunch, Robby,” Jack said as the door closed.

“Mr. President, Director Foley on three,” the speakerphone announced.

Jack lifted the secure phone and punched the proper button. “Morning, Ed.”

“Hi, Jack, we have some more on Moscow.”

“How’d we get it?” Ryan asked first, just to have a way of evaluating the information he was about to receive.

“Intercepts,” the Director of Central Intelligence answered, meaning that the information would be fairly reliable. Communications intelligence was the most trusted of all, because people rarely lied to one another over the radio or telephone. “It seems this case has a very high priority over there, and the militiamen are talking very freely over their radios.”

“Okay, what do you got?”

“Initial thinking over there is that Rasputin was the main target. He was pretty big, making a ton of money with his female … employees,” Ed Foley said delicately, “and trying to branch out into other areas. Maybe he got a little pushy with someone who didn’t like being pushed.”

You think so?“ Mike Reilly asked.

“Mikhail Ivan”ch, I am not sure what I think. Like you, I am not trained to believe in coincidences,” replied Lieutenant Oleg Provalov of the Moscow Militia. They were in a bar which catered to foreigners, which was obvious from the quality of the vodka being served.

Reilly wasn’t exactly new to Moscow. He’d been there fourteen months, and before that had been the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the New York office of the FBI-but not for Foreign Counter-Intelligence. Reilly was an OC-Organized Crime-expert who’d spent fifteen busy years attacking the Five Families of the New York Mafia, more often called LCN by the FBI, for La Cosa Nostra. The Russians knew this, and he’d established good relations with the local cops, especially since he’d arranged for some senior militia officers to fly to America to participate in the FBI’s National Academy Program, essentially a Ph.D. course for senior cops, and a degree highly prized in American police departments.

“You ever have a killing like this in America?”

Reilly shook his head. “No, you can get regular guns pretty easy at home, but not anti-tank weapons. Besides, using them makes it an instant Federal case, and they’ve learned to keep away from us as much as they can. Oh, the wiseguys have used car bombs,” he allowed, “but just to kill the people in the car. A hit like this is a little too spectacular for their tastes. So, what sort of guy was Avseyenko?”

A snort, and then Provalov almost spat the words out: “He was a pimp. He preyed on women, had them spread their legs, and then took their money. I will not mourn his passing, Mishka. Few will, but I suppose it leaves a vacuum that will be filled in the next few days.”