Power and Empire by Tom Clancy
Clark often thought that he’d spent at least a quarter of his adult life flat on his belly peering through one kind of scope or another, watching, waiting. There was, to him, a great virtue in stillness.
His initial assessment had been correct. The ridge offered a near perfect vantage point of the house, the expansive deck and hot tub, the pool, and the docks below. He was much closer than before but, at just over a hundred meters and in the trees, was far enough away that he didn’t have to worry too much about being seen. Still, years of discipline forced him to move slowly and deliberately, staying off the ridgeline to keep from silhouetting himself.
Making himself comfortable, he set the binoculars on the ground beside him and took out the notebook and pencil again, entering data in more detail now that he was close enough for a better look. His first course of business was to identify as many of Zambrano’s men as he could. From the looks of things, Pacheco had been right. Security here was the Sun Yee On triad, likely employed by Lily Chen.
It wasn’t like the movies—the men did not wear any kind of uniform or patrol with open firearms that might draw attention from a passing bass boat or party barge. The man farthest down by the docks was carrying a fishing rod in his left hand, though he never used it to fish. His T-shirt was a size too small for his husky frame, making the imprint of a pistol easy to see if you looked for it, but that wouldn’t draw any attention in Texas, particularly out here, where water moccasins and rattlesnakes were common encounters.
Clark printed “Muffin Top” on the top line of a new page in his notebook. In a matter of fifteen minutes, he’d written “Pigeon” (for the man’s propensity to jut his neck out when he peered back and forth to look for threats), “Richie Rich” (because of his fancy gold watch that provided an eye-catching target), and “Geezer,” “Rattail,” and “Sasquatch”—all for obvious reasons. All of them were Asian, heavily tattooed, and apart from Muffin Top, they looked to be in reasonably good condition. Clark was beginning to think he’d miscounted when the seventh man walked out from under the deck. While the others on the security team kept their weapons hidden, this one carried a short CZ Scorpion SMG on a single-point sling around a thick neck. Short and blocky, he was nearly as wide as he was tall.
Clark picked up his pencil again and scribbled another name in the notebook.
“I will call you Mini Fridge.”
52
President Jack Ryan stepped across the corridor to the Roosevelt Room, where Dr. Miller was setting up shop on the long oak table. The White House never slept completely, even on the weekends, so there were still a few staffers pecking away at keyboards up and down the halls or compiling reports that had to be ready by Monday morning. Al Chadwick in the communications office came in every Sunday to watch the morning shows at his desk while his wife took the kids to church.
Ryan carried two paper cups of coffee and the Saturday edition of The Wall Street Journal he’d never gotten around to reading. Miller shot to her feet when she saw him, but he gave her a friendly toss of his head and set both cups on the table.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re the one giving up your weekend. Cream and sugar?”
Miller shook her head, stricken. “I can’t believe the President of the United States brought me coffee.”
“I make terrible coffee,” Ryan said. “Lucky for you I only had to open the spigot to get this stuff.” He nodded to the three notebooks and multiple colored pencils with which the mathematician was taking notes. “I don’t want you to feel rushed, but I can reinstitute the draft if you want to recommend a few coworkers to come in and help you out . . .”
“I’ll be fine, Mr. President,” Miller said. “Frankly, my process is somewhat . . . odd.”
“Odd?” Ryan said. He didn’t intend to stay long, but sat down so Miller would follow suit. “How so?”
“I don’t mean to brag,” she said, “but I was born with a near perfect photographic memory. It drives my boyfriend crazy . . .”
Ryan smiled, enjoying the young woman’s forthrightness.
Dr. Miller continued. “You know those color-blind tests where you see a number or a letter among a bunch of squiggled nonsensical globs?”
Ryan nodded.
“Well, if you were to show me a bunch of globs that formed an unintelligible half of a letter or number, and then an hour—or even a day—later showed me a bunch of globs with the corresponding half of that original letter or number, my brain would recall the first image and then superimpose the two, filling in the blanks and giving me the whole picture.”
Ryan said, “Here’s to you filling in some blanks for us, then.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Miller said.
“I’ll be in the Oval Office for a few hours.” He pointed to the phone at the end of the table. “You can push this button if you have any questions. Tell the operator who you are and she’ll let me know.”
Miller stood again when he did. “Sir, don’t forget your cup of coffee.”
“Oh, no,” Ryan said. “Those are both for you. I expect you’ll need them.”
• • •
By four p.m., Clark had watched the triad security men make their prescribed rounds three times. They appeared to have six assigned posts, with a seventh spot behind a small utility shed down the hill between the pool and the lake. There they’d stashed a folding camp chair out of sight of the main house and used it to rest their feet during periodic smoke breaks. Muffin Top and Geezer both seemed to get winded just walking up the steep hill when they had to reach a post nearer the house. Clark noted that in the book by their respective names.
There was movement in the house, and once, someone inside called out to the nearest security man to bring something inside from a truck parked out back. Clark had yet to see anyone who might be Magdalena Rojas, or, for that matter, Emilio Zambrano or Lily Chen. They were here, though. No one had this kind of roving security just to guard an empty residence.
Then, at almost exactly five straight up, the double doors on the second floor yawned open and an Asian woman stepped out onto the deck. She wore a red one-piece swimsuit that fit her well and showed off long legs and an athletic body. Clark guessed her to be in her late thirties, maybe even forty. Her hair was short, shaved on one side, the front turned up in a high pompadour. A pair of large heart-shaped sunglasses covered much of her face. Even from a distance Clark could see a haughtiness in her walk—chin up, one arm crooked out to the side, as though she were leading an invisible dog. Two girls followed her out like attendants. Both dark, probably Hispanic, and wearing red swimsuits that matched the older woman’s. The lead girl—Clark guessed her to be Magdalena Rojas—carried a rolled towel and a container of sunblock. A somewhat taller and heavier girl followed with a round tray loaded with two tall glasses and a bowl of popcorn. Each girl wore a wide strap around her left ankle. In any other situation Clark might have thought they were decorative. He’d never understood the fashion of youth—even when he’d been young himself. But given the circumstances, the straps were more likely restraints. Neither girl looked to be older than thirteen. A well-muscled man with salt-and-pepper hair brought up the rear, pulling the doors shut behind him. Emilio Zambrano wore red board shorts and a white Hawaiian shirt, open in front to reveal a hairless chest draped in gold chains. Had it not been for the dazed looks on the faces of the girls, it would have been easy to mistake the foursome for a family out for a swim in matching suits.
The girls followed a few steps behind Lily Chen, careful as they descended the stairs from the upper deck to the pool. Richie Rich, the triad security man with the blingy watch, stepped into the cabana. The heavy bass beat of some rap song Clark didn’t recognize—which wasn’t saying much—began to thrum from speakers around the pool.
Clark smiled inside. “Well, that’s helpful,” he whispered.
He was gratified to see that all the security men tur
Clark scribbled a couple more notes in his book. A barked command from Zambrano to one of the Asian guards—Rattail, from the looks of it—caused the heavier of the two girls to drop her tray. The glasses crashed onto the concrete walk beside the pool. Lily turned slowly, lowering her big sunglasses to glare down at both cowering girls. Zambrano cuffed the tall girl in the back of her head, shouting something Clark couldn’t quite make out. The girl fell, wilting from the blow, and began to pile the broken glass on the tray. Magdalena set the towel and sunscreen on the ground and stooped to help. Cursing now, Zambrano walked to the edge of the pool next to the diving board and then turned to give the girl a swift kick in the thigh. She’d apparently gotten glass in the pool.
Chen pointed at the water. The girl stood slowly, glancing at the pool, then shaking her head. Chen nodded, smiling and continuing to point at the water. The girl shook her head again. It was obvious that Chen was telling her to go retrieve any broken glass, and it was just as obvious that the girl was terrified to get into the water.
Chen grabbed the girl by the hair and dragged her in, shoving her over the side. The poor girl sputtered and kicked, but, after her initial panic, was able to stay afloat by dog-paddling. There were no markings on the edge, but the diving board said it was at least eight feet on that end.
Lily Chen continued to point, shoving the crying child away with her bare foot each time she made it to the edge. By now, Rattail, Muffin Top, and Mini Fridge had all gathered around the pool to watch the fun. Muffin Top laughed, but a glare from Lily sent him hustling back down the hill to his post at the docks.
Chen pantomimed holding her nose and diving, but the girl was too panicked to pay attention to any directions. She could barely keep her head above water. Magdalena approached with her head down, staring at the ground. She said something to Chen, who gave a flick of her hand and turned away.
Magdalena jumped in immediately, helping her friend to the edge of the pool and then turning to dive to the bottom, surfacing a moment later with the jagged bottom of a broken glass. She climbed out of the pool and set the glass on the tray, offering to carry it back inside. Instead, Lily snapped her fingers and Rattail took care of it, trotting dutifully up the steps to the deck and disappearing into the house.
Clark wrote “pool boy” beside Rattail’s name in the notebook. When he looked up, Zambrano had attached a short leash from a metal deck chair to the taller girl’s ankle. There was a similar leash on another chair, probably meant for Magdalena, but she was busy rubbing sunscreen on Lily Chen’s shoulders. The Chinese woman said something to Zambrano, who shrugged, and then dragged the deck chair, along with the attached girl, to the edge of the deep end. He pointed in again, as if telling her there was still more glass at the bottom from her accident, and then he kicked the chair over the edge.
The heavy chair jerked her under mid-scream.
Clark’s heart leapt into his throat. His hands clawed at the dirt beside him. There was no way he’d be able to cover the distance from his hide to the pool in time to save her—even if he wouldn’t have been cut down by gunfire. He could start shooting, but at nearly a hundred meters away, he’d be hard-pressed to make pistol shots effective. Shots would only send everyone running for cover, leaving the girl to drown. No, his only hope was to bank on the fact that Zambrano had likely bid a great deal of money on both girls—and would not want to kill off his investment.
Half a minute in, Zambrano gave Magdalena a nod. The skinny little Costa Rican sprang forward at once, diving in to save her friend. Zambrano stood on the edge with Mini Fridge, watching in amusement. When the chair proved too heavy even for Magdalena to keep afloat, Zambrano begrudgingly hooked his thumb at the water and the short Chinese man handed off his SMG to dive in. The taller girl gagged when Zambrano dragged her out, vomiting on the concrete pool deck.
Lily Chen could not be bothered to look up from her magazine during the entire ordeal.
Clark focused on his breathing, having to work hard to relax his jaw. His original plan had been to wait until sundown, but he wasn’t about to stand by and watch something like that again. He took one last scan with the binoculars. The Sun Yee On guys had just rotated posts, so he could count on them being in roughly the same position for the next half-hour.
He carried both pistols and all his magazines on his belt, keeping the Glock mags from nine o’clock over his left hip and forward. The Wilson .45 mags he kept from nine o’clock rearward toward the small of his back, but still within reach. The Presidio was in his left pocket.
He could have solved this whole problem with a rifle. Any warfighter worth his salt knew that if you ever had to pull a handgun during a fight, you were in deep shit. But pistols were better than fists and feet. Clark had always been breakable—everyone was—though he hadn’t admitted it as a younger man. He just didn’t heal quite as quickly anymore. That, along with the lack of a long gun, couldn’t be helped. And anyway, he’d decided to play the hand he was dealt early on in this game. He ran through the plan again in his head, drawing a circle around his sketch of the docks.
“Well, Muffin Top,” he whispered. “Looks like you get to be first.”
• • •
It was not at all uncommon for President Ryan to work through lunch and dinner when he was focused on something. The G20 was looming and there were dozens of topics, economic and otherwise, that he needed to bone up on before he left for Japan the next morning. With Cathy out of town and no one from the scheduling office ramrodding him through endless appointments, he was able to get through half the stack. It was almost six by the time he came up for air.
“I apologize,” he said after he’d stepped out of the Oval and across the corridor into the Roosevelt Room. “I didn’t mean to abandon you.”
Dr. Miller stood again. “Al from Communications brought me a chicken wrap.”
“Good,” Ryan said, eyeing the open notebooks beside Miller’s laptop. “Anything interesting?”
“I think I’m about done,” she said.
Ryan shook his head. “I don’t want you to feel as though you have a deadline, Dr. Miller. This is important, and I fully realize it takes time.”
“Frankly,” Miller said, “I wish I could say I needed more time. This place is amazing compared to my office. Anyway, I found the initial financial ties between China and the bank in Africa the old-fashioned way—by analyzing computer data. I figured I could broaden my focus after you pointed me in the right direction. Once I had an idea of what to look for . . . I was sure all the blobs I told you about would become crystal clear as long as I did enough snooping.”
“And what did you find out?”
“Well,” Miller said, “entities that appear to represent the government of China, and even President Zhao Chengzhi himself, have assets in Africa, Bali, and Paraguay. There’s a Balinese company which appears to be a shell business for Zhao with ties to Jemaah Islamiyah. They’re tenuous, but they are there.”
Ryan sat in a chair across the table and leaned back, thinking. “I don’t understand,” he said. “There are so many methods to stay under the financial radar. Cryptocurrencies, cutouts, middlemen, and offshore banking. Why would anyone conduct business this way if they wanted to hide it?”
“That’s the thing, Mr. President,” Dr. Miller said. “I wish I could tell you that my amazing photographic memory cracked this case for you, sir. To be honest, I might have done it a little more quickly than others could have, but any good forensic accountant would have found these connections once they knew where to look. If someone was trying to hide these transactions, they didn’t do a very good job of it.”
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Dave Holloway, skipper of the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Research Vessel Meriwether, was a civilian now, but his time in the Navy had taught him to believe in the rule of threes.
Three bad events or circumstances, no matter how seemingly minor or unrelated, warranted a hard look at declaring a no-go.
Strike one: His crew was green. But for himself, the navigator, and the mechanic, the ten souls on board were scientists, not sailors. Only five had even minimal experience on blue water. Strike two: The maintenance records for the converted eighty-nine-foot fishing trawler left much to be desired. Oh, the boat ran, all right, and the logs showed no recent problems, but maintenance issues had a way of rearing their heads in the darkest parts of the sea. Strike three: His bosses at the Joint Functional Component Command for Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance were in too much of a hurry. There were times to rush, but launching a boat with a new crew and poor records was not one of those times. The guys at JFCC-ISR praised his seamanship, played up the talents of his crew and the beauty of the little boat. He’d returned their cajoling with Warren Buffett’s sentiment that “no matter how great the talent or efforts, some things just take time. You can’t produce a baby in one month by getting nine women pregnant.”
He wanted a month to assure himself that the boat and the crew were ready, but the folks at Anacostia gave him three days. They did not believe in the rule of threes.
At fifty-three, Holloway was a fourth-generation sailor, and as such, he knew how to follow orders. If the bosses said go, he noted his concerns in the log, and then gave a sharp “Aye, aye, sir” before going.