his obvious expertise at public relations.
“Nice separation,” Ryan said aloud. It was almost comical, and the funny part was that it might even be legal in America, if someone hired a sharp enough lawyer. Maybe not even that much. Plenty of people from State and Commerce had hired themselves out to Japanese interests immediately after leaving government service.
Except for one little thing: what Ryan held in his hand was evidence of conspiracy. In one way they were foolish: the Japanese thought that some counsels were sacrosanct, that some words spoken aloud would never be heard outside the four enclosing walls that heard them. They didn't know that a certain cabinet member had a certain mistress who in turn had a personal beef that matched her ability to loosen a man's tongue; and that America now had access to all that information, courtesy of a RGB officer…
“Think, boy.”
If they could get harder evidence, and give that over to Fowler… But how? You couldn't exactly cite the report of a spy in court… a Russian national, a KGB officer working in a third country.
But they weren't talking about an open court with rules of evidence, were they? Fowler could discuss this in his own face-to-face meet with their PM.
Ryan's phone rang. “Yes, Nancy?”
“The Director just called in. He's got the flu.”
“Lucky him. Thanks. Flu, my ass,” Ryan said, after hanging up. The man was lazy.
… Fowler could play it one of two ways: (1) face-to-face, tell him that we know what he's up to and we won't stand for it, that we will inform the proper congressional people and… or, (2) just leak it to the press.
Option 2 would have all sorts of evil consequences, not the least of which would be in Mexico. Fowler didn't like the Mexican president, and liked the PRI even less. Whatever you said about Fowler, he was an honest man who loathed corruption in all its forms.
Option 1… Ryan had to report this to Al Trent, didn't he? He had to let Trent know about the new operation, but Trent had his personal axe to grind on trade issues, and Fowler would worry that he might be leaky on this issue. On the other hand, could he legally not tell Trent? Ryan lifted his phone again.
“Nancy, could you tell the general counsel that I need to see him? Thanks.”
Next came SPINNAKER. What, Ryan thought, does Mr. Kadishev have to say today…?
“Dear God in heaven.” Ryan forced himself to relax. He read through the complete report, then stopped and read through it again. He picked up his phone and punched the button to speed-dial Mary Pat Foley.
But the phone just rang for thirty seconds until someone picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Who is this?”
“Who is this?”
“This is Deputy Director Ryan. Where's Mary Pat?”
“In labor, sir. Sorry, I didn't know who you were,” the man's voice went on. “Ed's with her, of course.”
“Okay, thanks.” Ryan hung up. “Shit!” On the other hand, he couldn't be angry about that, could he? He got up and walked out to his secretary's office.
“Nancy, Mary Pat's in labor,” Jack told Mrs. Cummings.
“Oh, wonderful — well, not wonderful, it's not all that much fun,” Nancy observed. “Flowers?”
“Yeah, something nice — you know that stuff better than I do. Put it on my American Express.”
“Wait until we're sure everything's okay?”
“Yeah, right.” Ryan returned to his office. “Now what?” he asked himself.
You know what you have to do. The only question is whether or not you really want to do it.
Jack lifted his phone again and punched yet another speed-dial button.
“Elizabeth Elliot,” she said, picking up her direct line, the one known only to a handful of government insiders.
“Jack Ryan.”
The cold voice grew yet colder. “What is it?”
“I need to see the President.”
“What about?” she asked.
“Not over the phone.”
“It's a secure phone, Ryan!”
“Not secure enough. When can I come over? It's important.”
“How important?”
“Important enough to bump his appointment schedule, Liz!” Ryan snapped back. “You think I'm playing games here?”
“Calm down and wait.” Ryan heard pages turning. “Be here in forty minutes. You can have fifteen minutes. I'll fix the schedule.”
“Thank you, Dr. Elliot.” Ryan managed not to slam the phone down. God damn that woman! Ryan got up again. Clark was back in Nancy's office. “Warm the car up.”
“Where to?” Clark asked, rising.
“Downtown.” Jack turned. “Nancy, call the Director. Tell him I have to get something to the Boss, and, with all due respect, he should get his tail in here.” That would be inconvenient. Cabot's place was an hour away, in fox country.
“Yes, sir.” One of the few things he could depend on was Nancy Cummings' professionalism.
“I need three copies of this. Make one more for the Director, and return the original to secure storage.”
“Take two minutes,” Nancy said.
“Fine.” Jack walked off to the washroom. Looking in the mirror, he saw that Clark was as right as ever. He really did look like hell. But that couldn't be helped. “Ready?”
“If you are, Doc.” Clark was already holding the documents in a zipped leather case.
The perversity of life did not abate this Monday morning. Somewhere around the I-66 cutoff, some fool had managed to cause an accident, and that backed traffic up. What should have been a ten or fifteen minute drive took thirty-five. Even senior government officials have to deal with D.C. traffic. The Agency car pulled into West Executive Drive barely on time. Jack managed not to run into the west entrance to the White House only because someone might notice. Reporters used this entrance, too. A minute later, he was in Liz Elliot's corner office.
“What gives?” the National Security Advisor asked.
“I'd prefer to go over this just once. We have a report from a penetration agent that you're not going to like very much.”
“You have to tell me something,” Elliot pointed out, reasonably for once.
“Narmonov, his military, and nukes.”
She nodded. “Let's go.” It was a short walk down two corridors, past eight Secret Service agents who guarded the President's office like a pack of very respectful wolves.
“I hope this is good,” President Fowler said, without rising. “I'm missing a budget brief for this.”
“Mr. President, we have a very highly-placed penetration agent inside the Soviet government,” Ryan began.
“I know that. I have asked you not to reveal his name to me, as you recall.”
“Yes, sir,” Ryan said. “I'm going to tell you his name now. Oleg Kirilovich Kadishev. We call him SPINNAKER. He was recruited some years ago by Mary Patricia Foley, when she and her husband were in Moscow.”
“Why did you give me that?” Fowler asked.
“So that you can evaluate what he says. You've seen his reports before under the codenames R ESTORATIVE and P IVOT.”
P IVOT…? That's the one back in September that talked about problems with Narmonov's — I mean, that he was having trouble with his security apparatus.'
“Correct, Mr. President.” Good for you, Ryan thought. You remember what we send down. It was not always so, Ryan knew.
“I gather his problems are worsening or you would not be here. Go on,” Fowler ordered, leaning back in his chair.
“Kadishev says he had a meeting with Narmonov last week — late last week—”
“Wait a minute. Kadishev — he's a member of their parliament, head of one of the opposition groups,
