late, but this hit me last — this morning, actually. I've been chasing it down most of the day. It's harder than I thought.”
Jack motioned to the storm outside. “Looks like I'm going to be stuck here a while. Want some help?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Let's get some dinner first.”
Oleg Yurievich Lyalin boarded his flight to Moscow with mixed feelings. The summons was not all that irregular.
It was troublesome that it had come so soon after his meeting with the CIA Director, but that was probably happenstance. More likely, it had to do with the information he'd been delivering to Moscow about the Japanese Prime Minister's trip to America. One surprise he had not told CIA concerned Japanese overtures to the Soviet Union to trade high-technology for oil and lumber. That deal would have upset the Americans greatly only a few years earlier, and marked the culmination of a five-year project that Lyalin had worked on. He settled into his airline seat and allowed himself to relax. He had never betrayed his country, after all, had he?
The satellite up-link trucks were in two batches. There were eleven network vehicles, all parked just at the stadium wall. Two hundred meters away were thirty-one more, smaller Ku-band up-links for what looked like regional TV stations, as opposed to the bigger network vans. The first storm had passed, and what looked like a tank division's worth of heavy equipment was sweeping up the snow from the stadium's enormous parking lot.
There was the spot, Ghosn thought, right next to the ABC “A” unit. There was a good twenty meters of open space. The absence of security astounded him. He counted only three police cars, just enough to keep drunks away from men trying to get their work done. The Americans felt so secure. They'd tamed the Russians, crushed Iraq, intimidated Iran, pacified his own people, and now they were as totally relaxed as a people could be. They must love their comforts, Ibrahim told himself. Even their stadia had roofs and heat to keep the elements out.
“Gonna knock those things over like dominos,” Marvin observed from the driver's seat.
“Indeed we will,” Ghosn agreed.
“See what I told you about security?”
“I was wrong to doubt you, my friend.”
“Never hurts to be careful.” Russell started another drive around the perimeter. “We'll come in this gate right here, and just drive right up.” The headlights of the van illuminated the few flakes of this second storm. It was too cold to snow a lot, Russell had explained. This Canadian air mass was heading south. It would warm up as it hit Texas, dropping its moisture there instead of on Denver, which had half a meter, Ghosn estimated. The men who cleared the roads were quite efficient. As with everything else, the Americans liked their conveniences. Cold weather — build a stadium with a roof. Snow on the highways — get rid of it. Palestinians — buy them off. Though his face didn't show it, he had never hated America more than at this moment. Their power and their arrogance showed in everything they did. They protected themselves against everything, no matter how big or small, knew that they did, and proclaimed it to themselves and the whole world.
Oh, God, to bring them down!
The fire was agreeably warm. The President's cabin at Camp David was in the classic American pattern, heavy logs laid one atop the other, though on the inside they were reinforced with Kevlar fiber, and the windows were made of rugged polycarbonate to stop a bullet. The furniture was an even more curious mix of ultra-modern and old-comfortable. Before the couch he sat on were three printers for the major news services, because his predecessors liked to see the wire copy, and there were three full-sized televisions, one of which was usually tuned to CNN. But not tonight. Tonight it was on Cinemax. Half a mile away was a discreetly-sited antenna farm that tracked all of the commercial satellites, along with most of the military ones, a benefit of which was access to every commercial satellite channel — even the X-rated ones, which Fowler didn't bother with — creating the world's most expensive and exclusive cable system.
Fowler poured himself a beer. It was a bottle of Dortmunder Union, a popular German brew that the Air Force flew over — being President did carry some useful and unofficial perks. Liz Elliot drank a French white, while the President's left hand toyed with her hair.
The movie was a sappy comedic romance that appealed to Bob Fowler. The female lead, in fact, reminded him of Liz in looks and mannerisms. A little too snappy, a little too domineering, but not without redeeming social value. Now that Ryan was gone — well, on the way to being gone — maybe things would settle down.
“We've certainly done well, haven't we?”
“Yes, we have, Bob.” She paused for a sip of wine. “You were right about Ryan. Better to let him go honorably.” So long as he's gone, along with that little shrew he married.
“I'm glad to hear you say that. He's not a bad guy, just old-fashioned. Out of date.”
“Obsolete,” Liz added.
“Yeah,” the President agreed. “Why are we talking about him?”
“I can think of better things.” She turned her face into his hand and kissed it.
“So can I,” the President murmured as he set his glass down.
“The roads are covered,” Cathy reported. “I think you made the right decision.”
“Yeah, there was just a bad one on the Parkway just outside the gate. I'll be home tomorrow night. I can always steal one of the four-by-fours they have downstairs.”
“Where's John?”
“He's not here right now.”
“Oh,” Cathy observed. And what might he be up to!
“While I'm here, I might as well get some work done. Call you in the morning.”
“Okay, bye.”
“That's one aspect of this place that I won't miss,” Jack told Goodley. “Okay, what have you developed?”
“We've been able to verify all the meetings through September.”
“You look like you're ready to drop. How long have you been up?”
“Since yesterday, I guess.”
“Must be nice to be still in your twenties. Crab a piece of the couch outside,” Ryan ordered.
“What about you?”
“I want to read over this stuff again.” Jack tapped the file on his desk. “You're not into this one yet. Go get some Z's.”
“See you in the morning.”
The door closed behind Goodley. Jack started to read through the NIITAKA documents, but soon lost concentration. He locked the file in his desk and found a piece of his own couch, but sleep wouldn't come. After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling, Ryan decided that he might as well stare at something less boring. He switched on the TV. Jack worked the controller to catch a news broadcast, but he hit the wrong button and found himself staring at the tail end of a commercial on Channel 20, an independent Washington station. He almost corrected the mistake when the movie came back. It took a moment. Gregory Peck and Ava Gardner… black and white… Australia.
“Oh yeah,” Ryan said to himself. It was On the Beach. He hadn't seen that in years, a Cold War classic from… Nevil Shute, wasn't it? A Gregory Peck movie was always worth the trouble. Fred Astaire, too.
The aftermath of a nuclear war. Jack was surprised at how tired he was. He'd been getting his rest lately, and…
… he went to sleep, but not all the way. As sometimes happened to him, the movie entered his mind, though the dream was in color, and that was better than the black-and-white print on the TV, his mind decided, then decided further to watch the movie in its entirety. From the inside. Jack Ryan began to take over various roles. He drove Fred Astaire's Ferrari in the bloody and last Australian Grand Prix. He sailed to San Francisco in the USS Sawfish, SSN-623 (except, part of his mind objected, that 623 was the number of a different submarine, USS Nathan Hale, wasn't it?). And the Morse signal, the Coke bottle on the windowshade, that wasn't very funny at all, because it meant that he and his wife would have to have that cup of tea, and he really didn't want to do that because it
