The Sum of All Fears

20 COMPETITION

At the halfway point of the NFL season, the Vikings and Chargers were still the class of the league. Shrugging off their overtime loss to Minnesota, San Diego took their revenge the next week at home against doormat Indianapolis, whom they buried 45-3, while the Vikings had to struggle against the Giants in a Monday Night game, emerging on the sweet side of a 21–17 score. Tony Wills passed a thousand rushing yards in the third quarter of the season's eighth game, and was already consensus rookie of the year, plus becoming the official NFL spokesman for the President's Campaign Against Substance Abuse (CASA). The Vikings stumbled against the Forty-Niners, losing 24–16, which evened their record with San Diego's 7–1, but their nearest competition in the NFL Central—“Black and Blue”—division was the Bears at 4–3. Parity in the National Football League had come and gone. The only serious challenge in the American Conference came, as always, from the Dolphins and Raiders, both of which were on the Chargers' dance card for the tail end of the season.

None of this was the least comfort to Ryan. Sleep came hard, despite the enveloping fatigue that seemed to define what his life had become. Before when thoughts had plagued his night, he'd come to the windows facing the Chesapeake Bay and stood, watching the ships and boats pass a few miles away. Now he sat and stared. His legs were weary and weak, always tired, until standing took a conscious effort. His stomach rebelled at the acid produced by stress and augmented by caffeine and alcohol. He needed sleep, slumber to relax his muscles, dreamless oblivion to loosen his mind from the day-today decisions. He needed exercise. He needed many things. He needed to be a man again. Instead he got wakefulness, a mind that would not stop turning over the thoughts of the day and the failures of the night.

Jack knew that Liz Elliot hated him. He even thought he knew why, that first meeting a few years before in Chicago where she'd been in a bad mood and he'd been in one also, and their introduction had been one of harsh words. The difference was that he tended to forget slights — most of them, anyway — and she did not; and she had the ear of the President. Because of her, his role in the Vatican Treaty would never be known. The one thing he had done that was untainted by his work at the Agency — Ryan was proud of what he'd done in CIA, but knew that it was narrowly political or strategic, aimed at the betterment of his own country, while the Vatican Treaty had been for the betterment of the whole world. That one proud insight. Gone, credited to others. Jack didn't want sole credit. It had not been exclusively his work, but he did want fair mention as one of the players. Was that asking too much? Fourteen-hour days, much of them spent in cars, the three times he'd risked his life for his country — for what? So that some political bitch from Bennington could tear up his evaluations.

Liz, you wouldn't even be there except for me and what I did, and neither would your boss, the Iceman, Jonathan Robert Fowler of Ohio!

But they could not know that. Jack had given his word. Given his word to what? For what?

The worst part of all, it was now affecting him in a way that was both new and totally unexpected. He'd disappointed his wife again this night. It was incomprehensible to him. Like throwing a light switch and getting no light, like turning the key to start the car and—

Like not being a man. That was the simple description.

I am a man. I've done all the things a man can do.

Try explaining that to your wife, chump!

I've fought for my family, for my country, killed for my family and my country. I've won respect among the best of men. I've done things that can never be known and kept the secrets that had to be kept. I've served as well as any man can.

So why are you looking out at the water at two in the morning, ace?

I've made a difference! Jack's mind raged.

Who knows! Who cares!

But what of my friends!

A whole lot of good they do you — besides, what friends! When's the last time you saw Skip Tyler or Robby Jackson! Your friends at Langley — why not confide your problems to them?

Dawn came as a surprise, but not so much a surprise as that he'd actually slept, sitting alone in the living room. Jack rose, feeling the aches in his muscles unhelped by whatever number of hours he'd not been awake. It hadn't been sleep, he told himself on the way to the bathroom. It was just that he hadn't been awake. Sleep was rest, and he felt singularly unrested, with a pounding headache from the cheap wine of the previous night. The only good news — if that's what it was — was that Cathy didn't get up. Jack fixed his own coffee and was waiting at the door when Clark drove up.

“Another great weekend, I see,” the man said, as Ryan got into the car.

“Et tu, John?”

“Look, Deputy Director, you want to take a swing at me, go right ahead. You looked like shit a couple of months back and you're getting worse instead of better. When's the last time you took a vacation, got away for more than a day or two, you know, maybe pretended you were a real person instead of some fuckin' government ticket-puncher who's afraid that if he leaves nobody'll notice?”

“Clark, you do have a way of brightening my mornings.”

“Hey, man, I'm just a SPO, but don't bitch if I take the 'protective' part seriously, 'kay?” John pulled the car over and parked it. “Doc, I've seen this before. People burn out. You're burning out. You're burning the candle both ends and the middle That's hard to do when you're in your twenties, and you ain't in your twenties anymore, in case nobody bothered telling you.”

“I'm quite aware of the infirmities that come with age.” Ryan tried a wry smile to show that it wasn't that big a deal, that Clark was overdoing it.

It didn't work. Suddenly it occurred to John that his wife hadn't been at the door. Trouble at home? Well, he couldn't ask about that, could he? What he saw in Ryan's face was bad enough. It wasn't just fatigue. He was tiring from within, all the shit he was taking from up the chain of command, the strain of backstoppmg Director Cabot on damned near everything that went out the front door. Cabot — not a bad guy, he meant well, but the truth of the matter was that he just didn't know what the hell he was doing. So Congress depended on Ryan, and the Operations and Intelligence Directorates depended on Ryan for leadership and coordination. He couldn't escape his responsibilities, and didn't have the good sense to realize that some were really things he could leave to others. The directorate chiefs could have taken up more of the slack, but they were letting Ryan do it all. A strong bark from the Deputy Director's office could have set that right, but would Cabot back him up — or would those White House pukes take it as a sign that Jack was trying a takeover?

Fuckin' politics! Clark thought as he pulled back onto the road Office politics Political politics And some thing was wrong at home, too Clark didn't know what, but he knew it was something.

Doc, you're too damned good a man for this!

“Can I lay a piece of advice on you?”

“Go ahead,” Jack replied, looking through dispatches.

“Take two weeks, go to Disney World, Club Med, find a beach and walk it. Get the hell out of town for a while.”

“The kids are in school.”

“So take them out of school, for Christ's sake! Better yet, maybe, leave them and get away, you and your wife. No, you're not that kind. Take them to see Mickey.”

“I can't. They're in school—”

“They're in grammar school not graduate school, Doc. Missing two weeks of long-division and learning to spell 'squirrel' won't stunt their intellectual growth. You need to get away, recharge the batteries, smell the fucking roses!”

“Too much work, John.”

“You listen to me! You know how many friends I've buried? You know how many people I went out with who never got the chance to have a wife and kids and a nice house on the water? A lot, pal, a whole lot, never came close to having what you have. You got all that, and you're trying very damned hard to end up dead — and that's what's gonna happen, Doc. One way or another, give it maybe ten years.”

“I have a job to do!”

“It ain't important enough to wreck your fucking life for, you dumb ass! Can't you see that?”

“And then who runs the shop?”

“Sir, you might be hard to replace when you're at your best, but the shape you're in now, that Goodley kid can do your job at least as well as you can.” And that, Clark saw, scored for points. “Just how effective do you think you are right now?”

“Will you do me a favor and just drive the car.” There was another SPINNAKER report waiting for him, according to coded phrases in the morning's dispatches, along with one from NIITAKA. This would be a busy day.

Just what he needed, Jack thought to himself, closing his eyes for a moment's rest.

It got worse. Ryan was surprised to find himself at work, more surprised that fatigue had defeated morning coffee and allowed him to sleep for forty minutes or so on the way in. He accepted Clark's told-you-so look and made his way up to the 7th floor. A messenger brought in the two important files, along with a note that Director Cabot was going to be late. The guy was keeping banker's hours. Spies were supposed to work harder, Jack thought. I sure as hell do.

NIITAKA came first. The Japanese, the report said, were planning to renege on a rare trade concession made only six months earlier. It would be explained away as “unfortunate and unforeseen” circumstances, part of which might be true, Ryan thought as he read down the page — the Japanese had as many domestic political problems as everyone else — but there was something else: they were going to coordinate something in Mexico… something to do with the state visit of their Prime Minister to Washington the coming February. Instead of buying American farm goods, they were opting to buy them cheaper from Mexico, playing that off against reduced tariff barriers into that country. That was the plan, in any case. They weren't sure they could get the concession from Mexico, and they were planning…

… a bribe?

“Jesus,” Ryan breathed. The Mexican Institutional Revolutional Party — PRI — didn't exactly have an exemplary record for integrity, but this…? It would be handled in face-to-face talks in Mexico City. If they got the concession, trading access to Mexican markets for opening Japan to Mexican foodstuffs, then the amount of American foodstuffs they had committed to buy the previous February would be reduced. It made good business sense. Japan would get food a little cheaper than they could in America while at the same time opening up a new market. Their excuse to American farmers would have to do with agricultural chemicals that their food-and-drug agency would decide, much to everyone's surprise, not to like for reasons of public health.

The bribe was fully in proportion to the magnitude of the target. Twenty-five million dollars, to be paid in a roundabout, quasi-legal fashion. When the Mexican president left office the following year, he would head a new corporation that… no, they would buy out a corporation he already owned for fair market value, and the new ownership would keep him on, while inflating the value of the business and paying his impressive salary in return for 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, right?”

“Also correct, sir. He has a lot of one-on-ones with Narmonov, and that's why he's so valuable to us.”

“Fine, I can see that.”

“In their most recent meeting, he says, Narmonov said that his problems are indeed getting worse. He's allowed his military and security forces to increase their internal clout, but it would seem that this is not enough. There may be opposition to the arms-reduction treaty implementation. According to this report, the Soviet military wants to hold onto all of its SS-18s instead of eliminating six regiments of them as agreed. Our man says that Narmonov may be ready to give in to them on that point. Sir, that would be treaty violation, and that's why I'm here.”

“How important is it?” Liz Elliot asked. “The technical side, I mean.”

"Okay, we've never been able to make this very clear. Secretary Bunker understands, but Congress has never quite figured it out: since we're in the process of reducing nuclear arms by a little more than half, we've changed the nuclear equation. When both sides had ten thousand RVs it was pretty clear to everyone that nuclear war was a difficult — virtually impossible — thing to win. With so many warheads to hit, you'd never get them all, and there would always be enough left to launch a crippling counterattack.

“But with the reductions, the calculus changes. Now, depending on the mix of forces, such an attack becomes theoretically possible, and that's why the mix of forces was so carefully spelled out in the treaty documents.”

“You're saying that the reduction makes things more dangerous rather than less?” Fowler asked.

“No, sir, not exactly. I've said all along — I consulted with the treaty team back some years ago, back when Ernie Allen was running it — that the net strategic improvement from a fifty percent reduction was illusory, mere symbolism.”

“Oh, come on,” Elliot observed scathingly. “It's a reduction by half of—”

“Dr. Elliot, if you ever bothered to sit in on the C AMELOT games you'd understand this a little better.” Ryan turned away before he noticed her reaction to this rebuke. Fowler noticed her flush briefly and almost smiled in amusement at her discomfort at being cut down in front of her lover. The President returned his attention to Ryan, sure that he and Elizabeth would speak further on the matter.

“This issue gets very technical. If you don't believe me, ask Secretary Bunker or General Fremont out at SAC Headquarters. The deciding factor is the mix of forces, not the number. If they hold onto those extra SS-18 regiments, the mix is changed to the point at which the Soviets have a genuine advantage. The effect on the treaty is substantive, not merely numerical. But there's more.”

“Okay,” the President said.

“According to this report, there appears to be some collusion between the military and the KGB. As you know, while the Soviet military owns and maintains the strategic launchers, the warheads have always been under KGB control. Kadishev thinks that those two agencies are getting a little too cozy, and further that security on the warheads might be problematic.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that an inventory of tactical warheads is being withheld.”

“Missing nukes?”

“Small ones. It's possible, he says.”

“In other words,” Fowler said, “their military may be blackmailing Narmonov, and it's possible that they are holding some small weapons as their trump cards?”

Not bad, Mr. President. “Correct, sir.”

Fowler was quiet for thirty seconds or so, turning that over in his head as he stared into space. “How reliable is this Kadishev?”

“Mr. President, he's been in our employ for five years. His advice has been very valuable to us, and to the best of our knowledge he's never misled us.”

“Possible that he's been turned?” Elliot asked.

“Possible but not likely. We have ways of dealing with that. There are prearranged code phrases which warn us of trouble. Good-news phrases accompany each report, and did in this case also.”

“What about confirming the report through other sources?”

“Sorry, Dr. Elliot, but we have nothing to confirm this.”

“You came down here with an unconfirmed report?” Elliot asked.

That is correct,“ Ryan admitted, not knowing how tired he looked. ”There aren't too many agents who could make me do that, but this is one of them."

“What can you do to confirm that?” Fowler asked.

“We can make discreet inquiries through our own networks, and with your permission we can have careful discussions with some foreign services. The Brits have someone in the Kremlin who's giving them some really good stuff. I know Sir Basil Charleston, and I can make approaches, but that means revealing something of what we know. You don't do something like this on the old-boy net. At this level you have to make a real quid pro quo. We never do that without getting executive approval.”

“I can understand that. Give me a day to think about it. Does Marcus know about this?”

“No, Mr. President. He has the flu. Ordinarily, I would not have come here without consulting with the Director first, but I figured you would want to know about this quickly.”

“You've said previously that the Soviet military was more politically reliable than this,” Elliot observed.

“Also correct, Dr. Elliot. Action such as Kadishev reports is completely unprecedented. Historically, our worries about political ambition within the Soviet military have been as groundless as they've been continuous. It would seem that this may have changed. The possibility of a de facto alliance between the military and the KGB is most disturbing.”

“So, you were wrong before?” Elliot pressed.

“That is a possibility,” Ryan admitted.

“And now?” Fowler asked.

“Mr. President, what do you want me to say? Might I be wrong on this also? Yes, I may. Am I sure this report is accurate? No, I am not, but the import of the information compels me to bring it to your attention.”

“I'm less concerned with the missile issue than with the missing warheads,” Elliot said. “If Narmonov is facing real blackmail… wow.”

“Kadishev is a potential political rival to Narmonov,” Fowler noted speculatively. “Why confide in him?”

“You meet regularly with the congressional leadership, sir. So does he. The political dynamic in the Congress of People's Deputies is more confused than on the Hill. Moreover, there's genuine respect between the two. Kadishev has supported Narmonov more often than he's opposed the man. They may be rivals, but there is also a commonality of views on many key issues.”

“Okay, I want this information confirmed any way you can, and as quickly as you can.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“How's Goodley working out?” Elliot asked.

“He's a bright kid. He's got a good feel for the Eastern Bloc. I read over a paper he did up at the Kennedy School a while back, and it was better than our people did at the time.”

“Get him in on this. A fresh mind might be useful,” Liz opined.

Jack shook his head emphatically. “This is too sensitive for him.”

“Goodley is that Presidential Fellow you told me about? Is he that good, Elizabeth?” Fowler wanted to know.

“I think so.”

“My authority, Ryan, let him in,” the President ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“Sir, if you have a minute, we did have something else come in about Japan.” Jack explained further for a few minutes.

“Is that a fact…?” Fowler smiled in his clever way. “What do you think of them?”

“I think they like to play games,” Ryan answered. “I do not envy the folks who have to negotiate with them.”

“How can we find out if this is true?”

“It comes from a good source. It's another one we guard closely.”

“Wouldn't it be nice if… how would we find out if the deal is struck?”

“I don't know, Mr. President.”

“I could ram something like that right down his throat. I'm getting tired of this trade impasse, and I'm tired of being lied to. Find a way to do it.”

“We'll try, Mr. President.”

“Thanks for coming in.” The President didn't rise or extend his hand. Ryan stood and left.

“What do you think?” Fowler asked as he scanned over the report.

“It confirms what Talbot says about Narmonov's vulnerability… but worse.”

“I agree. Ryan looks harried.”

“He shouldn't be playing both sides of the street.”

“Hmph?” the President grunted without looking up.

“I have a preliminary report from the investigation Justice has been running. It looks as though he is playing around, as we suspected, and there is a kid involved. She's the widow of an Air Force guy who died in a training accident. Ryan has spent a lot of money to take care of the family, and his wife doesn't know.”

“I don't need that sort of scandal, not another womanizer on top of Charlie's affairs.” Good thing they haven't found out about us, he didn't have to say. That was, in any case, a different matter. Alden had been a married man. Ryan still was. Fowler was not. That made it different. “How sure are you of this? You said a preliminary report?”

“That's right.”

“Firm it up and let me know what you find out.”

Liz nodded and went on. This thing with the Soviet military… scary."

“Very scary,” Fowler agreed. “We'll talk about it over lunch.”

“And that is the halfway point,” Fromm said. “Might I ask a favor?”

“What favor is that?” Ghosn asked, hoping that it was not to go back to Germany for time with his wife. That might be sticky.

“I have not had a drink in two months.”

Ibrahim smiled. “You understand that I am not permitted such things.”

“But do the same rules apply to me?” The German smiled. “I am an infidel, after all.”

Ghosn laughed heartily. “Quite true. I'll talk to Günther about it.”

“Thank you.”

“Tomorrow, we begin on the plutonium.”

“It will take so long?”

“Yes, that and the explosive blocks. We are precisely on schedule.”

“That is good to know.” January 12 was the day.

“Who do we have good in the KGB?” Ryan asked himself back in his office. The big problem with SPINNAKER 's report was that much, maybe most, of the KGB was loyal to Narmonov. The part that might not be was the Second Chief Directorate, which concerned itself with the country's internal security. The First Chief — a/k/a Foreign — Directorate definitely was, especially with Golovko in his position as First Deputy Chairman to keep an eye on things. That man was a pro, and reasonably non-political. Ryan had a wild thought that a direct call might — no, he'd have to set up a meet… but where?

No, that was too dangerous.

“You want me?” It was Goodley, sticking his head through Jack's door. Ryan waved him in.

“Want a promotion?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that at the direction of the President of the United States you are in on something that I think you're not ready for.” Jack handed him the SPINNAKER report. “Read.”

“Why me, and why did you say—”

“I also said you did a nice job predicting the breakup of the Pact. It was better than anything we did in-house, by the way.”

“You mind if I say that you're a strange guy to work with?”

“How do you mean that?” Jack asked.

“You don't like my attitude, but you commend my work.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Ben, believe it or not, I am not always right. I make mistakes. I've made some whoppers even, but I am smart enough to know that, and because I'm that smart, I look for people with opposing views to backstop me. That's a good habit to get into. I learned it from Admiral Greer. If you learn anything from your time here, Dr. Goodley, learn that. We can't afford fuckups here. They happen anyway, but we still can't afford them. That paper you did at Kennedy was better than what I did. It's theoretically possible that you might again one day be right when I am wrong. Fair enough?”

“Yes, sir,” Goodley replied quietly, surprised at the statement. Of course he'd be right when Ryan was wrong. That's why he was here.

“Read.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

Jack's eyes opened. “You a smoker?”

“I quit a couple of years ago, but since I've been here…”

“Try to break that habit, but before you do, give me one.”

They both lit up and puffed away in silence, Goodley reading over the report, Ryan watching his eyes. The Presidential Fellow looked up.

“Damn.”

“Good first reaction. Now, what do you think?”

“It's plausible.”

Ryan shook his head. “That's what I just told the President an hour ago. I'm not sure, but I had to take it to him.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want to play on this a little. The DI's Russian people will chew on it for a couple of days. I want you and me to do our own analysis, but I want a different spin on it.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that you think it's plausible, and I have my doubts. Therefore, you will look for reasons it might not be true, and I'll look for reasons that it is.” Jack paused. “The Intelligence Directorate will play this conventionally. They're too organized down there. I don't want that.”

“But you want me to—”

“I want you to exercise that brain. I think you're smart, Ben. I want you to prove it. That's an order, by the way.”

Goodley considered that. He wasn't accustomed to getting or taking orders. “I don't know that I can do that.”

“Why not?”

“It's contrary to my views. It's not the way I see this, it's…”

“Your beef with me and a lot of people here is the corporate mind of CIA, right? Part of that is correct, we do have a corporate mind, and there are drawbacks to that. It's also true that your way of thinking has its own pitfalls. If you can prove to me that you are no more a prisoner of your views than I try to be of mine, then you have a future here. Objectivity isn't easy. You have to exercise it.”

It was a very clever challenge, Goodley thought. He wondered next if he'd perhaps misjudged the DDCI.

“Will Russell cooperate?”

“Yes, Ismael, he will,” Bock said, sipping at a beer. He'd gotten a case of a good German export brew for Fromm, and kept a few for himself. “He thinks we'll be setting off a large conventional bomb to eliminate television coverage of the game.”

“Clever, but not actually intelligent,” Qati observed. He wanted a beer himself, but could not ask. Besides, he told himself, it would probably upset his stomach, and he'd actually enjoyed three consecutive days of relative health.

“His outlook is limited to tactical matters, yes. On tactical matters he is quite useful, however. His assistance will be crucial to that phase of the operation.”

“Fromm is working out well.”

“As I thought he would. It really is a pity that he will not see it to fruition. The same with the machinists?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Qati frowned. Not a man who blanched at the sight of blood, neither was he one to kill unnecessarily. He'd had to kill people for reasons of security before, though never this many. It was almost becoming a habit. But, he asked himself, why worry about a few when you plan to kill so many more?

“Have you planned for the consequences of failure or discovery?” Bock asked.

“Yes, I have,” Qati replied with a sly smile, followed by an explanation.

“That is ingenious. Good to plan for every contingency.”

“I thought you'd like it.”