The Sum of All Fears

23 OPINIONS

“Jack, you look bloody awful,” Sir Basil Charleston observed.

“If one more person tells me that, I'm going to waste him.”

“Bad flight?”

“Bumpy as hell all the way across. Didn't sleep much.” As the even darker than usual circles under his eyes proclaimed.

“Well, we'll see if lunch helps.”

“It is a pretty day,” Ryan noted as they walked up Westminster Bridge Road towards Parliament. It was a rare early-winter English day with a blue, cloudless sky. A brisk wind swept down the Thames, but Ryan didn't mind. He had on a heavy coat and a scarf around his neck, and the frigid blast on his face woke him up. “Trouble at the office, Bas?”

“Found a bug, a bloody bug, two floors down from my office! The whole building's being swept.”

“Things are tough all over. KGB?”

“Not sure,” Charleston said as they crossed the bridge. “Trouble with the façade, you see, bloody thing began crumbling — same as happened to Scotland Yard a few years ago. The workers replacing it found an unexplained wire, and followed it … Our Russian friends have not cut back on their activities, and there are other services as well. See anything like that in your shop?”

“No. It helps that we're more isolated than Century House.” Jack meant that the British Secret Intelligence Service was in so densely populated an area — there was a nearby apartment block, for example — that a very low-power bug could get data out. That was less likely at the Agency's Langley headquarters, which sat alone on a large wooded campus. In addition to that, the newer construction had allowed installation of elaborate protections against internal radio sources. “You should do what we've done and install waveguides.”

“That would cost a bloody fortune, which we do not have at the moment.”

“What the hell, it gives us a chance to take a walk. If anyone can bug us out here, we've already lost.”

“It never ends, does it? We win the Cold War, but it never, ever ends.”

“Which Greek was it? The one whose personal hell was rolling a big rock up a hill, and every time he got it there the son-of-a-bitch rolled down the other side.”

“Sisyphus…? Tantalus, perhaps? Long time since I bade farewell to Oxford, Sir John. In either case, you're right. Get to the top of one hill and all you see is another damned hill.” They continued walking down the embankment, away from Parliament, but towards lunch. Meetings like this one had rules. You couldn't get down to business until after the small talk and a pregnant pause. In this case, there were some off-season American tourists snapping pictures. Charleston and Ryan walked around to avoid them.

“We have a problem, Bas.”

“What's that?” Charleston said, without turning. Behind them were three security officers. Two more preceded them.

Jack didn't turn either. “We have a guy inside the Kremlin. Spends some time with Narmonov. Says Andrey Il'ych is worried about a military/KGB coup. Says that they might renege on the strategic-arms treaty. Also says that some tactical nuclear devices may be missing from their inventories in Germany.”

“Indeed? That's cheery news. How good is your source?”

“Extremely good.”

“Well, I can say it's news to me, Dr. Ryan.”

“How good is your guy?” Jack asked.

“Quite good.”

“Nothing like this?”

“Some rumbles, of course. I mean, Narmonov does have a full plate, doesn't he? Ever since that dreadful affair with the Balts, and the Georgians, and his Muslims. What is it you Yanks say, 'one-armed paper hanger'? He's that busy and more. He's had to make a deal with his security forces, but a coup d'état?” Charleston shook his head. “No. The tea leaves don't appear that way to us.”

That's precisely what our agent is telling us. What about the nuclear thing?"

“I'm afraid our chap isn't well-placed for that sort of information. More the civilian side, you see.” And that, Jack knew, was as far as Basil would go. “How seriously are you taking this?”

“Very seriously. I have to. This agent has been giving us good stuff for a lot of years.”

“One of Mrs. Foley's recruits?” Charleston asked with a chuckle. “What a marvelous young lady. I understand she recently delivered another child?”

“Little girl, Emily Sarah, looks just like her mom.” Jack thought he'd dodged the first question rather adroitly. “Mary Pat will be back at work right after New Year.”

“Ah, yes, you do have that fortress nursery on your grounds, don't you?”

“One of the smartest investments we ever made. Wish I'd thought of it.”

“You Americans!” Sir Basil laughed. “Missing nuclear weapons. Yes, I suppose one must take that very seriously indeed. Possible collusion between the army and KGB and a tactical-nuclear trump. Quite frightening, I must say, but we have not heard a whisper. Rather a difficult secret to keep, wouldn't you say? I mean, blackmail doesn't work terribly well unless people know they're being blackmailed.”

“We've also caught a rumble that KGB is running some nuclear-oriented operation in Germany. That's all, just a rumble.”

“Yes, we've heard that too,” Charleston said, as they turned to walk down the brow to the Tattersall Castle, an old paddle steamer long since converted to a restaurant.

“And?”

“And we've run our own op. It seems that Erich Honecker had his own little Manhattan Project underway. Fortunately, it died in the womb. Ivan was quite upset to learn of it. The DDR returned a goodly supply of plutonium to their former socialist colleagues just before the change. I speculate that KGB is investigating the same thing.”

“Why didn't you tell us?” Jesus, Bas. Jack thought. You guys just don't forget, do you?

“Nothing to tell, Jack.” Charleston nodded at the headwaiter, who took them to a table well aft. The security officers situated themselves between their charges and the rest of luncheoning humanity. “Our German friends have been very forthcoming. The project, they say, has been quashed, completely and for all time. We've had our technical people over everything, and they confirmed everything our German colleagues told us.”

“When was this?”

“Several months ago. Ever eat here, Jack?” Charleston asked, as the waiter appeared.

“Not this one, a few of the other ferry boats.” Basil ordered a pint of bitter. Jack decided on a lager. They watched the waiter withdraw. “The KGB op is more recent.”

“Interesting. Could be the same thing, you know, could be that they had the same interests we had and were just a little slower to move.”

“On nukes?” Ryan shook his head. “Our Russian friends are pretty smart, Bas, and they pay much closer attention to nuclear issues than we do. It's one of the things I admire about them.”

“Yes, they did learn their lesson from China, didn't they?” Charleston set his menu down and waved for the waiter to bring the drinks. “You think this is a serious matter, then?”

“Sure do.”

“Your judgment is generally rather good, Jack. Thank you,” Basil told the waiter. Both men made their orders. “You think we should poke about?”

“I think that might be a good idea.”

“Very well. What else can you tell me?”

“I'm afraid that's it, Bas.”

“Your source must be very good indeed.” Sir Basil sipped at his beer. “I think you have reservations.”

“I do, but… hell, Basil, when do we not have reservations?”

“Any contrary data?”

“None, just that we've been totally unable to confirm. Our source is good enough that we may not be able to confirm elsewhere. That's why I came over. Your guy must be pretty good, too, judging by what you've sent us. Whoever he is, he might be the best chance to back our guy up.”

“And if we can't confirm?”

“Then probably we'll go with it anyway.” Ryan didn't like that.

“And your reservations?”

“Probably don't matter. Two reasons. Number one, I'm not sure myself whether to sign off on this or not. Number two, not everyone cares what I think.”

“And that's why you've not received credit for your work on the treaty?”

Ryan grinned rather tiredly, having not had much sleep in the preceding thirty-six hours. “I refuse to be surprised by that, and I won't ask how you pulled that one out of the hat.”

“But?”

“But I wish somebody would leak it to the press or something!” Ryan allowed himself a laugh.

“I'm afraid we don't do that here. I've only leaked it to one person.”

“PM?”

“His Royal Highness. You're having dinner with him tonight, correct? I reckoned he might like to know.”

Jack thought about that. The Prince of Wales wouldn't let it go any farther. Ryan could never have told him… but… “Thanks, pal.”

“We all crave recognition in one way or another. You and I are both denied it as a matter of course. Not really fair, but there you are. In this case I broke one of my own rules, and if you ask why, I'll tell you: what you did was bloody marvelous, Jack. If there were justice in the world, Her Majesty would enter you in the Order of Merit.”

“You can't tell her, Basil. She just might do it all on her own.”

“She might indeed, and that would let out the little secret, mightn't it?” Dinner arrived, and they had to wait again.

“It wasn't just me. You know that, Charlie Alden did a lot of good work. So did Talbot, Bunker, Scott Adler, a bunch of others.”

“Your modesty is as comprehensive as ever, Dr. Ryan.”

“Does that mean 'stupid,' Bas?” Ryan got a smile instead of an answer. The Brits were good at that.

Fromm would never have believed it. They'd made five stainless-steel blanks to duplicate the size and configuration of the plutonium. Ghosn had made all the necessary explosive blocks. They'd tested the explosives on all five blanks, and in every case the explosives had done their job. This was one very talented young man. Of course he'd had exact plans to follow, and Fromm had generated them with the help of a fine computer, but even so, getting something so difficult right the first time was hardly the norm in engineering.

The plutonium was now through the first part of the machining process. It actually looked rather good, like a high-quality steel forging machined to be part of an automotive engine. That was a good beginning. The robot arm of the milling machine removed the plutonium from its spindle and set it in an enclosed box. The box was, of course, filled with argon gas. The arm sealed it and moved it to a door, then Fromm removed it from the machine enclosure and walked over to the air-bearing lathe. The process was reverse-duplicated. He slid the box into the enclosure. Vacuum pumps were activated and while the air was sucked out the top of the enclosure, argon gas was added at the bottom. When the internal atmosphere was totally inert, the robot arm of this tool opened the box, and extracted the plutonium. The next programmed set of movements set it precisely on a new spindle. The degree of precision was hugely important. Under Fromm's supervision, the spindle was activated, building its speed up slowly to fifteen thousand RPM.

“It would appear that — no!” Fromm swore. He'd thought he'd gotten it perfect. The spindle slowed back down, and a tiny adjustment was made. Fromm took his time checking the balance, then powered it up again. This time it was perfect. He took the RPMs all the way to twenty-five thousand and there was no jitter at all.

“You men did the first machining very nicely,” Fromm said over his shoulder.

“How much mass did we lose?” Ghosn asked.

“Eighteen-point-five-two-seven grams.” Fromm switched the spindle off and stood. “I can scarcely praise our workers enough. I suggest that we wait until tomorrow to begin final polishing. It is foolish to rush about. We're all tired, and I think dinner is called for.”

“As you say, Herr Fromm.”

“Manfred,” the German said, surprising the younger man. “Ibrahim, we must talk.”

“Outside?” Ghosn led the German out the door. Night was falling.

“We mustn't kill these men. They are too valuable. What if this opportunity presents itself again?”

“But you agreed…”

“I never expected things would go this well. The schedule I worked up assumed that you and I — no, I shall be honest, that I would have to supervise everything. You, Ibrahim, have astounded me with your skill. What we have done here is to have assembled a superb team. We must keep this team together!”

And where else will we get ten kilos of plutonium? Ghosn wanted to ask.

“Manfred, I think you are correct. I will discuss this with the Commander. You must remember—”

“Security. Ich weiss es schon. We can take no chances at this stage. I merely entreat you, as a matter of justice — of professional recognition, ja? — that consideration must be given. Do you understand?”

“Quite well, Manfred, I agree with you.” The German was acquiring humanity, Ghosn thought. A pity it came so late. In any case, I also agree with your desire for a decent dinner before we begin the final phase. Tonight there is fresh lamb, and we've obtained some German beer. Bitberger, I hope you like it."

“A good regional lager. A pity, Ibrahim, that your religion denies it to you.”

“On this night,” Ghosn said, “I hope Allah will forgive me for indulging.” Just as well, Ibrahim thought, to earn the infidel's confidence.

“Jack, it would appear that you are working too hard.”

“It's the commute, sir. Two or three hours a day in a car.”

“Find a place closer?” His Royal Highness suggested gently.

“Give up Peregrine Cliff?” Ryan shook his head. “Then what about Cathy and Johns Hopkins? Then there's the kids, taking them out of school. No, that's no solution.”

“You doubtless recall that the first time we met, you commented rather forcefully on my physical and psychological condition. I rather doubt that I looked as dreadful as you do now.” The Prince had received more than one bit of information from Sir Basil Charleston, Jack noted, as a result of which there was no alcohol being served with dinner.

“It blows hot and cold at work. At the moment, it's blowing rather hot.”

“Truman, then? 'If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen'?”

“Yes, sir, something like that, but it'll cool off. Just that we have some things happening now. It's like that. When you were driving your ship, it was like that, too, wasn't it?”

That was much healthier work. I also had a far shorter distance to commute. About fifteen feet, as a matter of fact," he added with a chuckle.

Ryan laughed rather tiredly. “Must be nice. For me it's that far to see my secretary.”

“And the family?”

There was no sense in lying. “Could be better. My work doesn't help.”

“Something is troubling you, Jack. It's quite obvious, you know.”

“Too much stress. I've been hitting the booze too hard, not enough exercise. The usual. it'll get better, just I've had a longer than usual stretch of bad times at the office. I appreciate your concern, sir, but I'll be all right.” Jack almost convinced himself that it was true. Almost.

“As you say.”

“And I must say that's the best dinner I've had in a very long time. So, when's the next time you're coming over to our side of the pond?” Ryan asked, grateful for the chance to change subjects.

“Late spring. A breeder in Wyoming will have some horses for me. Polo ponies, actually.”

“You gotta be crazy to play that game. Lacrosse on horses.”

“Well, it gives me a chance to enjoy the countryside. Magnificent place, Wyoming. I plan to tour Yellowstone also.”

“Never been there,” Jack said.

“Perhaps you could come with us, then? I might even teach you how to ride.”

“Maybe,” Jack allowed, wondering how he'd look on a horse, and wondering how the hell he'd be able to get away from the office for a week. “Just so you don't wave one of those hammers at me.”

“Mallet, Jack, mallet. I shan't try to involve you in polo. You'd probably end up killing some unfortunate horse. I presume you'll be able to find the time.”

“I can sure try. If I'm lucky, the world will settle down a little by then.”

“It's settled down quite a bit, thanks in large part to your work.”

“Sir, Basil may have placed a little too much emphasis on what I did. I was just one cog in the machine.”

“Modesty can be overdone. I find it disappointing that you failed to receive any recognition,” the Prince observed.

“That's life, isn't it?” Jack was surprised at how it came out. For once, he'd been unable to hide his feelings completely.

“I thought as much. Yes, Jack, that's life, and life is not always fair. Have you thought perhaps about changing your line of work — take leave, perhaps?”

Jack grinned. “Come on, I don't look all that bad. They need me at the office.”

His Royal Highness became very serious. “Jack, are we friends?”

Ryan sat upright in his chair. “I don't have all that many, but you're one of them.”

“Do you trust my judgment?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Get out. Leave. You can always come back to it. A person of your talents never really leaves. You know that. I don't like the way you look. You've been at it too long. Have you any idea how lucky you are that you can leave? You have a degree of freedom I do not. Use it.”

“Nice try, man. If you were in my position, you wouldn't leave. Same reason, even. I'm not a quitter. Neither are you. It's that simple.”

“Pride can be a destructive force,” the Prince pointed out.

Jack leaned forward. “It's not pride. It's fact. They do need me. I wish they didn't, but they do. Problem is, they don't know it.”

“Is the new director that bad?”

“Marcus is not a bad person, but he's lazy. He likes his position better than he likes his duties. I don't suppose that's a problem limited to the American government, is it? I know better. So do you. Duty comes first. Maybe you're stuck with your job because you were born into it, but I'm just as stuck with mine because I'm the guy best able to do it.”

“Do they listen to you?” His Highness asked sharply.

Jack shrugged. “Not always. Hell, sometimes I'm wrong, but there has to be somebody there who does the right thing, at least tries to. That's me, sir. That's why I can't bug out. You know that just as well as I do.”

“Even if it harms you?”

“Correct.”

“Your sense of duty is admirable, Sir John.”

“I had a couple of good teachers. You didn't run and hide when you knew you were a target. You could have done that—”

“No, I could not have done so. If I had —”

“The bad guys would have won,” Jack finished the thought. “My problem isn't very different, is it? I learned part of this from you. Surprised?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“You don't run away from things. Neither do I.”

“Your verbal maneuvering is as skillful as ever.”

“See? I haven't lost it yet.” Jack was rather pleased with himself.

“I will insist that you bring the family out to Wyoming with us.”

“You can always go over my head — talk to Cathy.” His Highness laughed. “Perhaps I will. Flying back tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir. I'm going to hit Hamley's for some toys.”

“Get yourself some sleep, Jack. We'll have this argument again next year.”

It was five hours earlier in Washington. Liz Elliot stared across her desk at Bob Holtzman, who covered the White House. Like the permanent staffers here, Holtzman had seen them come and go, outlasting them all. His greater experience in the building was something of a paradox. Though necessarily cut out of the really good stuff — Holtzman knew that there were some secrets he'd never see until years too late to make a story of them; that was the work of historians — his skill at reading nuances and catching whiffs would have earned him a senior place at any intelligence agency. But his paper paid much better than any government agency, especially since he'd also penned a few best-selling books on life at the highest levels of government.

“This is deep background?”

“That's right,” the National Security Advisor said.

Holtzman nodded and made his notes. That set the rules. No direct quotes. Elizabeth Elliot could be referred to as an “administration official,” or in the plural as “sources within.” He looked up from his notebook — tape recorders were also out for this sort of interview — and waited. Liz Elliot liked her drama. She was a bright woman, somewhat elitist — not an uncommon trait in White House officialdom — and definitely the person closest to the President, if he was reading the signals right. But that was none of the public'sbusiness. The probable love affair between the President and his National Security Advisor was no longer a complete secret. The White House staffers were as discreet as ever — more, in fact. He found it odd that they should be so. Fowler was not the most lovable of men. Perhaps they felt sympathy for what had to be a lonely man. The circumstances of his wife's death were well-known, and had probably added a percentage point of sympathy votes in the last election. Maybe the staffers thought he'd change with a steady romance in his life. Maybe they were just being good professionals. (That distinguished them from political appointees, Holtzman thought. Nothing was sacred to them.) Maybe Fowler and Elliot were just being very careful. In any case, the White House press had discussed it off and on at The Confidential Source, the bar at the National Press Club building, just two blocks away, and it had been decided that Fowler's love life was not properly a matter of public interest, so long as it did not injure his job performance. After all, his foreign-policy performance was pretty good. Euphoria from the Vatican Treaty and its stunningly favorable aftermath had never gone away. You couldn't slam a president who was doing so fine a job.

“We may have a problem with the Russians,” Elliot began.

“Oh?” Holtzman was caught by surprise for once.

“We have reason to believe that Narmonov is having considerable difficulty dealing with his senior military commanders. That could have effects on final compliance with the arms treaty.”

“How so?”

“We have reason to believe that the Soviets will resist elimination of some of their SS-18 stocks. They're already behind in destruction of the missiles.”

Reason to believe. Twice. Holtzman thought about that for a moment. A very sensitive source, probably a spy rather than an intercept. “They say that there's a problem with the destruct facility. The inspectors we have over there seem to believe them.”

“Possibly the factory was designed with — what do you call it? Creative incompetence.”

“What's the Agency say?” Holtzman asked, scribbling his notes just as fast as he could.

“They gave us the initial report, but so far they've been unable to get us a real opinion.”

“What about Ryan? He's pretty good on the Soviets.”

“Ryan's turning into a disappointment,” Liz said. “As a matter of fact — and this is something you can't say, you can't use his name — we have a little investigation going that's turned up some disturbing data.”

“Like?”

“Like, I think we're getting skewed data. Like, I think a senior Agency official is having an affair with a person of foreign birth, and there may be a child involved.”

“Ryan?”

The National Security Advisor shook her head. “Can't confirm or deny. Remember the rules.”

“I won't forget,” Holtzman replied, hiding his annoyance. Did she think she was dealing with Jimmy Olsen?

“The problem is, it looks like he knows we don't like what he's telling us, and as a result he's trying to put a spin on the data to please us. This is a time when we really need good stuff from Langley, but we're not getting it.”

Holtzman nodded thoughtfully. That was not exactly a new problem at Langley, but Ryan wasn't that sort, was he? The reporter set that aside. “And Narmonov?”

“If what we're getting is in any way correct, he may be on the way out, whether from the right or the left, we can't say. It may be that he's losing it.”

“That's solid?”

“It appears so. The part about blackmail from his security forces is very disturbing. But with our problems at Langley…” Liz held up her hands.

“Just when things were going so well, too. I guess you're having problems with Cabot?”

“He's learning his job pretty well. If he had better support, he'd be okay.”

“How worried are you?” Holtzman asked.

“Very much so. This is a time when we need good intel, but we're not getting it. How the hell can we figure out what to do about Narmonov unless we get good information? So, what do we get?” Liz asked in exasperation. “Our hero is running around doing stuff that really doesn't concern his agency — he's gone over people's heads to the Hill on some things — doing a Chicken Little act on one thing while at the same time he's not getting Cabot good analysis on what appears to be a major issue. Of course, he has his distractions…”

Our hero, Holtzman thought. What an interesting choice of words. She really hates the guy, doesn't she. Holtzman knew the fact, but not the reason. There was no reason for her to be jealous of him. Ryan had never shown great ambition, at least not in a political sense. He was a pretty good man, by all accounts. The reporter remembered his one public faux pas, a confrontation with Al Trent which, Holtzman was certain, must have been staged. Ryan and Trent got along very well now by all accounts. What could possibly have been important enough to stage something like that? Ryan had two intelligence stars — what for, Holtzman had never been able to find out. Just rumors, five different versions of four different stories, probably all of them false. Ryan wasn't all that popular with the press. The reason was that he had never really leaked anything. He took secrecy a little too seriously. On the other hand, he didn't try to curry favor either, and Holtzman respected anyone who avoided that. Of one thing he was sure: he had gravely underestimated the antipathy for Ryan in the Fowler Administration.

I'm being manipulated. That was as obvious as a peacock in a barnyard. Very cleverly, of course. The bit about the Russians was probably genuine. The Central Intelligence Agency's inability to get vital information to the White House wasn't exactly new either, was it? That was probably true also. So, where was the lie? Or was there a lie at all? Maybe they just wanted to get truthful but sensitive information out… in the normal way. It wasn't the first time he'd learned things in the northwest-corner office of the White House West Wing.

Could Holtzman not do a story on this?

Not hardly, Bobby boy, the reporter told himself.

The ride home was smooth as silk. Ryan caught as much sleep as he could, while the sergeant who took care of the cabin read through assembly instructions for some of the toys Jack had picked up.

“Yo, Sarge.” The pilot was back in the cabin for a stretch. “Whatcha doin'?”

“Well, Maj, our DV here picked up some stuff for the kiddies.” The NCO handed over a page of directions. Tab-1 into Slot-A, use 7/8ths bolt, tighten with a wrench, using…

“I think I'd rather tinker with broke engines.”

“Roger that,” the sergeant agreed. “This guy's got some bad times ahead.”