"Yes, Mr. President."

"Later today, I need Scott Adler and the Foleys in here. It'll take about an hour. Find me a hole in the schedule, will you?"

"About two-thirty, but it means putting off the Secretary of Transportation's meeting about the air-traffic-control proposals."

"Make it so, Ellen. This one's important," he told her.

"Yes, Mr. President."

It was by no means perfect. Ryan preferred to work on things as they popped into his mind, but as President you quickly learned that you served the schedule, not the other way around. Jack grimaced. So much for the illusion of power.

Mary Pat Foley strolled into her office, as she did nearly every morning, and as always turned on her computer-if there was one thing she'd learned from SORGE, it was to turn the d.a.m.ned thing all the way off when she wasn't using it. There was a further switch on her phone line that manually blocked it, much as if she'd pulled the plug out of the wall. She flipped that, too. It was an old story for an employee of an intelligence service. Sure, she was paranoid, but was she paranoid enough?

Sure enough, there was another e-mail from Chet Nomuri was still at work, and this download took a mere twenty-three seconds. With the download complete, she made sure she'd backed it up, then clobbered it out of her in-box so that no copies remained even in the ether world. Next, she printed it all up and called down for Joshua Sears to do the translations and some seatof-the-pants a.n.a.lysis. SORGE had become routine in handling if not in importance, and by a quarter to nine she had the translation in hand.

"Oh, Lord. Jack's just going to love this one," the DDO observed at her desk. Then she walked the doc.u.ment to Ed's larger office facing the woods. That's when she found out about the afternoon trip to the White House.

Mary Abbot was the official White House makeup artist. It was her job to make the President look good on TV, which meant making him look like a cheap wh.o.r.e in person, but that couldn't be helped. Ryan had learned not to fidget too much, which made her job easier, but she knew he was fighting the urge, which both amused and concerned her.

"How's your son doing at school?" Ryan asked.

"Just fine, thank you, and there's a nice girl he's interested in."

Ryan didn't comment on that. He knew that there had to be some boy or boys at St. Mary's who found his Sally highly interesting (she was pretty, even to disinterested eyes), but he didn't want to think about that. It did make him grateful for the Secret Service, however. Whenever Sally went on a date, there would be at least a chase car full of armed agents close by, and that would take the starch out of most teenaged boys. So, the USSS did have its uses, eh? Girl children, Jack thought, were G.o.d's punishment on you for being a man. His eyes were scanning his briefing sheets for the mini-press conference. The likely questions and the better sorts of answers to give to them. It seemed very dishonest to do it this way, but some foreign heads of government had the question prescreened so that the answers could be properly canned. Not a bad idea in the abstract, Jack thought, but the American media would spring for that about as quickly as a coyote would chase after a whale.

"There," Mrs. Abbot said, as she finished touching up his hair. Ryan stood, looked in the mirror, and grimaced as usual.

"Thank you, Mary," he managed to say.

"You're welcome, Mr. President."

And Ryan walked out, crossing the hall from the Roosevelt Room to the Oval Office, where the TV equipment was set up. The reporters stood when he entered, as the kids at St. Matthew's had stood when the priest came into cla.s.s. But in third grade, the kids asked easier questions. Jack sat down in a rocking swivel chair. Kennedy had done something similar to that, and Arnie thought it a good idea for Jack as well. The gentle rocking that a man did unconsciously in the chair gave him a homey look, the spin experts all thought-Jack didn't know that, and knowing it would have caused him to toss the chair out the window, but Arnie did and he'd eased the President into it merely by saying it looked good, and getting Cathy Ryan to agree. In any case, SWORDSMAN sat down, and relaxed in the comfortable chair, which was the other reason Arnie had foisted it on him, and the real reason why Ryan had agreed. It was comfortable.

"We ready?" Jack asked. When the President asked that, it usually meant Let's get this f.u.c.king show on the road! But Ryan thought it was just a question.

Krystin Matthews was there to represent NBC. There were also reporters from ABC and Fox, plus a print reporter from the Chicago Tribune. Ryan had come to prefer these more intimate press conferences, and the media went along with it because the reporters were a.s.signed by lot, which made it fair, and everyone had access to the questions and answers. The other good thing from Ryan's perspective was that a reporter was less likely to be confrontational in the Oval Office than in the raucous locker-room atmosphere of the pressroom, where the reporters tended to bunch together in a mob and adopt a mob mentality.

"Mr. President," Krystin Matthews began. "You've recalled both the trade delegation and our amba.s.sador from Beijing. Why was that necessary?"

Ryan rocked a little in the chair. "Krystin, we all saw the events in Beijing that so grabbed the conscience of the world, the murder of the cardinal and the minister, followed by the roughing-up-to use a charitable term for it-of the minister's widow and some members of the congregation."

He went on to repeat the points he'd made in his previous press conference, making particular note of the Chinese government's indifference to what had happened.

"One can only conclude that the Chinese government doesn't care. Well, we care. The American people care. And this administration cares. You cannot take the life of a human being as casually as though you are swatting an insect. The response we received was unsatisfactory, and so, I recalled our amba.s.sador for consultations."

"But the trade negotiations, Mr. President," the Chicago Tribune broke in.

"It is difficult for a country like the United States of America to do business with a nation which does not recognize human rights. You've seen for yourself what our citizens think of all this. I believe you will find that they find those murders as repellent as I do, and, I would imagine, as you do yourself."

"And so you will not recommend to Congress that we normalize trading relations with China?"

Ryan shook his head. "No, I will not so recommend, and even if I did, Congress would rightly reject such a recommendation."

"At what time might you change your position on this issue?"

"At such time as China enters the world of civilized nations and recognizes the rights of its common people, as all other great nations do."

"So you are saying that China today is not a civilized country?"

Ryan felt as though he'd been slapped across the face with a cold, wet fish, but he smiled and went on. "Killing diplomats is not a civilized act, is it?"

"What will the Chinese think of that?" Fox asked.

"I cannot read their minds. I do call upon them to make amends, or at least to consider the feelings and beliefs of the rest of the world, and then to reconsider their unfortunate action in that light."

"And what about the trade issues?" This one came from ABC.

"If China wants normalized trade relations with the United States, then China will have to open its markets to us. As you know, we have a law on the books here called the Trade Reform Act. That law allows us to mirror-image other countries' trade laws and practices, so that whatever tactics are used against us, we can then use those very same tactics with respect to trade with them. Tomorrow, I will direct the Department of State and the Department of Commerce to set up a working group to implement TRA with respect to the People's Republic," President Ryan announced, making the story for the day, and a bombsh.e.l.l it was.

Christ, Jack," the Secretary of the Treasury said in his office across the street. He was getting a live feed from the Oval Office. He lifted his desk phone and punched a b.u.t.ton. "I want a read of the PRC's current cash accounts, global," he told one of his subordinates from New York. Then his phone rang.

"Secretary of State on Three," his secretary told him over the intercom. SecTreas grunted and picked up the phone.

"Yeah, I saw it too, Scott."

So, Yuriy Andreyevich, how did it go?" Clark asked. It Shad taken over a week to set up, and mainly because General Kirillin had spent a few hours on the pistol range working on his technique. Now he'd just stormed into the officers' club bar looking as though he'd taken one in the guts.

"Is he a Mafia a.s.sa.s.sin?"

Chavez had himself a good laugh at that. "General, he came to us because the Italian police wanted to get him away from the Mafia. He got in the way of a mob a.s.sa.s.sination, and the local chieftain made noises about going after him and his family. What did he get you for?"

"Fifty euros," Kirillin nearly spat.

"You were confident going in, eh?" Clark asked. "Been there, done that."

"Got the f.u.c.kin' T-shirt," Ding finished the statement with a laugh. And fifty euros was a dent even in the salary of a Russian three-star.

"Three points, in a five-hundred-point match. I scored four ninety-three!"

"Ettore only got four ninety-six?" Clark asked. "Jesus, the boy's slowing down." He slid a gla.s.s in front of the Russian general officer.

"He's drinking more over here," Chavez observed.

"That must be it." Clark nodded. The Russian general officer was not, however, the least bit amused.

"Falcone is not human," Kirillin said, gunning down his first shot of vodka.

"He could scare Wild Bill Hickok, and that's a fact. And you know the worst part about it?"

"What is that, Ivan Sergeyevich?"

"He's so G.o.dd.a.m.ned humble about it, like it's f.u.c.king normal to shoot like that. Jesus, Sam Snead was never that good with a five-iron."

"General," Domingo said after his second vodka of the evening. The problem with being in Russia was that you tended to pick up the local customs, and one of those was drinking. "Every man on my team is an expert shot, and by expert, I mean close to being on his country's Olympic team, okay? Big Bird's got us all beat, and none of us are used to losing any more'n you are. But I'll tell you, I'm G.o.dd.a.m.ned glad he's on my team." Just then, Falcone walked through the door. "Hey, Ettore, come on over!"

He hadn't gotten any shorter. Ettore towered over the diminutive Chavez, and still looked like a figure from an El Greco painting. "General," he said in greeting to Kirillin. "You shoot extremely well."

"Not so good as you, Falcone," the Russian responded.

The Italian cop shrugged. "I had a lucky day."

"Sure, guy," Clark reacted, as he handed Falcone a shot gla.s.s.

"I've come to like this vodka," Falcone said on gunning it down. "But it affects my aim somewhat."

"Yeah, Ettore." Chavez chuckled. "The general told us you blew four points in the match."

"You mean you have done better than this?" Kirillin demanded.

"He has," Clark answered. "I watched him shoot a possible three weeks ago. That was five hundred points, too."

"That was a good day," Falcone agreed. "I had a good night's sleep beforehand and no hangover at all."

Clark had himself a good chuckle and turned to look around the room. Just then, another uniform entered the room and looked around. He spotted General Kirillin and walked over.

"d.a.m.n, who's this recruiting poster?" Ding wondered aloud as he approached.

"Tovarisch General," the man said by way of greeting.

"Anatoliy Ivan'ch," Kirillin responded. "How are things at the Center?"

Then the guy turned. "You are John Clark?"

"That's me," the American confirmed. "Who are you?"

"This is Major Anatoliy Shelepin," General Kirillin answered. "He's chief of personal security for Sergey Golovko."

"We know your boss." Ding held out his hand. "Howdy. I'm Domingo Chavez."

Handshakes were exchanged all around.

"Could we speak in a quieter place?" Shelepin asked. The four men took over a corner booth in the club. Falcone remained at the bar.

"Sergey Nikolay'ch sent you over?" the Russian general asked.

"You haven't heard," Major Shelepin answered. It was the way he said it that got everyone's attention. He spoke in Russian, which Clark and Chavez understood well enough. "I want my people to train with you."

"Haven't heard what?" Kirillin asked.

"We found out who tried to kill the Chairman," Shelepin announced.

"Oh, he was the target? I thought they were after the pimp," Kirillin objected.

"You guys want to tell us what you're talking about?" Clark asked.

"A few weeks ago, there was an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt in Dzerzhinskiy Square," Shelepin responded, explaining what they'd thought at the time. "But now it appears they hit the wrong target."

"Somebody tried to waste Golovko?" Domingo asked. "d.a.m.n."

"Who was it?"

"The man who arranged it was a former KGB officer named Suvorov-so we believe, that is. He used two ex-Spetsnaz soldiers. They have both been murdered, probably to conceal their involvement, or at least to prevent them from discussing it with anyone." Shelepin didn't add anything else. "In any case, we have heard good things about your Rainbow troops, and we want you to help train my protective detail."

"It's okay with me, so long as it's okay with Washington." Clark stared hard into the bodyguard's eyes. He looked d.a.m.ned serious, but not very happy with the world at the moment.

"We will make the formal request tomorrow."

"They are excellent, these Rainbow people," Kirillin a.s.sured him. "We're getting along well with them. Anatoliy used to work for me, back when I was a colonel." The tone of voice told what he thought of the younger man.

There was more to this, Clark thought. A senior Russian official didn't just ask a former CIA officer for help with something related to his personal safety out of the clear blue. He caught Ding's eye and saw the same thought. Suddenly both were back in the spook business.

"Okay," John said. "I'll call home tonight if you want." He'd do that from the American Emba.s.sy, probably on the STU-6 in the station chief's office.

CHAPTER 37.

Fallout The VC-137 landed without fanfare at Andrews Air Force Base. The base lacked a proper terminal and the attendant jetways, and so the pa.s.sengers debarked on stairs grafted onto a flatbed truck. Cars waited at the bottom to take them into Washington. Mark Gant was met by two Secret Service agents who drove him at once to the Treasury Department building across the street from the White House. He'd barely gotten used to being on the ground when he found himself in the Secretary's office.

"How'd it go?" George Winston asked.

"Interesting, to say the least," Gant said, his mind trying to get used to the fact that his body didn't have a clue where it was at the moment. "I thought I'd be going home to sleep it off."

"Ryan's invoking the Trade Recovery Act against the Chinese."

"Oh? Well, that's not all that much of a surprise, is it?"

"Look at this," SecTreas commanded, handing over a recently produced printout. "This" was a report on the current cash holdings of the People's Republic of China.

"How solid is this information?" TELESCOPE asked TRADER.

The report was an intelligence estimate in all but name. Employees within the Treasury Department routinely kept track of international monetary transactions as a means of determining the day-to-day strength of the dollar and other internationally traded currencies. That included the Chinese yuan, which had been having a slightly bad time of late.

"They're this thin?" Gant asked. "I thought they were running short of cash, but I didn't know it was quite this bad . . ."