You could see the sparkle in the President’s eyes. The press release would be made in the White House Press Room. He’d let the Justice Department handle it, of course, but it would be done in the White House so that journalists could get the right spin. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I have just informed the President that we have made a major break in the continuing war against…
“How badly will this hurt them?” the President asked.
“Sir, exactly how much money they have has always been a matter of speculation on our part. What’s really interesting about this whole scheme is that the laundering operation may actually be designed to legitimize the money once it gets into Colombia. That’s hard to read, but it would seem that the Cartel is trying to find a less overtly criminal way in which to infiltrate their own national economy. Since that is not strictly necessary in economic terms, the presumptive goal of the operation would seem to be political. To answer your question, the monetary loss will sting them rather badly, but will not cripple them in any way. The political ramifications, however, may be an extra bonus whose scope we cannot as yet evaluate.”
“A billion dollars…” the President said. “That really gives you something to tell the Colombians about, doesn’t it?”
“I do not think they’ll be displeased. The political rumblings they’ve been getting from the Cartel are very troubling to them.”
“Not troubling enough to take action,” Cutter observed.
Jacobs didn’t like that at all. “Admiral, their Attorney General is a friend of mine. He travels with a security detail that’s double the size of the President’s, and he has to deal with a security threat that’d make most people duck for cover every time a car backfired. Colombia is trying damned hard to run a real democracy in a region where democracies are pretty rare – which historically happens to be our fault, in case you’ve forgotten – and you expect them to do – what? Trash what institutions they do have, do what Argentina did? For Christ’s sake, the Bureau and DEA combined don’t have the manpower to go after the drug rings that we already know about, and we have a thousand times their resources. So what the hell do you expect, that they’ll go fascist again to hunt down the druggies just because it suits us? We did expect that and we got that, for over a hundred years, and look where it’s gotten us!” This clown is supposed to be an expert on Latin America, Jacobs didn’t say out loud. Says who? I bet you couldn’t even drive boats worth a damn!
The bottom line, Judge Moore noted, is that Emil doesn’t like this whole operation, does he? On the other hand, it did rock Cutter back in his chair. A small man, Jacobs had dignity and moral authority measured in megaton quantities.
“You’re trying to tell us something, Emil,” the President said lightly. “Spit it out.”
“Terminate this whole operation,” the FBI Director said. “Stop it before it goes too far. Give me the manpower I need, and I can accomplish more right here at home, entirely within the law, than we’ll ever accomplish with all this covert-operations nonsense. TARPON is the proof of that. Straight police work, and it’s the biggest success we’ve ever had.”
“Which happened only because some Coast Guard skipper got a little off the reservation,” Judge Moore noted. “If that Coastie hadn’t broken the rules himself, your case would have looked like simple piracy and murder. You left that part out, Emil.”
“Not the first time something like that has happened, and the difference, Arthur, is that that wasn’t planned by anyone in Washington.”
“That captain isn’t going to be hurt, is he?” the President asked.
“No, sir. That’s already been taken care of,” Jacobs assured him.
“Good. Keep it that way. Emil, I respect your point of view,” the President said, “but we have to try something different. I can’t sell Congress on the funding to double the size of the FBI, or DEA. You know that.”
You haven’t tried, Jacobs wanted to say. Instead he nodded submission.
“And I thought we had your agreement on this operation.”
“You do, Mr. President.” How did I ever rope myself into this? Jacobs asked himself. This road, like so many others, was paved with good intentions. What they were doing wasn’t quite illegal; in the same sense that skydiving wasn’t quite dangerous – so long as everything went according to plan.
“And when are you heading down to Bogotá?”
“Next week, sir. I’ve messengered a letter to the legal attaché, and he’ll deliver it by hand to the AG. We’ll have good security for the meeting.”
“Good. I want you to be careful, Emil. I need you. I especially need your advice,” the President said kindly. “Even if I don’t always take it.”
The President has to be the world’s champ at setting people down easy, Moore told himself. But part of that was Emil Jacobs. He’d been a team player since he joined the U.S. Attorney’s office in Chicago, lo, those thirty years ago.
“Anything else?”
“I’ve made Jack Ryan the acting DDI,” Moore said. “James recommended him, and I think he’s ready.”
“Will he be cleared for SHOWBOAT?” Cutter asked immediately.
“He’s not that ready, is he, Arthur?” the President opined.
“No, sir, your orders were to keep this one tight.”
“Any change with Greer?”
“It does not look good, Mr. President,” Moore replied.
“Damned shame. I have to go into Bethesda to have my blood pressure looked at next week. I’ll stop in to see him.”
“That would be very kind of you, sir.”
Everyone was supportive as hell, Ryan noted. He felt like a trespasser in this office, but Nancy Cummings – secretary to the DDI from long before the time Greer arrived here – did not treat him as an interloper, and the security detail that he now rated called him “sir” even though two of them were older than Jack was. The really good news, he didn’t realize until someone told him, was that he now rated a driver also. The purpose of this was simply that the driver was a security officer with a Beretta Model 92-F automatic pistol under his left armpit (there was something even more impressive under the dash), but for Ryan it meant that he’d no longer have to make the fifty-eight-minute drive himself. From now on he’d be one of those Important People who sat in the back of the speeding car talking on a secure mobile phone, or reading over Important Documents, or, more likely, reading the paper on the way into work. The official car would be parked in GIA’s underground garage, in a reserved space near the executive elevator, which would whisk him directly to the seventh floor without having to pass through the customary security-gate routine, which was such a damned nuisance. He’d eat in the executive dining room with its mahogany furniture and discreetly elegant silverware.
The increase in salary was also impressive, or would have been if it had matched what his wife, Cathy, was making from the surgical practice that supplemented her associate professorship at Johns Hopkins. But there was not a single government salary – not even the President’s – that matched what a good surgeon made. Ryan also had the equivalent rank of a three-star general or admiral, even though his capacity in the job was merely “acting.”
His first task of the day, after closing the office door, had been to open the DDI safe. There was nothing in it. Ryan memorized the combination, again noting that the DDO’s combination was scribbled on the same sheet of paper. His office had that most precious of government perks: a private bathroom; a high-definition TV monitor on which he could watch satellite imagery come in without going to the viewing room in the building’s new north wing; a secure computer terminal over which he could communicate to other offices if he so wished – there was dust on the keys; Greer had almost never used it. Most of all, there was room. He could get up and pace if he wanted. His job gave him unlimited access to the Director. When the Director was away – and even if he were not – Ryan could call the White House for an immediate meeting with the President. He’d have to go through the Chief of Staff – bypassing Cutter, if he felt the need – but if Ryan now said, “I have to see the President, right now!” he’d get in, right now. Of course he’d have to have a very good reason for doing so.
Jack sat in the high-backed chair, facing away from the plate-glass windows, and realized that he had gotten there. This was as far as he had ever expected to rise in the Agency. Not even forty yet. He’d made his money in the brokerage business – and the money was still growing; he needed his CIA salary about as much as he needed a third shoe – gotten his doctor’s degree, written his books, taught some history, made himself a new and interesting career, and worked his way to the top. Not even forty yet. He would have awarded himself a gentle, satisfied smile except for the fatherly gentleman who was now at Bethesda Naval Medical Center, dying the lingering and painful death that had put him in this chair, in this office, in this position.