Page 12 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
Vasilev coughed again, and jabbed the morphine button.
“I’ll fetch the nurse.”
The Czech sped for the door, secretly hoping this was the last of Vasilev, but he knew better. The man’s unquenchable hatred was stronger even than his metastasizing cancer. The only course of action left to him was to complete the damned list.
Finish off Senator Rhodes.
And kill Jack Ryan, Jr.
7
NEAR VUCEVO, REPUBLIKA SRPSKA, BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
The tour van was packed with eight happy Germans, outdoorsy twentysomethings, including two newlyweds. It barreled south down the two-lane asphalt road at the legal speed limit, towing a trailer carrying ten sturdy river kayaks. Forested hills were on either side of the asphalt road; the jagged peaks of the Dinaric Alps loomed in the distance toward the south.
The thirty-year-old driver, Emir Jukic, was a Bosniak from Sarajevo, and he’d been hauling adventure-seeking tourists to his favorite drop-in spot on the Drina River for several years. In fact, he was the principal driver for Happy Times! Balkan Tours. In his years with the company, he had driven passengers as far south as the Greek port of Piraeus near Athens, and transported tourists all the way north to Austria for skivacation packages. He knew the roads and villages, the mountains and rivers of his native country like the back of his hand. His sparkling dark eyes, an infectious, bearded smile, and an encyclopedic knowledge of Bosnian history made him a favorite among tourists, with more repeat customers than any other driver working for the region’s most successful tour service.
Emir kept a two-handed grip on the wheel but raised one hand to wave at the 4x4 police vehicle heading toward them—two young Serb cops he knew by name. Just last week he had taken them kayaking with a couple local girls, along with bottles of sparkling wine and grilled sausages on the hibachi he kept stored in the back. All free, of course. The two cops smiled and flashed their headlights as they passed, the laughing German tourists unaware of the friendly exchange.
A kilometer later, Emir slowed the vehicle onto a dirt track that led down to a wide flat bank near the river. It was the second day of their kayaking tour, and the group knew the drill. Everyone, including Emir, pulled out their gear; pulled on wetsuits, safety vests, and helmets; and began unloading the stacks of kayaks and setting them near the water.
Two of the German girls, tall and muscular, reached for the tie-downs on a kayak up on the highest rungs of the trailer. “Please, not that one,” Emir asked politely. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” Shorter than both of them, he had a gentle voice that belied his stocky boxer’s build. They happily complied as he helped them unload the one just below it, affirming what every tourist to the area knew: Bosnians were the friendliest people on earth.
Minutes later, they were all paddling in the gently flowingturquoise water, Emir leading the way with promises of hot lunches and cold beer waiting for them at a beach six kilometers downriver.
As soon as they made the first bend, a battered green Škoda Octavia wagon pulled up next to the van. A young man in a blue Denver Broncos T-shirt and tan cargo shorts jumped out of the passenger seat and climbed into the tour van. Moments later he pulled the van and the trailer with the lone kayak back onto the asphalt and headed north for six kilometers to another dirt track leading to a village deep in the forest on the far side of the mountains bounding the road.
The man driving the Škoda was another Bosniak, wellgroomed and in his thirties; a chemistry teacher who’d immigrated to Germany and returned in the past year, leaving behind his wife and two young daughters for safety.
He kept the wagon a discreet distance back from the trailer. The bricks of C-4 packed into the kayak on the back of the trailer wouldn’t explode without a detonator, owing to the unique nature of the chemical bonds within the explosive and the high amount of inert binding agent. Bouncing the C-4 on the pavement or even setting it on fire wouldn’t cause it to blow. Only a rapid infusion of high energy from an exploding detonator cord or blasting cap could break those chemical bonds, releasing the enormous stores of energy inside the compound in a violent eruption. The combination of stability and lethality in such plastic explosives made them highly favored by all freedom fighters everywhere, his group especially. It wouldn’t be long before the shipment would be put to good use.
There was even less concern regarding the ten kilos of premium Afghan heroin also packed into the kayak. At fiftydollars a gram on German streets, that amounted to half a million dollars—a nice addition to their operating budget.
But still, he was a careful man, and he hadn’t survived this long without taking precautions.
Inshallah.
HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON
Jack hadn’t thought about Paul Brown in a long time, he realized, when he boarded the United flight from Dulles to London ten hours before, and now he thought about him again as he stepped into the terminal at Heathrow. He and Paul had landed here for a connecting flight to Singapore last year, and spent the better part of a long and frustrating day in this very terminal, waiting for mechanical repairs and a missing flight crew to finally resolve themselves.
Gerry had been right. Paul had been a guy worth getting to know. Jack was just sorry he hadn’t known him longer.
The crowds of passengers shuffling past him on the way to baggage claim had no idea that the portly accountant sacrificed himself to keep the world economy from crashing that stormy night, and saved Jack’s life. Jack firmly believed now that most of human history was composed of such unwritten chapters, full of nameless heroes known only to God and the privileged few who witnessed their sacrifices firsthand.
Paul deserved better than a passing thought from him. Jack recalled the wasted hours the two of them had spent at Heathrow. Jack wished he’d used that time last year to run into the city and see Ysabel, a former lover he’d met while on the Iranian assignment—another relationship doomed by the demands oftheir respective careers. Jack would always put his country first before his personal desires, but a wife, a home, and a couple kids someday were high on his list.
Jack thought about that when he was getting ready to board at Dulles. He had another long layover again tomorrow when he landed, and he was determined not to make the same mistake twice.
While the flight attendant lectured on the proper deployment of the seat belt, Jack pulled up Ysabel’s Facebook page. What he saw felt like a punch in the gut. Ysabel cradled her newborn baby daughter in her arms as she stood next to her handsome Anglo-Iranian husband, both of them beaming. A striking couple. For a brief moment, Jack imagined that it was him standing next to her in that picture.
Jack scrolled briefly through her posts. His disappointment quickly faded. She seemed to have married a stand-up guy, a banker with impeccable credentials. The two of them appeared to be building an amazing life together. “Good for you,” Jack whispered. He was genuinely happy for her.
He started to post a note on her page congratulating her on everything but thought twice about it. No point in putting her in an awkward position where she might have to explain something to her husband that obviously didn’t matter anymore.
Jack clicked off his phone, feeling a little more than stupid for even looking her up. Why did he assume they could just pick up where they had left off?
A few hours and a few fingers of Maker’s Mark into the long Atlantic flight, he got the bright idea of contacting an old professor from Georgetown now teaching at the London School of Economics. He shot Dr. Patrick Costello a text, and to hishappy surprise, his former teacher responded eagerly. They set a place and time to meet in London.
