“I’m sorry about all of this,” Jack said.
Paul shook his head and moved his mouth but nothing came out.
“I’m worried he might be going into shock,” Lian said, cleaning the wounds and stanching the blood.
Jack flipped the office chair over and raised Paul’s legs, setting them on the support strut about twelve inches off the floor, then pulled off his coat and laid it across his heaving chest. Wind rattled the windows.
“Jack—”
“Buddy, just take it easy.”
Paul’s face beaded with sweat. “We’ve got to stop that virus.”
“How? It’s already loaded.”
Paul pointed his good thumb weakly at his dead torturer. “Chuckles the Clown over there told me it wouldn’t activate until Dalfan stock begins early trading at seven a.m. tomorrow. If we can call the CIO at the Hong Kong exchange before then, he can isolate it, clean it out — at least, not activate it.”
“Phones are down. The storm is beating the hell out of everybody and everything around here until ten a.m. tomorrow, according to the BBC.”
“What about your embassy?” Lian asked, taping Paul’s fingers. “We can try and drive there.”
“Even if we reached it, and if anybody in authority is still there, they probably can’t call out, either.”
“The weather service said the storm was stalling,” Lian said. “There are still flights out of Kuala Lumpur, north of here.”
“Which means Malaysia cell phones and other services are probably still up.” Jack knew there were a U.S. embassy and a CIA station located there. That’s where he needed to go. “How long is the drive?”
“On a normal day? Three and a half hours, four with traffic.”
Jack checked his watch. “There’s just under seven hours left.” He glanced back out the window at the raging storm. “I have to try.”
Lian saw the storm, too. “Of course we have to try.”
“We? There’s no we here,” Jack said. There was a slim chance of making it in weather like this. Maybe even less chance of surviving it.
Lian taped Paul’s last finger. “You must stay here and rest. If you go into shock, you can die.”
“Try and stop me, Ms. Fairchild.” Paul started to rise.
Jack laid a hand on his chest. “I’ve got this.”
Paul batted his hand away. “Forget that. You aren’t the one that got played like a ten-cent kazoo. Besides, look at you.”
Jack’s upper right shirtsleeve was bloody where he’d been hit.
“Let me see that,” Lian said. She pulled a razor-sharp blade out of the medical kit and cut away Jack’s shirtsleeve.
“Not too bad,” she said. “Just a graze. Your skin is torn, but there isn’t any muscle or bone damage. Does it hurt?”
Jack’s adrenaline had worn off. “Feels like someone hit me with a branding iron.”
“Give me a minute.”
Lian swiftly cleaned and dressed Jack’s wound. “Besides the antibiotics, I’m applying a topical analgesic. Hopefully that will help with the pain.”
“It already does. Thanks.”
“We’ll have to keep an eye on it, but I don’t think it will be a problem.” She held up the cut-away sleeve. “Sorry about that.”
Paul handed Jack his coat as he sat up with a grunt. “You’ll need this.”
“I wish you’d stay put,” Jack said, as he helped Paul to his feet.
“I wish a lot of things, Jack.” Paul examined his bandaged fingers. “And right now I wish I had a cup of tea.”
“We don’t have a vehicle,” Lian said.
“Their van was out front. One of these guys must have the keys.”
“I’m gonna find my pistol,” Paul said, referring to the pistol Jack had given him earlier, as he reached into the coat pocket of his torturer. He found the pint-sized Makarov and a diplomatic passport — Bulgarian. It said the man’s name was Petrov. Paul doubted it. He shoved it into his pants pocket anyway. He saw a smart leather satchel standing in the corner but didn’t think to check it. He didn’t know that after he had passed out from the pain, Wolz had made a call on a satellite phone to Zvezdev, and when he finished, put the sat phone back in the satchel.
Jack and Lian searched pockets, too. Jack traded his Makarov for the nine-mil Glock Lian’s man had carried. He checked the mag. Thirteen rounds. Luckily, the man carried a second, fully loaded magazine with another fifteen rounds.
“Found them!” Lian shouted, holding the key ring high.
“Let’s roll.”
66
Worry was Zvezdev’s best friend.
He hadn’t survived KGB handlers, CSS purges, or criminal syndicate killers by being overly optimistic. He always assumed everybody at all times was trying to fuck him.
Because they usually were.
Which was why Zvezdev sat in his private office in his expansive estate, drumming his fingers on the gilded desk, worrying.
His call to Ri fifteen minutes ago was quite satisfying. Thanks to Wolz, the mission was complete. Zvezdev held no illusions about his relationship with the North Korean spymaster. If he had failed, Ri’s agents would have already stormed into his house, killed his guards, and bundled him off to a safe house for some gruesome fate he didn’t even want to contemplate.
Instead, Ri assured him that the second half of his enormous payment — in gold bullion, no less — would be deposited into a Cayman Islands bank vault within twenty-four hours, per their arrangement. Zvezdev confirmed by phone with his English banker that the transaction was pending. All good.
What worried Zvezdev was Wolz’s earlier call, asking for permission to kill Jack Ryan, Jr., and Lian Fairchild. Zvezdev told him that killing Jack Ryan would only bring the wrath of his father, a capable and violent man. His orders from Ri were explicit: the mission was to be accomplished on time, and with no way to trace the crime to him. Zvezdev had done the best job he could to cover his tracks, and he assumed that the impending collapse of the world’s stock markets would cause further confusion and delay for any investigators digging into the matter. But murdering the President’s son would bring the full force and attention of the entire U.S. federal government into the case, and that was to be avoided. So Jack Ryan, Jr., lived.
And that’s what worried him.
Zvezdev scratched his gray beard. Leave it to a worm like Rhodes to shield himself behind another man. It was actually a smart play to get Jack Ryan, Jr., involved in his scheme, Zvezdev admitted. But Jack Ryan, Jr., was a real pain in his ass now.
Wolz’s listening devices planted inside the guesthouse revealed that not only did Brown know the real purpose of the USB, but also he had informed Ryan and Fairchild.
Zvezdev sighed. He should’ve let Wolz kill them both. That was a mistake. Brown was dead, at least. Besides his fee, Wolz insisted he be given free rein with the fat accountant. It was a small price to pay, as far as Zvezdev was concerned. He laughed.
“But a big price for Brown.”
Of course, there was nothing that Ryan could do about the situation now. The virus was planted. All Ri had to do was wait for less than seven hours and his plan to collapse the world economy would be realized.
But Jack Ryan, Jr., would run his mouth. The line would be drawn back from the virus to Rhodes, and then to him, if Rhodes rolled over.
And he would.
Even if he killed Rhodes now, he was still in danger of being discovered. Ri wouldn’t like that.
Now Zvezdev really worried.
Ryan and Fairchild had to die.
Zvezdev called Wolz again.
And again his sat phone didn’t pick up.
Was the satellite service down because of the storm? No. Sat phones were designed for things like storms. If Wolz and his team weren’t answering, it meant something was wrong.