Power and Empire

“Not really,” Burgess said. “We have security measures to keep bad actors from getting too close to one of our ships, but at some point the VBSS teams have to close the distance with the RHIB to do their jobs.”

“I’m glad you brought up the terrorist groups, Bob,” Ryan said. “I’ve asked Dr. Miller to come in tomorrow and do some focused digging. Mary Pat, I’d appreciate it if you could get with her bosses and make sure she’s read into anything we have on Laskar Jihad, Jemaah Islamiyah… and that old East Timor independence group we looked into… What were they called?”

“Revolutionary Front,” the DNI said, demonstrating why she held the position she did.

“That’s the one,” Ryan continued. “We’ll cast a broad net. Hell, let’s get Dr. Miller access to cases on the He-Man Woman Haters Club if they have a chapter in that part of the world.”

Mary Pat chuckled. “As soon as we’re done here, Mr. President,” she said. “I’ll look into this Argentina thing as well.”

Ryan knew by “looking into it” Mary Pat would bring to bear the investigative and analytical brainpower of the sixteen U.S. intelligence agencies under her purview. For all the information silos, turf wars, and territorial fights between the various agencies, when a personal directive went out from the DNI, one could almost hear the collective mental gears turning in Washington.

“You’re excused, then, Mary Pat,” Ryan said. “And thanks for your work.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” the DNI said, and then disconnected.

“Now,” Ryan continued, “Bob, bring me up to speed on our ships in the WestPac.”

“We’ve moved everyone out of the storm path,” Burgess said. “Or at least we did. This typhoon is all over the damned place. Its westerly course has now veered sharply north, putting it on a collision course for Central Japan. The Bōsō Peninsula gives some protection to Tokyo Bay if a storm comes in from the east, but Typhoon Catelyn is heading straight up the pipe.”

“Leaving Yokosuka vulnerable,” Ryan said, picturing the geography around the American Naval facility.

“Correct,” the SecDef said. “The storm may well yet turn west again, but Admiral Blackley ordered all vessels out to sea. They’ll head north and wait out the storm in colder waters. Even if it continues that way, it’ll lose steam.”

“Very well,” Ryan said. He knew Vice Admiral Blackley well and trusted the man’s judgment. “Let me know if anything develops.”

Ryan leaned back on the couch and gave a nod to van Damm, who ended the call.

The CoS drummed his fingers on the desk, eyes narrow. Arnie van Damm’s mind was always moving near light speed, one or two steps ahead of most people in the room — when it came to politics, at least.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “What’s on your mind?”

“Jack,” van Damm said. Calling him by his given name was a sure sign the CoS was about to dispense some serious advice. “I know you, and I know you’re counting on this upcoming summit to meet face-to-face with President Zhao.”

Ryan had the golf ball in his hand now, rolling it back and forth with his fingers. “I’ve met him before,” he said.

“True, but that meeting was absent the present facts.” Van Damm glanced at a scratch pad on the desk. “RSMC Tokyo clocks Typhoon Catelyn with sustained winds of a hundred five miles an hour. And she’s showing rapid intensification.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to call them ‘she’ anymore.”

Van Damm rolled his eyes. “If this genderless storm with a female name makes landfall anywhere near the Kantō Plain, Japan might be a little busy with recovery efforts to host the G20.”

“True,” Ryan said.

“The evidence against Zhao is mounting,” van Damm said. “And what we do have is pretty damned… well, damning. I know you want to meet him, shake his hand, get what you believe is a true measure of the man, but that might not be possible. Jack, you may well have to make a decision on Zhao without looking him in the eye.”

45

Yukiko’s apartment was on the fourth floor of a tidy but older brick building a block and a half to the northeast of the Palacio Duhau Hyatt, where the Chinese foreign minister was staying. Buenos Aires city police and members of Foreign Minister Li’s protective detail had barricaded both ends of Avenida Alvear in front of the hotel and Posadas behind, forcing the Campus operators to approach the Kōanchōsa-chō operative’s room from Libertador. On the other side of Libertador was the train yard. Five hundred meters beyond that were the slums of Villa 31 and, presumably, Vincent Chen’s little band of terrorists.

Chavez placed a call to John Clark as they walked, asking him to check with his contacts in the Japanese intelligence community to see if any of them could verify a Monzaki Yukiko. He was still waiting to hear back when they arrived in front of the building.