Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger by Tom Clancy Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Clancy
Wegener managed to stop himself from laughing only because he still had the razor to his throat.
“I humbly beg the captain's pardon. And, by your leave, sir, I also have work to do.”
“The kid we had on the fifty-cal this morning was part of the deck division. He needs a talk about safety. He was slow taking his gun off the yacht this morning. Don't tear his head all the way off,” Wegener said as he finished shaving. “I'll talk to Mr. Peterson myself.”
“We sure don't need people fucking around with those things. I'll talk with the lad, sir, right after I do my walk-around.”
“I'm going to do one after lunch—we have some weather coming in tonight.”
“Portagee told me. We'll have everything lashed down tight.”
“See you later, Bob.”
“Aye.” Riley withdrew.
Wegener stowed his shaving gear and went back to his desk. The preliminary draft of the boarding and arrest report was on the top of his pile. The full version was being typed now, but he always liked to see the first version. It was generally the most accurate. Wegener scanned it as he sipped at some cold coffee. The Polaroid shots were tucked into pockets on a plastic page. They hadn't gotten any better. Neither had the paperwork. He decided to slip the videotape into his personal VCR and view it before lunch.
The quality of the tape was several steps down from anything that could be called professional. Holding the camera still on a rolling yacht was nearly impossible, and there hadn't been enough light for decent picture quality. For all that, it was disturbing. The sound caught snippets of conversations, and the screen occasionally flared when the Polaroid's flash went off.
It was plain that four people had died aboard Empire Builder, and all they had left behind were bloodstains. It didn't seem very much of a legacy, but imagination supplied the rest. The bunk in what had probably been the son's cabin was sodden with blood—a lot of it—at the top end of the bed. Head shot. Three other sets of bloodstains decorated the main salon. It was the part of the yacht with the most space, the place where the entertainment had gone on. Entertainment, Wegener thought. Three sets of bloodstains. Two close together, one distant. The man had an attractive wife, and a daughter of thirteen . . . they'd made him watch, hadn't they?
“Jesus,” Wegener breathed. That had to be it, didn't it? They made him watch, and then they killed them all . . . carved up the bodies and tossed them over the side.
“Bastards.”
Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger
2.
Creatures
of the Night
T
HE NAME ON
this passport said J. T. Williams, but he had quite a few passports. His current cover was as a representative for an American pharmaceuticals firm, and he could give a lengthy discourse on various synthetic antibiotics. He could similarly discuss the ins and cuts of the heavy-equipment business as a special field representative for Caterpillar Tractor, and had two other “legends” that he could switch in and out of as easily as he changed his clothes. His name was not Williams. He was known in CIA's Operations Directorate as
Clark
, but his name wasn't
Clark
either, even though that was the name under which he lived and raised his family. Mainly he was an instructor at CIA's school for field officers, known as “The Farm,” but he was an instructor because he was pretty good at what he did, and for the same reason he often returned to the field.
Clark was a solidly built man, over six feet tall, with a full head of black hair and a lantern jaw that hinted at his ancestry, along with the blue eyes that twinkled when he wanted them to, and burned when he did not. Though well over forty,
Clark
did not have the usual waistline flab that went along with a desk job, and his shoulders spoke volumes about his exercise program. For all
“I humbly beg the captain's pardon. And, by your leave, sir, I also have work to do.”
“The kid we had on the fifty-cal this morning was part of the deck division. He needs a talk about safety. He was slow taking his gun off the yacht this morning. Don't tear his head all the way off,” Wegener said as he finished shaving. “I'll talk to Mr. Peterson myself.”
“We sure don't need people fucking around with those things. I'll talk with the lad, sir, right after I do my walk-around.”
“I'm going to do one after lunch—we have some weather coming in tonight.”
“Portagee told me. We'll have everything lashed down tight.”
“See you later, Bob.”
“Aye.” Riley withdrew.
Wegener stowed his shaving gear and went back to his desk. The preliminary draft of the boarding and arrest report was on the top of his pile. The full version was being typed now, but he always liked to see the first version. It was generally the most accurate. Wegener scanned it as he sipped at some cold coffee. The Polaroid shots were tucked into pockets on a plastic page. They hadn't gotten any better. Neither had the paperwork. He decided to slip the videotape into his personal VCR and view it before lunch.
The quality of the tape was several steps down from anything that could be called professional. Holding the camera still on a rolling yacht was nearly impossible, and there hadn't been enough light for decent picture quality. For all that, it was disturbing. The sound caught snippets of conversations, and the screen occasionally flared when the Polaroid's flash went off.
It was plain that four people had died aboard Empire Builder, and all they had left behind were bloodstains. It didn't seem very much of a legacy, but imagination supplied the rest. The bunk in what had probably been the son's cabin was sodden with blood—a lot of it—at the top end of the bed. Head shot. Three other sets of bloodstains decorated the main salon. It was the part of the yacht with the most space, the place where the entertainment had gone on. Entertainment, Wegener thought. Three sets of bloodstains. Two close together, one distant. The man had an attractive wife, and a daughter of thirteen . . . they'd made him watch, hadn't they?
“Jesus,” Wegener breathed. That had to be it, didn't it? They made him watch, and then they killed them all . . . carved up the bodies and tossed them over the side.
“Bastards.”
Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger
2.
Creatures
of the Night
T
HE NAME ON
this passport said J. T. Williams, but he had quite a few passports. His current cover was as a representative for an American pharmaceuticals firm, and he could give a lengthy discourse on various synthetic antibiotics. He could similarly discuss the ins and cuts of the heavy-equipment business as a special field representative for Caterpillar Tractor, and had two other “legends” that he could switch in and out of as easily as he changed his clothes. His name was not Williams. He was known in CIA's Operations Directorate as
Clark
, but his name wasn't
Clark
either, even though that was the name under which he lived and raised his family. Mainly he was an instructor at CIA's school for field officers, known as “The Farm,” but he was an instructor because he was pretty good at what he did, and for the same reason he often returned to the field.
Clark was a solidly built man, over six feet tall, with a full head of black hair and a lantern jaw that hinted at his ancestry, along with the blue eyes that twinkled when he wanted them to, and burned when he did not. Though well over forty,
Clark
did not have the usual waistline flab that went along with a desk job, and his shoulders spoke volumes about his exercise program. For all