Read Jack Ryan 3 - Red Rabbit for Free Online Page B

then you murder 'em. Why give them warning?”
    “Whereas our current adversaries could have taught old Niccolo a lesson or two,” Greer agreed. “Okay, Bob, exactly what do you propose?”
    “A systematic examination of Soviet weaknesses with an eye to exploitation. In simplest terms, we investigate the possible shape of a plan to cause great discomfort to our enemy.”
    “Hell, we ought to be doing that all the time anyway,” Moore said, agreeing at once with the concept. “James?”
    “I have no problem with it. I can get a team together in my shop to toss some ideas together.”
    “Not the usual suspects,” the DDO urged. “We'll never get anything useful from the regular crew. It's time to think way the hell outside the usual box.”
    Greer thought about that for a moment, then nodded agreement. “Okay, I'll do the picking. Special project. Pick a name for it?”
    “How about INFECTION?” Ritter asked.
    “And if it turns into an operation, call it PLAGUE?” the DDI asked with a laugh.
    Moore shared in the chuckle. “No, I've got it. MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH. Something from Poe sounds about right to me.”
    “This is really about having the DO take over the DI, isn't it?” Greer thought aloud.
    It wasn't a serious undertaking yet, just an interesting academic exercise, the same way a corporate trader might look into the fundamental strengths and weaknesses of a company he might want to take over… and then, if the circumstances justified, break it up for parts. No, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was the center of their professional world, the Bobby Lee to their Army of the Potomac, the New York Yankees to their Boston Red Sox. Defeating them, however attractive a dream it might be, was little more than that, a dream.
    Even so, Judge Arthur Moore approved of that sort of thinking. If man's reach didn't exceed his grasp, then what the hell was heaven for?
    APPROACHING TWENTY-THREE hours in Moscow, Andropov was enjoying a cigarette—an American Marlboro, in fact—and sipping at his vodka, the premium Starka brand, which was brown like American bourbon. On the record player was another American product, an LP of Louis Armstrong on the trumpet, blowing some superb New Orleans jazz. Like many Russians, the Chairman of the KGB regarded blacks as little more than monkey cannibals, but the ones in America had invented their own fine art form. He knew that he ought to have been a devotee of Borodin or one of the other classical Russian composers, but there was just something about the vitality of American jazz that rang some sort of bell in his mind. But the music was merely an aid for thinking. Yuriy Vladimirovich Andropov had heavy brows over his brown eyes and a lantern jaw suggestive of another ethnic origin, but his mind was entirely Russian, which meant part Byzantine, part Tartar, part Mongol, and all focused on achieving his own goals. Of these he had many, but above all: He wanted to be the leader of his country. Someone had to save it, and he knew exactly how much it needed saving. One of the advantages of being Chairman of the Committee for State Security was that few things were secret from him, and this in a society that was replete with lies, where lies were indeed the highest of art forms. This was especially true of the Soviet economy. The command-driven structure of that flaccid colossus meant that every factory—and every factory manager—had a production goal that both it and he had to meet. The goals might or might not be realistic. That didn't matter. What did matter was that their enforcement was draconian. Not as draconian as they'd once been, of course. In the 1930s and '40s, failure to meet the goal set forth in The Plan could mean death right here in this very building, because those who failed to meet The Plan were “wreckers,” saboteurs, enemies of the state, traitors in a nation where state treason was a crime worse than any other, and so demanded a penalty worse than