Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [177]
Improve intrateam communications, for starters, he thought. If they didn’t have the experience to read minds, they damned well should have solid comm protocols. Hiring more troops would be a good idea, but that wasn’t going to happen. The Campus was supposed to run small and smart. Maybe they had the ability to do that, but damned sure there were times when a lot of people could solve a lot of problems. But that wasn’t going to happen.
Clark’s plane landed softly at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. It took five minutes to taxi to gate D-3, allowing Clark to walk off quickly. He made a head call and walked down the concourse, hoping that someone would be waiting for him. It turned out to be Jack, who waved.
“I know what you look like,” Clark said. “You don’t have to let other people know that you know me.”
“Hey, I mean—”
“I know what you mean. You never break fieldcraft until it’s over your first beer at home, kid. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Got it. What did you learn?”
“He flew on to Vegas, and he’s probably there now. Mainly I learned that we don’t have enough troops to do anything important at The Campus,” he concluded crossly.
“Yeah, well, we can’t do what we do if we have government oversight, can we?”
“I suppose not, but there are advantages to being part of a larger organization, y’know?”
“Yeah. I guess we’re kinda parasites on the body politic.”
“I suppose. Was there any attempt to track the bird to where he went?”
Jack shook his head as they walked out of the concourse. “Nope.”
“I’d bet he kept on going—maybe two or three more stops, but there’s no telling.”
“Why?”
“Complexity. Make it as hard for your adversary as possible. That’s a basic principle in this life.”
Outside McCarran International, Hadi was saying exactly the same thing to Tariq, who said, “We’ve discussed this at length. There is no danger that we know of. Our communications are as secure as money can buy, and no one has penetrated us, else we would not be here, would we?”
“What about Uda bin Sali and the others?” Hadi demanded.
“He died of a heart attack. We have all reviewed the official autopsy report.”
“And the others?”
“Men die every day from heart trouble, even the elect of Allah,” Tariq pointed out.
“Perhaps the Jews killed him, but the doctors in Rome said he died from a heart attack.”
“Perhaps there is a way—a drug, perhaps—to make it appear that way.”
“Perhaps.” Tariq turned left to go into town. “But in that case, we need not fear the Israelis here.”
“Perhaps,” Hadi conceded. He was too tired from his long travel day for a serious disagreement. Too much time in the air, too much wine, and too little decent sleep for him to summon the intellectual energy. “Your car is clean?”
“We wash the car every three days. When we do that, we search it for listening devices of every sort.”
“So how is he?”
“You will see for yourself in a few minutes. You will find him healthy and quite well, physically speaking. But you will also find it difficult to recognize him. The Swiss surgeons worked a miracle with his appearance. He could, if he wished, walk the streets here without fear of recognition.”
Hadi took the opportunity to look out of the car. “Why here?” he asked tiredly.
“No one ever admits to living