Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [213]
Clark: “He’s heading right at me. Stand by.” A moment later, Clark’s voice changed. “No, no, I’m telling ya, their pitching roster is for shit. They got no depth. Man, you’re wrong. Ten bucks they tank the first game. …” A few seconds passed. “Just passed me. He’s stepping into a restaurant—Pat’s Café, east side of the street. Jack, let’s have some lunch. I’ll get us a table.”
Ding chimed in: “I’ll take a pastrami on wheat.”
Jack turned north at the corner of Chestnut and Mason, then north again to Taylor. He found Clark at a table near the door, facing the window. The place was getting busy, catching the early lunch crowd. Jack sat down.
“At the counter,” Clark said. “Third from the end.”
“Yep, saw him.”
“Who’s sitting on either side of him?”
“What?”
“Keeping track of your principal is only half the battle, Jack. He talk to anybody while you were on him, make any stops?”
“No, and no close passes, either.”
Clark shrugged. “Even mutts gotta eat.”
Jack ordered a tuna fish on rye, Clark a BLT and a doggie bag for Ding. “He’s finishing up,” Clark said. “I’ll get the tab. We shake hands at the door, say, ‘See you next month,’ then you head back to the car. I’ll take our boy home, then meet you at the Starbucks on Bay.”
Thirty minutes later they were sharing three cups of Gold Coast dark roast at a booth near the window. Outside, pedestrians and cars slipped by in the bright sunlight. On the TV mounted in the corner, Jack Ryan Sr. was standing behind a podium speaking. The sound was muted, but all three of them knew what was going on. So did the rest of the customers and the baristas, most of whom were either staring at the set or catching glimpses of the news ticker as they went about their business.
“Man, he’s really doing it,” Chavez said. “Your dad’s got some brass ones, Jack.”
Jack nodded.
Clark asked, “He told you about it, I assume?”
Another nod. “I don’t think he’s overjoyed at the whole idea, but it’s the call of duty, you know? To whom much is given, much is asked.”
“Well, he’s given a lot already. Okay, to business: What’d we learn?”
Jack took a sip of coffee, then said, “Nayoan likes pea soup, and he’s a bad tipper.”
“Huh?” Chavez said.
“He had pea soup and a club sandwich. Twelve bucks, give or take, according to the menu. He left a few quarters. Besides that, I’m not sure what we learned.”
“Not much,” Clark agreed. “Didn’t expect much. If he’s in the bag for the URC, it could be a once-in-a-while thing. The odds of us catching him dirty in one day were nil.”
“So what next?”
“According to the consulate website, they’ve got a reception at the Holiday Inn Express tonight. Some kind of joint benefit party with the Polish consulate.”
“Left my tux at home,” Chavez said.
“Not going to need it. Point is, we know where Nayoan’s going to be tonight, and it ain’t at home.”
Eight thousand miles away, the engineer emerged from the tent’s changing room and used a rag to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck. On wobbly legs, he walked to a nearby stool and sat down.
“Well?” Musa asked.
“It’s done.”
“And the yield?”
“Seven to eight kilotons. Smallish by today’s standards—for example, the Hiroshima bomb was fifteen kilotons—but it will be more than sufficient for what you’re planning. It should give you, say, fifteen pounds per square inch out to a distance of five hundred meters.”
“That doesn’t sound like much.”
The engineer smiled wearily. “Fifteen psi is enough to demolish reinforced concrete. You said the floor is mostly earthen?”
“That’s correct. With some underground hardened structures.”
“Then you have no worries, my friend. This enclosed space you’ve mentioned … You’re certain of its volume?”
“Yes.”
“And the overstructure? What’s its composition?”
“I’m told it is something called ignimbrite. It is—”
“Yes, I’m familiar with it. Also called volcanic pyroclastic or welded tuff—essentially, compacted layers of volcanic rock. That’s good. Providing the overstructure is thick