The Bear and the Dragon - By Tom Clancy Page 0,143

death, simultaneously wishing that he could and thanking God that he could not broadcast the ghastly smells that still haunted his dreams. A news professional, Wise regarded his mission in life to be this: to transmit the truth from where it happened to where people were interested in it—and helping them to become interested if they were not. He didn’t have much of a personal ideology, though he was a great believer in justice, and one of the ways to make justice happen was to give the correct information to the jury—in his case, the television-watching public. He and people like him had changed South Africa from a racist state into a functioning democracy, and he’d also played a role in destroying world communism. The truth, he figured, was about the most powerful weapon in the world, if you had a way of getting it to the average Joe. Unlike most members of his business, Wise respected Joe Citizen, at least the ones who were smart enough to watch him. They wanted the truth, and it was his job to deliver it to them to the best of his abilities, which he often doubted, as he constantly asked himself how well he was doing.

He kissed his wife on the way out the door, promising to bring back things for the kids, as he always did, and lugging his travel bag out to his one personal indulgence, a red Mercedes two-seater, which he then drove south to the D.C. Beltway and south again toward Andrews Air Force Base. He had to arrive early, because the Air Force had gotten overly security-conscious. Maybe it was from that dumbass movie that had had terrorists getting past all the armed guards—even though they were merely Air Force, not Marines, they did carry rifles, and they did at least appear to be competent—and aboard one of the 89th Military Airlift Wing’s aircraft, which, Wise figured, was about as likely as having a pickpocket walk into the Oval Office and lift the President’s wallet. But the military followed its own rules, senseless though they might be—that was something he remembered well from his time in the Corps. So, he’d drive down, pass through all the checkpoints, whose guards knew him better than they knew their own CO, and wait in the plush Distinguished Visitors’ lounge at the end of Andrews’ Runway Zero-One Left for the official party to arrive. Then they’d board the venerable VC-137 for the endless flight to Beijing. The seats were as comfortable as they could be on an airplane, and the service was as good as any airline’s first class, but flights this long were never fun.

Never been there before," Mark Gant said, answering George Winston’s question. ”So—what’s the score on this Rutledge guy?"

The SecTreas shrugged. “Career State Department puke, worked his way pretty far up the ladder. Used to have good political connections—he was tight with Ed Kealty once upon a time.”

The former stock trader looked up. “Oh? Why hasn’t Ryan fired his ass?”

“Jack doesn’t play that sort of game,” Winston replied, wondering if in this case principle was getting in the way of common sense.

“George, he’s still pretty naive, isn’t he?”

“Maybe so, but he’s a straight shooter, and I can live with that. He sure as hell backed us up on tax policy, and that’s going to pass through Congress in another few weeks.”

Gant wouldn’t believe that until he saw it. “Assuming every lobbyist in town doesn’t jump in front of the train.”

That engendered an amused grunt. “So, the wheels get greased a little better. You know, wouldn’t it be nice to close all those bastards down ... ?”

George, Gant couldn’t say in this office, if you believe that, you’ve been hanging out with the President too long. But idealism wasn’t all that bad a thing, was it?

“I’ll settle for squeezing those Chinese bastards on the trade balance. Ryan’s going to back us up?”

“All the way, he says. And I believe him, Mark.”

“I guess we’ll see. I hope this Rutledge guy can read numbers.”

“He went to Harvard,” Secretary Winston observed.

“I know,” Gant said back. He had his own academic prejudice, having graduated from the University of Chicago twenty years earlier. What the hell was Harvard except a name and an endowment?

Winston chuckled. “They’re not all dumb.”

“I suppose we’ll see, boss. Anyway”—he lifted his suitcase up on its rollers; his computer bag went over his shoulder—“ my car’s waiting downstairs.”

“Good trip, Mark.”

Her name was Yang Lien-Hua. She was thirty-four, nine months