The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

crews of the 89th Military Airlift – 'The President's' – Wing had a strict
regimen for maintaining proficiency. The two aircraft took off a few minutes
apart and headed east to perform various familiarization maneuvers to acquaint
two new co-pilots with air-traffic control procedures – which the drivers
already knew backwards and forwards, of course, but that was beside the point.
In the back, an Air Force technical sergeant was doing his own training, playing
with the sophisticated communications equipment that the plane carried. He
occasionally looked aft to see that civilian, whoever the hell he was, talking
into a flower pot, or just into a little green stick. There are some things, the
sergeant thought, that a guy just isn't supposed to understand. He was entirely
correct.
Two hours later, the two Gulfstreams landed back at Andrews and rolled to a halt
at the VIP terminal. Clark gathered up his gear and walked out to meet another
civilian who'd been aboard the other aircraft. The pair walked off to their car,
already talking.
'I could understand part of what you were saying clear, I mean,' Chavez
reported. 'Say about a third of it, maybe a little less.'
'Okay, we'll see what the techies can do with it.' The drive back to Langley
took thirty-five minutes, and from there Clark and Chavez drove back into
Washington for a late lunch.
Bob Holtzman had gotten the call the previous evening. It had come on his
unlisted home line. A curt, short message, it had also perked his interest. At
two in the afternoon, he walked into a small Mexican place in Georgetown called
Esteban's. Most of the business crowd had gone, leaving the place about a third
full, mainly with kids from Georgetown University. A wave from the back told him
where to go.
'Hello,' Holtzman said, sitting down.
'You Holtzman?'
'That's right,' the reporter said. 'And you are?'
'Two friendly guys,' the older one said. 'Join us for lunch?'
'Okay.' The younger one got up and started feeding quarters into a jukebox that
played Mexican music. In a moment, it was certain that his tape recorder
wouldn't have a chance of working.
'What do you want to see me about?'
'You've been writing some pieces on the Agency,' the older one started off. 'The
target of your articles is the Deputy Director, Dr John Ryan.'
'I never said that,' Holtzman replied.
'Whoever leaked all that shit to you lied. It's a set-up.'
'Says who?'
'Just how honest a reporter are you?'
'What do you mean?' Holtzman asked.
'If I tell you something totally off the record, will you print it?'
'That depends on the nature of the information. What exactly is your intention?'
'What I mean, Mr Holtzman, is that I can prove to you that you've been lied to,
but the proof of that can never be revealed. It would endanger some people. It
would also prove that somebody's been using you to grind an axe or two. I want
to know who that person is.'