He couldn’t blame the men for trying to change his mind. The chief of staff’s job was one of constant pestering and pushing back, forcing him to look at other sides of issues that he didn’t particularly want to see. As the United States Secret Service special agent in charge of the Presidential Protection Division, or PPD, Montgomery had a tremendous responsibility on his shoulders. Jack Ryan had, at various times, been described as an off-the-cuff or nontraditional strategist. Privately, in the confines of the Secret Service office beneath the Oval, dubbed W16, Ryan was certain he’d been called a number of things — maybe even a crazy son of a bitch — for his penchant to take his pointed responses personally to the far corners of the world.
Montgomery had just reminded him of the angry mobs that attacked Vice President Nixon’s motorcade in Caracas in 1958. The windows had been smashed, the car severely damaged, before the Secret Service had miraculously been able to pull away from the furious crowd. “We’re following social media trends in Indonesia now,” Montgomery added. “It wouldn’t take much to set off a mob if they believe you are coming to break your friend out of prison.”
“Noted,” Ryan said, giving Montgomery a passive smile, though he felt like picking up the Lincoln bust and throwing it through the window.
Gary was too good a guy for that kind of treatment. The two had become, if not actual friends, as close as protector and protected can be. “I trust your experience and intellect,” Ryan said, “but I am going to Indonesia. I’d hoped you might bring some guys and maybe a helicopter or two and come along with me.”
“Mr. President,” Montgomery said, closing his eyes in an effort to come up with more convincing words. “You know we will make it happen, but—”
“Excellent,” Ryan said. “That’s what I wanted to hear, Gary.”
Van Damm bounced a fist on his knee. “President Gumelar was right. In addition to the social media buzz, we have word from Ambassador Cowley that the Muslim majority is being whipped into a frenzy by someone. The ambassador’s not sure exactly who’s behind it, but it’s got to be Beijing. Riots are popping up hourly all over Java calling for swift justice against Father West. As his friend, you’d be—”
“Guilty by association,” Ryan said. “I get it. Hell, President Gumelar probably leaked that I was coming to try and stave off the visit.” He looked back at Montgomery. “I’m not suggesting we go in without a plan. But I am going. My friend or not, something is going on over there and I’d like to get to the bottom of it.”
Van Damm opened his mouth to speak, stopped as if he’d thought better of it, then, unable to contain himself, said, “You have people for that sort of mission, Mr. Pres—”
The door from the secretaries’ suite opened and DNI Foley stuck her head in. She held up a manila folder with a striped red-and-white border.
Ryan motioned her inside. “Good thing for Arnie you got here when you did. He was about to say something impertinent.”
Foley smiled. “He wouldn’t be Arnie if he didn’t.” She stood to the side of the desk, the folder clutched at her waist, clearly waiting for the other men to leave before showing its contents to the President.
Montgomery got to his feet. “I have more concerns, but I’ll go over the specifics with Mr. van Damm.” Ryan gave them a closed-mouthed smile, a silent dismissal. He hated to do it. They had his best interests at heart, but there was something at play here that required getting off his ass in real time, not just thinking about it. There were moments when you had to worry about something besides your own skin. Like that Mike Rowe guy said, “Safety third.”
“Looks like they’re planning to mutiny,” Mary Pat said when she and Ryan were alone.
“It’s their job to make me see things.”
“And are you?” Foley said.
“I’m looking,” Ryan said. “Not necessarily seeing. What have you got for me?”
She pushed the folder across the desk.
“Remember the two PLA generals who are battling it out?”
Ryan opened the folder to find three photographs of General Song and his wife holding hands with a little girl of seven or eight. The photos weren’t covert. Everyone was smiling and looking directly at the camera.
“Okay.” Ryan arranged them side by side so he could compare. “Taken on separate occasions… What else am I looking for?”
Foley put the tip of her index finger on the little girl’s face. “This is Song’s granddaughter, Niu. Her mother, Song’s only daughter, died shortly after the child was born. The general and his wife have raised her from infancy. All accounts say he dotes on her the way most Chinese men dote on a son.”
“Okay…” Ryan said, still not following.
Mary Pat tapped the photo again. “Now take a closer look at her left eye.”
Ryan picked up the nearest photograph, studied it for a half-minute, and then shook his head. “Could be the angle,” he said. “Is it cloudier than the other one?”
