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Chapters (83)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY TOM CLANCY
  3. PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
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  83. What’s next onyour reading list?

“It may surprise some of you to know that I am not the first American President to praise the name of Paul Brown in a closed-door meeting among family, friends, and colleagues. In 1985, President Ronald Reagan awarded Paul Brown the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the CIA’s equivalent of the Medal of Honor. It is usually only awarded posthumously, but Paul Brown was not usual by any measure. Those that knew him tell me that he never spoke about the honor or the sacrifice that earned it. We only know about the events that transpired so many years ago thanks to the testimony of the only living witness, former Senator Weston Rhodes—”

Ryan glanced over at his son.

“—who unfortunately, owing to personal circumstances, couldn’t be with us today. However, I think it’s important for you, his family and friends, to better know the kind of man Paul Brown really was.

“Let me begin by reading the text of the speech Ronald Reagan gave when he awarded the DIC to Paul.”

Senior removed a sheet of paper from his suit coat and laid it carefully on the pulpit, then put on a pair of reading glasses, perched them on his nose. He glanced up at the audience over the top of them. “I can’t imitate the Gipper’s voice, but I’m sure you all remember it well enough.” He allowed himself a smile, looked back down at his notes, and began to read.

“‘My fellow Americans . . .’”

76

SOFIA, BULGARIA

1985

Rhodes dashed down the basement stairs straight to the security locker. He spun the tumbler lock until it clicked, then yanked the metal door open. The only keys hanging on the rack were for the old Lada, an underpowered four-cylinder with a slipping clutch and the sex appeal of an outhouse brick. But it was local and clean and his only option. The problem was that he hated driving a stick, and he needed to follow his paper map closely. Better if he had a driver.

Rhodes scratched his head, thinking about his limited options and the ticking clock, when his eye fell on the light shining out from beneath the door at the end of the hall. He hurried down that way. A name plate on the door read PAUL BROWN and FORENSIC ACCOUNTING. He didn’t recognize the name. The door was ajar. He pushed it open wider.

The room was no bigger than a broom closet—in fact, it used to be one, he recalled. A heavyset man sat hunched over a stack of ledger books, scratching notes on a yellow legal pad with one hand and squeezing a pair of hand grippers in the other.

“Excuse me, Paul,” Rhodes began.

Paul startled and swiveled around in his banker’s chair. “You caught me by surprise. No one’s usually around this time of night, except for the Marine guards.”