Page 108 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight

The Czech allowed himself a small smile. “Then the treatments are even better than we hoped. Thank God.”

“God? God has nothing to do with it.”

The Czech’s eyes betrayed nothing.

He couldn’t agree more.

“I will report as soon as Ryan’s head is in my possession. In the meantime, get better, old friend. We have much to do when you return.”

The old Bulgarian nodded, shaking his jowls, which were pinking up nicely. “Worlds to conquer.”

The Czech smiled again. “Indeed. Worlds to conquer.” He lit another cigarette. Inhaled deeply.

Vasilev licked his yellowed teeth. He could practically taste the Czech’s tobacco, one of many vices he sorely missed.

“And you, Tomáš? How is your health?”

“I feel fine.”

“Good. If you want to keep it that way, get me Ryan’s head before I leave this place, or I’ll cut yours off myself.”

Vasilev killed the transmission. His stomach gurgled like a fermenting beer cask. He called down for something to eat. Beans and brown rice, perhaps.

Anything but that filthy miso soup.

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Gerry Hendley sat at his desk at Hendley Associates studying a piece of proposed legislation that the Senate Finance Committee was about to hold hearings on when his phone buzzed.

“Yes, Alice?”

“A call for you on line one. It’s urgent.”

“Thank you.”

He picked up. A familiar voice. It was Jeremiah Morales, the head of the federal Bureau of Prisons, a man who owed his position to the ex-senator. They exchanged a few pleasantries, but Gerry could tell there was something on the man’s mind.

“Out with it.”

“Gerry, I’m sorry to tell you that Weston Rhodes is dead.”

“Dead? How?”

“Hanged himself.”

Gerry frowned with confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense. Weston was only facing five years. He had a lot to live for.”

“Some guys just can’t cut it.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, Jeremiah. My best to Meredith.”

Gerry shook his head in utter disbelief. Weston Rhodes, the former senator and CIA field officer, was not a hero by any means, but not a wimp, either. And it wasn’t as if he was doing time in the Hanoi Hilton like Admiral Stockdale. Rhodes had been located in the least restrictive wing of “Club Fed,” the Federal Correctional Institution in Cumberland, Maryland. It was home to many white-collar criminals who posed no threat to themselves or others. Martha Stewart kinda crimes. Light duty, decent hours, no violence. It was a good gig, if you had to do time.

Rhodes was busted for his role in the Singapore affair thatnearly got Jack killed. He could’ve been tried for treason, conspiracy, and a number of other felonies that could’ve put him in for life or even snatched it away from him.

But one of Rhodes’s K Street legal buddies bamboozled the federal prosecutor into a bench trial, and the presiding judge was a Yale alum who didn’t see the need to recuse himself from the case despite having known Rhodes for more than thirty years. It was rumored that Rhodes had stashed a good deal of cash in an offshore account as well.

So why kill himself?