I do not own any of Clancy's characters. My name is not Tom Clancy. If it
was, I would not be writing fanfiction.
--Machiavelli's Curse-
[Prologue]
Screams. Howls as of banshees screeching across the tiny cell. Blood stained the wall. Janitors had never really been wanted here, which meant the brains always left their mark. The current subject would have loved to simply have his own brain leave its mark now, and it would all be over. Qarim Imhil grinned with a nasty set of teeth, most were yellow or missing. The canines however, were all gold, something he had insisted upon to intimidate his prisoners. This latest one had been caught trying to defect, the fool. He must know just as well as everyone else that no one escapes to the enemy with the type of clearance he had. Yes, the leader demanded this one get special attention, which meant a long, slow, agonizing death. Qarim jabbed the knife in again, and left it there, then rushed the medic in to deal with this newest wound. Later Qarim would bring out the 'torch' again. The thought was enticing to him. After working for half a decade in this most decadent of places, torture rather than execution was like a ray of sunshine after a long rain. And the smell of burnt flesh, though putrid, was almost more welcome in the sluggish depths than the normal stink emanating from the cellmates, all constantly sweating in the sticky heat, wondering which one of them was next. The glove came off now and snapped onto the floor, leaping from the man's hand like an angry snake. It was given the same wide berth by the medic a snake would have been given, and the young man covered his mouth, loathing his job more than ever at the moment. Qarim sneered at his back and turned to leave, shutting the door behind him and locking it. The medic spun around, hearing the familiar clang, his eyes like goose eggs, his face red with a mixture of fury and fear, "No. Imhil, let me out!" Qarim did not bother turning as he headed to the steps, keys jangling on his finger, his one lazy eye and toothy golden grin horrifying the remaining prisoners, "Tonight. Yes, tonight the torch will be back. Keep him alive 'til then." And with that, the door to the prison shut, and Qarim entered the luscious palace with a malicious smile for the world.
Mary Pat cursed as she read the day's briefing. "Fuck! Well, Ed. looks like we lost another one. Can we get any good intelligence out of that hellhole?" Ed set his coffee down, sputtering at his wife's explicative, "What's this now, dear?" Mary Patricia Foley stood and walked over to him, throwing the briefing in front of him, even though he had a copy of the very same paper on the upper righthand corner of his desk. She thrust her finger onto a paragraph near the top, livid as usual lately, "Two of our best field agents in the mid-east dead, and the guy they were trying to get out is captured, which means they know more about us than we do them again." She sighed and trailed off, letting her words hit the needed effect from her beloved husband. Ed looked confused and stunned, "Why wasn't I aware of this as soon as we knew?" Mary Pat shrugged and took the paper back up, "Guess they didn't want us getting worked up before our meeting with the President." Ed nodded, standing and pacing now, "So, we still going ahead with NEEDLE?" Mrs. Foley nodded and stamped her foot, "We've gotta get something in there, Ed, and this is the best we've had in a long time." Mr. Foley, sat again, wishing he had a cigarette right now, put his fingers to his chin feeling his new beard, "He's very green though, but he does have the best team working behind him we could get, though." "Ed, if we don't put them in soon we'll lose everything we've got on the place we need the most." "I agree, Mary Pat. Tell them they have confirmation and get them in there." The DDO flashed a smile and turned on her heel to get things ready for the last effort to prod the fortress that was Iraq.
POTUS sat up sweating and very pale. FLOTUS's doctor instinct immediately kicked in and she, too, sat up, confused and still sleepy. "Jack? What's wrong?" Jack Ryan, President of the United States of America, would not dare admit it was a bad dream that had awoken him, but then again, maybe that wasn't it. He felt very clammy and congested, his vision was blurred, and his muscles felt like he'd just swam the English Channel twice. "Ernh. actually, I think I feel a cold coming on." "Well that's no good. What will the United States do if their leader is in bed with a cold?" Jack shrugged it off and swung his legs around to feign health, slowly standing up, "It's close to waking time anyway, so I might as well tell them I'm ready for the day." Dr. Catherine Ryan was not satisfied at all, she sighed, "Jack. you work too hard and you know it. Sleep in a bit longer and I'll go get you some medicine." The other Dr. Ryan turned from pulling out a suit, "Oh no you don't. You know they don't let you pick out my medicines. It has to be witnessed and tested," He sighed, "and besides, I'm sure I'm fine. The Foleys have something they say is really important too, and Robbie's coming in today, so I need to be there. No days off for me, my dear." Cathy knew what he said was true, but she was still uneasy, "Jack, at least cancel a few of your meetings. You need to cut down on the stress." The President looked over his shoulder at his wife as he fixed his tie, "Stress? What stress? If you mean the mess in the Middle East, well we've got all that under control. And, if you're talking about re-election, I'm not worried about it. That's what I've got Arnie for. Believe me, I'm fine." Pulling out her doctor's coat, the First Lady, gave her husband her trademark stare. Ryan smirked awkwardly and shrugged, "Alright. I'll do what I can." He then pushed open the double doors to the bedroom of the leader of the United States of America, nodding to his Secret Service guards, "Morning! What are they saying about the weather this morning?"
--Machiavelli's Curse-
[Prologue]
Screams. Howls as of banshees screeching across the tiny cell. Blood stained the wall. Janitors had never really been wanted here, which meant the brains always left their mark. The current subject would have loved to simply have his own brain leave its mark now, and it would all be over. Qarim Imhil grinned with a nasty set of teeth, most were yellow or missing. The canines however, were all gold, something he had insisted upon to intimidate his prisoners. This latest one had been caught trying to defect, the fool. He must know just as well as everyone else that no one escapes to the enemy with the type of clearance he had. Yes, the leader demanded this one get special attention, which meant a long, slow, agonizing death. Qarim jabbed the knife in again, and left it there, then rushed the medic in to deal with this newest wound. Later Qarim would bring out the 'torch' again. The thought was enticing to him. After working for half a decade in this most decadent of places, torture rather than execution was like a ray of sunshine after a long rain. And the smell of burnt flesh, though putrid, was almost more welcome in the sluggish depths than the normal stink emanating from the cellmates, all constantly sweating in the sticky heat, wondering which one of them was next. The glove came off now and snapped onto the floor, leaping from the man's hand like an angry snake. It was given the same wide berth by the medic a snake would have been given, and the young man covered his mouth, loathing his job more than ever at the moment. Qarim sneered at his back and turned to leave, shutting the door behind him and locking it. The medic spun around, hearing the familiar clang, his eyes like goose eggs, his face red with a mixture of fury and fear, "No. Imhil, let me out!" Qarim did not bother turning as he headed to the steps, keys jangling on his finger, his one lazy eye and toothy golden grin horrifying the remaining prisoners, "Tonight. Yes, tonight the torch will be back. Keep him alive 'til then." And with that, the door to the prison shut, and Qarim entered the luscious palace with a malicious smile for the world.
Mary Pat cursed as she read the day's briefing. "Fuck! Well, Ed. looks like we lost another one. Can we get any good intelligence out of that hellhole?" Ed set his coffee down, sputtering at his wife's explicative, "What's this now, dear?" Mary Patricia Foley stood and walked over to him, throwing the briefing in front of him, even though he had a copy of the very same paper on the upper righthand corner of his desk. She thrust her finger onto a paragraph near the top, livid as usual lately, "Two of our best field agents in the mid-east dead, and the guy they were trying to get out is captured, which means they know more about us than we do them again." She sighed and trailed off, letting her words hit the needed effect from her beloved husband. Ed looked confused and stunned, "Why wasn't I aware of this as soon as we knew?" Mary Pat shrugged and took the paper back up, "Guess they didn't want us getting worked up before our meeting with the President." Ed nodded, standing and pacing now, "So, we still going ahead with NEEDLE?" Mrs. Foley nodded and stamped her foot, "We've gotta get something in there, Ed, and this is the best we've had in a long time." Mr. Foley, sat again, wishing he had a cigarette right now, put his fingers to his chin feeling his new beard, "He's very green though, but he does have the best team working behind him we could get, though." "Ed, if we don't put them in soon we'll lose everything we've got on the place we need the most." "I agree, Mary Pat. Tell them they have confirmation and get them in there." The DDO flashed a smile and turned on her heel to get things ready for the last effort to prod the fortress that was Iraq.
POTUS sat up sweating and very pale. FLOTUS's doctor instinct immediately kicked in and she, too, sat up, confused and still sleepy. "Jack? What's wrong?" Jack Ryan, President of the United States of America, would not dare admit it was a bad dream that had awoken him, but then again, maybe that wasn't it. He felt very clammy and congested, his vision was blurred, and his muscles felt like he'd just swam the English Channel twice. "Ernh. actually, I think I feel a cold coming on." "Well that's no good. What will the United States do if their leader is in bed with a cold?" Jack shrugged it off and swung his legs around to feign health, slowly standing up, "It's close to waking time anyway, so I might as well tell them I'm ready for the day." Dr. Catherine Ryan was not satisfied at all, she sighed, "Jack. you work too hard and you know it. Sleep in a bit longer and I'll go get you some medicine." The other Dr. Ryan turned from pulling out a suit, "Oh no you don't. You know they don't let you pick out my medicines. It has to be witnessed and tested," He sighed, "and besides, I'm sure I'm fine. The Foleys have something they say is really important too, and Robbie's coming in today, so I need to be there. No days off for me, my dear." Cathy knew what he said was true, but she was still uneasy, "Jack, at least cancel a few of your meetings. You need to cut down on the stress." The President looked over his shoulder at his wife as he fixed his tie, "Stress? What stress? If you mean the mess in the Middle East, well we've got all that under control. And, if you're talking about re-election, I'm not worried about it. That's what I've got Arnie for. Believe me, I'm fine." Pulling out her doctor's coat, the First Lady, gave her husband her trademark stare. Ryan smirked awkwardly and shrugged, "Alright. I'll do what I can." He then pushed open the double doors to the bedroom of the leader of the United States of America, nodding to his Secret Service guards, "Morning! What are they saying about the weather this morning?"