by Tom Clancy
“If you’ll excuse me,” Elliot said, departing from the battlefield as gracefully as she could. Cathy took Jack’s arm and steered him toward the corner with the piano.
“What in the hell was that all about?” Libby Holtzman asked her husband. She thought she knew most of it already. Her successful struggle not to laugh aloud had nearly strangled her.
“What it’s about, my dear, is that I broke an ethical rule. And you know something?”
“You did the right thing,” Libby announced. “The Marx Brothers? ‘Three-way corner.’ Liz Elliot, the Queen Radical WASP. My God.”
“Jack, I have a terrible headache, I mean, a really terrible one,” Cathy whispered to her husband.
“That bad?”
She nodded. “Can we get out of here before I get nauseous?”
“Cathy, you don’t just walk out of these things,” Jack pointed out.
“Sure, you do.”
“What were you and Liz talking about?”
“I don’t think I like her very much.”
“You’re not the only one. Okay.” Jack headed for the door with Cathy on his arm. The Army captain at the stairs was very understanding. Five minutes later they were outside. Jack helped his wife into the car and headed back up the drive toward Pennsylvania.
“Go straight,” Cathy said.
“But—”
“Go straight, Jack.” It was her surgeon’s voice. The one that told people what to do. Ryan pulled past Lafayette Park. “Now left.”
“Where are we supposed to be going?”
“Now turn right—and left into the driveway.”
“But—”
“Jack, please?” Cathy said softly.
The doorman of the Hay Adams Hotel helped Caroline from the car. Jack handed the keys to the parking attendant, then followed his wife in. He watched the concierge hand her a key, then she breezed off to the elevators. He followed her onto and off the elevator, and from there to a corner suite.
“What gives, Cathy?”
“Jack, there’s been too much work, too much kids, and not enough us. Tonight, my darling, there is time for us.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and there was nothing for her husband to do but kiss her. She put the key in his hand. “Now get the door open before we scare somebody.”
“But what about—”
“Jack, shut up. Please,” she added.
“Yes, dear.” Ryan led his wife into the room.
Cathy was gratified to see that her instructions had been carried out as perfectly as the staff of this most excellent of hotels could arrange. A light dinner was set on the table, along with a chilled bottle of Moët. She draped her coat on the sofa in confidence that everything else was as it should be.
“Could you pour the champagne? I’ll be back in a moment. You might want to take your coat off and relax,” she said over her shoulder on the way into the bedroom.
“Sure,” Jack said to himself. He didn’t know what was going on, or what Cathy had in mind, but he didn’t really care all that much either. After dropping his dinner jacket atop his wife’s mink, he peeled the foil off the champagne, then twisted off the wire, and gently worked the cork free. He poured two glasses and set the bottle back in the silver bucket. He decided to trust the wine untasted, then walked to look out the window at the White House. Jack didn’t hear her come back into the room. He felt it, felt the air change somehow. When he turned, she was standing there in the doorway.
It was the second time she’d worn it, the floor-length gown of white silk. The first time had been their honeymoon. Cathy walked barefoot across the carpet to her husband, gliding through space like an apparition.
“Your headache must have gone away.”
“I’m still thirsty, though,” Cathy said, smiling up at Jack’s face.
“I think I can handle that.” Jack lifted the glass and held it to her lips. She took a single sip, then moved it to his.
“Hungry?”
“No.”
She leaned against him, taking both his hands in hers. “I love you, Jack. Shall we?”
Jack turned her around, and walked behind, his hands at her waist. The bed, he saw, was turned down, and the light out, though the glare from the floodlit White House washed in through the windows.
“Remember the first time, the first night we were married?”
Jack chuckled. “I remember both, Cathy.”
“This is going to be another first time, Jack.” She reached behind him and flipped off the cummerbund. Her husband took the cue. When he was naked, she embraced him as fiercely as she could manage, and the silk of her nightgown rustled against his skin. “Lie down.”
“You’re more beautiful than ever, Cathy.”
“I wouldn’t want anyone to steal you from me.” Cathy joined him on the bed. He was ready, and so was she. Caroline pulled the nightgown up to her waist and mounted him, then let it fall down around her. His hands found her breasts. She held them in place, rocking up and down on him, knowing that he couldn’t last very long, but neither could she.
No man should be so lucky, Jack told himself, straining, trying to control himself, and though he failed miserably, he was rewarded with a smile that nearly broke his heart.
“Not bad,” Cathy said a minute later, kissing his hands.
“Out of practice.”
“The night is young,” she said as she lay down beside him, “and that’s the best I’ve had in a while, too. Now, are you hungry?”
Rvan looked around the room. “I, uh ...”
“Wait.” She left the bed and returned with a bathrobe with the hotel monogram. “I want you to stay warm.”
Dinner passed in silence. There was nothing that needed to be said, and for the following hour they silently pretended that they were both in their twenties again, young enough to experiment in love, to explore it like a new and wonderful place where every turn in the road revealed something never before seen. It had been far too long, Jack told himself, but he dismissed the thought from a mind that for once was untroubled. Dessert was finished, and he poured the last of the champagne.
“I have to stop drinking.” But not tonight.
Cathy finished off her glass and set it on the table. “It wouldn’t hurt you to stop, but you’re not an alcoholic. We proved that last week. You needed rest, and you got your rest. And now, I want more of you.”
“If there’s any left.”
Cathy stood and took his hand. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
This time Jack did the leading. Once in the bedroom, he reached down and pulled the nightgown over her head, then tossed his robe on the floor next to it.
The first kiss lasted for some eternal period of time. He lifted her in his arms and lay her on the bed, joining her a moment later. The urgency had not passed for either of them. Soon he was atop her, feeling her warmth under and around him. He did better this time, controlling himself until her back arched and her face took on the curious look of pain that every man wants to give his wife. At the end, his arms reached under her and lifted her off the bed, up against his chest. Cathy loved it when he did that, loved her man’s strength almost as much as his goodness. And then it was over, and he lay at her side. Cathy pulled him against her, his face to her regrettably flat chest.
“There never was anything wrong with you,” she whispered into his ear. She was not surprised by what came next. She knew the man so well, though she’d been foolish enough to forget the fact. She hoped that she’d be able to forgive herself for that. Jack’s whole body shook with his sobs. Cathy held him fast to her, feeling his tears on her breasts. Such a fine, strong man.
“I’ve been a lousy husband, and a lousy father.”
Her cheek came down on the top of his head. “Neither one of us has set any records lately, Jack, but that’s over, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He kissed her breast. “How did I ever find you?”
“You won me, Jack. In the great lottery of l
ife, you got me. I got you. Do you think that married people always deserve each other? All the ones I see at work who just can’t make it. Maybe they just don’t try, maybe they just forget.”
“Forget?”
What I almost forgot. “‘For richer, for poorer; for better, for worse; in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live.’ Remember? I made the promise, too. Jack, I know how good you can be, and that’s plenty good enough. I was so bitchy to you last week.... I’m sorry for all the terrible things I did. But that’s all over.”
Presently the weeping stopped. “Thanks, babe.”
“Thank you, Jack.” She ran a finger down his back.
“You mean?” His head moved back to see her face. He got another smile, the gentle kind that a woman saved for her husband.
“I think so. Maybe this one will be another girl.”
“That might be nice.”
“Go to sleep.”
“In a minute.” Jack rose to head for the bathroom, then into the sitting room before coming back. Ten minutes later he was still. Cathy rose to put her nightie back on, and on her way back from the bathroom she canceled the wake-up call that Jack had just ordered. It was her turn to stare out the windows at the home of the President. The world had never seemed prettier. Now, if she could just get Jack to quit working for those people....
The truck made a fuel stop outside of Lexington, Kentucky. The driver paused ten minutes to load up on coffee and pancakes—he found breakfasts best for staying awake on the road—then pressed on. The thousand-dollar bonus sounded pretty good, and to be sure of it he had to cross the Mississippi before the rush hour in St. Louis.
31
DANCERS
Ryan knew it was too late when the traffic woke him up and he saw that the windows were flooded with light. A look at his watch showed eight-fifteen. That almost set off a panic attack, but it was too late to panic, wasn’t it? Jack rose from the bed and walked into the sitting room to see his wife already working on her morning coffee.
“Don’t you have to work today?”
“I was supposed to assist with a procedure that started a few minutes ago, but Bernie is covering for me. I think you ought to put some clothes on, though.”
“How do I get to work?”
“John’ll be here at nine.”
“Right.” Ryan walked off to shower and shave. On the way, he looked in the closet and noted that a suit, shirt, and tie were waiting for him. His wife had certainly planned this one carefully. He had to smile. Jack had never thought of his wife as a master—mistress?—of conspiracy. By eight-forty he was washed and shaved.
“You know I have an appointment right across the street at eleven.”
“No, I didn’t. Say hi to that Elliot bitch for me.” Cathy smiled.
“You don’t like her, either?” he asked.
“Not much there to like. She was a crummy college teacher. She’s not as smart as she thinks. Major ego problems.”
“I’ve noticed. She doesn’t like me very much.”
“I did get that impression. We had a little fight yesterday. I think I won,” Cathy observed.
“What was it all about anyway?”
“Oh, just a girl-to-girl thing.” Cathy paused. “Jack... ?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Ryan examined his breakfast plate. “I think you may be right. I have a couple more things to do ... but when they’re done ...”
“How long?” she asked.
“Two months at the outside. I can’t just leave, babe. I’m a presidential appointee. I had to be confirmed by the Senate, remember? You can’t just walk away from that—it’s like desertion if you do. There are rules you have to follow.”
Cathy nodded. She’d won her point already. “I understand, Jack. Two months is good enough. What would you like to do?”
“I could get a research job almost anywhere, Center for Strategic and International Studies, Heritage, maybe the Johns Hopkins Center for Advanced International Studies. I had this talk in England with Basil. When you get to my level, you’re never really gone. Hmph. I might even write another book....”
“We’ll start off with a nice long vacation, soon as the kids are out of school.”
“I thought ... ?”
“I won’t be too pregnant then, Jack.”
“You really think it happened last night?”
Her eyes arched wickedly. “The timing was just about right, and you had two chances, didn’t you? What’s the matter? You feel used?”
Her husband smiled. “I’ve been used worse.”
“See me tonight?”
“Did I ever tell you how much I like that nightie?”
“My wedding dress? It’s a little formal, but it did have the desired effect. Shame we don’t have more time now, isn’t it?”
Jack decided he’d better get out of here while he still could. “Yeah, babe, but I have work to do, and so do you.”
“Awww,” Cathy observed playfully. “I can’t tell the President that I was late because I was boffing my wife across the street.” Jack came to his wife and kissed her. “Thanks, honey.”
“A pleasure, Jack.”
Ryan emerged from the front door to see Clark waiting in the drive-through. He got right in.
“Morning, doc.”
“Hi, John. You only made one mistake.”
“What’s that?”
“Cathy knew your name. How?”
“You don’t need to know,” Clark replied, handing over the dispatch box. “Hell, sometimes I like to sack in myself, y’know?”
“I’m sure you broke some kind of law.”
“Yeah, right.” Clark headed out. “When do we get the go-ahead on the Mexico job?”
“That’s what I’m going into the White House for.”
“Eleven?”
“Right.”
It was gratifying to see that the CIA could in fact operate without his presence. Ryan arrived on the seventh floor to see that everyone was at work. Even Marcus was where he belonged.
“Ready for your trip?” Jack asked the Director.
“Yeah, heading off tonight. Station Japan is setting up the meet with Lyalin.”
“Marcus, please remember that he is Agent MUSHASHI, and his information is NIITAKA. Using his real name, even here, is a bad habit to get into.”
“Yeah, Jack. You’re heading down to see the President soon for the Mexico thing?”
“That’s right.”
“I like the way you set that thing up.”
“Thanks, Marcus, but the credit goes to Clark and Chavez. Open to a suggestion?” Jack asked.
“Go ahead.”
“Put them back in Operations?”
“If they bring this one off, the President will go along with it. So will I.”
“Fair enough.” That, Jack thought, was pretty easy. He wondered why.
Dr. Kaminiskiy went over the films and swore at himself for his error of the previous day. It hardly seemed possible, but—
But it wasn’t possible. Not here. Was it? He had to run some additional tests, but first he spent an hour tracking down his Syrian colleague. The patient was moved to another hospital, one with a laminar room. Even if Kaminiskiy were wrong, this man had to be totally isolated.
Russell fired up the forklift and took several minutes to figure out the controls. He wondered what the previous owner had needed with one, but there was no point in that. There was enough remaining pressure in the propane tanks that he didn’t have to worry about that either. He walked back to the house.
The people here in Colorado were friendly enough. Already, the local newspaper distributors had set up the delivery boxes at the end of the drive. Russell had the morning paper to read with his coffee. A moment later he realized how good a thing that was.
“Uh-oh,” he observed quietly.
“What is the problem, Marvin?”
“I’ve never se
en this before. The Vikings fans are planning a convoy ... over a thousand cars and buses. Damn,” he noted. “That’ll screw the roads up.” He turned to see the extended weather forecast.
“What do you mean?”
“They have to come down 1-76 to get to Denver. That might mess things up some. We want to arrive about noon, maybe a little later ... about the same time the convoy is supposed to arrive....”
“Convoy—what do you mean? Convoy defending against what?” Qati asked.
“Not a real convoy,” Russell explained. “More like a, uh, a motorcade. The fans from Minnesota have a big deal laid on. Tell you what, let’s get a motel room for us. One close to the airport. When’s our flight?” He paused. “Jesus, I really haven’t been thinking very clear, have I?”
“What do you mean?” Ghosn asked again.
“Weather,” Russell replied. “This is Colorado, and it is January. What if we get another snowstorm?” He scanned the page. Uh-oh ...
“For driving, you mean?”
“That’s right. Look, what we ought to do is get rooms reserved, one of the motels right by the airport, say. We can go down the night before ... or I’ll get the rooms for two—no, three nights, so there won’t be any suspicion. Christ, I hope there’s vacancies.” Russell walked to the phone and flipped open the Yellow Pages right next to it. It took him four tries to find a room with twin doubles in a little independent place a mile from the airport. This he had to guarantee with a credit card that he’d managed not to use until now. He didn’t like having to do that. One more bit of paper for his trail.
“Good morning, Liz.” Ryan walked into the office and sat down. “How are you today?”
The National Security Advisor didn’t like being baited any more than the next person. She’d had a little battle with this bastard’s wife—in front of reporters!—and taken her lumps publicly. Whether Ryan had had anything to do with it or not, he must have had a good laugh about it last night. Worse than that, what that skinny little bitch had said also went after Bob Fowler, didn’t it? The President had thought so on being told last night.