“Any chance they’ll come after me, or—”
Murray shook his head. “Unlikely, and the security’s pretty tight. You know who they have taking your wife and kid around?”
“SAS—I asked.”
“That youngster’s on their Olympic pistol team, and I hear that he has some field experience that never made the papers. The DPG escort is also one of the varsity, and they’ll have a chase car everywhere they go. The security on you is pretty impressive, too. You have some big-league interest in your safety. You can relax. And after you get home it’s all behind you. None of these groups has ever operated in the U.S. We’re too important to them. NORAID means more to them psychologically than financially. When they fly to Boston, it’s like crawling back into the womb, all the beers people buy for them, it tells them that they’re the good guys. No, if they started raising hell out our side of the pond—I don’t think they could take being persona non grata in Boston. It’s the only real weak point the PIRA and the rest have, and unfortunately it’s not one that we can exploit all that well. We’ve pretty much cut down on the weapons pipeline, but, hell, they get most of their stuff from the other side now. Or they make their own. Like explosives. All you need is a bag of ammonia-based fertilizer and you can make a respectable bomb. You can’t arrest a farmer for carrying fertilizer in his truck, can you? It’s not as sexy as some good plastique, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to get. For guns and heavier stuff—anybody can get AK-47s and RPGs, they’re all over the place. No, they depend on us for moral support, and there’s quite a few people who’ll give it, even in Congress. Remember the fight over the extradition treaty? It’s amazing. These bastards kill people.
“Both sides.” Murray paused for a moment. “The Protestant crazies are just as bad. The Provisionals waste a prod. Then the Ulster Volunteer Force sends a car through a Catholic neighborhood and pops the first convenient target. A lot of the killing is purely random now. Maybe a third of the kills are people who were walking down the wrong street. The process feeds on itself, and there’s not much of a middle ground left anymore. Except the cops—I know, the RUC used to be the bad guys, too, but they’ve just about ended that crap. The Law has got to be the Law for everyone—but that’s too easy to forget sometimes, like in Mississippi back in the sixties, and that’s essentially what happened in Northern Ireland. Sir Jack Hermon is trying to turn the RUC into a professional police force. There are plenty of people left over from the bad old days, but the troops are coming around. They must be. The cops are taking casualties from both sides, the last one was killed by prods. They firebombed his house.” Murray shook his head. “It’s amazing. I was just over there two weeks ago. Their morale’s great, especially with the new kids. I don’t know how they do it—well, I do know. They have their mission, too. The cops and the courts have to reestablish justice, and the people have to see that they’re doing it. They’re the only hope that place has, them and a few of the church leaders. Maybe common sense’ll break out someday, but don’t hold your breath. It’s going to take a long time. Thank God for Tom Jefferson and Jim Madison, bub. Sometimes I wonder how close we came to that sectarian stuff. It’s like a Mafia war that everybody can play in.”
“Well, Judge?” Admiral James Greer hit the off switch on the remote control as the Cable News Network switched topics. The Director of Central Intelligence tapped his cigar on the cut-glass ashtray.
“We know he’s smart, James, and it looks like he knows how to handle himself with reporters, but he’s impetuous,” Judge Arthur Moore said.
“Come on, Arthur. He’s young. I want somebody in here with some fresh ideas. You going to tell me now that you didn’t like his report? First time at bat, and he turns out something that good!”
Judge Moore smiled behind his cigar. It was drizzling outside the seventh-floor window of the office of the Deputy Director, Intelligence, of the Central Intelligence Agency. The rolling hills of the Potomac Valley prevented his seeing the river, but he could spy the hills a mile or so away on the far side. It was a far prettier view than that of the parking lots.
“Background check?”
“We haven’t done a deep one yet, but I’ll bet you a bottle of your favorite bourbon that he comes up clean.”
“No bet, James!” Moore had already seen Jack’s service record from the Marine Corps. Besides, he hadn’t come to the Agency. They had gone to him and he’d turned them down on the first offer. “You think he can handle it, eh?”
“You really ought to meet the kid, Judge. I had him figured out the first ten minutes he was in here last July.”
“You arranged the leak?”
“Me? Leak?” Admiral Greer chuckled. “Nice to know how he can handle himself, though, isn’t it? Didn’t even blink when he fielded the question. The boy takes his clearance seriously, and”—Greer held up the telex from London—“he’s asking good questions. Emil says his man Murray was fairly impressed, too. It’s just a damned shame to waste him teaching history.”
“Even at your alma mater?”
Greer smiled. “Yes, that does hurt a little. I want him, Arthur. I want to teach him, I want to groom him. He’s our kind of people. ”
“But he doesn’t seem to think so.”
“He will.” Greer was quietly positive.
“Okay, James. How do you want to approach him?”
“No hurry. I want a very thorough background check done first—and who knows? Maybe he’ll come to us.”
“No chance,” Judge Moore scoffed.
“He’ll come to us requesting information on this ULA bunch,” Greer said.
The Judge thought about that one. One thing about James Greer, Moore knew, was his ability to see into things and people as though they were made of crystal. “That makes sense.”
“You bet it does. It’ll be a while—the Attaché says he has to stay over for the trial and all—but he’ll be in this office two weeks after he gets back, asking for a chance to research this ULA outfit. If he does, I’ll pop the offer—if you agree, Arthur. I also want to talk to Emil Jacobs at FBI and compare files on these ULA characters. ”
“Okay.”
They turned to other matters.
5
Perqs and Plots
The day Ryan was released from the hospital was the happiest in his life, at least since Sally had been born at Johns Hopkins, four years before. It was after six in the evening when he finally finished dressing himself—the cast made that a very tricky exercise—and plopped down in the wheelchair. Jack had groused about that, but it was evidently a rule as inviolable in British hospitals as in American ones: patients are not allowed to walk out—somebody might think they were cured. A uniformed policeman pushed him out of the room into the hall. Ryan didn’t look back.
Virtually the whole floor staff was lined up in the hall, along with a number of the patients Ryan had met the past week and a half as he’d relearned how to walk up and down the drab corridors—with a ten-degree list from the heavy cast. Jack flushed red at the applause, the more so when people reached out to shake his hand. I’m not an Apollo astronaut, he thought. The Brits are supposed to be more dignified than this.
Nurse Kittiwake gave a little speech about what a model patient he was. What a pleasure and an honor ... Ryan blushed again when she finished, and gave him some flowers, to take to his lovely wife, she said. Then she kissed him, on behalf of everyone else. Jack kissed back. It was the least he could do, he told himself, and she really was a pretty girl. Kittiwake hugged him, cast and all, and tears started running out of her eyes. Tony Wilson was at her side and gave Jack a surreptitious wink. That was no surprise. Jack shook hands with another ten or so people before the cop got him into the elevator.
“Next time you guys find me wounded in the street,” Ryan said, “let me die there.”
The policeman laughed. “Bloody ungrateful fellow you are.”
“True.”
The elevator opened at the lobby and he was grat
eful to see that it had been cleared except for the Duke of Edinburgh and a gaggle of security people.
“Good evening, My Lord.” Ryan tried to stand, but was waved back down.
“Hello, Jack! How are you feeling?” They shook hands, and for a moment he was afraid that the Duke himself would wheel him out the door. That would have been intolerable, but the police officer resumed his pushing as the Duke walked alongside. Jack pointed forward.
“Sir, I will improve at least fifty percent when we make it through that door.”
“Hungry?”
“After hospital food? I just might eat one of your polo horses.”
The Duke grinned. “We’ll try to do a little better than that.”
Jack noticed seven security people in the lobby. Outside was a Rolls-Royce ... and at least four other cars, along with a number of people who did not look like ordinary passersby. It was too dark to see anyone prowling the roofs, but they’d be there, too. Well, Ryan thought, they’ve learned their lessons on security. Still a damned shame, though, and it means the terrorists have won a victory. If they make society change, even a little, they’ve won something. Bastards. The cop brought him right to the Rolls.
“Can I get up now?” The cast was so heavy that it ruined his balance. Ryan stood a little too fast and nearly smashed into the car, but caught himself with an angry shake of the head before anyone had to grab for him. He stood still for a moment, his left arm sticking out like the big claw on a fiddler crab, and tried to figure how to get into the car. It turned out that the best way was to stick the cast in first, then rotate clockwise as he followed it. The Duke had to enter from the other side, and it turned out to be rather a snug fit. Ryan had never been in a Rolls before, and found that it wasn’t all that spacious.
“Comfortable?”
“Well—I’ll have to be careful not to punch a window out with this damned thing.” Ryan leaned back and shook his head with an eyes-closed smile.
“You really are glad to be out of hospital.”
“My Lord, on that you can wager one of your castles. This makes three times I’ve been in the body and fender shop, and that’s enough.” The Duke motioned for the driver to pull out. The convoy moved slowly into the street, two lead cars and two chase cars surrounding the Rolls-Royce. “Sir, may I ask what’s happening this evening?”
“Very little, really. A small party in your honor, with just a few close friends.”
Jack wondered what “a few close friends” meant. Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? He was going to dinner at ... Scotty, beam me up! “Sir, you know that you’ve really been too kind to us.”
“Bloody rubbish. Aside from the debt we owe you—not exactly what one would call a small debt, Jack. Aside from that, it’s been entirely worthwhile to meet some new people. I even finished your book Sunday night. I thought it was excellent; you must send me a copy of your next one. And the Queen and your wife have got on marvelously. You are a very lucky chap to have a wife like that—and that little imp of a daughter. She’s a gem, Jack, a thoroughly wonderful little girl.”
Ryan nodded. He often wondered what he had done to be so lucky. “Cathy says that she’s seen about every castle in the realm, and thanks a lot for the people you put with her. It made me feel much better about having them run all over the place.”
The Duke waved his hand dismissively. It wasn’t worth talking about. “How did the research go on your new book?”
“Quite well, sir.” The one favorable result of his being in the hospital was that he’d had the time to sift through all of it in detail. His computer had two hundred new pages of notes stored in its bubble chips, and Ryan had a new perspective on judging the actions of others. “I guess I’ve learned one thing from my little escapade. Sitting in front of a keyboard isn’t quite the same as looking into the front end of a gun. Decisions are a little different from that perspective.” Ryan’s tone made a further statement.
The Duke clapped him on the knee. “I shouldn’t think that anyone will fault yours.”
“Maybe. The thing is, my decision was made on pure instinct. If I’d known what I was doing—what if I had done the wrong thing on instinct?” He looked out the window. “Here I am, supposed to be an expert on naval history, with special emphasis on how decisions are made under stress, and I’m still not satisfied with my own. Damn.” Jack concluded quietly: “Sir, you don’t forget killing somebody. You just don’t.”
“You oughtn’t to dwell on it, Jack.”
“Yes, sir.” Ryan turned back from the window. The Duke was looking at him much the same way his father had, years before. “A conscience is the price of morality, and morality is the price of civilization. Dad used to say that many criminals don’t have a conscience, not much in the way of feelings at all. I guess that’s what makes us different from them.”
“Exactly. Your introspection is a fundamentally healthy thing, but you should not overdo it. Put it behind you, Jack. It was my impression of Americans that you prefer to look to the future rather than the past. If you cannot do that professionally, at least try to do it personally.”
“Understood, sir. Thank you.” Now if I could just make the dreams stop. Nearly every night Jack relived the shoot-out on The Mall. Almost three weeks now. Something else they didn’t tell you about on TV. The human mind has a way of punishing itself for killing a fellow man. It remembers and relives the incident again and again. Ryan hoped it would stop someday.
The car turned left onto Westminster Bridge. Jack hadn’t known exactly where the hospital was, just that it was close to a railway station and close enough to Westminster to hear Big Ben toll the hours. He looked up at the gothic stonework. “You know, besides the research I wanted to do, I actually wanted to see part of your country, sir. Not much time left for that.”
“Jack, do you really think that we will let you return to America without experiencing British hospitality?” The Duke was greatly amused. “We are quite proud of our hospitals, of course, but tourists don’t come here to see those. Some small arrangements have been made.”
“Oh. ”
Ryan had to think a moment to figure where they were, but the maps he’d studied before coming over came back to him. It was called Birdcage Walk—he was only three hundred yards from where he’d been shot ... there was the lake that Sally liked. He could see Buckingham Palace past the head of the security officer in the left front seat. Knowing that he was going there was one thing, but now the building loomed in front of him and the emotional impact started to take hold.
They entered the Palace grounds at the northeast gate. Jack hadn’t seen the Palace before except from a distance. The perimeter security didn’t seem all that impressive, but the Palace’s hollow-square design hid nearly everything from outside view. There could easily be a company of armed troops inside—and who could tell? More likely civilian police, Ryan knew, backed up by a lot of electronic hardware. But there would be some surprises hidden away, too. After the scares in the past, and this latest incident, he imagined that this place was as secure as the White House—or even better, given greater space in and around the buildings.
It was too dark to make out many details, but the Rolls pulled through an archway into the building’s courtyard, then under a canopy, where a sentry snapped to present-arms in the crisp three-count movement the Brits used. As the car stopped, a footman in livery pulled the door open.
Getting out was the reverse of getting in. Ryan turned counterclockwise, stepped out backwards, and pulled his arm out behind. The footman grabbed his arm to help. Jack didn’t want the help, but this wasn’t a good time to object.
“You’ll need a little practice on that,” the Duke observed.
“I think you’re right, sir.” Jack followed him to the door, where another servant did his duty.
“Tell me, Jack—the first time we visited you, you seemed far more intimidated by the presence of the Queen than of me. Why is that?”
“Well, sir, you used to be
a naval officer, right?”
“Of course.” The Duke turned and looked rather curious.
Ryan grinned. “Sir, I work at Annapolis. The Academy crawls with naval officers, and remember I used to be a Marine. If I let myself get intimidated by every swabbie who crossed my path, the Corps would come and take my sword back.”
“You cheeky bugger!” They both had a laugh.
Ryan had expected to be impressed by the Palace. Even so, it was all he could manage to keep from being overwhelmed. Half the world had once been run from this house, and in addition to what the Royal Family had acquired over the centuries had come gifts from all over the world. Everywhere he looked the wide corridors were decorated with too many masterpieces of painting and sculpture to count. The walls were mainly covered with ivory-colored silk brocaded with gold thread. The carpets, of course, were imperial scarlet over marble or parquet hardwood. The money manager that Jack had once been tried to calculate the value of it all. He overloaded after about ten seconds. The paintings alone were so valuable that any attempt to sell them off would distort the world market in fine art. The gilt frames alone.... Ryan shook his head, wishing he had the time to examine every painting. You could live here five years and not have time to appreciate it all. He almost fell behind, but managed to control his gawking and kept pace with the older man. Ryan’s discomfiture was growing. To the Duke this was home—perhaps one so large as to be something of a nuisance, but nonetheless home, routine. The Rubens masterpieces on the wall were part of the scenery, as familiar to him as the photographs of wife and kids on any man’s office desk. To Ryan the impact of where he was, an impact made all the more crushing by the trappings of wealth and power, made him want to shrink away to nothingness. It was one thing to take his chance on the street—the Marines, after all, had prepared and trained him for that—but ... this.
Patriot Games (1987) Page 11