Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Only three weeks?” Ryan asked.

  “The case is clear-cut,” Owens said. “We have three photographs from our Japanese friend that show this lad holding his gun behind the car, and nine good eyewitnesses. There will be no mucking about with this lad.”

  “And I’ll be there to see it,” Ryan observed.

  “Of course. You will be our most important witness, Doctor. A formality, but a necessary one. And no claim of lunacy like the chap who tried to kill your President. This boy is a university graduate, with honors, and he comes from a good family.”

  Ryan shook his head. “Ain’t that a hell of a thing? But most of the really bad ones are, aren’t they?”

  “You know about terrorists?” Ashley asked.

  “Just things I’ve read,” Ryan answered quickly. That was a mistake, Jack. Cover it. “Officer Wilson said the ULA were Maoists.”

  “Correct.” Taylor said.

  “That really is crazy. Hell, even the Chinese aren’t Maoists anymore, at least the last time I checked they weren’t. Oh—what about my family?”

  Ashley laughed. “About time you asked, Doctor. We couldn’t very well leave them at the hotel, could we? It was arranged for them to be put up at a highly secure location.”

  “You need not be concerned,” Owens agreed. “They are quite safe. My word on it.”

  “Where, exactly?” Ryan wanted to know.

  “A security matter, I’m afraid,” Ashley said. The three inquisitors shared an amused look. Owens checked his watch and shot a look to the others.

  “Well,” Owens said. He switched off the tape recorder. “We do not wish to trouble you further the day after surgery. We will probably be back to check a few additional details. For the moment, sir, you have the thanks of all of us at the Yard for doing our job for us.”

  “How long will I have Mr. Wilson here?”

  “Indefinitely. The ULA are likely to be somewhat annoyed with you,” Owens said. “And it would be most embarrassing for us if they were to make an attempt on your life and find you unprotected. We do not regard this as likely, mind, but one must be careful.”

  “I can live with that,” Ryan agreed. I make a hell of a target here, don’t I? A third-grader could kill me with a Popsicle stick.

  “The press want to see you,” Taylor said.

  “I’m thrilled.” Just what I need, Ryan thought. “Could you hold them off a bit?”

  “Simple enough,” Owens agreed. “Your medical condition does not permit it at the moment. But you should get used to the idea. You are now something of a public figure.”

  “Like hell!” Ryan snorted. “I like being obscure.” Then you should have stayed behind the tree, dumbass! Just what have you got yourself into?

  “You can’t refuse to see them indefinitely, you know,” Taylor said gently.

  Jack let out a long breath. “You’re correct, of course. But not today. Tomorrow is soon enough.” Let the hubbub die down some first, Ryan thought stupidly.

  “One cannot always stay in the shadows, Doctor Ryan,” Ashley said, standing. The others took their cue from him.

  The cops and Ashley—Ryan now had him pegged as some kind of spook, intelligence or counterintelligence—took their leave. Wilson came back in, with Kittiwake trailing behind.

  “Did they tire you out?” the nurse asked.

  “I think I’ll live,” Ryan allowed. Kittiwake thrust a thermometer in his mouth to make sure.

  Forty minutes after the police had left, Ryan was typing happily away on his computer-toy, reviewing notes and drafting some fresh copy. Cathy Ryan’s most frequent (and legitimate) complaint about her husband was that while he was reading—or worse, writing—the world could end around him without his taking notice. This was not entirely true. Jack did notice Wilson jumping to attention out the comer of his eye, but he did not look up until he had finished the paragraph. When he did, he saw that his new visitors were Her Majesty, the Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and her husband, the Duke of Edinburgh. His first coherent thought was a mental curse that no one had warned him. His second, that he must look very funny with his mouth hanging open.

  “Good morning, Doctor Ryan,” the Queen said agreeably. “How are you feeling?”

  “Uh, quite well, thank you, uh, Your Majesty. Won’t you, uh, please sit down?” Ryan tried to sit more erect in his bed, but was halted by a flash of pain from his shoulder. It helped to center his thoughts and reminded him that his medication was nearly due.

  “We have no wish to impose,” she said. Ryan sensed that she didn’t wish to leave right away, either. He took a second to frame his response.

  “Your Majesty, a visit from a head of state hardly qualifies as an imposition. I would be most grateful for your company.” Wilson hustled to get two chairs and excused himself out the door as they sat.

  The Queen was dressed in a peach-colored suit whose elegant simplicity must have made a noteworthy dent even in her clothing budget. The Duke was in a dark blue suit which finally made Ryan understand why his wife wanted him to buy some clothes over here.

  “Doctor Ryan,” she said formally, “on our behalf, and that of our people, we wish to express to you our most profound gratitude for your action of yesterday. We are very much in your debt.”

  Ryan nodded soberly. He wondered just how awful he looked. “For my own part, ma’am, I am glad that I was able to be of service—but the truth of the matter is that I didn’t really do all that much. Anyone could have done the same thing. I just happened to be the closest.”

  “The police say otherwise,” the Duke observed. “And after viewing the scene myself, I am inclined to agree with them. I’m afraid you’re a hero whether you like it or not.” Jack remembered that this man had once been a professional naval officer—probably a good one. He had the look.

  “Why did you do it, Doctor Ryan?” the Queen asked. She examined his face closely.

  Jack made a quick guess. “Excuse me, ma’am, but are you asking why I took the chance, or why an Irish-American would take the chance?” Jack was still ordering his own thoughts, examining his own memories. Why did you do it? Will you ever know? He saw that he’d guessed right and went on quickly.

  “Your Majesty, I cannot speak to your Irish problem. I’m an American citizen, and my country has enough problems of its own without having to delve into someone else’s. Where I come from we—that is, Irish-Americans—have made out pretty well. We’re in all the professions, business, and politics, but your prototypical Irish-American is still a basic police officer or firefighter. The cavalry that won the West was a third Irish, and there are still plenty of us in uniform—especially the Marine Corps, as a matter of fact. Half of the local FBI office lived in my old neighborhood. They had names like Tully, Sullivan, O’Connor, and Murphy. My dad was a police officer for half his life, and the priests and nuns who educated me were mostly Irish, probably.

  “Do you see what I mean, Your Majesty? In America we are the forces of order, the glue that holds society together—so what happens?

  “Today, the most famous Irishmen in the world are the maniacs who leave bombs in parked cars, or assassins who kill people to make some sort of political point. I don’t like that, and I know my dad wouldn’t like it. He spent his whole working life taking animals like that off the street and putting them in cages where they belong. We’ve worked pretty hard to get where we are—too hard to be happy about being thought of as the relatives of terrorists.” Jack smiled. “I guess I understand how Italians feel about the Mafia. Anyway, I can’t say that all this stuff paraded through my head yesterday, but I did kind of figure what was going on. I couldn’t just sit there like a dummy and let murder be committed before my eyes and not do something. So I saw my chance and I took it.”

  The Queen nodded thoughtfully. She regarded Ryan with a warm, friendly smile for a few moments and turned to look at her husband. The two communicated without words. They’d been married long
enough for that, Ryan thought. When she turned back, he could see that a decision had been reached.

  “So, then. How shall we reward you?”

  “Reward, ma’am?” Ryan shook his head. “Thank you very much, but it’s not necessary. I’m glad I was able to help. That’s enough.”

  “No, Doctor Ryan, it is not enough. One of the nicer things about being Queen is that one is permitted to recognize meritorious conduct, then to reward it properly. The Crown cannot appear to be ungrateful.” Her eyes sparkled with some private joke. Ryan found himself captivated by the woman’s humanity. He’d read that some people found her to be less than intelligent. He already knew they were far off the mark. There was an active brain behind those eyes, and an active wit as well. “Accordingly, it has been decided that you shall be invested as a Knight Commander of the Victorian Order.”

  “What—er, I beg your pardon, ma’am?” Ryan blinked a few times as his brain tried to catch up with his ears.

  “The Victorian Order is a recent development intended to reward those persons who have rendered personal service to the Crown. Certainly you qualify. This is the first case in many years that an heir to the throne has been saved from almost certain death. As an historian yourself, you might be interested to learn that our own scholars are in disagreement as to when was our most recent precedent—in any event, you will henceforth be known as Sir John Ryan.”

  Again Jack thought that he must look rather funny with his mouth open.

  “Your Majesty, American law—”

  “We know,” she interrupted smoothly. “The Prime Minister will be discussing this with your President later today. We believe that in view of the special nature of this case, and in the interest of Anglo-American relations, the matter will be settled amicably.”

  “There is ample precedent for this,” the Duke went on. “After the Second World War a number of American officers were accorded similar recognition. Your Fleet Admiral Nimitz, for example, became a Knight Commander of the Bath, along with Generals Eisenhower, Bradley, Patton, and a number of others.

  “For the purposes of American law, it will probably be considered honorary—but for our purposes it will be quite real.”

  “Well.” Ryan fumbled for something to say. “Your Majesty, insofar as this does not conflict with the laws of my country, I will be deeply honored to accept.” The Queen beamed.

  “That’s settled, then. Now, how are you feeling—really feeling?”

  “I’ve felt worse, ma’am. I have no complaints—I just wish I’d moved a little faster.”

  The Duke smiled. “Being wounded makes you appear that much more heroic—nothing like a little drama.”

  Especially if it’s someone else’s shoulder, my Lord Duke, Ryan thought. A small bell went off in his head. “Excuse me, this knighthood, does it mean that my wife will be catted—”

  “Lady Ryan? Of course.” The Queen flashed her Christmas-tree smile again.

  Jack grinned broadly. “You know, when I left Merrill Lynch, Cathy’s father was madder than—he was very angry with me, said I’d never amount to anything writing history books. Maybe this will change his mind.” He was sure that Cathy would not mind the title—Lady Ryan. No, she wouldn’t mind that one little bit.

  “Not so bad a thing after all?”

  “No, sir, and please forgive me if I gave that impression. I’m afraid you caught me a little off balance.” Ryan shook his head. This whole damned affair has me a lot off balance. “Might I ask a question, sir?”

  “Certainly. ”

  “The police wouldn’t tell me where they’re keeping my family.” This drew a hearty laugh. The Queen answered.

  “It is the opinion of the police that there might exist the possibility of a reprisal against you or your family. Therefore it was decided that they should be moved to a more secure location. Under the circumstances, we decided that they might most easily be moved to the Palace—it was the least thing we could do. When we left, your wife and daughter were fast asleep, and we left strict instructions that they should not be disturbed.”

  “The Palace?”

  “We have ample room for guests, I assure you,” the Queen replied.

  “Oh, Lord!” Ryan muttered.

  “You have an objection?” the Duke asked.

  “My little girl, she—”

  “Olivia?” the Queen said, rather surprised. “She’s a lovely child. When we saw her last night she was sleeping like an angel. ”

  “Sally”—Olivia had been a peace offering to Cathy’s family that hadn’t worked; it was the name of her grandmother—“is a little angel, asleep, but when she wakes up she’s more like a little tornado, and she’s very good at breaking things. Especially valuable things.”

  “What a dreadful thing to say!” Her Majesty feigned shock. “That lovely little girl. The police told us that she broke hearts throughout Scotland Yard last evening. I fear you exaggerate, Sir John.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There was no arguing with a queen.

  3

  Flowers and Families

  Wilson had been mistaken in his assessment. The escape had taken longer than anyone at the Yard had thought. Six hundred miles away, a Sabena flight was landing outside of Cork. The passenger in seat 23-D of the Boeing 737 was entirely unremarkable; his sandy hair was cut medium-close, and he was dressed like a middle-level executive in a neat but rumpled suit that gave the entirely accurate impression of a man who’d spent a long day on the job and gotten too little sleep before catching a flight home. An experienced traveler to be sure, with one carry-on flight bag. If asked, he could have given a convincing discourse on the wholesale fish business in the accent of Southwestern Ireland. He could change accents as easily as most men changed shirts; a useful skill, since TV news crews had made the patois of his native Belfast recognizable the world over. He read the London Times on the flight, and the topic of discussion in his seat row, as with the rest of the aircraft, was the story which covered the front page.

  “A terrible thing, it is,” he’d agreed with the man in 23-E, a Belgian dealer in machine tools who could not have known how an event might be terrible in more than one way.

  All the months of planning, the painstakingly gathered intelligence, the rehearsals carried out right under the Brit noses, the three escape routes, the radiomen—all for nothing because of this bloody meddler. He examined the photo on the front page.

  Who are you, Yank? he wondered. John Patrick Ryan. Historian—a bloody academic! Ex-Marine-trust a damned bootneck to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong! John Patrick Ryan. You’re a bloody Catholic, aren’t you? Well, Johnny nearly put paid on your account.... Too bad about Johnny. Good man Johnny was, dependable, loved his guns, and true to the Cause.

  The plane finally came to a stop at the Jetway. Forward, the stewardess opened the door, and the passengers rose to get their bags from the overhead stowage. He got his, and joined the slow movement forward. He tried to be philosophical about it. In his years as a “player,” he’d seen operations go awry for the most ridiculous of reasons. But this op was so important. So much planning. He shook his head as he tucked the paper under his arm. We’ll just have to try again, that’s all. We can afford to be patient. One failure, he told himself, didn’t matter in the great scheme of things. The other side had been lucky this time. We only have to be lucky once. The men in the H-blocks weren’t going anywhere.

  What about Sean? A mistake to have taken him along. He’d helped plan the operation from the beginning. Sean knows a great deal about the Organization. He set that worry aside as he stepped off the aircraft. Sean would never talk. Not Sean, not with his girl in her grave these past five years, from a para’s stray bullet.

  He wasn’t met, of course. The other men who had been part of the operation were already back, their equipment left behind in rubbish bins, wiped clean of fingerprints. Only he had the risk of exposure, but he was sure that this Ryan fellow hadn’t got a good look at his face. He thou
ght back again to be sure. No. The look of surprise on his face, the look of pain he’d seen there. The American couldn’t have gotten much of a look—if he had, an identikit composite picture would be in the press already, complete with the moppy wig and fake glasses.

  He walked out of the terminal building to the parking lot, his travel bag slung over his shoulder, searching in his pocket for the keys that had set off the airport metal detector in Brussels—what a laugh that was! He smiled for the first time in nearly a day. It was a clear, sunny day, another glorious Irish fall it was. He drove his year-old BMW—a man with a business cover had to have a full disguise, after all—down the road to the safehouse. He was already planning two more operations. Both would require a lot of time, but time was the one thing he had in unlimited quantity.

  It was easy enough to tell when it was time for another pain medication. Ryan was unconsciously flexing his left hand at the far end of the cast. It didn’t reduce the pain, but did seem to move it about somewhat as the muscles and tendons changed place slightly. It bothered his concentration however much he tried to shut it out. Jack remembered all the TV shows in which the detective or otherwise employed hero took a round in the shoulder but recovered fully in time for the last commercial. The human shoulder—his, at any rate—was a solid collection of bones that bullets—one bullet—all too easily broke. As the time for another medication approached it seemed that he could feel every jagged edge of every broken bone grating against its neighbor as he breathed, and even the gentle tapping of his right-hand fingers on the keyboard seemed to ripple across his body to the focus of his pain until he had to stop and watch the wall clock—for the first time he wanted Kittiwake to appear with his next installment of chemical bliss.

  Until he remembered his fear. The pain of his back injury had made his first week at Bethesda a living hell. He knew that his present injury paled by comparison, but the body does not remember pain, and the shoulder was here and now. He forced himself to remember that pain medications had made his back problem almost tolerable ... except that the doctors had gotten just a little too generous with his dosages. More than the pain, Ryan dreaded withdrawal from morphine sulphate. That had lasted a week, the wanting that seemed to draw his entire body into some vast empty place, someplace where his innermost self found itself entirely alone and needing.... Ryan shook his head. The pain rippled through his left arm and shoulder and he forced himself to welcome it. I’m not going to go through that again. Never again.