Patriot Games jr-1
Page 8
"Nice thing about pain," Cathy went on. "It tells you the nerves are working."
Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened them when he felt Cathy take his hand.
"Jack, I'm so proud of you."
"Nice to be married to a hero?"
"You've always been a hero to me."
"Really?" She'd never said that before. What was heroic about being an historian? Cathy didn't know the other stuff he did, but that wasn't especially heroic either.
"Ever since you told Daddy to—well, you know. Besides, I love you, remember?"
"I seem to recall a reminder of that the other day."
Cathy made a face. "Better get your mind off that for a while."
"I know." Ryan made a face of his own. "The patient must conserve his energy—or something. What ever happened to that theory about how a happy attitude speeds recovery?"
"That's what I get for letting you read my journals. Patience, Jack."
Nurse Kittiwake came in, saw the family, and made a quick exit.
"I'll try to be patient," Jack said, and looked longingly at the closing door.
"You turkey," Cathy observed. "I know you better than that."
She did, Jack knew. He couldn't even make that threat work. Oh, well—that's what you get for loving your wife.
Cathy stroked his face. "What did you shave with this morning, a rusty nail?"
"Yeah—I need my razor. Maybe my notes, too?"
"I'll bring them over or have somebody do it." She looked up when Wilson came back in.
"Tony, this is Cathy, my wife, and Sally, my daughter. Cathy, this is Tony Wilson. He's the cop who's baby-sitting me."
"Didn't I see you last night?" Cathy never forgot a face—so far as Jack could tell, she never forgot much of anything.
"Possibly, but we didn't speak—rather a busy time for all of us. You are well, Lady Ryan?"
"Excuse me?" Cathy asked. "Lady Ryan?"
"They didn't tell you?" Jack chuckled.
"Tell me what?"
Jack explained. "How do you like being married to a knight?"
"Does that mean you have to have a horse, Daddy?" Sally asked hopefully. "Can I ride it?"
"Is it legal, Jack?"
"They told me that the Prime Minister and the President would discuss it today."
"My God," Lady Ryan said quietly. After a moment, she started smiling.
"Stick with me, kid." Jack laughed.
"What about the horse, Daddy!" Sally insisted.
"I don't know yet. We'll see." He yawned. The only practical use Ryan acknowledged for horses was running at tracks—or maybe tax shelters. Well, I already have a sword, he told himself.
"I think Daddy needs a nap," Cathy observed. "And I have to buy something for dinner tonight."
"Oh, God!" Ryan groaned. "A whole new wardrobe."
Cathy grinned. "Whose fault is that, Sir John?"
They met at Flanagan's Steakhouse on O'Connell Street in Dublin. It was a well-regarded establishment whose tourist trade occasionally suffered from being too close to a McDonald's. Ashley was nursing a whiskey when the second man joined him. A third and fourth took a booth across the room and watched. Ashley had come alone. This wasn't the first such meeting, and Dublin was recognized—most of the time—as neutral ground. The two men on the other side of the room were to keep a watch for members of the Garda, the Republic's police force.
"Welcome to Dublin, Mr. Ashley," said the representative of the Provisional Wing of the Irish Republican Army.
"Thank you, Mr. Murphy," the counterintelligence officer answered. "The photograph we have in the file doesn't do you justice."
"Young and foolish, I was. And very vain. I didn't shave very much then," Murphy explained. He picked up the menu that had been waiting for him. "The beef here is excellent, and the vegetables are always fresh. This place is full of bloody tourists in the summer—those who don't want French fries—driving prices up as they always do. Thank God they're all back home in America now, leaving so much money behind in this poor country."
"What information do you have for us?"
"Information?"
"You asked for the meeting, Mr. Murphy," Ashley pointed out.
"The purpose of the meeting is to assure you that we had no part in that bloody fiasco yesterday."
"I could have read that in the papers—I did, in fact."
"It was felt that a more personal communiqué was in order, Mr. Ashley."
"Why should we believe you?" Ashley asked, sipping at his whiskey. Both men kept their voices low and level, though neither man had the slightest doubt as to what they thought of each other.
"Because we are not as crazy as that," Murphy replied. The waiter came, and both men ordered. Ashley chose the wine, a promising Bordeaux. The meal was on his expense account. He was only forty minutes off the flight from London's Gatwick airport. The request for a meeting had been made before dawn in a telephone call to the British Ambassador in Dublin.
"Is that a fact?" Ashley said after the waiter left, staring into the cold blue eyes across the table.
"The Royal Family are strictly off limits. As marvelous a political target as they all are" — Murphy smiled—"we've known for some time that an attack on them would be counterproductive."
"Really?" Ashley pronounced the word as only an Englishman can do it. Murphy flushed angrily at this most elegant of insults.
"Mr. Ashley, we are enemies. I would as soon kill you as have dinner with you. But even enemies can negotiate, can't they, now?"
"Go on."
"We had no part of it. You have my word."
"Your word as a Marxist-Leninist?" Ashley inquired with a smile.
"You are very good at provoking people, Mr. Ashley." Murphy ventured his own smile. "But not today. I am here on a mission of peace and understanding."
Ashley nearly laughed out loud, but caught himself and grinned into his drink.
"Mr. Murphy, I would not shed a single tear if our lads were to catch up with you, but you are a worthy adversary, I'll say that. And a charming bastard."
Ah, the English sense of fair play, Murphy reflected. That's why we'll win eventually, Mr. Ashley.
No, you won't. Ashley had seen that look before.
"How can I make you believe me?" Murphy asked reasonably.
"Names and addresses," Ashley answered quietly.
"No. We cannot do that and you know it."
"If you wish to establish some sort of quid pro quo, that's how you must go about it."
Murphy sighed. "Surely you know how we are organized. Do you think we can punch up a bloody computer command and print out our roster? We're not even sure ourselves who they are. Some men, they just drop out. Many come south and simply vanish, more afraid of us than of you, they are—and with reason," Murphy added. "The one you have alive, Sean Miller—we've never even heard the name."
"And Kevin O'Donnell?"
"Yes, he's probably the leader. He dropped off the earth four years ago, as you well know, after—ah, you know the story as well as I."
Kevin Joseph O'Donnell, Ashley reminded himself. Thirty-four now. Six feet, one hundred sixty pounds, unmarried—this data was old and therefore suspect. The all-time Provo champion at "own-goals." Kevin had been the most ruthless chief of security the Provos had ever had, thrown out after it had been proven that he'd used his power as counterintelligence boss to purge the Organization of political elements he disapproved of. What was the figure—ten, fifteen solid members that he'd had killed or maimed before the Brigade Commander'd found him out? The amazing thing, Ashley thought, was that he'd escaped alive at all. But Murphy was wrong on one thing, Ashley didn't know what had finally tipped the Brigade that O'Donnell was outlaw.
"I fail to see why you feel the urge to protect him and his group." He knew the reason, but why not prod the man when he had the chance?
"And if we turn 'grass, what becomes of the Organization?" Murphy asked.
"Not my problem, Mr. Murphy, but I do see your point. Still and all, if you want us to believe you—"
"Mr. Ashley, you demonstrate the basis of the entire problem we have, don't you? Had your country ever dealt with Ireland in mutual good faith, surely we would not be here now, would we?"
The intelligence officer reflected on that. It took no more than a couple of seconds, so many times had he examined the historical basis of the Troubles. Some deliberate policy acts, mixed with historical accidents—who could have known that the onset of the crisis that erupted into World War I would prevent a solution to the issue of "Home [or "Rome"] Rule," that the Conservative Party of the time would use this issue as a hammer that would eventually crush the Liberal Party—and who was there to blame now? They were all dead and forgotten, except by hard-core academics who knew that their studies mattered for nothing. It was far too late for that. Is there a way out of this bloody quagmire? he wondered. Ashley shook his head. That was not his brief. That was something for politicians. The same sort, he reminded himself, who'd built the Troubles, one small brick at a time.
"I'll tell you this much, Mr. Ashley—" The waiter showed up with dinner. It was amazing how quick the service was here. The waiter uncorked the wine with a flourish, allowing Ashley to smell the cork and sample a splash in his glass. The Englishman was surprised at the quality of the restaurant's cellar.
"This much you will tell me… " Ashley said after the waiter left.
"They get very good information. So good, you would not believe it. And their information comes from your side of the Irish Sea, Mr. Ashley. We don't know who, and we don't know how. The lad who found out died, four years ago, you see." Murphy sampled the broccoli. "There, I told you the vegetables were fresh."
"Four years?"
Murphy looked up. "You don't know the story, then? That is a surprise, Mr. Ashley. Yes. His name was Mickey Baird. He worked closely with Kevin. He's the lad who—well, you can guess. He was talking with me over a jar in Derry and said that Kevin had a bloody good new intelligence source. Next day he was dead. The day after, Kevin managed to escape us by an hour. We haven't seen him since. If we find Kevin again, Mr. Ashley, we'll do your work for you, and leave the body for your SAS assassins to collect. Would that be fair enough, now? We cannot exactly tout to the enemy, but he's on our list, too, and if you manage to find the lad, and you don't wish to bring him in yourselves, we'll handle the job for you—assuming, of course, that you don't interfere with the lads who do the work. Can we agree on that?"
"I'll pass that along," Ashley said. "If I could approve it myself, I would. Mr. Murphy, I think we can believe you on this."
"Thank you, Mr. Ashley. That wasn't so painful, was it?" Dinner was excellent.
4 Players
Ryan tried to blink away the blue dots that swirled around his eyes as the television crews set up their own lights. Why the newspaper photographers couldn't wait for the powerful TV lights, he didn't know, and didn't bother asking. Everyone was kind enough to ask how he felt—but nothing short of respiratory arrest would have gotten them out of the room.
It could have been worse, of course. Dr. Scott had told the newspeople rather forcefully that his patient needed rest to recover speedily, and Nurse Kittiwake was there to glower at the intruders. So press access to Ryan was being limited to no more than the number of people who would fit into his room. This included the TV crew. It was the best sort of bargain Jack could get. The cameramen and sound technicians took up space that would otherwise be occupied by more inquisitorial reporters.
The morning papers—Ryan had been through the Times and the Daily Telegraph—had carried reports that Ryan was a former (or current) employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, something that was technically not true, and that Jack had not expected to become public in any case. He found himself remembering what the people at Langley said about leaks, and how pleased they'd been with his offhand invention of the Canary Trap. A pity they couldn't use it in my case, Ryan told himself wryly. I really need this complication to my life, don't I? For crying out loud, I turned their offer down. Sort of.
"All ready here," the lighting technician said. A moment later he proved this was true by turning on the three klieg lights that brought tears to Jack's squinted eyes.
"They are awfully bright, aren't they?" a reporter sympathized, while the still photographers continued to snap-and-whir away with their strobe-equipped Nikons.
"You might say that," Jack replied. A two-headed mike was clipped to his robe.
"Say something, will you?" the sound man asked.
"And how are you enjoying your first trip to London, Doctor Ryan?"
"Well, I better not hear any complaints about how American tourists are staying away due to panic over the terrorism problem!" Ryan grinned. You jerk.
"Indeed," the reporter laughed. "Okay?"
The cameraman and sound man pronounced themselves ready. Ryan sipped at his tea and made certain that the ashtray was out of sight. One print journalist shared a joke with a colleague. A TV correspondent from NBC was there, along with the London correspondent of the Washington Post, but all the others were British. Everything would be pooled with the rest of the media, it had been agreed. There just wasn't room here for a proper press conference. The camera started rolling tape.
They ran through the usual questions. The camera turned to linger on his arm, hanging from its overhead rack. They'd run that shot with the voice-over of Jack's story on when he was shot, he was sure. Nothing like a little drama, as he'd already been told. He wiggled his fingers for the camera.
"Doctor Ryan, there are reports in the American and British press that you are an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency."
"I read that this morning. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to anyone else." Ryan smiled. "Somebody made a mistake. I'm not good-looking enough to be a spy."
"So you deny that report?" asked the Daily Mirror.
"Correct. It's just not true. I teach history at the Naval Academy, in Annapolis. That ought to be easy enough to check out. I just gave an exam last week. You can ask my students." Jack waved his left hand at the camera again.
"The report comes from some highly placed sources," observed the Post.
"If you read a little history, you'll see that highly placed folks have been known to make mistakes. I think that's what happened here. I teach. I write books. I lecture—okay, I did give a lecture at CIA once, but that was just a repeat of one I delivered at the Naval War College and one other symposium. It wasn't even classified. Maybe that's where the report comes from. Like I said, check it out. My office is in Leahy Hall, at the Naval Academy. I think somebody just goofed." Somebody goofed, all right. "I can get you guys a copy of the lecture. It's no big deal."
"How do you like being a public figure, now?" one of the Brit TV people asked.
Thanks for changing the subject. "I think I can live without it. I'm not a movie star, either—again, not good-looking enough."
"You're far too modest, Doctor Ryan," a female reporter observed.
"Please be careful how you say that. My wife will probably see this." There was general laughter. "I suppose I'm good-looking enough for her. That's enough. With all due respect, ladies and gentlemen, I'll be perfectly glad to descend back into obscurity."
"Do you think that likely?"
"That depends on how lucky I am, ma'am. And on whether you folks will let me."
"What do you think we should do with the terrorist, Sean Miller?" the Times asked.
"That's for a judge and jury to decide. You don't need me for that."
"Do you think we should have capital punishment?"
"We have it where I live. For your country, that is a question for your elected representatives. We both live in democracies, don't we? The people you elect are supposed to do what the voters ask them to do." Not that it always works that way, but that's the theory…
"So you support the idea?" the Times persisted.
"And what of your perspective, as an Irish-American, on the Troubles?" the Telegraph wanted to know.
"We have enough problems of our own in America without having to borrow yours."
"So you say we should solve it, then?"
"What do you think? Isn't that what problems are for?"
"Surely you have a suggestion. Most Americans do."
"I think I teach history. I'll let other people make it. It's like being a reporter." Ryan smiled. "I get to criticize people long after they make their decisions. That doesn't mean I know what to do today."
"But you knew what to do on Tuesday," the Times pointed out. Ryan shrugged.
"Yeah, I guess I did," Ryan said on the television screen.
"You clever bastard," Kevin Joseph O'Donnell muttered into a glass of dark Guinness beer. His base of operations was much farther from the border than any might have suspected. Ireland is a small country, and distances are but relative things—particularly to those with all the resources they need. His former colleagues in the PIRA had extensive safehouses along the border, convenient to a quick trip across from either direction. Not for O'Donnell. There were numerous practical reasons. The Brits had their informers and intelligence people there, always creeping about—and the SAS raiders, who were not averse to a quick snatch—or a quiet kill—of persons who had made the mistake of becoming too well known. The border could be a convenience to either side. A more serious threat was the PIRA itself, which also watched the border closely. His face, altered as it was with some minor surgery and a change in hair color, might still be recognizable to a former colleague. But not here. And the border wasn't all that far a drive in a country barely three hundred miles long.
He turned away from the Sony television and gazed out the leaded-glass windows to the darkness of the sea. He saw the running lights of a car ferry inbound from Le Havre. The view was always a fine one. Even in the limited visibility of an ocean storm, one could savor the fundamental force of nature as the gray waves battered the rocky cliff. Now, the clear, cold air gave him a view to the star-defined horizon, and he spied another merchant ship heading eastward for an unknown port. It pleased O'Donnell that this stately house on the headlands had once belonged to a British lord. It pleased him more that he'd been able to purchase it through a dummy corporation; that there were few questions when cash and a reputable solicitor were involved. So vulnerable this society—all societies were when you had the proper resources… and a competent tailor. So shallow they were. So lacking in political awareness. One must know who one's enemies are, O'Donnell told himself at least ten times every day. Not a liberal «democratic» society, though. Enemies were people to be dealt with, compromised with, to be civilized, brought into the fold, co-opted.