Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games (65 page)

“Ulcers, Marty?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I'm married to a doc, remember? You just took a Tagamet. That's for ulcers.”

“This place gets to you after a while,” Cantor explained. “My stomach started acting up last year and didn't get any better. Everyone in my family comes down with it sooner or later. Bad genes, I guess. The medication helps some, but the doctor says that I need a less stressful environment.” A snort.

“You do work long hours,” Ryan observed.

“Anyway, my wife got offered a teaching position at the University of Texas -- she's a mathematician. And to sweeten the deal they offered me a place in the Political Science Department. The pay's better than it is here, too. I've been here twelve years,” he said quietly. “Long time.”

“So what do you feel bad about? Teaching's great. I love it, and you'll be good at it. You'll even have a good football team to watch.”

“Yeah, well, she's already down there, and I leave in a few weeks. I'm going to miss this place.”

“You'll get over it. Imagine being able to walk into a building without getting permission from a computer. Hey, I walked away from my first job.”

“But this one's important.” Cantor drank his milk and looked across the table. “What are you going to do?”

“Ask me after the baby is born.” Ryan didn't want to dwell on this question.

“The Agency needs people like you, Jack. You've got a feel for things. You don't think and act like a bureaucrat. You say what you think. Not everyone in this building does that, and that's why the Admiral likes you.”

“Hell, I haven't talked to him since --”

“He knows what you're doing.” Cantor smiled.

“Oh.” Ryan understood. “So that's it.”

“That's right. The old man really wants you, Jack. You still don't know how important that photo you tripped over was, do you?”

“All I did was show it to you, Marty,” Ryan protested. “You're the one who really made the connection.”

“You did exactly the right thing, exactly what an analyst is supposed to do. There was more brains in that than you know. You have a gift for this sort of work. If you can't see it, I can.” Cantor examined the lasagna and winced. How could anybody eat that greasy poison? “Two years from now you'll be ready for my job.”

“One bridge at a time, Marty.” They let it go at that.

An hour later Ryan was back in his office. Cantor came in.

“Another pep talk?” Jack smiled. Full-court press time . . .

“We have a picture of a suspected ULA member and it's only a week old. We got it in from London a couple of hours ago.”

“Dennis Cooley.” Ryan examined it and laughed. “He looks like a real wimp. What's the story?”

Cantor explained. “Bad luck for the Brits, but maybe good luck for us. Look at the picture again and tell me something important.”

“You mean . . . he's lost most of his hair. Oh! We can ID the guy if he turns up at one of the camps. None of the other people are bald.”

“You got it. And the boss just cleared you for something. There's an op laid on for Camp -18.”

“What kind?”

“The kind you watched before. Is that still bothering you?”

“No, not really.” What bothers me is that it doesn't bother me, Ryan thought. Maybe it should . . . “Not with these guys, I don't. When?”

“I can't tell you, but soon.”

“So why did you let me know -- nice one, Marty. Not very subtle, though. Does the Admiral want me to stay that bad?”

“Draw your own conclusions.” An hour after that the photo expert was back. Another satellite had passed over the camp at 2208 local time. The infrared image showed eight people standing at line on the firing range. Bright tongues of flame marked two of the shapes. They were firing their weapons at night, and there were now at least eight of them there.

“What happened?” O'Donnell asked. He'd met Cooley at the airport. A cutout had gotten word out that Cooley was on the run, but the reason for it had had to wait until now.

“There was a bug in my shop.”

“You're sure?” O'Donnell asked.

Cooley handed it over. The wire had been in his pocket for thirty hours. O'Donnell pulled the Toyota Land Cruiser over to examine it.

“Marconi make these for intelligence use. Quite sensitive. How long might it have been there?”

Cooley could not remember having anyone go into his back room unsupervised. “I've no idea.”

O'Donnell put the vehicle back into gear, heading out into the desert. He pondered the question for over a mile. Something had gone wrong, but what . . .?

“Did you ever think you were being followed?”

“Never.”

“How closely did you check, Dennis?” Cooley hesitated, and O'Donnell took this for an answer. “Dennis, did you ever break tradecraft -- ever?”

“No, Kevin, of course not. It isn't possible that -- for God's sake, Kevin, it's been weeks since I've been in contact with Watkins.”

“Since your last trip to Cork.” O'Donnell squinted in the bright sun.

“Yes, that's right. You had a security man watching me then -- was there anyone following me?”

“If there were, he must have been a damnably clever one, and he could not have been too close . . . ” The other possibility that O'Donnell was, considering, of course, was that Cooley had turned traitor. But if he'd done that, he wouldn't have come here, would he? the chief of the ULA thought. He knows me, knows where I live, knows McKenney, knows Sean Miller, knows about the fishing fleet at Dundalk. O'Donnell realized that Cooley knew quite a lot. No, if he'd gone tout, he wouldn't be here. Cooley was sweating despite the air conditioning in the car. Dennis didn't have the belly to risk his life that way. He could see that.

“So, Dennis, what are we to do with you?”

Cooley's heart was momentarily irregular, but he spoke with determination. “I want to be part of the next op.”

“Excuse me?” O'Donnell's head came around in surprise.

“The fucking Brits -- Kevin, they came after me!”

“That is something of an occupational hazard, you know.”

“I'm quite serious,” Cooley insisted.

It wouldn't hurt to have another man . . . “Are you in shape for it?”

“I will be.”

The chief made his decision. “Then you can start this afternoon.”

“What is it, then?”

O'Donnell explained.

“It would seem that your hunch was correct. Doctor Ryan,” the man with the rimless glasses said the next afternoon. “Maybe I will take you to the track.”

He was standing outside one of the huts, a dumpy little man with a head that shone from the sunlight reflecting off his sweaty, hairless dome. Camp -18 was the one.

“Excellent,” Cantor observed. “Our English friends have really scored on this one. Thanks,” he said to the photo expert.

“When's the op?” Ryan asked after he left.

“Early morning, day after tomorrow. Our time . . . eight in the evening, I think.”

“Can I watch in real time?”

“Maybe.”

“This is a secret that's hard to keep,” he said.

“Most of the good ones are,” Cantor agreed. “But --”

“Yeah, I know.” Jack put his coat on and locked up his files. “Tell the Admiral that I owe him one.”

Driving home, Ryan thought about what might be happening. He realized that his anticipation was not very different from . . . Christmas? No, that was not the right way to think about this. He wondered how his father had felt right before a big arrest after a lengthy investigation. It was something he'd never asked. He did the next best thing. He forgot about it, as he was supposed to do with everything that he saw at Langley.

There was a strange car parked in front of the house when he got there, just beyond the nearly completed swimming pool. On inspection he saw that it had diplomatic tags. He went inside to find three men talking to his wife. He recognized one but couldn't put a name on him.

“Hello, Doctor Ryan, I'm Geoffrey Bennett from the British Embassy. We met before at --”

“Yeah, I remember now. What can we do for you?”

“Their Royal Highnesses will be visiting the States in a few weeks. I understand that you offered an invitation when you met, and they wish to see if it remains open.”

“Are you kidding?”

“They're not kidding. Jack, and I already said yes,” his wife informed him. Even Ernie was wagging his tail in anticipation.

“Of course. Please tell them that we'd be honored to have them down. Will they be staying the night?”

“Probably not. It was hoped that they could come in the evening.”

“For dinner? Fine. What day?”

“Friday, 30th July.”

“Done.”

“Excellent. I hope you won't mind if our security people -- plus your Secret Service chaps -- conduct a security sweep in the coming week.”

“Do I have to be home for that?”

“I can do it, Jack. I'm off work now, remember?”

“Oh, of course,” Bennett said. “When is the baby due?”

“First week of August -- that might be a problem for this,” Cathy realized belatedly.

“If something unexpected happens, you may be sure that Their Highnesses will understand. One more thing. This is a private matter, not one of the public events for the trip. We must ask that you keep this entirely confidential.”

“Sure, I understand,” Ryan said.

“If they're going to be here for dinner, is there anything we shouldn't serve?” Cathy asked.

“What do you mean?” Bennett responded.

“Well, some people are allergic to fish, for example.”

“Oh, I see. No, I know of nothing along those lines.”

“Okay, the basic Ryan dinner,” Jack said. “I -- uh-oh.”

“What's the matter?” Bennett asked.

“We're having company that night.”

“Oh,” Cathy nodded. “Robby and Sissy.”

“Can't you cancel?”

“It's a going-away party. Robby -- he's a Navy fighter pilot, we both teach at the Academy -- is transferring back to the fleet. Would they mind?”

“Doctor Ryan, His Highness --”

“His Highness is a good guy. So's Robby. He was there that night we met. I can't cancel him out, Mr. Bennett. He's a friend. The good news is. His Highness will like him. He used to fly fighter planes, too, right?”

“Well, yes, but --”

“Do you remember the night we met? Without Robby I might not have gotten through it. Look, this guy's a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy who happens to fly a forty-million-dollar fighter airplane. He probably is not a security risk. His wife plays one hell of a piano.” Ryan saw that he hadn't quite gotten through yet. “Mr. Bennett, check Rob out through your attache and ask His Highness if it's all right.”

“And if he objects?”

“He won't. I've met him. Maybe he's a better guy than you give him credit for,” Jack observed. He won't object, you dummy. It's the security pukes who'll throw a fit.

“Well.” That remark took him somewhat aback. “I cannot fault your sense of loyalty. Doctor. I will pass this through His Highness's office. But I must insist that you do not tell Commander Jackson anything.”

“You have my word.” Jack nearly laughed. He couldn't wait to see the look on Robby's face. This would finally even the score for that kendo match.

“Contraction peaks,” Jack said that night. They were practicing the breathing exercises in preparation for the delivery. His wife started panting. Jack knew that this was a serious business. It merely looked ridiculous. He checked the numbers on his digital watch. “Contraction ends. Deep, cleansing breath. I figure steaks on the grill, baked potatoes, and fresh corn on the cob, with a nice salad.”

“It's too plain,” Cathy protested.

“Everywhere they go over here, people will be hitting them with that fancy French crap. Somebody ought to give them a decent American meal. You know I do a mean steak on the grill, and your spinach salad is famous from here to across the road.”

“Okay.” Cathy started laughing. It was becoming uncomfortable for her to do so. “If I stand over a stove for more than a few minutes, I get nauseous anyway.”

“It must be tough, being pregnant.”

“You should try it,” she suggested.

Her husband went on: “It's the only hard thing women have to do, of course.”

“What!” Cathy's eyes nearly popped out.

“Look at history. Who has to go out and kill the buffalo? The man. Who has, to carry the buffalo back? The man. Who has to drive off the bear? The man. We do all the hard stuff. I still have to take out the garbage every night! Do I ever complain about that?” He had her laughing again. He'd read her mood right. She didn't want sympathy. She was too proud of herself for that.

“I'd hit you on the head, but there's no sense in breaking a perfectly good club over something worthless.”

“Besides, I was there the last time, and it didn't look all that hard.”

“If I could move, Jack, I'd kill you for that one!”

He moved from opposite his wife to beside her. “Nah, I don't think so. I want you to form a picture in your mind.”

“Of what?”

“Of the look on Robby's face when he gets here for dinner. I'm going to jiggle the time a little.”

“I'll bet you that Sissy handles it better than he does.”

“How much?”

“Twenty.”

“Deal.” He looked at his watch. “Contraction begins. Deep breath.” A minute later, Jack was amazed to see that he was breathing the same way as his wife. That got them both laughing.

There were no new pictures of Camp-18 the day of the raid. A sandstorm had swept over the area at the time of the satellite pass, and the cameras couldn't penetrate it, but a geosynchronous weather satellite showed that the storm had left the site. Ryan was cued after lunch that day that the raid was on, and spent his afternoon in fidgety anticipation. Careful analysis of the existing photos showed that between twelve and eighteen people were at the camp, over and above the guard force. If the higher number was correct, and the official estimate of the ULA's size was also accurate, that represented more than half of its membership. Ryan worried a little about that. If the French were sending in only eight paratroopers . . . but then he remembered his own experiences in the Marine Corps. They'd be hitting the objective at three in the morning. Surprise would be going for them. The assault team would have its weapons loaded and locked -- and aimed at people who were asleep. The element of surprise, in the hands of elite commandos, was the military equivalent of a Kansas tornado. Nothing could stand up to it.