Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (80 page)

“Sure.”

“Call this evidence of good faith on my part. Fowler and she are getting it on. Nobody's reported it because we figure it's not the public's business.”

“Good for you,”
Clark
observed. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Five years, man.”

“I'll be around.”
Clark
hung up. So, John thought, I thought that's who it was. He dropped another quarter in the phone. He got lucky on the first try. It was a woman's voice.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Caroline Ryan?”

“Yes, who”s this?"

“The name you wanted, ma'am, is Elizabeth Elliot. The President's National Security Advisor.”
Clark
decided not to add the other part. It was not relevant to the situation, was it?

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” The line clicked off.

Cathy had sent Jack to bed early again. The man was being sensible. Well, that wasn't a surprise, was it? she thought. After all, he married me.

The timing could have been a little better. A few days earlier, she had planned to skip the official dinner, claiming work as an excuse, but now . . .

How do I do this . . . ?

“Morning, Bernie,” Cathy Ryan said as she scrubbed her hands, as usual, all the way to the elbows.

“Hi, Cath. How's it going?”

“A lot better, Bernie.”

“Really?” Dr. Katz started scrubbing.

“Really.”

“Glad to hear it,” Katz observed dubiously.

Cathy finished, shutting off the water with taps from her elbows. “Bernie, it turns out I overreacted rather badly.”

“What about the guy who came to see me?” Katz asked, his head down.

“It was not true. I can't explain now, maybe some other time. Need a favor.”

“Sure, what?”

“The cornea replacement I have scheduled for Wednesday, can you take it?”

“What gives?”

“Jack and I have to go to a formal dinner in the White House tomorrow night. State dinner for the Prime Minister of Finland, would you believe? The procedure is straightforward, no complications I know about. I can have you the file this afternoon. Jenkins is going to do the procedure—I'm just supposed to ride shotgun.” Jenkins was a bright young resident.

“Okay, I'll do it.”

“Okay, thanks. Owe you one,” Cathy said on her way through the door.

The Carmen Vita pulled into Hampton Roads barely an hour late. She turned to port and proceeded south past the Navy piers. The captain and pilot rode the port-side bridge wing, noting the carrier that was even now departing from the pier with a few hundred wives and children waving goodbye to USS Theodore Roosevelt. Two cruisers, two destroyers, and a frigate were already moving. They, the pilot explained, were the screening ships for “The Stick,” as TR was called by her crew. The Indian-born captain grunted and returned to business. Half an hour later, the container ship approached her pier at the end of
Terminal Boulevard
. Three tugs took their position and eased the Carmen Vita alongside. The ship had barely been tied up when the gantry cranes started moving cargo.

“
Roggen
,
Colorado
?” the trucker asked. He flipped open his large book map and looked on I-76 for the right place. “Okay, I see it.”

“How fast?” Russell asked.

“From the time I leave here? Eighteen hundred miles. Oh, two days, maybe forty hours if I'm lucky. Gonna cost you.”

“How much?” Russell asked. The trucker told him. “Cash all right?”

“Cash is fine. I knock ten percent off for that,” the trucker said. The IRS never found out about cash transactions.

“Half in advance.” Russell peeled off the bills. “Half on delivery, a grand bonus if you break forty hours.”

“Sounds good to me. What about the box?”

“You bring that right back here. We'll be getting more stuff in a month,” Russell lied. “We can make this a sort of regular run for you.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Russell returned to his friends, and together they watched the unloading process from the comfort of a block building with a large coffee urn.

Teddy Roosevelt
cleared the harbor in record time, bending on twenty knots before they reached the sea buoy. Already, the aircraft were orbiting overhead, first among them the F-14 Tomcat fighters that had lifted off from Oceana Naval Air Station. As soon as there was sea room, the carrier came into the northerly wind to commence flight operations. The first plane down had the Double-Zero number of the CAG, Captain Robby Jackson. His Tomcat caught a gust over the fantail, and as a result caught the number-two wire when it landed—“trapped”—somewhat to
Jackson
's annoyance. The next aircraft, flown by Commander Rafael Sanchez, made a perfect trap on the number-three arrester wire. Both aircraft taxied out of harm's way.
Jackson
left the fighter and immediately sprinted to his place on Vulture's Row, high up on the carrier's island structure, so that he could observe the arrival of the rest of his aircraft. This was how a deployment started, with the CAG and squadron commanders watching their troops land. Each trap would be recorded on videotape for critiques. The cruise had not gotten off to a very good start,
Jackson
noted as he sipped his first mug of shipboard coffee. He'd missed his customary “OK” grade, as the Air Boss had informed him with a twinkling eye.

“Hey, Skipper, how my kids doing?” Sanchez asked, taking his seat behind Robby.

“Not bad, I see you kept your record going, Bud.”

“It's not hard, Captain. You just keep an eye on the wind as you turn in. I saw that gust you took. Guess I should have warned you.”

“Pride goeth before the fall, Commander,” Robby observed. Sanchez had seventeen consecutive OKs. Maybe he could see the wind,
Jackson
thought. Seventy uneventful minutes later, TR turned back east, taking the great-circle route for the Straits of Gibraltar.

The trucker made sure the container box was firmly secured to the bed of his truck, then climbed into the cab of his Kenworth diesel tractor. He started his engine and waved to Russell, who waved back.

“I still think we should follow him,” Ghosn said.

“He'd notice and wonder why,” Marvin replied. “And if something goes wrong, what would you do, fill in the hole it makes in the highway? You didn't follow the ship, did you?”

“True.” Ghosn looked at Qati and shrugged. Then they walked off to their car for the drive to
Charlotte
, from which they would fly directly to
Denver
.

Jack was ready early, as he usually was, but Cathy took her time. It was so unusual for her to look in a mirror and see hair that looked like it belonged to a real woman, as opposed to a surgeon who didn't give a damn. That had entailed the waste of two hours, but there were prices that one had to pay. Before she went downstairs, Cathy took two suitcases out from her closet and set them in the middle of the bedroom.

“Here, can you do this?” she asked her husband.

“Sure, babe.” Ryan took the gold necklace and clasped it around her neck. It was one he'd given her on the Christmas before Little Jack was born. Some good memories went along with this necklace, Jack remembered. Then he stood back. “Turn around.”

Cathy did as she was told. Her evening dress was royal-blue silk that caught and reflected light like glass. Jack Ryan was not a man who understood women's fashions—figuring the Russians out came more easily to him—but he approved whatever the new rules were. The rich blue of the dress and the gold jewelry she wore with it set off the blush of her fair skin and the buttery yellow of her hair. “Nice,” Jack said. “All ready, babe?”

“Sure am, Jack.” She smiled back at him. “Go warm the car up.”

Cathy watched him head off into the garage, then said a few words to the sitter. She put on her fur—surgeons typically have little use for animal-rights activists—and followed Jack a minute later. Jack backed out of the garage, and headed off.

Clark
had to laugh to himself. Ryan still didn't know beans about counter-surveillance techniques. He watched the taillights of the car diminish, then disappear entirely around the bend of the road before heading into the Ryan driveway.

“You're Mr. Clark?” the sitter asked.

“That's right.”

“They're in the bedroom.” The sitter pointed.

“Thank you.” Clark returned a minute later. Typical woman, he thought, they all overpack. Even Caroline Ryan wasn't perfect. “Good night.”

“Night.” The sitter was already entranced with the TV.

It takes just under an hour to drive from
Annapolis
,
Maryland
, into Central D.C. Ryan missed having an official car, but his wife had insisted that they drive themselves. They turned off of Pennsylvania Avenue, through the gate into East Executive Drive, where uniformed police directed them to a parking place. Their wagon looked a little humble mixed in with Caddys and Lincolns, but that was all right with Jack. The Ryans walked up the gentle slope to the East Entrance, where Secret Service personnel checked their invitations against the guest list, and checked them off. Jack's car keys set off the metal detector, evoking an embarrassed smile.

No matter how many times one goes there, there is always something magical about visiting the White House, especially at night. Ryan led his wife westward. They handed off their coats, and took their numbered tokens right next to the White House's own small theater, then continued. At the chicane turn there were the usual three social reporters, women in their sixties who stared you in the face while making their notes and generally looked like the witches from Macbeth with their open-mouth, drooly smiles. Officers from all the military services decked out in their full-dress—what Ryan used to call “Head Waiter”—uniforms waited in files to provide escort duty. As usual, the Marines looked best with their scarlet sashes, and a disgustingly good-looking captain motioned them up the stairs to the main level. Jack noted the admiring glance cast at his wife and decided to smile about it.

At the top of the marble stairs, another officer, this one a female Army lieutenant, directed them into the East Room. They were announced into the room—as though anyone were listening—and a liveried usher approached at once with a silver tray of drinks.

“You're driving, Jack,” Cathy whispered. Jack took a Perrier and a twist. Cathy got champagne.

The East Room of the White House is the size of a small gymnasium. The walls are ivory-white, its false columns decorated with gold leaf. There was a string quartet in one corner, along with a grand piano that was being played, rather well, Ryan thought, by an Army sergeant. Half the people were already here, the men in black tie and the women in dresses. Perhaps there were people who were totally comfortable at such affairs, Ryan told himself, but he wasn't one of them. He started circulating, and soon found Defense Secretary Bunker and his wife, Charlotte.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Hi, Dennis, you know my wife?”

“Caroline,” Cathy said, sticking her hand out.

“So, what do you think about the game?”

Jack laughed. “Sir, I know how you and Brent Talbot have been fighting over this. I was born in Baltimore. Somebody stole our team.”

“You didn't lose that much, did you? This is our year.”

“But the Vikings say the same thing.”

“They were lucky to get past
New York
.”

“The Raiders gave you a brief scare, as I recall.”

“They got lucky,” Bunker grumbled. “We buried 'em in the second half.”

Caroline Ryan and Charlotte Bunker traded a woman-to-woman look: Football! Cathy turned, and there she was. Mrs. Bunker made off, while the boys talked about boy things.

Cathy took a deep breath. She wondered if this were the right time and the right place, but she could no more have stopped herself now than she could have given up surgery. She left Jack facing the other way, and headed across the floor in a line as direct as a falcon's.

Dr. Elizabeth Elliot was dressed almost identically to Dr. Caroline Ryan. The cuts and pleats were a little different, but the expensive garments were close enough to make a fashion editor wonder if they had shopped at the same store. A triple string of pearls graced her neck, and she was talking with two others. Her head turned as she saw the approaching shape.

“Hello, Dr. Elliot. You remember me?” Cathy asked with a warm smile.

“No. Should I?”

“Caroline Ryan. That help?”

“Sorry,” Liz replied, knowing at once who she was, but not knowing anything else that might be of interest. “Do you know Bob and Libby Holtzman?”

“I've read your material,” Cathy said, taking Holtzman's extended hand.

“It's always nice to hear that.” Holtzman noted the delicacy of her touch and could feel the guilt shoot up his arm. Was this the woman whose marriage he had attacked? “This is Libby.”

“You're a reporter, too,” Cathy observed. Libby Holtzman was taller than she, and dressed in an outfit that emphasized her ample bosom. One of hers is worth both of mine, Cathy noted, managing not to sigh. Libby had the sort of bust on which men yearned to lay their heads.

“You operated on a cousin of mine a year or so ago,” Libby Holtzman said. “Her mom says you're the best surgeon in the world.”

“All doctors love to hear that.” Cathy decided that she would like Mrs. Holtzman, despite her physical handicap.

“I know you're a surgeon, but where have we met?” Liz Elliot asked, with the offhand interest she might have shown a dog breeder.

“
Bennington
. In my freshman year, you taught PoliSci 101.”

“Is that a fact? I'm surprised you remember.” She made it clear that she did not.

“Yes. Well, you know how it is.” Cathy smiled. “Freshman Pre-Med is a real bear. We really have to concentrate on the important stuff. So the unimportant courses are all throwaways, easy A's.”

Elliot's expression didn't change. “I was never an easy grader.”

“Sure you were. It was just a matter of repeating it all back to you.” Cathy smiled even more broadly.

Bob Holtzman was tempted to take a step back, but managed not to move at all. His wife's eyes went a touch wider, having caught the signals more quickly than her husband. A war had just begun. It would be nastier than most.