Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (641 page)

YES! WELL DONE, IVAN. Every fiber of his being wanted to turn and eyeball the guy, but the rules didn’t allow that. If there was a shadow in the car, those people noticed that sort of thing, and it wasn’t Ed Foley’s job to be noticed. So he waited patiently for his subway stop, and this time he turned right, away from Ivan, and made his way off the car, onto the platform, and up to the cool air on the street.

He didn’t reach into his pocket. Instead, he walked all the way home, as normal as a sunset on a clear day, into the elevator, not reaching in even then, because there could well be a video camera in the ceiling.

Not until he got into his flat did Foley pull out the message blank. This time it was anything but blank, covered with black ink letters—as before, written in English. Whoever Ivan was, Foley reflected, he was educated, and that was very good news, wasn’t it?

“Hi, Ed.” A kiss for the microphones. “Anything interesting happen at work?”

“The usual crap. What’s for dinner?”

“Fish,” she answered, looking at the paper in her husband’s hand and giving an immediate thumbs-up.

Bingo!
They both thought. They had an agent. A no-shit spy in KGB. Working for
them.

CHAPTER 16

A FUR HAT FOR THE WINTER

THEY DID WHAT?
” Jack asked.

“They broke for lunch in the middle of surgery and went to a pub and had a beer each!” Cathy replied, repeating herself.

“Well, so did I.”

“You weren’t doing
surgery!
”

“What would happen if you did that at home?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Cathy said. “You’d probably lose your license to practice medicine—after Bernie amputated your fucking hands with a chain saw!”

That got Jack’s attention. Cathy didn’t talk like that.

“No shit?”

“I had a bacon, lettuce, and tom-AH-to sandwich with chips—that’s french fries for us dumb colonials.
I
had a Coke, by the way.”

“Glad to hear it, doctor.” Ryan walked over to give his wife a kiss. She appeared to need it.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she went on. “Oh, maybe out in Bumfuck, Montana, they do stuff like that, but not in a real hospital.”

“Cathy, settle down. You’re talking like a stevedore.”

“Or maybe a foulmouthed ex-Marine.” She finally managed a smile. “Jack, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. Those two eye cutters are technically senior to me, but if they
ever
tried that sort of shit at home, they’d be finished. They wouldn’t even let them work on dogs.”

“Is the patient okay?”

“Oh, yeah. The frozen section came back cold as ice—totally benign, not malignant—and we took out the growth and closed him back up. He’ll be just fine—four or five days for recovery. No impairment to his sight, no more headaches, but those two bozos operated on him with booze in their systems!”

“No harm, no foul, babe,” he suggested, lamely.

“Jack, it isn’t supposed to be that way.”

“So report them to your friend Byrd.”

“I ought to. I really ought to.”

“And what would happen?”

That lit her up again: “I don’t know!”

“It’s a big deal to take the bread off somebody’s table, and you’d be branded as a troublemaker,” Jack warned.

“Jack, at Hopkins, I’d’ve called them on it right then and there, and there would have been hell to pay, but over here—over here I’m just a guest.”

“And the customs are different.”

“Not
that
different. Jack, it’s grossly unprofessional. It’s potentially harmful to the patient, and that’s a line you
never
cross. At Hopkins, if you have a patient in recovery, or you have surgery the next day, you don’t even have a glass of wine with dinner, okay? That’s because the good of the patient comes before everything else. Okay, sure, if you’re driving home from a party and you see a hurt person on the side of the road, and you’re the only one around, you do what you can, and get him to a doc who’s got it all together, and you probably tell that doc that you had a couple before you saw the emergency. I mean, sure, during internship, they work you through impossible hours so you can train yourself to make good decisions when you’re not fully functional, but there’s
always
somebody to back you up if you’re not capable, and you’re supposed to be able to tell when you’re in over your head. Okay? I had that happen to me once on pediatric rotation, and it scared the hell out of me when that little kid stopped breathing, but I had a good nurse backing me up and we got the senior resident down in one big fucking hurry, and we got him going again with no permanent damage, thank God. But, Jack, you don’t go creating a suboptimal situation. You don’t go looking for them. You deal with them when they happen, but you don’t voluntarily jump into the soup, okay?”

“Okay, Cath, so, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t
know.
At home, I’d go right to Bernie, but I’m not at home. . . .”

“And you want my advice?”

Her blue eyes fixed on her husband’s. “Well, yes. What do you think?”

What he thought didn’t really matter, Jack knew. It was just a question of guiding her to her own decision. “If you do nothing, how will you feel next week?”

“Terrible. Jack, I saw something that—”

“Cathy.” He hugged her. “You don’t need me. Go ahead and do what you think is right. Otherwise, well, it’ll just eat you up. You’re never sorry for doing the right thing, no matter what the adverse consequences are. Right is right, my lady.”

“They said
that,
too. I’m not comfortable with—”

“Yeah, babe. Every so often at work, they call me Sir John. You roll with the punch. It’s not like it’s an insult.”

“Over here, they call a surgeon Mr. Jones or Mrs. Jones, not
Doctor
Jones. What the hell is that all about?”

“Local custom. It goes back to the Royal Navy in the eighteenth century. A ship’s doctor was usually a youngish lieutenant, and aboard ship that rank is called mister rather than
lef
tenant. Somehow or other it carried over to civilian life, too.”

“How do you know that?” Cathy demanded.

“Cathy you are a doctor of medicine. I am a doctor of history, remember? I know a lot of things, like putting a Band-Aid on a cut, after that painful Merthiolate crap. But that’s as far as my knowledge of medicine goes—well, they taught us a little at the Basic School, but I don’t expect to patch up a bullet wound any time soon. I’ll leave that to you. Do you know how?”

“I patched you up last winter,” she reminded him.

“Did I ever thank you for that?” he asked. Then he kissed her. “Thanks, babe.”

“I have to talk to Professor Byrd about it.”

“Honey, when in doubt, do what you think is right. That’s why we have a conscience, to remind us what the right thing is.”

“They won’t like me for it.”

“So? Cathy,
you
have to like you. Nobody else. Well, me, of course,” Jack added.

“Do you?”

A very supportive smile: “Lady Ryan, I worship your dirty drawers.”

And finally she relaxed. “Why, thank you, Sir John.”

“Let me go upstairs and change.” He stopped in the doorway. “Should I wear my formal sword for dinner?”

“No, just the regular one.” And now she could smile, too. “So, what’s happening in your office?”

“A lot of learning the things we don’t know.”

“You mean finding out new stuff?”

“No, I mean realizing all the stuff we don’t know that we should know. It never stops.”

“Don’t feel bad. Same in my business.”

And Jack realized that the similarity between both businesses was that if you screwed up, people might die. And that was no fun at all.

He reappeared in the kitchen. By now Cathy was feeding Little Jack. Sally was watching TV, that great child pacifier, this time some local show instead of a Roadrunner-Coyote tape. Dinner was cooking. Why an assistant professor of ophthalmology insisted on cooking dinner herself like a truck driver’s wife baffled her husband, but he didn’t object—she was good at it. Had they had cooking lessons at Bennington? He picked a kitchen chair and poured himself a glass of white wine.

“I hope this is okay with the professor.”

“Not doing surgery tomorrow, right?”

“Nothing scheduled, Lady Ryan.”

“Then it’s okay.” The little guy went to her shoulder for a burp, which he delivered with great gusto.

“Damn, Junior. Your father is impressed.”

“Yeah.” She took the edge of the cloth diaper on her shoulder to wipe his mouth. “Okay, how about a little more?”

John Patrick Ryan, Jr. did not object to the offer.

“What things don’t you know? Still worried about that guy’s wife?” Cathy asked, cooled down somewhat.

“No news on that front,” Jack admitted. “We’re worried what they might do on something.”

“Can’t say what it is?” she asked.

“Can’t say what it is,” he confirmed. “The Russians, as my buddy Simon says, are a rum bunch.”

“So are the Brits,” Cathy observed.

“Dear God, I married Carrie Nation.” Jack took a sip. It was Pinot Grigio, a particularly good Italian white that the local liquor stores carried.

“Only when I cut somebody open with a knife.” She liked saying it that way, because it always gave her husband chills.

He held up his glass. “Want one?”

“When I’m finished, maybe.” She paused. “Nothing you can talk about?”

“Sorry, babe. It’s the rules.”

“And you never break them?”

“Bad habit to get into. Better not to start.”

“What about when some Russian decides to work for us?”

“That’s different. Then he’s working for the forces of Truth and Beauty in the world. We,” Ryan emphasized, “are the Good Guys.”

“What do they think?”

“They think they are. But so did a guy named Adolf,” he reminded her. “And he wouldn’t have liked Bernie very much.”

“But he’s long dead.”

“Not everybody like him is, babe. Trust me on that one.”

“You’re worried about something, Jack. I can see it. Can’t say, eh?”

“Yes. And no, I can’t.”

“Okay.” She nodded. Intelligence information didn’t interest her beyond her abstract desire to learn what was going on in the world. But as a physician there were many things she really wanted to know—like the cure for cancer—but didn’t, and, reluctantly, she’d come to accept that. But medicine didn’t allow much in the way of secrets. When you found something that helped patients, you published your discovery in your favorite medical journal so the whole world could know about it right away. Damned sure CIA didn’t do that very often, and part of that offended her. Another tack, then. “Okay, when you do find out something important, what happens then?”

“We kick it upstairs. Here, it goes right to Sir Basil, and I call it in to Admiral Greer. Usually a phone call over the secure phone.”

“Like the one upstairs?”

“Yep. Then we send it over by secure fax or, if it’s really hot, it goes by diplomatic courier out of the embassy, when we don’t want to trust the encryption systems.”

“How often does that happen?”

“Not since I’ve been here, but I don’t make those decisions. What the hell, the diplomatic bag goes over in eight or nine hours. Damned sight faster than it used to happen.”

“I thought that phone thingee upstairs was unbreakable?”

“Well, some things you do are nearly perfect, too, but you still take extra care with them, right? Same with us.”

“What would that be for? Theoretically speaking, that is.” She smiled at her cleverness.

“Babe, you know how to phrase a question. Let’s say we got something, oh, on their nuclear arsenal, something from an agent way the hell inside, and it’s really good stuff, but losing it might ID the agent for the opposition. That is what you send via the bag. The name of the game is protecting the source.”

“Because if they ID the guy—”

“He’s dead, maybe in a very unpleasant way. There’s a story that once they loaded a guy into a crematorium alive and then turned on the gas—and they made a film of it,
pour encourager les autres,
as Voltaire put it.”

“Nobody does that anymore!” Cathy objected immediately.

“There’s a guy at Langley who claims to have seen the film. The poor bastard’s name was Popov, a GRU officer who worked for us. His bosses were very displeased with him.”

“You’re serious?” Cathy persisted.

“As a heart attack. Supposedly, they used to show the film to people in the GRU Academy as a warning about not crossing the line—it strikes me as bad psychology but, like I said, I’ve met a guy who says he saw the film. Anyway, that’s one of the reasons we try to protect our sources.”

“That’s a little hard to believe.”

“Oh, really? You mean, like a surgeon breaking for lunch and having a beer?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“It’s an imperfect world we live in, babe.” He’d let things go. She’d have all weekend to think things over, and he’d get some work done on his Halsey book.