Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games (31 page)

Murray leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Call it feeling, or instinct -- call it anything you want, it's bothering me. I want somebody to act on it . . . Good man. How's the family? Oh, yeah? Great! Well, I guess it'll be a happy new year for you. Okay. Take care. 'Bye.” He set the phone down. “Well, that feels a little better,” he said quietly to himself.

“The party starts at nine,” his wife said. She was used to his bringing work home. He was used to having her remind him of his social obligations.

“I guess I better get dressed, then.” Murray rose and kissed his wife. He did feel better now. He'd done something -- probably no more than having people in the Bureau wonder what was happening to him over here, but he could live with that. “Bill's oldest is engaged. He's going to marry her off to a young agent in the D.C. Field Office.”

“Anyone we know?”

“New kid.”

“We have to leave soon.”

“Okay, okay.” He walked to the master bedroom and started to change for the big embassy party.

“As you see, ladies and gentlemen, the decision Nelson made in this case had the long-term effect of finally putting an end to the stultifying influence of the Royal Navy's formal tactics.” Ryan closed his note folder. “There is nothing like a decisive victory to teach people a lesson. Questions?”

It was Jack's first day back at teaching class. The room had forty students, all third classmen (that title included the six female mids in the class), or sophomores in civilian terms, taking Ryan's introductory course in naval history. There were no questions. He was surprised. Jack knew he was a pretty good teacher, but not that good. After a moment, one of the students stood up. It was George Winton, a football player from Pittsburgh.

“Doctor Ryan,” he said stiffly, “I've been asked to make a presentation on behalf of the class.”

“Uh-oh.” Jack took half a step backward and scanned the body of students theatrically for the advancing threat.

Mid/3 Winton walked forward and produced a small box from behind his back. There was a typed sheet on the top. The young man stood at attention.

“Attention to orders; For service above and beyond the duty of a tourist -- even a brainless Marine -- the class awards Doctor John Ryan the Order of the Purple Target, in the hope that he will duck the next time, lest he become a part of history rather than a teacher of it. ”

Winton opened the box and produced a purple ribbon three inches across on which was inscribed in gold: SHOOT ME. Below it was a brass bull's-eye of equal size. The mid pinned it to Ryan's shoulder so that the target portion almost covered where he'd been shot. The class stood and applauded as Ryan shook hands with the class spokesman.

Jack fingered the “decoration” and looked up at his class. “Did my wife put you up to this?” They started converging on him.

“Way to go, Doc!” said an aspiring submarine driver.

“Semper fi!” echoed a would-be Marine.

Ryan held up his hands. He was still getting used to the idea of having his left arm back. The shoulder ached now that he was really using it, but the surgeon at Hopkins had told him that the stiffness would gradually fade away, and the net impairment to his left shoulder would be less than five percent.

“Thank you, people, but you still have to take the exam next week!”

There was general laughter as the kids filed out of the room to their next class. This was Ryan's last for the day. He gathered up his books and notes and trailed out of the room for the walk uphill to his office in Leahy Hall.

There was snow on the ground this frigid January day. Jack had to watch for patches of ice on the brick sidewalk. Around him the campus of the Naval Academy was a beautiful place. The immense quadrangle bordered by the chapel to the south, Bancroft Hall to the east, and classroom buildings on the other sides, was a glistening white blanket with pathways shoveled from one place to another. The kids -- Ryan thought of them as kids -- marched about as they always did, a little too earnest and serious for Jack's liking. They saved their smiles for places where no outsiders might notice. Each of them had his (or her) shoes spit-shined, and they moved about with straight backs, books tucked under the left arm so as not to interfere with saluting. There was a lot of that here. At the top of the hill, at Gate #3, a Marine lance corporal stood with the “Jimmy Legs” civilian guard. A normal day at the office, Jack told himself. It was a good place to work. The mids were easily the equal of the students of any school in the country, always ready with questions, and, once you earned their trust, capable of some astonishing horseplay. This was something a visitor to the Academy might never suspect, so serious was the kids' public demeanor.

Jack got into the steam-heated warmth of Leahy Hall and bounded up the steps to his office, laughing to himself at the absurd award that dangled from his shoulder. He found Robby sitting opposite his desk.

“What in the hell is that?” the pilot inquired. Jack explained as he set his books down. Robby started laughing.

“It's nice to see the kids can unwind a little, even in exam season. So what's new with you?” Jack asked his friend.

“Well, I'm a Tomcat driver again,” Robby announced. “Four hours over the weekend. Oh, man! Jack, I'm telling you, I had that baby talking to me. Took her offshore, had her up to mach one-point-four, did a midair refueling, then I came back for some simulated carrier landings, and -- it was good. Jack,” the pilot concluded. “Two more months and I'll be back where I belong.”

“That long, Rob?”

“Flying this bird is not supposed to be easy or they wouldn't need people of my caliber to do it,” Jackson explained seriously.

“It must be hard to be so humble.”

Before Robby could respond, there came a knock on the opened door and a man stuck his head in. “Doctor Ryan?”

“That's right. Join us.”

“I'm Bill Shaw, FBI.” The visitor came all the way in and held up his ID card. About Robby's height, he was a slender man in his mid-forties with eyes so deep set that they almost gave him the look of a raccoon, the kind of eyes that got that way from sixteen-hour days. A sharp dresser, he looked like a very serious man. “Dan Murray asked me to come over to see you.”

Ryan rose to take his hand. “This is Lieutenant Commander Jackson.”

“Howdy.” Robby shook his hand, too.

“I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all -- we're both finished teaching for the day. Grab a chair. What can I do for you?”

Shaw looked at Jackson but didn't say anything.

“Well, if you guys have to talk, I can mosey on over to the O-Club --”

“Relax, Rob. Mr. Shaw, you're among friends. Can I offer you anything?”

“No, thank you.” The FBI agent pulled the straight-back chair from next to the door. “I work in the counterterrorism unit at FBI headquarters. Dan asked me to -- well, you know that the ULA rescued their man Miller from police custody.”

Now Ryan was completely serious. “Yeah -- I caught that on TV. Any idea where they took him to?”

Shaw shook his head. “They just disappeared.”

“Quite an operation,” Robby noted. “They escaped to seaward, right? Some ship pick them up maybe?” This drew a sharp look. “You notice my uniform, Mr. Shaw? I earn my living out there on the water.”

“We're not sure, but that is a possibility.”

“Whose ships were out there?” Jackson persisted. This wasn't a law-enforcement problem to Robby. It was a naval matter.

“That's being looked at.”

Jackson and Ryan traded a look. Robby fished out one of his cigars and lit it.

“I got a call last week from Dan. He's a little -- I wish to emphasize this, only a little -- concerned that the ULA might . . . well, they don't have much of a reason to like you, Doctor Ryan.”

“Dan said that none of these groups has ever operated over here,” Ryan said cautiously.

“That's entirely correct.” Shaw nodded. “It's never happened. I imagine Dan explained why this is true. The Provisional IRA continues to get money from over here, I am sorry to say, not much, but some. They still get some weapons. There is even reason to believe that they have some surface-to-air missiles --”

“What the hell!” Jackson's head snapped around.

"There have been several thefts of Redeye missiles -- the man-portable one the Army's phasing out now. They were stolen from a couple of National Guard armories. This isn't new. The RUC has captured M-60 machine guns that got over to Ulster the same way. These weapons were either stolen or bought from some supply sergeants who forgot who they were working for. We've convicted several of them in the past year, and the Army's setting up a new system to keep track of things. Only one missile has turned up. They -- the PIRA -- tried to shoot down a British Army helicopter a few months back. It never made the papers over here, mainly because they missed, and the Brits were able to hush it up.

“Anyway,” Shaw went on, “if they were to conduct actual terrorist operations over here, the money and the weapons would probably dry up quite a bit. The PIRA knows that, and it stands to reason that the ULA does, too.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “They've never operated over here. But Murray asked you to come here and warn me. How come?”

“There isn't any reason. If this had come from anyone except Dan, I wouldn't even be here, but Dan's a very experienced agent, and he's a little bit concerned that maybe you should be made aware of his -- it's not even enough to be a suspicion. Doctor Ryan. Call it insurance, like checking the tires on your car before a long drive.”

“Then what the hell are you telling me?” Ryan said testily.

“The ULA has dropped out of sight -- that's not saying much, of course. I guess it's the way they dropped out of sight. They pulled a pretty bold operation, and” -- he snapped his fingers -- “disappeared back under their rock.”

“Intel,” Jack muttered.

“What's that?” Shaw asked.

“It happened again. The thing in London that I got in the way of, it resulted from very good intelligence information. This did, too, didn't it? They were moving Miller secretly, but the bad guys penetrated Brit security, didn't they?”

“I honestly don't know the specifics, but I'd say you probably had that one figured out pretty well,” Shaw conceded.

Jack picked up a pencil in his left hand and started twirling it. “Do we know anything about what we're up against here?”

“They're professionals. That's bad news for the Brits and the RUC, of course, but it's good news for you.”

“How's that?” Robby asked.

“Their disagreement with Doctor Ryan here is more or less a 'personal' matter. To take action against him would be unprofessional.”

“In other words,” the pilot said, “when you tell Jack that there's nothing for him to really worry about, you're betting on the 'professional' conduct of terrorists.”

“That's one way to put it, Commander. Another way is to say that we have long experience dealing with this type of person.”

“Uh-huh.” Robby stabbed out his cigar. “In mathematics that's called inductive reasoning. It's a conclusion inferred, rather than deduced from specific evidence. In engineering we call it a WAG.”

“Wag?” Shaw shook his head.

“A Wild-Ass Guess.” Jackson turned to stare into the FBI man's eyes. “Like most operational intelligence reports -- you can't tell the good ones from the bad ones until it's too damned late. Excuse me, Mr. Shaw, I'm afraid that we operators aren't always impressed with the stuff we get from the intelligence community.”

“I knew it was a mistake to come here,” Shaw observed. “Look, Dan told me over the phone that he doesn't have a single piece of evidence to suggest that there is any chance something unusual will happen. I've spent the last couple of days going over what we have on this outfit, and there just isn't any real evidence. He's responding to instinct. When you're a cop, you learn to do that.”

Robby nodded at that one. Pilots trust their instinct, too. Now, his were telling him something.

“So,” Jack leaned back. “What should I do?”

“The best defense against terrorists -- what the security schools teach business executives, for example -- is to avoid patterns. Take a slightly different route to work every day. Alter your time of departure somewhat. When you drive in, keep an eye on the mirror. If you see the same vehicle three or more days in a row, take the tag number and call me. I'll be glad to have it run through the computer -- no big deal. It's probably nothing to be worried about, just be a little bit more alert. With luck, in a few days or weeks we'll be able to call you and tell you to forget the whole thing. What I am almost certainly doing is alarming you unnecessarily, but you know the rule about how it's better to be safe than sorry, right?”

“And if you get any information the other way?” Jack asked.

“I'll be on the phone to you five minutes later. The Bureau doesn't like the idea of having terrorists operate here. We work damned hard to keep it from happening, and we've been very effective so far.”

“How much of that is luck?” Robby asked.

“Not as much as you think,” Shaw replied. “Well, Doctor Ryan, I'm really sorry to have worried you about what is probably nothing at all. Here's my card. If there is anything we can do for you, don't hesitate to call me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” Jack took the card and watched the man leave. He was silent for a few seconds. Then he flipped open his phone list and dialed 011-44-1-499-9000. It took a few seconds for the overseas call to get through.

“American Embassy,” the switchboard operator answered after the first ring.

“Legal Attaché, please.”

“Thank you. Wait, please.” Jack waited. The operator was back in fifteen seconds. “No answer. Mr. Murray has gone home for the day -- no, excuse me, he's out of town for the remainder of the week. Can I take a message?”

Jack frowned for a moment. “No, thank you. I'll call back next week.”

Robby watched his friend hang up. Jack drummed his fingers on the phone and again remembered what Scan Miller's face had looked like. He's three thousand miles away. Jack, Ryan told himself. “Maybe,” he breathed aloud.