Patriot Games

assassins who kill people to make some sort of political point. I don't like that, and I know my dad wouldn't like it. He spent his whole working life taking animals like that off the street and putting them in cages where they belong. We've worked pretty hard to get where we are—too hard to be happy about being thought of as the relatives of terrorists.' Jack smiled. 'I guess I understand how Italians feel about the Mafia. Anyway, I can't say that all this stuff paraded through my head yesterday, but I did kind of figure what was going on. I couldn't just sit there like a dummy and let murder be committed before my eyes and not do something. So I saw my chance and I took it.'

The Queen nodded thoughtfully. She regarded Ryan with a warm, friendly smile for a few moments and turned to look at her husband. The two communicated without words. They'd been married long enough for that, Ryan thought. When she turned back, he could see that a decision had been reached.

'So, then. How shall we reward you?'

'Reward, ma'am?' Ryan shook his head. 'Thank you very much, but it's not necessary. I'm glad I was able to help. That's enough.'

'No, Doctor Ryan, it is not enough. One of the nicer things about being Queen is that one is permitted to recognize meritorious conduct, then to reward it properly. The Crown cannot appear to be ungrateful.' Her eyes sparkled with some private joke. Ryan found himself captivated by the woman's humanity. He'd read that some people found her to be less than intelligent. He already knew they were far off the mark. There was an active brain behind those eyes, and an active wit as well. 'Accordingly, it has been decided that you shall be invested as a Knight Commander of the Victorian Order.'

'What—er, I beg your pardon, ma'am?' Ryan blinked a few times as his brain tried to catch up with his ears.

'The Victorian Order is a recent development intended to reward those persons who have rendered personal service to the Crown. Certainly you qualify. This is the first case in many years that an heir to the throne has been saved from almost certain death. As an historian yourself, you might be interested to learn that our own scholars are in disagreement as to when was our most recent precedent—in any event, you will henceforth be known as Sir John Ryan.'

Again Jack thought that he must look rather funny with his mouth open.

'Your Majesty, American law—'

'We know,' she interrupted smoothly. 'The Prime Minister will be discussing this with your President later today. We believe that in view of the special nature of this case, and in the interest of Anglo-American relations, the matter will be settled amicably.'

'There is ample precedent for this,' the Duke went on. 'After the Second World War a number of American officers were accorded similar recognition. Your Fleet Admiral Nimitz, for example, became a Knight Commander of the Bath, along with Generals Eisenhower, Bradley, Patton, and a number of others.

'For the purposes of American law, it will probably be considered honorary—but for our purposes it will be quite real.'

'Well.' Ryan fumbled for something to say. 'Your Majesty, insofar as this does not conflict with the laws of my country, I will be deeply honored to accept.' The Queen beamed.

'That's settled, then. Now, how are you feeling—really feeling?'

'I've felt worse, ma'am. I have no complaints—I just wish I'd moved a little faster.'

The Duke smiled. 'Being wounded makes you appear that much more heroic—nothing like a little drama.'

Especially if it's someone else's shoulder, my Lord Duke, Ryan thought. A small bell went off in his head. 'Excuse me, this knighthood, does it mean that my wife will be called—'

'Lady Ryan? Of course.' The Queen flashed her Christmas-tree smile again.

Jack grinned broadly. 'You know, when I left Merrill Lynch, Cathy's father was madder than—he was very angry with me, said I'd never amount to anything writing history books. Maybe this will change his mind.' He was sure that Cathy would not mind the title—Lady Ryan. No, she wouldn't mind that one little bit.

'Not so bad a thing after all?'

'No, sir, and please forgive me if I gave that impression. I'm afraid you caught me a little off balance.' Ryan shook his head. This whole damned affair has me a lot off balance. 'Might I ask a question, sir?'

'Certainly.'

'The police wouldn't tell me where they're keeping my family.' This drew a hearty laugh. The Queen answered.

'It is the opinion of the police that there might exist the possibility of a reprisal against you or your family. Therefore it was decided that they should be moved to a more secure location. Under the circumstances, we decided that they might most easily be moved to the Palace—it was the least thing we could do. When we left, your wife and daughter were fast asleep, and we left strict instructions that they should not be disturbed.'

'The Palace?'

'We have ample room for guests, I assure you,' the Queen replied.

'Oh, Lord!' Ryan muttered.

'You have an objection?' the Duke asked.

'My little girl, she—'

'Olivia?' the Queen said, rather surprised. 'She's a lovely child. When we saw her last night she was sleeping like an angel.'

'Sally' — Olivia had been a peace offering to Cathy's family that hadn't worked; it was the name of her grandmother—'is a little angel, asleep, but when she wakes up she's more like a little tornado, and she's very good at breaking things. Especially valuable things.'

'What a dreadful thing to say!' Her Majesty feigned shock. 'That lovely little girl. The police told us that she broke hearts throughout Scotland Yard last evening. I fear you exaggerate, Sir John.'

'Yes, ma'am.' There was no arguing with a queen.

3 Flowers and Families

Wilson had been mistaken in his assessment. The escape had taken longer than anyone at the Yard had thought. Six hundred miles away, a Sabena flight was landing outside of Cork. The passenger in seat 23-D of the Boeing 737 was entirely unremarkable; his sandy hair was cut medium-close, and he was dressed like a middle- level executive in a neat but rumpled suit that gave the entirely accurate impression of a man who'd spent a long day on the job and gotten too little sleep before catching a flight home. An experienced traveler to be sure, with one carry-on flight bag. If asked, he could have given a convincing discourse on the wholesale fish business in the accent of Southwestern Ireland. He could change accents as easily as most men changed shirts; a useful skill, since TV news crews had made the patois of his native Belfast recognizable the world over. He read the London Times on the flight, and the topic of discussion in his seat row, as with the rest of the aircraft, was the story which covered the front page.

'A terrible thing, it is,' he'd agreed with the man in 23-E, a Belgian dealer in machine tools who could not have known how an event might be terrible in more than one way.

All the months of planning, the painstakingly gathered intelligence, the rehearsals carried out right under the Brit noses, the three escape routes, the radiomen—all for nothing because of this bloody meddler. He examined the photo on the front page.

Who are you, Yank? he wondered. John Patrick Ryan. Historian—a bloody academic! Ex-Marine—trust a damned bootneck to stick his nose where it doesn't belong! John Patrick Ryan. You're a bloody Catholic, aren't you? Well, Johnny nearly put paid on your account… too bad about Johnny. Good man Johnny was, dependable, loved his guns, and true to the Cause.

The plane finally came to a stop at the Jetway. Forward, the stewardess opened the door, and the passengers rose to get their bags from the overhead stowage. He got his, and joined the slow movement forward.