Patriot Games

He tried to be philosophical about it. In his years as a 'player,' he'd seen iterations go awry for the most ridiculous of reasons. But this op was so important. So much planning. He shook his head as he tucked the paper under his arm. We'll just have to try again, that's all. We can afford to be patient. One failure, he told himself, didn't matter in the great scheme of things. The other side had been lucky this time. We only have to be lucky once. The men in the H-blocks weren't going anywhere.

What about Sean? A mistake to have taken him along. He'd helped plan the operation from the beginning. Sean knows a great deal about the Organization. He set that worry aside as he stepped off the aircraft. Sean would never talk. Not Sean, not with his girl in her grave these past five years, from a para's stray bullet.

He wasn't met, of course. The other men who had been part of the operation were already back, their equipment left behind in rubbish bins, wiped clean of fingerprints. Only he had the risk of exposure, but he was sure that this Ryan fellow hadn't got a good look at his face. He thought back again to be sure. No. The look of surprise on his face, the look of pain he'd seen there. The American couldn't have gotten much of a look—if he had, an identikit composite picture would be in the press already, complete with the moppy wig and fake glasses.

He walked out of the terminal building to the parking lot, his travel bag slung over his shoulder, searching in his pocket for the keys that had set off the airport metal detector in Brussels—what a laugh that was! He smiled for the first time in nearly a day. It was a clear, sunny day, another glorious Irish fall it was. He drove his year-old BMW—a man with a business cover had to have a full disguise, after all—down the road to the safehouse. He was already planning two more operations. Both would require a lot of time, but time was the one thing he had in unlimited quantity.

It was easy enough to tell when it was time for another pain medication. Ryan was unconsciously flexing his left hand at the far end of the cast. It didn't reduce the pain, but did seem to move it about somewhat as the muscles and tendons changed place slightly. It bothered his concentration however much he tried to shut it out. Jack remembered all the TV shows in which the detective or otherwise employed hero took a round in the shoulder but recovered fully in time for the last commercial. The human shoulder—his, at any rate—was a solid collection of bones that bullets—one bullet—all too easily broke. As the time for another medication approached it seemed that he could feel every jagged edge of every broken bone grating against its neighbor as he breathed, and even the gentle tapping of his right-hand fingers on the keyboard seemed to ripple across his body to the focus of his pain until he had to stop and watch the wall clock—for the first time he wanted Kittiwake to appear with his next installment of chemical bliss.

Until he remembered his fear. The pain of his back injury had made his first week at Bethesda a living hell. He knew that his present injury paled by comparison, but the body does not remember pain, and the shoulder was here and now. He forced himself to remember that pain medications had made his back problem almost tolerable… except that the doctors had gotten just a little too generous with his dosages. More than the pain, Ryan dreaded withdrawal from morphine sulphate. That had lasted a week, the wanting that seemed to draw his entire body into some vast empty place, someplace where his innermost self found itself entirely alone and needing… Ryan shook his head. The pain rippled through his left arm and shoulder and he forced himself to welcome it. I'm not going to go through that again. Never again.

The door opened. It wasn't Kittiwake—the med was still fourteen minutes away. Ryan had noticed a uniform outside the door when it had opened before. Now he was sure. A thirtyish uniformed officer came in with a floral arrangement and he was followed by another who was similarly loaded. A scarlet and gold ribbon decorated the first, a gift from the Marine Corps, followed by another from the American Embassy.

'Quite a few more, sir,' one uniformed officer said.

'The room isn't all that big. Can you give me the cards and spread these around some? I'm sure there's people around who'd like them.' And who wants to live in a jungle? Within ten minutes Ryan had a pile of cards, notes, and telegrams. He found that reading the words of others was better than reading his own when it came to blocking out the ache of his damaged shoulder.

Kittiwake arrived. She gave the flowers only a fleeting glance before administering Ryan's medication, and hustled out with scarcely a word. Ryan learned why five minutes later.

His next visitor was the Prince of Wales. Wilson snapped to his feet again, and Jack wondered if the kid's knees were tiring of this. The med was already working. His shoulder was drifting farther away, but along with this came a slight feeling of lightheadedness as from a couple of stiff drinks. Maybe that was part of the reason for what happened next.

'Howdy.' Jack smiled. 'How are you feeling, sir?'

'Quite well, thank you.' The answering smile contained no enthusiasm. The Prince looked very tired, his thin face stretched an extra inch or so, with a lingering sadness around the eyes. His shoulders drooped within the conservative gray suit.

'Why don't you sit down, sir?' Ryan invited. 'You look as though you had a tougher night than I did.'

'Yes, thank you, Doctor Ryan.' He made another attempt to smile. It failed. 'And how are you feeling?'

'Reasonably well, Your Highness. And how is your wife—excuse me, how is the Princess doing?'

The Prince's words did not come easily, and he had trouble looking up to Ryan from his chair. 'We both regret that she could not come with me. She's still somewhat disturbed—in shock, I believe. She had a very… bad experience.'

Brains splattered over her face. I suppose you might call that a bad experience. 'I saw. I understand that neither of you was physically injured, thank God. I presume your child also?'

'Yes, all thanks to you, Doctor.'

Jack tried another one-armed shrug. The gesture didn't hurt so much this time. 'Glad to help, sir—I just wish I hadn't got myself shot in the process.' His attempt at levity died on his lips. He'd said the wrong thing in the wrong way. The Prince looked at Jack very curiously for a moment, but then his eyes went flat again.

'We would all have been killed except for you, you know—and on behalf of my family and myself—well, thank you. It's not enough just to say that—' His Highness went on, then halted again and struggled to find a few more words. 'But it's the best I can manage. I wasn't able to manage very much yesterday, come to that,' he concluded, staring quietly at the foot of the bed.

Aha! Ryan thought. The Prince stood and turned to leave. What do I do now?

'Sir, why don't you sit down and let's talk this one over for a minute, okay?'

His Highness turned back. For a moment he looked as though he would say something, but the drawn face changed again and turned away.

'Your Highness, I really think…' No effect. I can't let him go out of here like this. Well, if good manners won't work—Jack's voice became sharp.

'Hold it!' The Prince turned with a look of great surprise. 'Sit down, goddammit!' Ryan pointed to the chair. At least I have his attention now. I wonder if they can take a knighthood back…

By this time the Prince flushed a bit. The color gave his face life that it had lacked. He wavered for a moment, then sat with reluctance and resignation.

'Now,' Ryan said heatedly, 'I think I know what's eating at you, sir. You feel bad because you didn't do a John Wayne number yesterday and handle those gunmen all by yourself, right?' The Prince didn't nod or make any other voluntary response, but a hurt expression around his eyes answered the question just as surely.

'Aw, crap!' Ryan snorted. In the corner, Tony Wilson went pale as a ghost. Ryan didn't blame him.

'You oughta have better sense… sir,' Ryan added hastily. 'You've been through the service schools, right? You've qualified as a pilot, parachuted out of airplanes, and even had command of your own ship?' He got a nod. Time to step it up. 'Then you've got no excuse, you damned well ought to have better sense than to think like that! You're not really that dumb, are you?'

'What exactly do you mean?' A trace of anger, Ryan thought. Good.

'Use your head. You've been trained to think this sort of thing out, haven't you? Let's critique the exercise.