Patriot Games

his glass. The Englishman was surprised at the quality of the restaurant's cellar.

'This much you will tell me… ' Ashley said after the waiter left.

'They get very good information. So good, you would not believe it. And their information comes from your side of the Irish Sea, Mr. Ashley. We don't know who, and we don't know how. The lad who found out died, four years ago, you see.' Murphy sampled the broccoli. 'There, I told you the vegetables were fresh.'

'Four years?'

Murphy looked up. 'You don't know the story, then? That is a surprise, Mr. Ashley. Yes. His name was Mickey Baird. He worked closely with Kevin. He's the lad who—well, you can guess. He was talking with me over a jar in Derry and said that Kevin had a bloody good new intelligence source. Next day he was dead. The day after, Kevin managed to escape us by an hour. We haven't seen him since. If we find Kevin again, Mr. Ashley, we'll do your work for you, and leave the body for your SAS assassins to collect. Would that be fair enough, now? We cannot exactly tout to the enemy, but he's on our list, too, and if you manage to find the lad, and you don't wish to bring him in yourselves, we'll handle the job for you—assuming, of course, that you don't interfere with the lads who do the work. Can we agree on that?'

'I'll pass that along,' Ashley said. 'If I could approve it myself, I would. Mr. Murphy, I think we can believe you on this.'

'Thank you, Mr. Ashley. That wasn't so painful, was it?' Dinner was excellent.

4 Players

Ryan tried to blink away the blue dots that swirled around his eyes as the television crews set up their own lights. Why the newspaper photographers couldn't wait for the powerful TV lights, he didn't know, and didn't bother asking. Everyone was kind enough to ask how he felt—but nothing short of respiratory arrest would have gotten them out of the room.

It could have been worse, of course. Dr. Scott had told the newspeople rather forcefully that his patient needed rest to recover speedily, and Nurse Kittiwake was there to glower at the intruders. So press access to Ryan was being limited to no more than the number of people who would fit into his room. This included the TV crew. It was the best sort of bargain Jack could get. The cameramen and sound technicians took up space that would otherwise be occupied by more inquisitorial reporters.

The morning papers—Ryan had been through the Times and the Daily Telegraph—had carried reports that Ryan was a former (or current) employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, something that was technically not true, and that Jack had not expected to become public in any case. He found himself remembering what the people at Langley said about leaks, and how pleased they'd been with his offhand invention of the Canary Trap. A pity they couldn't use it in my case, Ryan told himself wryly. I really need this complication to my life, don't I? For crying out loud, I turned their offer down. Sort of.

'All ready here,' the lighting technician said. A moment later he proved this was true by turning on the three klieg lights that brought tears to Jack's squinted eyes.

'They are awfully bright, aren't they?' a reporter sympathized, while the still photographers continued to snap-and-whir away with their strobe-equipped Nikons.

'You might say that,' Jack replied. A two-headed mike was clipped to his robe.

'Say something, will you?' the sound man asked.

'And how are you enjoying your first trip to London, Doctor Ryan?'

'Well, I better not hear any complaints about how American tourists are staying away due to panic over the terrorism problem!' Ryan grinned. You jerk.

'Indeed,' the reporter laughed. 'Okay?'

The cameraman and sound man pronounced themselves ready. Ryan sipped at his tea and made certain that the ashtray was out of sight. One print journalist shared a joke with a colleague. A TV correspondent from NBC was there, along with the London correspondent of the Washington Post, but all the others were British. Everything would be pooled with the rest of the media, it had been agreed. There just wasn't room here for a proper press conference. The camera started rolling tape.

They ran through the usual questions. The camera turned to linger on his arm, hanging from its overhead rack. They'd run that shot with the voice-over of Jack's story on when he was shot, he was sure. Nothing like a little drama, as he'd already been told. He wiggled his fingers for the camera.

'Doctor Ryan, there are reports in the American and British press that you are an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency.'

'I read that this morning. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to anyone else.' Ryan smiled. 'Somebody made a mistake. I'm not good-looking enough to be a spy.'

'So you deny that report?' asked the Daily Mirror.

'Correct. It's just not true. I teach history at the Naval Academy, in Annapolis. That ought to be easy enough to check out. I just gave an exam last week. You can ask my students.' Jack waved his left hand at the camera again.

'The report comes from some highly placed sources,' observed the Post.

'If you read a little history, you'll see that highly placed folks have been known to make mistakes. I think that's what happened here. I teach. I write books. I lecture—okay, I did give a lecture at CIA once, but that was just a repeat of one I delivered at the Naval War College and one other symposium. It wasn't even classified. Maybe that's where the report comes from. Like I said, check it out. My office is in Leahy Hall, at the Naval Academy. I think somebody just goofed.' Somebody goofed, all right. 'I can get you guys a copy of the lecture. It's no big deal.'

'How do you like being a public figure, now?' one of the Brit TV people asked.

Thanks for changing the subject. 'I think I can live without it. I'm not a movie star, either—again, not good-looking enough.'

'You're far too modest, Doctor Ryan,' a female reporter observed.

'Please be careful how you say that. My wife will probably see this.' There was general laughter. 'I suppose I'm good-looking enough for her. That's enough. With all due respect, ladies and gentlemen, I'll be perfectly glad to descend back into obscurity.'

'Do you think that likely?'

'That depends on how lucky I am, ma'am. And on whether you folks will let me.'

'What do you think we should do with the terrorist, Sean Miller?' the Times asked.

'That's for a judge and jury to decide. You don't need me for that.'

'Do you think we should have capital punishment?'

'We have it where I live. For your country, that is a question for your elected representatives. We both live in democracies, don't we? The people you elect are supposed to do what the voters ask them to do.' Not that it always works that way, but that's the theory…

'So you support the idea?' the Times persisted.

'In appropriate cases, subject to strict judicial review, yes. Now you're going to ask me about this case, right? It's a moot point. Anyway, I'm no expert on criminal justice. My dad was a cop but I'm just a historian.'

'And what of your perspective, as an Irish-American, on the Troubles?' the Telegraph wanted to know.

'We have enough problems of our own in America without having to borrow yours.'

'So you say we should solve it, then?'

'What do you think? Isn't that what problems are for?'

'Surely you have a suggestion. Most Americans do.'

'I think I teach history. I'll let other people make it. It's like being a reporter.' Ryan smiled. 'I get to criticize people long after they make their decisions. That doesn't mean I know what to do today.'

'But you knew what to do on Tuesday,' the Times pointed out. Ryan