Patriot Games

staring at Ryan impassively over its daggerlike nose.

'I wish the Bureau would let me commute back and forth on that baby,' Murray observed.

'It's pretty!' Sally Ryan agreed.

It's just another goddamned airplane. Jack told himself. You can't see what holds it up. Jack didn't remember whether it was Bernoulli's Principle or the Venturi Effect, but he knew that it was something inferred, not actually seen, that enabled aircraft to fly. He remembered that something had interrupted the Principle or Effect over Crete and nearly killed him, and that nineteen months later that same something had reached up and killed his parents five thousand feet short of the runway at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport. Intellectually he knew that his Marine helicopter had died of a mechanical failure, and that commercial airliners were simpler and easier to maintain than CH-46s. He also knew that bad weather had been the main contributing factor in his parents' case—and the weather here was clear—but to Ryan there was something outrageous about flying, something unnatural.

Fine, Jack. Why not go back to living in caves and hunting bear with a pointed stick? What's natural about teaching history, or watching TV, or driving a car? Idiot.

But I hate to fly, Ryan reminded himself.

'There has never been an accident in the Concorde,' Murray pointed out. 'And Jimmy Owens's troops gave the bird a complete checkout.' The possibility of a bomb on that pretty white bird was a real one. The explosives experts from C-13 had spent over an hour that morning making sure that nobody had done that, and now police dressed as British Airways ground crewmen stood around the airliner. Jack wasn't worried about a bomb. Dogs could find bombs.

'I know,' Jack replied with a wan smile. 'Just a basic lack of guts on my part.'

'It's only lack of guts if you don't go, ace,' Murray pointed out. He was surprised that Ryan was so nervous, though he concealed it well, the FBI agent thought. Murray enjoyed flying. An Air Force recruiter had almost convinced him to become a pilot, back in his college days.

No, it's lack of brains if I do, Jack told himself. You really are a wimp, another part of his brain informed him. Some Marine you turned out to be!

'When do we blast off, Daddy?' Sally asked.

'One o'clock,' Cathy told her daughter. 'Don't bother Daddy.'

Blast off. Jack thought with a smile. Dammit, there is nothing to be afraid of and you know it! Ryan shook his head and sipped at his drink from the complimentary bar. He counted four security people in the lounge, all trying to look inconspicuous. Owens was taking no chances on Ryan's last day in England. The rest was up to British Airways. He wasn't even being billed for the extra cost. Ryan wondered if that was good luck or bad.

A disembodied female voice announced the flight. Jack finished off the drink and rose to his feet.

'Thanks for everything, Dan.'

'Can we go now, Daddy?' Sally asked brightly. Cathy took her daughter's hand.

'Wait a minute!' Murray stooped down to Sally. 'Don't I get a hug and a kiss?'

'Okay.' Sally obliged with enthusiasm. 'G'bye, Mr. M'ray.'

'Take good care of our hero,' the FBI man told Cathy.

'He'll be all right,' she assured him.

'Enjoy the football, ace!' Murray nearly crushed Jack's hand. 'That's the one thing I really miss.'

'I can send you tapes.'

'It's not the same. Back to teaching history, eh?'

'That's what I do,' Ryan said.

'We'll see,' Murray observed cryptically. 'How the hell do you walk with that thing on?'

'Badly,' Ryan chuckled. 'I think the doc installed some lead weights, or maybe he left some tools in there by mistake. Well, here we are.' They reached the entrance to the Jetway.

'Break a leg.' Murray smiled and moved off.

'Welcome aboard, Sir John,' a flight attendant said. 'We have you in 1-D. Have you flown Concorde before?'

'No.' It was all Jack could muster. Ahead of him, Cathy turned and grinned. The tunnel-like Jetway looked like the entrance to the grave.

'Well, you are in for the thrill of your life!' the stewardess assured him.

Thanks a lot! Ryan nearly choked at the outrage, and remembered that he couldn't strangle her with one hand. Then he laughed. There wasn't anything else to do.

He had to duck to avoid crunching his head at the door. It was tiny inside; the cabin was only eight or nine feet across. He looked forward quickly and saw the flight crew in impossibly tight quarters—getting into the pilot's left seat must have been like putting on a boot, it seemed so cramped. Another attendant was hanging up coats. He had to wait until she saw him, and walked sideways, his plaster-encased arm leading the way into the passenger cabin.

'Right here,' his personal guide said.

Jack got into the right-side window seat in the front row. Cathy and Sally were already in their seats on the other side. Jack's cast stuck well over seat 1-C. No one could have sat there. It was just as well that British Airways wasn't charging the difference between this and their L-1011 tickets; there would have been an extra seat charge. He immediately tried to snap on his seat belt and found that it wasn't easy with only one hand. The stewardess was ready for this, and handled it for him.

'You are quite comfortable?'

'Yes,' Jack lied. I am quite terrified.

'Excellent. Here is your Concorde information kit.' She pointed toward a gray vinyl folder. 'Would you like a magazine?'

'No thank you I have a book in my pocket.'

'Fine. I'll be back after we take off, but if you need anything, please ring.'

Jack pulled the seat belt tighter as he looked forward and left at the airplane's door. It was still open. He could still escape. But he knew he wouldn't do that. He leaned back. The seat was gray, too, a little on the narrow side but comfortable. His placement in the front row gave him all the legroom he needed. The airplane's inside wall—or whatever they called it—was off-white, and he had a window to look out of. Not a very large one, about the size of two paperback books, but better than no window at all. He looked around. The flight was about three- quarters full. These were seasoned travelers, and wealthy ones. Business types mostly. Jack figured, many were reading their copies of the Financial Times. And none of them were afraid of flying. You could tell from their impassive faces. It never occurred to Jack that his face was set exactly the same.

'Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Nigel Higgins welcoming you aboard British Airways Flight 189, Concorde Service to Washington, D.C., and Miami, Florida. We'll begin taxiing in approximately five minutes. Weather at our first stop, Washington's Dulles International Airport, is excellent, clear, with a temperature of fifty- six degrees. We will be in the air a total of three hours and twenty-five minutes. Please observe that the no- smoking sign is lighted, and we ask that while you are seated you keep your seat belts fastened. Thank you,' the clipped voice concluded.

The door had been closed during the speech, Ryan noted sourly. A clever distraction, as their only escape route was eliminated. He leaned back and closed his eyes, resigning himself to fate. One nice thing about being up front was that no one could see him except Cathy—Sally had the window seat—and his wife understood, or at least pretended to. Soon the cabin crew was demonstrating how to put on and inflate life jackets stowed under the seats. Jack watched without interest. Concorde's perfect safety record meant that no one had the first idea on how to ditch one safely, and his position near the nose, so far from the delta-shaped wing, ensured that if they hit the water he'd be in the part of the fuselage that broke off and sank like a cement block. Not that this would matter. The impact itself would surely be fatal.

Asshole, if this bird was dangerous, they would have lost one by now.

The whine of the jet turbines came next, triggering the acid glands in Jack's stomach. He closed his eyes again. You can't run away. He commanded himself to control his breathing and relax. That was strangely easy. Jack had never been a white-knuckled flier. He was more likely to be limp.