as hell would, when he got it all back together. He was sure of that, or told himself that he was, though a distant part of his mind was less sure and announced the fact to a consciousness that preferred not to listen. He tried to cut back on the drinking, but with the reduced demands he could, he decided, get a little more sleep, and the wine helped him sleep. In the spring, when things warmed up, he'd get back into a healthier routine. Yeah, that was it. He'd jog. He'd take the time at work, at lunch he'd get outside with the rest of the local sweat squad and run around the perimeter road inside the CIA enclosure. Clark would be a good trainer for this. Clark was a rock. Better him than Chavez, who was disgustingly fit and singularly unsympathetic to those who failed to keep in good shape — doubtless a carryover from his time in the infantry, Ryan thought. Ding would learn as he got closer to thirty. That number was the great equalizer, when you stopped being young and had to face the fact that everything had limits.
Christmas could have gone better, he thought, sitting at his desk. But it had been in the middle of the week, which meant that the kids were home two full weeks It also meant that Cathy had to miss time at work, and that was a little hard on her. She liked her work, and as much as she loved the kids, and as fine a mother as she was, she resented the time away from Hopkins and her patients. Strictly speaking, it wasn't fair for her, Jack admitted to himself She, too, was a professional and a fine one, despite which she was the one who always got tapped with kid duty while he never got relief from his work. But there were thousands of eye surgeons, and even a few hundred professors of eye surgery, but there was only one DDCI, and that was that. Not fair, perhaps, but a fact.
So much the better if he were able to accomplish something, Ryan told himself. Letting Elizabeth Elliot handle that damned newsie had been a mistake Not that he'd expected much else from Marcus Cabot. The man was a drone. It really was that simple. He enjoyed the prestige that went with his post, but he didn't do anything. Ryan got most of the work, none of the credit, and all of the blame. Maybe that would change. He had the Mexican operation fully in hand, had taken that over entirely from the Directorate of Operations, and, by God, he'd get the credit for this. Maybe then things would get better. He pulled out the file for the operation and decided that he'd go over every detail, check every possible contingency. This one would work, and he'd make those White House bastards respect him.
“Go to your room!” Cathy shouted at Little Jack. Both an order and an admission of failure. Then she walked out of the room, tears in her eyes. She was acting stupidly, shouting at the kids when she should be confronting her own husband. But how! What could she say? What if — what if it were true? Then what? She kept telling herself that it couldn't be, but that was too hard to believe. How else to explain it? Jack had never failed at anything in his life. She remembered with pride the fact that he'd risked his life for her and the children. She'd been terrified, the breath frozen in her throat, walking along the beach, watching her man advance towards men with guns with his life and others in the balance. How could a man who had done that betray his own wife? It didn't make any sense.
But what other explanation was there? Didn't he find her exciting anymore? If so, why not? Wasn't she pretty enough? Didn't she do everything — and more — that a wife could? The simple rejection was bad enough — but to be set aside, to know that his energy and vigor was serving some other, unknown woman with cheap perfume was more than she could bear.
She had to confront him, had to get it into the open, had to find out.
How? she asked herself. That was the question. Could she discuss it with someone at Hopkins… a psychiatrist, perhaps? Get professional advice…?
And risk having it get out, risk having her shame widely known? Caroline Ryan, Associate Professor, pretty, bright Cathy Ryan can't even hold onto her own husband? What do you suppose she did wrong? her friends would whisper when she was elsewhere. Sure, they'd all say that it couldn't be her fault, but then they'd pause and look embarrassed, and after a moment they'd wonder aloud what she might have done differently, why she hadn't noticed the signals, because, after all, a failed marriage was rarely the work of a single partner, and Jack wasn't really the sort to play around, was he? The embarrassment of it would be worse than anything in her life, she thought, forgetting for the moment times that had been far worse.
It didn't make any sense. But she didn't know what to do about it, though at the same time she knew that doing nothing was probably the worst thing of all. Was it all a trap? Did she have any choices at all?
“What's the matter, Mommy?” Sally asked, a Barbie in her hands.
“Nothing, honey, just leave Mommy alone for a while, okay?”
“Jack says he's sorry and can he come out of his room?”
“Yes, if he promises to be good.”
“Okay!” Sally ran out of the room.
Was it that simple? Cathy wondered. She could forgive him almost anything. Could she forgive him this? Not because she would want to forgive him. Because there was more to it than her pride. There were also kids, and kids needed a father, even a neglectful one. Was her pride more important than their needs? The other side of that — what sort of household would they have if Mom and Dad didn't get along? Wasn't that even more destructive? After all, she could always find…
… another Jack?
She started crying again. She cried for herself, for her own inability to make a decision, for the injury to her character. It was the sort of weeping that did nothing for the problem, except make it worse. Part wanted him gone. Part wanted him back. No part knew what to do.
“You understand that this is strictly confidential,” the investigator said, rather than asked. The man before him was short and overweight, with soft, pink hands. The Bismarck mustache was obviously an affectation to make him look manly. In fact he didn't look terribly impressive at all, until you took a close look at his face. Those dark eyes didn't miss a thing.
“Doctors are accustomed to confidentiality,” Bernie Katz replied, handing the credentials back. “Make it fast. I have rounds in twenty minutes.”
The investigator thought that his assignment did have a certain elegance to it, though he wasn't sure that he approved. The problem was that playing around wasn't exactly a felony, though it did usually disqualify a man from a high security clearance. After all, if a man could break a promise made in a church, then why not one made merely on paper?
Bernie Katz leaned back, waiting as patiently as he was able, which wasn't very patient. He was a surgeon, accustomed to doing things and making his own decisions, not waiting for others. One hand twirled at his mustache as he rocked in the chair.
“How well do you know Dr. Caroline Ryan?”
“Cathy? I've worked with her on and off for eleven years.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“She's a brilliant surgeon, technically speaking, exceptional judgment, superbly skilled. She's one of the best instructors we have on staff. She's also a good friend. What seems to be the problem here?” Katz' s eyes narrowed on his visitor.
“Sorry, I'm the guy asking the questions.”
“Yeah, I can tell. Get on with it,” Katz said coldly, examining the man, watching body language, expression, demeanor. He didn't like what he saw.
“Has she made any comments lately… I mean, trouble at home, that sort of thing?”
“You do understand, I hope, that I am a physician, and things said to me are privileged.”
“Is Cathy Ryan your patient?” the man asked.
“I've examined her in the past. We all do that here.”
“Are you a psychiatrist?”
Katz nearly growled back an answer. Like most surgeons, he had a temper. “You know the answer to that.”
The investigator looked up from his notes and spoke matter-of-factly. “In that case privilege does not apply. Now, could you answer the question, please?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, she has made no such comments, to the best of my knowledge.”
