Dead or Alive

“Yeah, who’s this?” Whoever it was, he had access to Jack’s private line. There weren’t many of those.

“John Clark. Just got back from the UK day before yesterday.”

“John, how’re you doing? So they did it, huh? Sent the Yankee packing.”

“Afraid so. Anyway, Ding and I are home. Reason I called, well, maybe we both owe you a courtesy call. Is it okay?”

“Hell, yes. Come on over for lunch. Tell me when.”

“Maybe an hour and a half?”

“Okay, lunch is fine. See you about eleven?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The name’s still Jack, remember?”

Clark chuckled. “I’ll try to remember.”

And the phone went dead. Ryan switched lines and beeped Andrea.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Two friends coming over about eleven. John Clark and Domingo Chavez. Remember ’em?”

“Yes, sir. Okay, I’ll put them on the list,” she replied in a studiously neutral voice. These two people, she remembered, were of the dangerous sort, though they seemed loyal enough. As a special agent of the United States Secret Service, she trusted nobody at all. “For lunch?”

“Probably.”

It was a pleasant drive east on U.S. Route 50, then south before reaching Annapolis. Clark found that re-adapting to driving on the right side of the road after several years driving on the left was almost automatic. Evidently the programming of a lifetime easily overcame the adjustments he’d made in the UK, though he occasionally had to think about it. The green signs helped. The corresponding signs in England and Wales had been blue, and had been a convenient reminder that he’d been in a foreign land, albeit one with better beer.

“So what’s the plan?” Chavez asked.

“We tell him we’ve signed on.”

“And about Junior?”

“What you decide is up to you, Ding, but here’s how I see it: What father and son tell one another is their business, not ours. Jack Junior is an adult. What he does with his life is his business, and who he includes in that loop is his business, too.”

“Yeah, I hear you, but man, if he got hurt… Christ almighty, I wouldn’t want to be around for that shit storm.”

Neither would I, Clark thought.

“But then again, what could you have said?” Ding continued. “The man asks you to train him, you can’t hardly say no.”

“You got that right.” The truth was, Clark felt bad about not telling Ryan Senior-they went back a long way, after all, and he owed the former President a lot-but he’d built a big part of his life on keeping other people’s secrets. This was personal, of course, but Jack was a big boy with a decent head on his shoulders. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to convince Jack to tell his father about working at The Campus.

After forty minutes they turned right onto Peregrine Cliff Road, doubtless under TV surveillance from this point on, and Secret Service agents would be on their computers to check out his license plate numbers, then to determine that he was driving a rental car, and they couldn’t access Hertz’s computer quickly enough to identify the renter. That would get them slightly worried, though only in an institutional sense, something the USSS did well. Finally came the stone pillar that marked the entrance to Ryan’s quarter-mile driveway.

“Please identify,” said the remote-control voice in the pillar’s speaker.

“Rainbow Six inbound to see SWORDSMAN.”

“Proceed,” the voice replied, followed by an electronic tone and the hydraulic sound of the gate controls being told to open.

“You didn’t tell them about me,” Chavez objected.

“Just keep your hands in the open.” Clark chuckled.

Andrea Price-O’Day stood on the porch as they drove up. The detail chief herself, Clark noted. Maybe they thought he was important. Being a friend of the boss had its uses.

“Hello, Chief,” she said in greeting.

She likes me? Clark thought. Only his friends called him Chief.

“Good morning, ma’am. How’s the boss doing?”

“Working on his book, like always,” Andrea answered. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” He took her offered hand. “You know Domingo, I believe.”

“Oh, sure. How’s the family?”

“Great. Glad to be home. Got another one on the way, too.”

“Congratulations!”

“How’s he doing?” Clark asked next. “Climbing the walls?”

“Go see for yourself.” Andrea opened the front door.

They’d both been here before, the large open living room, the Potlatch decking that formed the ceiling, and the large expanse of windows revealing the Chesapeake Bay, plus Cathy’s Steinway grand piano, which she probably played every other day. Andrea led them up the carpeted steps, right to Ryan’s library/office, and left.

They found Ryan tapping on his keyboard with strokes heavy enough to kill one every two years or so. Ryan looked up as they entered.

“Heavy thoughts, Mr. President?” Clark asked with a smile.

“Hey, John! Howdy, Ding. Welcome!” Steps were taken and handshakes exchanged. “Sit down and take a load off,” Jack commanded, and his orders were followed. Old friend or not, he was a former President of the United States, and they’d both worn uniforms in the not-so-distant past.

“Glad to see you’re in one piece,” Clark said.

“What, Georgetown?” Ryan shook his head. “Not even a close call. Andrea dropped him as pretty as you please. With a tip-off from Jack, that is.”

“Come again?”

“He was there. He gave Andrea the nod. He spotted something about the janitor that didn’t sit right.”

“Such as?” asked Clark.

“He was using a screwdriver on a buffer; should have had a crescent.”

“Sharp kid,” Chavez observed. “Gotta make Dad proud.”

“Bet yer ass,” former President Ryan said, not hiding it. “Want some coffee?”

“That’s one thing they don’t do well in England, sir,” Chavez said in agreement. “They got Starbucks, but that doesn’t quite do it for me.”

“I’ll fix you up. Come on.” He rose and walked down to the kitchen, where there was a pot full of Kona and mugs close by. “So how was life in Britain?”

“Good people. Our base was out near the Welsh border-nice people out there, good pubs, and the local food was pretty good. I especially like their bread,” Clark reported. “But they think corned beef is something that comes out of a can.”

Ryan laughed. “Yeah, dog food. I worked in London nearly three years, and I never found decent corned beef. They call it ‘salt beef,’ but it isn’t quite the same. Rotated out of Rainbow, huh?”

“I guess we just wore out our welcome,” Clark said.

“Who’d you leave behind?” President Ryan asked.

“Two go-teams, all trained up, about half SAS members from the British Army. They’re pretty good,” Clark assured him. “But the other European contingents are backing off. Too bad. Some of them were ace operators. The intel backup is also pretty well up to snuff. Rainbow will still work, if they let it. But the local-by which I mean mainly European-bureaucrats, they kinda wet their pants when my boys deploy.”

“Yeah, well, we have them here, too,” Ryan replied. “Kinda makes you wonder where Wyatt Earp went to.”

That got a chuckle from his guests.