Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Patriot Games
    Patriot Games
    Patriot Games
    Ebook755 pages11 hours

    Patriot Games

    By Tom Clancy

    4/5

    ()

    Switch to audiobook
    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Don't Miss the Original Series Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Starring John Krasinski!

    Tom Clancy reveals Jack Ryan’s origins in this electrifying #1 New York Times bestselling thriller that pits the former Marine turned family man against a vicious group of international terrorists.

    As an American in London on vacation with his family, Jack Ryan never imagined his quick thinking would prevent an assassination attempt on Britain’s royal family and earn him the gratitude of an entire nation—and the scorn of an ultra-left-wing faction of the IRA. Irish terrorist Sean Miller and his followers in the Ulster Liberation Army intend to make sure Ryan pays for his interference in blood. But he’s not the only one they’re after...

    With the lives of his pregnant wife and young daughter in mortal danger, Ryan accepts a role as a CIA analyst in order to find Miller and shut down the ULA. Going head to head with a ruthless terrorist is a fool’s errand, but Jack Ryan is the kind of man who will do whatever it takes to protect his family.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Publishing Group
    Release dateJul 1, 1988
    ISBN9781101002391
    Author

    Tom Clancy

    Since the phenomenal worldwide success of ‘‘The Hunt for Red October’, his controversial, ground-breaking first novel, Tom Clancy has become one of the world’s fastest-selling thriller writers. Three of his novels have been made into highly successful films: ‘The Hunt for Red October’, ‘Patriot Games’ and ‘Clear and Present Danger’. He is also the author of several non-fiction books on military subjects, and the co-creator of the ‘Op-Centre’ series. He lives in Maryland, USA.

    Read more from Tom Clancy

    Related to Patriot Games

    Titles in the series (24)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    Suspense For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • UNLIMITED

      On the Oldest Road: U.S. 1, Robert Kramer, the Buick, and Me

      Nov 12, 2020

      The highway is a monument to the American lust for the hideous, the delight in ugliness for its own sake. The post On the Oldest Road: U.S. 1, Robert Kramer, the Buick, and Me appeared first on The Millions.

      10 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Time Traveller

      May 26, 2022

      Time Traveller
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Readers’ Letters

      Sep 20, 2023

      SIR: My mother, for one, was delighted that Gareth Neame chose Highclere Castle as the location for Downton Abbey (September issue). She was a teacher during the war, and her entire school was evacuated to Highclere. The awestruck reaction of a bunch

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Tricks Of The Trade

      Jan 16, 2022

      Tricks Of The Trade
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Reviews

      Oct 26, 2023

      Reviews
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Old Un’s Notes

      Oct 20, 2021

      The Old Un’s Notes
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Meryl Streep On Acting

      May 1, 2024

      Meryl Streep On Acting
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Readers’ Letters

      Nov 17, 2021

      SIR: I must applaud William Cook (Who was Blackie the donkey?, October issue) in maintaining the tradition of never allowing the facts to mar a good story. Don Mackay arrived at Jarandilla de la Vera first, not in the wake of Hugh Whittow of the Sun.

      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Lies Nostalgia Tells Us

      Jul 26, 2024

      The Lies Nostalgia Tells Us
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      TV, FILM & RADIO

      Oct 28, 2021

      TV, FILM & RADIO
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Chips, With Everything

      Oct 28, 2021

      Henry ‘Chips’ Channon: The Diaries 1938-43 edited by Simon Heffer (Hutchinson, £35) Christopher Pincher is Minister of State for Housing DIARIES ARE CAPTIVATING, they tell us so much about so much. They magic up the mood behind the headlines of the t

      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Best Books Of The Year

      Dec 13, 2023

      The Best Books Of The Year
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Author Goes Abroad

      Nov 23, 2023

      The Author Goes Abroad
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Cockroach Decade

      May 8, 2018

      They keep coming – novels, short stories, memoirs, journals, oral histories, documentaries and feature films that feed off the decade that goes by many names. Tom Wolfe called it the “Me Decade.” Martin Amis called it the “Joke Deca

      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Old Un's Notes

      Mar 6, 2024

      Oldie-readers will have a favourite screen role among the 40 or so played by Marlon Brando (1924-2004). Brando would have been 100 on 3rd April. There was the brutal New Orleans redneck Stanley Kowalski (pictured), bellowing ‘Stella-a-a-a-a-!’ up the

      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Francis Spufford Vividly Recreates an 18th-Century New York in ‘Golden Hill’

      Jul 26, 2018

      Dear Reader, envision that Village which grew upon the southern strand of that isle of Manhattoes: a Lenape settlement purchased for 60 guilders and named for Amsterdam, later to be acquired by gunships of King James, and her wooden-legged governor r

      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Letters

      Sep 9, 2021

      With regard to Nick Guitard’s letter pooh-poohing the possible existence of tiny aliens [FT405:71], I would like to make the following observations. David Bowie, may he rock on, once said that the Internet is like an alien being has landed and that w

      17 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      History

      Sep 18, 2024

      History
      13 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Day The King Was Killed

      Sep 8, 2022

      The Day The King Was Killed
      14 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Encounters

      Dec 23, 2020

      Encounters
      3 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Patriot Games

    4/5

    1,640 ratings30 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 1/5
      Not very interesting. The story in unlikely possible.
    • 4/5
      I first read Patriot Games 35 years ago, after being blown away by Hunt for Red October. I eagerly consumed each subsequent Tom Clancy novel until he pretty much ran out of things to write about, though, like Larry McMurtry, it didn’t stop him from churning out substandard offerings.

      Having pretty much run through my reading list, I elected to go back and reread the early Clancy novels, to see if they were as good as I remembered. I skipped Hunt for Red October, because I’ve seen the movie a dozen times and began with Red Storm Rising. I followed up with Patriot Games, despite having also seen the movie several times.

      Many of Clancy’s novels focus on military engagement and explanation of complex military equipment. This is certainly one of his greatest strengths. He is very knowledgeable and well trained in this area. This is not one of those works.

      The storyline of Patriot Games revolves around an Irish terrorist group, a more aggressive branch of the IRA. Jack Ryan, a Navy veteran and Annapolis professor stumbles upon and foils a plot to kidnap the Prince of Wales, his wife and child. In doing so, he earns the enmity of the terrorists.

      As mentioned above, Clancy shines in his description of action. This novel certainly has some of that. However, this is far more dialogue driven than Hunt for Red October or Red Storm Rising, and the simple fact is, much of the dialogue is just bad, at times silly. I remember back in the ‘80s calling friends “turkeys”, but hearing the term used repeatedly by Marines and others when speaking to each other certainly does not age well.

      Clancy tells a good story, sets the scene and describes action almost without peer. The more interpersonal, dialogue driven activity that takes place, the more his work suffers.
    • 4/5
      Quite different, especially the denouement, from the movie! All-in-all, and this is a rare statement from me, the movie was better. It was tighter and actually more action packed.

      I drive from DC to the Eastern Shore more than a dozen times a year, so I can easily envision the cliffs surrounding the Ryan home, but the ability to traverse the grounds to get to the house with all the bad actors (and good) with guns wasn't, for me, easily understandable. And getting a pregnant women just a few days (not weeks) away from childbirth was not too realistic.

      But. I'm glad I read it.
    • 4/5
      Guilty pleasure - a book to pass the time on a long journey or when you aren't feeling up for anything challenging.

      The later ones with Clark in are better reads, but this is the one to begin the series with imo.
    • 3/5
      Mixed feelings about this! While it did have a certain amount of action and suspense, which were exciting. There were quite a few parts in the book which were slightly boring.

      What is interesting is the inclusion of the viewpoints of both Jack Ryan and his team as well as that of the opposition. We are able to read and be a part of the action from both the sides.

      The main highlight of the book is definitely the last chapter, where all the tense action takes place and you are unable to keep the book down until you finish it!
    • 3/5
      One of the better Jack Ryan books, though not quite as good as Hunt for Red October.
    • 2/5
      Dit boek is de voorganger van [b:The Hunt for Red October|19691|The Hunt for Red October (Jack Ryan Universe, #4)|Tom Clancy|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1281995542s/19691.jpg|1112006], maar geschreven nadat boek is uitgekomen. Het figuur van Jack Ryan komt niet echt lekker overeen met die in 'Hunt'.

      Terwijl hij op vakantie is, redt Jack de Kroonprins van Engeland uit een hinderlaag, maar raakt zelf zwaar gewond. Zowel de Kroonprins als zijn vrouw en moeder raken onder de indruk van Jack en ze raken bevriend. Jack komt later in dienst van de CIA en heeft daarbij de hand in het oprollen van een gevaarlijke terroristen netwerk. Ondertussen zitten zijn vijanden niet stil en bereiden een aanslag op hem en zijn gezin voor. Cathy, Jacks vrouw, en hun dochter Sally raken ernstig gewond bij die aanslag, maar overleven dit allemaal.

      Tijdens een bezoek aan de Verenigde Staten bezoeken de Kroonprins en zijn vrouw de Ryan's, maar hun agenda is uitgelekt, en de terroristen proberen nogmaals toe te slaan. Ook dit keer lukt hen dit niet, en volgt een schietpartij met de beveiliging. Jack en zijn vrienden weten te ontvluchten naar de nabij gelegen marine-haven, achtervolgt door de terroristen.

      Sommige delen van het verhaal konden gemakkelijk uit het boek blijven. Zoals de hoofdstuk over de Concorde en Jack's vliegangst. Verder aardig verhaal. Meestal is het andersom, maar in dit geval vond ik de film beter.
    • 5/5
      This was a reread of a book I read when it first came out, and several times since then. It starts with a bang as Jack, on a working vacation in London with his family, witnesses a kidnapping attempt on the royal family. His instinctive reaction stopped the attack and put him in the bullseye of revenge.

      One of the things I enjoy most every time I read this book is the deft mixture of action, darkness, and humor. The opening attack sucks me into the story immediately, on the edge of my seat as Jack rushes into action. Clancy's descriptions are vivid enough that I can picture the events as they happen. The confusion at the scene felt realistic, and I could feel Jack's worry that he'd end up "stuck like a pig" when the good guys showed up. I always laugh at the scenes in the hospital as Jack deals with the doctors (including his wife) and other medical personnel. The scenes with various law enforcement personnel show Jack what he inadvertently got involved in and reveal his razor-sharp mind as he processes what he learns. The scenes with multiple members of the royal family are good, but my favorite is when he helps the prince work through his feelings about what happened. Though not particularly realistic, it is still a great scene.

      As the book continues we get the viewpoints of both the bad guys and the good guys. Jack and his family return home, secure in the knowledge that the bad guy is in jail and terrorists have never attacked on American soil. But the tension ramps up as the bad guy escapes and assorted good guys get a bad feeling about what might happen. Jack is lured into the CIA's sphere as he tries to get a handle on the group behind the attack. Their fears are realized when Jack's wife and daughter are nearly killed in an attack, and only luck prevents Jack from being attacked too. I ached for Jack as he dealt with his feelings of guilt and fear by getting more involved in the case. Jack goes through a lot of self-examination as he tries to reconcile his need for justice with the anger and desire for revenge that he also feels.

      The tension continues to build as the book follows the terrorists as they make plans for their next attack. The attention to detail was intriguing and as were the insights into the various players' motivations. At the same time we see the good guys as they try to assemble the pieces of the puzzle in time to stop whatever is planned.

      The final confrontation was a nail-biter. It started easy, with the royal visit and some amusing banter between Jack, Robby, and the prince. The chaos of the attack was described so vividly that I felt as though I was there. The escape by boat was exciting, and their arrival at the Academy was tense but also had a few lighter moments. The pursuit of the last of the bad guys had me on the edge of my seat until it was all over. Jack faced a crossroads in his life, and it was interesting to see how he handled it. I loved the ending.

      One of my favorite lines is as the Superintendent asks Robby who is aboard the ship: "Chief Znamirowski and the duty boat section, Captain Peters and some Marines, Doctor Ryan, and, uh, Captain Wales, sir, of the Royal Navy" "Is that where he is?..."
    • 5/5
      I saw the movie years ago, and I suppose that's why it took me so long to get around to reading the book--wanting to be able to take the book as it is, rather than remember the movie too clearly--but I really enjoyed this and wish I'd gotten around to it sooner. Yes, the technology is now a bit dated, but if you can pull yourself into the time of the book and enjoy it for what it is, it's a fantastic, character-driven escape filled with great characters and suspense.

      I'd certainly recommend it, and I look forward to reading more of the series sooner than later.
    • 4/5
      Very enjoyable novel about family, military culture, terrorism and the 1980s. One obvious plot whole was the way the secret service let the terrorists into the area they were guarding because they believed they were repair men. This would not happen then or now.
    • 4/5
      While in London on holiday with his wife and young daughter, Jack Ryan manages to foil a terrorist attack on the Prince of Wales and his family. Killing one of the attackers and subduing another does not endear Jack to the terrorists and he and his family become a potential target. Having dome some work previously with the CIA, which was well received, Jack requests to research the group that may be after him. As they are eager to recruit him on a full-time basis the CIA acquiesce to Jack’s wishes to see if he can find anything worthwhile in the scant information that they have accumulated so far.

      On the back of watching the recent TV series I remembered that I still had this book on my tbr shelves. I’d also enjoyed the movie adaptation of this story and as it had been some time since I’d read other works in the series I thought I’d dip my toe back in the water. Right from the outset this is a thrilling, action-packed, roller coaster of a story. Of course there are some quiet moments along the way for the reader to catch their breath but the 600+ pages actually flew by. As the world has moved on from when the IRA was the major terrorist concern the book has now become a little dated but it doesn’t detract from the action or story,
    • 3/5
      I have started to read this book mainly because after I played a couple of games that take Tom Clancy's name, I became interested to know what sort of stories he told in his books. After doing a bit of research on the main themes, the focus on the Cold War, secret services and military themes sounded very promising. I mean, if dozens of games and movies based on Tom Clancy's books were released, one would suppose that they did have something to catch your interest, no?
      Unfortunately, I think that I expected too much from his older book and Patriot Games ended up not captivating me very much. Maybe I was expecting something more thrilling and a better elaborated plot, but it really, really, felt like watching cliché action movies with several moments of tedious nothingness. I mean, literally, during more than half of the book, absolutely NOTHING happens. And it really saddened me, because the first, say, 20 pages of the book were absolutely awesome, with a lot of action. It was naive of me to think that this rhythm was going to be kept through the more than 500 pages of the book. Of course, Patriot Games does have its share of frenetic action, but the interval between them is so long that the investigation parts didn't really hold my interest for too long. After a while, I started to think that the good parts of the book were actually the romantic scenes between Jack and Cathy.
      There are tons of characters in the book and I find it amazing that pretty much all of them have a military background. Okay, Jack was once a Mariner, it should be kinda obvious that most of his contacts had a common background. But if you look carefully, there is not a single character in the book (besides the women) who doesn't have a military background, and the "coincidences" really bothered me.
      The same goes for the multiple-view narrative. Clancy wanted to show both sides of the coin, but in the end, the villains were essentially evil people while all the other characters were support-good guys who praised Jack Ryan for his brave efforts in every single page. It was either this or Jack stating that "no, I'm nothing. You're the one who's awesome".

      I still want to give a second chance for other Tom Clancy's books. Maybe it's just the fact that this is one of the first books he ever wrote. I want to believe that his writing skills improved as time went by.
    • 2/5
      After reading & thoroughly enjoying Without Remorse I was looking forward to another immersive chapter in the Clark/Ryan series. Unfortunately I just couldn't seem to get into this one, the first 350 pages were tedious and just couldn't seem to hold my interest - finally about two thirds of the way through the plot lines come together and it picks up a bit, but still when over half the novel is dull it's hard to say it's a good book, or anything more than okay really.

      Detailed, well written, good subject knowledge, well researched, unique plot - yes. However it just didn't pull them all together into an enthralling story.
    • 5/5
      This is one of my favorites of Mr. Clancy's books. I can't tell you how many times I have re-read it. My copy is getting a bit dog-eared.
    • 5/5
      One of the best to clancy books out there. jack ryan stopping terrorist keeps you glued to this book. I would highly recommend this book
    • 5/5
      I read this when it first came out, back when I was in my thriller phase. It's my favorite Clancy book - probably because there's more to the characters than in his previous submarine books.Jack Ryan is a CIA analyst and ex-Marine who unintentionally gets caught in the fight for Northern Ireland. His actions foil an attempt by a factional group to kidnap a member of the royal family, and makes him a target of terrorists. Jack's family becomes the one in danger as the war crosses the Atlantic and ends up in his backyard--literally.Written in a time when the IRA was the most feared terrorist organization around, the book is dated. But that doesn't take away from the suspense. Of course, there is the movie version too, which does do a pretty good job of capturing the book.
    • 2/5
      I found this novel rather disappointing. Compared to [The Hunt for Red October], the storyline left a lot to be desired. Many parts of the book seemed to drag too long and the dialogue was rather uninteresting.
    • 5/5
      The author of "The Hunt for Red October" has produced another adventure thriller centred upon a scheme by the Ulster Liberation Army to kidnap the Prince of Wales. Jack Ryan with his Marine training foils this attempt but in the process becomes a target of Northern Ireland's most dangerous men.
    • 4/5
      The continuing adventures of Jack Ryan. I enjoyed this book but began to wonder how Jack could get into so much trouble so often.
    • 4/5
      A great book in all by one of Americas best war writters Tom Clancy. The book is powerful and strong and really shows the two sides of the England vs IRA and PIRA conflict and how he thinks they operate.
      Takes a large attention span too read and coupled with some more adult themes at parts is suggested for older more mature readers.
    • 3/5
      This book was fast-paced and thrilling...in places... and slow and ploddy in others. Some aspects were incredibly far fetched, and it is rather larger than life. I haven't seen the film, but I guess the same probably applies. Its an entertaining read for a rainy afternoon, but not really anything to get your teeth into.
    • 1/5
      I read The Hunt For Red October when challenged to read something I wouldn't usually read and found it surprisingly good. Patriot Games was my second (and last) try reading a Tom Clancy novel. Woah, was this bad! The characters are cardboard, the scenarios ridiculous -- the IRA invading Maryland?!?! Yeah, I couldn't suspend my disbelief for that one.
    • 3/5
      I'll do the same review for all Clancy's novels because they're all pretty much the same. Very long, very detailed, and after a while, very repetitive. If you stop after just a few of his books you'd probably give them 4 or 5 stars, but beyond that they start to grate. Especially where Jack Ryan is involved. I mean, Clancy spends hundreds of pages getting his details just right, the settings perfect etc., then he has Ryan dodging more bullets than James Bond! I finally threw my hands up and surrendered when Ryan becomes President. I can't remember what piece of crap that was in.

      I've given three stars as a compromise between my reactions when reading my first Clancy (brilliant) and last Clancy (doorstop).
    • 5/5
      The best of the Clancy books
    • 4/5
      A fast moving thriller, hard to put down. I like the IRA complication in this. Having read it long ago, I can be no more specific at this time.
    • 5/5
      This is my absolute favorite of Clancy's politial fiction -- perhaps because of the locations -- London, the house outside Boston, the glance into the midshipmen's lives at the naval academy, the hospital scenes; or it could be the action, the characters, the plot resolution; or maybe even that no one has tried to use this one to damage the US. Some of the others come a little too close to truth.
    • 4/5
      Yet another page turner from Clancy. This fast moving tale follows Jack Ryan as he tries to protect his family from the IRA. Exciting but not Clancy's best work. Worth the read.
    • 3/5
      The tension just never really got off the ground in this one. It has an interesting start, but there is no build up from there. The situation is interesting and plot interesting in a very dry sense, but I was just never really that interested in finding out what happens next. THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER is considerably better.
    • 4/5
      The bottom of my Clancy list. An interesting story but thank goodness we got back to the usual bad guys :)
    • 3/5
      Another good effort by Clancy

    Book preview

    Patriot Games - Tom Clancy

    CHAPTER ONE

    A SUNNY DAY IN LONDONTOWN

    Ryan was nearly killed twice in half an hour. He left the taxi a few blocks short of his destination. It was a fine, clear day, the sun already low in the blue sky. Ryan had been sitting for hours in a series of straight-back wooden chairs, and he wanted to walk a bit to work the kinks out. Traffic was relatively light on the streets and sidewalks. That surprised him, but he looked forward to the evening rush hour. Clearly these streets had not been laid out with automobiles in mind, and he was sure that the afternoon chaos would be something to behold. Jack’s first impression of London was that it would be a fine town to walk in, and he moved at his usual brisk pace, unchanged since his stint in the Marine Corps, marking time unconsciously by tapping the edge of his clipboard against his leg.

    Just short of the corner the traffic disappeared, and he moved to cross the street early. He automatically looked left, right, then left again as he had since childhood, and stepped off the curb—

    And was nearly crushed by a two-story red bus that screeched past him with a bare two feet to spare.

    Excuse me, sir. Ryan turned to see a police officer—they call them constables over here, he reminded himself—in uniform complete to the Mack Sennett hat. Please do be careful and cross at the corners. You might also mind the painted signs on the pavement to look right or left. We try not to lose too many tourists to the traffic.

    How do you know I’m a tourist? He would now, from Ryan’s accent.

    The cop smiled patiently. Because you looked the wrong way, sir, and you dress like an American. Please be careful, sir. Good day. The bobby moved off with a friendly nod, leaving Ryan to wonder what there was about his brand-new three-piece suit that marked him as an American.

    Chastened, he walked to the corner. Painted lettering on the blacktop warned him to LOOK RIGHT, along with an arrow for the dyslexic. He waited for the light to change, and was careful to stay within the painted lines. Jack remembered that he’d have to pay close attention to the traffic, especially when he rented the car Friday. England was one of the last places in the world where the people drove on the wrong side of the road. He was sure it would take some getting used to.

    But they did everything else well enough, he thought comfortably, already drawing universal observations one day into his first trip to Britain. Ryan was a practiced observer, and one can draw many conclusions from a few glances. He was walking in a business and professional district. The other people on the sidewalk were better dressed than their American counterparts would be—aside from the punkers with their spiked orange and purple hair, he thought. The architecture here was a hodgepodge ranging from Octavian Augustus to Mies van der Rohe, but most of the buildings had an old, comfortable look that in Washington or Baltimore would long since have been replaced with an unbroken row of new and soulless glass boxes. Both aspects of the town dovetailed nicely with the good manners he’d encountered so far. It was a working vacation for Ryan, but first impressions told him that it would be a very pleasant one nonetheless.

    There were a few jarring notes. Many people seemed to be carrying umbrellas. Ryan had been careful to check the day’s weather forecast before setting out on his research trip. A fair day had been accurately predicted—in fact it had been called a hot day, though temperatures were only in the upper sixties. A warm day for this time of year, to be sure, but hot? Jack wondered if they called it Indian summer here. Probably not. Why the umbrellas, though? Didn’t people trust the local weather service? Was that how the cop knew I was an American?

    Another thing he ought to have anticipated was the plethora of Rolls-Royces on the streets. He hadn’t seen more than a handful in his entire life, and while the streets were not exactly crowded with them, there were quite a few. He himself usually drove around in a five-year-old VW Rabbit. Ryan stopped at a newsstand to purchase a copy of the Economist, and had to fumble with the change from his cab fare for several seconds in order to pay the patient dealer, who doubtless also had him pegged for a Yank. He paged through the magazine instead of watching where he was going as he went down the street, and presently found himself halfway down the wrong block. Ryan stopped dead and thought back to the city map he’d inspected before leaving the hotel. One thing Jack could not do was remember street names, but he had a photographic memory for maps. He walked to the end of the block, turned left, proceeded two blocks, then right, and sure enough there was St. James’s Park. Ryan checked his watch; he was fifteen minutes early. It was downhill past the monument to a Duke of York, and he crossed the street near a longish classical building of white marble.

    Yet another pleasant thing about London was the profusion of green spaces. The park looked big enough, and he could see that the grass was tended with care. The whole autumn must have been unseasonably warm. The trees still bore plenty of leaves. Not many people around, though. Well, he shrugged, it’s Wednesday. Middle of the week, the kids were all in school, and it was a normal business day. So much the better, he thought. He’d deliberately come over after the tourist season. Ryan did not like crowds. The Marine Corps had taught him that, too.

    Daddee! Ryan’s head snapped around to see his little daughter running toward him from behind a tree, heedless as usual of her safety. Sally arrived with her customary thump against her tall father. Also as usual, Cathy Ryan trailed behind, never quite able to keep up with their little white tornado. Jack’s wife did look like a tourist. Her Canon 35mm camera was draped over one shoulder, along with the camera case that doubled as an oversized purse when they were on vacation.

    How’d it go, Jack?

    Ryan kissed his wife. Maybe the Brits don’t do that in public either, he thought. Great, babe. They treated me like I owned the place. Got all my notes tucked away. He tapped his clipboard. Didn’t you get anything? Cathy laughed.

    The shops here deliver. She smiled in a way that told him she’d parted with a fairish bit of the money they had allocated for shopping. And we got something really nice for Sally.

    Oh? Jack bent over to look his daughter in the eye. And what might that be?

    It’s a surprise, Daddy. The little girl twisted and giggled like a true four-year-old. She pointed to the park. Daddy, they got a lake with swans and peccalins!

    Pelicans, Jack corrected.

    Big white ones! Sally loved peccalins.

    Uh-huh, Ryan observed. He looked up to his wife. Get any good pictures?

    Cathy patted her camera. Oh, sure. London is already Canonized—or would you prefer that we spent the whole day shopping? Photography was Cathy Ryan’s only hobby, and she was good at it.

    Ha! Ryan looked down the street. The pavement here was reddish, not black, and the road was lined with what looked like beech trees. The Mall, wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember, and would not ask his wife, who’d been to London many times. The Palace was larger than he’d expected, but it seemed a dour building, three hundred yards away, hidden behind a marble monument of some sort. Traffic was a little thicker here, but moved briskly. What do we do for dinner?

    Catch a cab back to the hotel? She looked at her watch. Or we can walk.

    They’re supposed to have a good dining room. Still early, though. These civilized places make you wait until eight or nine. He saw another Rolls go by in the direction of the Palace. He was looking forward to dinner, though not really to having Sally there. Four-year-olds and four-star restaurants didn’t go well together. Brakes squealed off to his left. He wondered if the hotel had a baby-sitting—

    BOOM!

    Ryan jumped at the sound of an explosion not thirty yards away. Grenade, something in his mind reported. He sensed the whispering sound of fragments in the air and a moment later heard the chatter of automatic weapons fire. He spun around to see the Rolls turned crooked in the street. The front end seemed lower than it should be, and its path was blocked by a black sedan. There was a man standing at its right front fender, firing an AK-47 rifle into the front end, and another man was racing around to the car’s left rear.

    Get down! Ryan grabbed his daughter’s shoulder and forced her to the ground behind a tree, yanking his wife roughly down beside her. A dozen cars were stopped raggedly behind the Rolls, none closer than fifty feet, and these shielded his family from the line of fire. Traffic on the far side was blocked by the sedan. The man with the Kalashnikov was spraying the Rolls for all he was worth.

    Sonuvabitch! Ryan kept his head up, scarcely able to believe what he saw. It’s the goddamned IRA—they’re killing somebody right— Ryan moved slightly to his left. His peripheral vision took in the faces of people up and down the street, turning and staring, in each face the black circle of a shock-opened mouth. This is really happening! he thought, right in front of me, just like that, just like some Chicago gangster movie. Two bastards are committing murder. Right here. Right now. Just like that. "Son of a bitch!"

    Ryan moved farther left, screened by a stopped car. Covered by its front fender, he could see one man standing at the left rear of the Rolls, just standing there, his pistol hand extended as though expecting someone to bolt from the passenger door. The bulk of the Rolls screened Ryan from the AK gunner, who was crouched down to control his weapon. The near gunman had his back to Ryan. He was no more than fifty feet away. He didn’t move, concentrating on the passenger door. His back was still turned. Ryan would never remember making any conscious decision.

    He moved quickly around the stopped car, head down, keeping low and accelerating rapidly, his eyes locked on his target—the small of the man’s back—just as he’d been taught in high school football. It took only a few seconds to cover the distance, with Ryan’s mind reaching out, willing the man to stay dumb just a moment longer. At five feet Ryan lowered his shoulder and drove off both legs. His coach would have been proud.

    The blind-side tackle caught the gunman perfectly. His back bent like a bow and Ryan heard bones snap as his victim pitched forward and down. A satisfying klonk told him that the man’s head had bounced off the bumper on the way to the pavement. Ryan got up instantly—winded but full of adrenaline—and crouched beside the body. The man’s pistol had dropped from his hand and lay beside the body. Ryan grabbed it. It was an automatic of some sort he had never handled. It looked like a 9mm Makarov or some other East Bloc military issue. The hammer was back and the safety off. He fitted the gun carefully in his right hand—his left hand didn’t seem to be working right, but Ryan ignored that. He looked down at the man he’d just tackled and shot him once in the hip. Then he brought the gun up to eye level and moved to the right rear corner of the Rolls. He crouched lower still and peeked around the edge of the bodywork.

    The other gunman’s AK was lying on the street and he was firing into the car with his own pistol, something else in his other hand. Ryan took a deep breath and stepped from behind the Rolls, leveling his automatic at the man’s chest. The other gunman turned his head first, then swiveled off balance to bring his own gun around. Both men fired at the same instant. Ryan felt a fiery thump in his left shoulder and saw his own round take the man in the chest. The 9mm slug knocked the man backward as though from a hard punch. Ryan brought his own pistol down from recoil and squeezed off another round. The second bullet caught the man under the chin and exploded out the back of his head in a wet, pink cloud. Like a puppet with severed strings, the gunman fell to the pavement without a twitch. Ryan kept his pistol centered on the man’s chest until he saw what had happened to his head.

    Oh, God! The surge of adrenaline left him as quickly as it had come. Time slowed back down to normal, and Ryan found himself suddenly dizzy and breathless. His mouth was open and gasping for air. Whatever force had been holding his body erect seemed to disappear, leaving his frame weak, on the verge of collapse. The black sedan backed up a few yards and accelerated past him, racing down the street, then turning left up a side street. Ryan didn’t think to take the number. He was stunned by the flashing sequence of events with which his mind had still not caught up.

    The one he’d shot twice was clearly dead, his eyes open and surprised at fate, a foot-wide pool of blood spreading back from his head. Ryan was chilled to see a grenade in his gloved left hand. He bent down to ensure that the cotter pin was still in place on the wooden stick handle, and it was a slow, painful process to straighten up. Next he looked to the Rolls.

    The first grenade had torn the front end to shreds. The front wheels were askew, and the tires flat on the blacktop. The driver was dead. Another body was slumped over in the front seat. The thick windshield had been blasted to fragments. The driver’s face was—gone, a red spongy mass. There was a red smear on the glass partition separating the driver’s seat from the passenger compartment. Jack moved around the car and looked in the back. He saw a man lying prone on the floor, and under him the corner of a woman’s dress. He tapped the pistol butt against the glass. The man stirred for a moment, then froze. At least he was alive.

    Ryan looked at his pistol. It was empty, the slide locked back on a dry clip. His breath was coming in shudders now. His legs were wobbling under him and his hands were beginning to shake convulsively, which gave his wounded shoulder brief, sharp waves of intense pain. He looked around and saw something to make him forget that—

    A soldier was running toward him, with a police officer a few yards behind. One of the Palace guards, Jack thought. The man had lost his bearskin shako but still had an automatic rifle with a half-foot of steel bayonet perched on the muzzle. Ryan quickly wondered if the rifle might be loaded and decided it might be expensive to find out. This was a guardsman, he told himself, a professional soldier from a crack regiment who’d had to prove he had real balls before they sent him to the finishing school that made windup toys for tourists to gawk at. Maybe as good as a Sea Marine. How did you get here so fast?

    Slowly and carefully, Ryan held the pistol out at arm’s length. He thumbed the clip-release button, and the magazine clattered down to the street. Next he twisted the gun so that the soldier could see it was empty. Then he set it down on the pavement and stepped away from it. He tried to raise his hands, but the left one wouldn’t move. The guardsman all the time ran smart, head up, eyes tracing left and right but never leaving Ryan entirely. He stopped ten feet away with his rifle at low-guard, its bayonet pointed right at Jack’s throat, just like it said in the manual. His chest was heaving, but the soldier’s face was a blank mask. The policeman hadn’t caught up, his face bloody as he shouted into a small radio.

    At ease, Trooper, Ryan said as firmly as he could. It was not impressive. We got two bad guys down. I’m one of the good guys.

    The guardsman’s face didn’t change a whit. The boy was a pro, all right. Ryan could hear his thinking—how easy to stick the bayonet right out his target’s back. Jack was in no shape to avoid that first thrust.

    DaddeeDaddeeDaddee! Ryan turned his head and saw his little girl racing past the stalled cars toward him. The four-year-old stopped a few feet away from him, her eyes wide with horror. She ran forward to wrap both arms around her father’s leg and screamed up at the guardsman: Don’t you hurt my daddy!

    The soldier looked from father to daughter in amazement as Cathy approached more carefully, hands in the open.

    Soldier, she announced in her voice of professional command, I’m a doctor, and I’m going to treat that wound. So you can put that gun down, right now!

    The police constable grabbed the guardsman’s shoulder and said something Jack couldn’t make out. The rifle’s angle changed fractionally as the soldier relaxed ever so slightly. Ryan saw more cops running to the scene, and a white car with its siren screaming. The situation, whatever it was, was coming under control.

    You lunatic. Cathy surveyed the wound dispassionately. There was a dark stain on the shoulder of Ryan’s new suit jacket that turned the gray wool to purple-crimson. His whole body was shaking now. He could barely stand and the weight of Sally hanging on his leg was forcing him to weave. Cathy grabbed his right arm and eased him down to the pavement, sitting him back against the side of the car. She moved his coat away from the wound and probed gently at his shoulder. It didn’t feel gentle at all. She reached around to his back pocket for a handkerchief and pressed it against the center of the wound.

    That doesn’t feel right, she remarked to no one.

    Daddy, you’re all bloody! Sally stood an arm’s length away, her hands fluttering like the wings of a baby bird. Jack wanted to reach out to her, to tell her everything was all right, but the three feet of distance might as well have been a thousand miles—and his shoulder was telling him that things were definitely not all right.

    There were now about ten police officers around the car, many of them panting for breath. Three had handguns out, and were scanning the gathering crowd. Two more red-coated soldiers appeared from the west. A police sergeant approached. Before he could say anything Cathy looked up to bark an order.

    "Call an ambulance right now!"

    On the way, mum, the Sergeant replied with surprising good manners. Why don’t you let us look after that?

    I’m a doctor, she answered curtly. You have a knife?

    The Sergeant turned to remove the bayonet from the first guardsman’s rifle and stooped down to assist. Cathy held the coat and vest clear for him to cut away, then both cut the shirt free from his shoulder. She tossed the handkerchief clear. It was already blood-sodden. Jack started to protest.

    Shut up, Jack. She looked over to the Sergeant and jerked her chin toward Sally. Get her away from here.

    The Sergeant gestured for a guardsman to come over. The Private scooped Sally up in his arms. He took her a few feet away, cradling her gently to his chest. Jack saw his little girl crying pitifully, but somehow it all seemed to be very far away. He felt his skin go cold and moist—shock?

    Damn, Cathy said gruffly. The Sergeant handed her a thick bandage. She pressed it against the wound and it immediately went red as she tried to tie it in place. Ryan groaned. It felt as though someone had taken an ax to his shoulder.

    Jack, what the hell were you trying to do? she demanded through clenched teeth as she fumbled with the cloth ties.

    Ryan snarled back, the sudden anger helping to block out the pain. I didn’t try—I fucking did it! The effort required to say that took half his strength away with it.

    Uh-huh, Cathy grunted. Well, you’re bleeding like a pig, Jack.

    More men ran in from the other direction. It seemed that a hundred sirens were converging on the scene with men—some in uniform, some not—leaping out to join the party. A uniformed policeman with more ornate shoulder boards began to shout orders at the others. The scene was impressive. A separate, detached part of Ryan’s brain cataloged it. There he was, sitting against the Rolls, his shirt soaked red as though blood had been poured from a pitcher. Cathy, her hands covered with her husband’s blood, was still trying to arrange the bandage correctly. His daughter was gasping out tears in the arms of a burly young soldier who seemed to be singing to her in a language that Jack couldn’t make out. Sally’s eyes were locked on him, full of desperate anguish. The detached part of his mind found all this very amusing until another wave of pain yanked him back to reality.

    The policeman who’d evidently taken charge came up to them after first checking the perimeter. Sergeant, move him aside.

    Cathy looked up and snapped angrily: Open the other side, dammit, I got a bleeder here!

    The other door’s jammed, ma’am. Let me help. Ryan heard a different kind of siren as they bent down. The three of them moved him aside a foot or so, and the senior officer made to open the car door. They hadn’t moved him far enough. When the door swung open, its edge caught Ryan’s shoulder. The last thing he heard before passing out was his own scream of pain.

    •   •   •

    RYAN’S EYES FOCUSED slowly, his consciousness a hazy, variable thing that reported items out of place and out of time. For a moment he was inside a vehicle of some sort. The lateral movements of its passage rippled agony through his chest, and there was an awful atonal sound in the distance, though not all that far away. He thought he saw two faces he vaguely recognized. Cathy was there, too, wasn’t she—no, there were some people in green. Everything was soft and vague except the burning pain in his shoulder and chest, but when he blinked his eyes all were gone. He was someplace else again.

    The ceiling was white and nearly featureless at first. Ryan knew somehow that he was under the influence of drugs. He recognized the feelings, but could not remember why. It required several minutes of lazy concentration for him to determine that the ceiling was made of white acoustical tiles on a white metal framework. Some of the tiles were waterstained and served to give him a reference. Others were translucent plastic for the soft fluorescent lighting. There was something tied under his nose, and after a moment he began to feel a cool gas tracing into his nostrils—oxygen? His other senses began to report in one at a time. Expanding radially down from his head, they began to explore his body and reported reluctantly to his brain. Some unseen things were taped to his chest. He could feel them pulling at the hairs that Cathy liked to play with when she was drunk. His left shoulder felt . . . didn’t really feel at all. His whole body was far too heavy to move even an inch.

    A hospital, he decided after several minutes. Why am I in a hospital . . . ? It took an indeterminate period of concentration for Jack to remember why he was here. When it came to him, it was just as well that he could contemplate the taking of a human life from within the protective fog of drugs.

    I was shot, too, wasn’t I? Ryan turned his head slowly to the right. A bottle of IV fluids was hanging on a metal stand next to the bed, its rubber hose trailing down under the sheet where his arm was tied down. He tried to feel the prick of the catheter that had to be inside the right elbow, but couldn’t. His mouth was cottony dry. Well, I wasn’t shot on the right side. . . . Next he tried to turn his head to the left. Something soft but very firm prevented it. Ryan wasn’t able to care very much about it. Even his curiosity for his condition was a tenuous thing. For some reason his surroundings seemed much more interesting than his own body. Looking directly up, he saw a TV-like instrument, along with some other electronic stuff, none of which he could make out at the acute angle. EKG readout? Something like that, he decided. It all figured. He was in a surgical recovery room, wired up like an astronaut while the staff decided if he’d live or not. The drugs helped him to consider the question with marvelous objectivity.

    Ah, we’re awake. A voice other than the distant, muffled tone of the PA system. Ryan dropped his chin to see a nurse of about fifty. She had a Bette Davis face crinkled by years of frowns. He tried to speak to her, but his mouth seemed glued shut. What came out was a cross between a rasp and a croak. The nurse disappeared while he tried to decide what exactly the sound was.

    A man appeared a minute or so later. He was also in his fifties, tall and spare, dressed in surgical greens. There was a stethoscope hanging from his neck, and he seemed to be carrying something that Ryan couldn’t quite see. He seemed rather tired, but wore a satisfied smile.

    So, he said, we’re awake. How are we feeling? Ryan managed a full-fledged croak this time. The doctor—?—gestured to the nurse. She came forward to give Ryan a sip of water through a glass straw.

    Thanks. He sloshed the water around his mouth. It was not enough to swallow. His mouth tissues seemed to absorb it all at once. Where am I?

    You are in the surgical recovery unit of St. Thomas’s Hospital. You are recovering from surgery on your upper left arm and shoulder. I am your surgeon. My team and I have been working on you for, oh, about six hours now, and it would appear that you will probably live, he added judiciously. He seemed to regard Ryan as a successful piece of work.

    Rather slowly and sluggishly Ryan thought to himself that the English sense of humor, admirable as it might otherwise be, was a little too dry for this sort of situation. He was composing a reply when Cathy came into view. The Bette Davis nurse moved to head her off.

    I’m sorry, Mrs. Ryan, but only medical person—

    I’m a doctor. She held up her plastic ID card. The man took it.

    Wilmer Eye Institute, Johns Hopkins Hospital. The surgeon extended his hand and gave Cathy a friendly, colleague-to-colleague smile. How do you do, Doctor? My name is Charles Scott.

    That’s right, Ryan confirmed groggily. She’s the surgeon doctor. I’m the historian doctor. No one seemed to notice.

    Sir Charles Scott? Professor Scott?

    The same. A benign smile. Everyone likes to be recognized, Ryan thought as he watched from his back.

    One of my instructors knows you—Professor Knowles.

    Ah, and how is Dennis?

    Fine, Doctor. He’s associate professor of orthopedics now. Cathy shifted gears smoothly, back to medical professional. Do you have the X-rays?

    Here. Scott held up a manila envelope and extracted a large film. He held it up in front of a lighting panel. We took this prior to going in.

    Damn. Cathy’s nose wrinkled. She put on the half-glasses she used for close work, the ones Jack hated. He watched her head move slowly from side to side. "I didn’t know it was that bad."

    Professor Scott nodded. Indeed. We reckon the collarbone was broken before he was shot, then the bullet came crashing through here—just missed the brachial plexus, so we expect no serious nerve damage—and did all this damage. He traced a pencil across the film. Ryan couldn’t see any of it from the bed. Then it did this to the top of the humerus before stopping here, just inside the skin. Bloody powerful thing, the nine-millimeter. As you can see, the damage was quite extensive. We had a jolly time finding all these fragments and jigsawing them back into proper place, but—we were able to accomplish this. Scott held a second film up next to the first. Cathy was quiet for several seconds, her head swiveling back and forth.

    That is nice work, Doctor!

    Sir Charles’s smile broadened a notch. From a Johns Hopkins surgeon, yes, I think I’ll accept that. Both these pins are permanent, this screw also, I’m afraid, but the rest should heal rather nicely. As you can see, all the large fragments are back where they belong, and we have every reason to expect a full recovery.

    How much impairment? A detached question. Cathy could be maddeningly unemotional about her work.

    We’re not sure yet, Scott said slowly. Probably a little, but it should not be overly severe. We can’t guarantee a complete restoration of function—the damage was far too extensive for that.

    You mind telling me something? Ryan tried to sound angry, but it hadn’t come out right.

    What I mean, Mr. Ryan, is that you’ll probably have some permanent loss of use of your arm—precisely how much we cannot determine as yet—and from now on you’ll have a permanent barometer. Henceforth, whenever the weather is about to change for the worse, you’ll know it before anyone else.

    How long in this cast? Cathy wanted to know.

    At least a month. The surgeon seemed apologetic. It is awkward, I know, but the shoulder must be totally immobilized for at least that long. After that we’ll have to reevaluate the injury and we can probably revert to a normal cast for another . . . oh, another month or so, I expect. I presume he heals well, no allergies. Looks to be in good health, decent physical shape.

    Jack’s in good physical shape, except for a few loose marbles in his head, Cathy nodded, an edge on her weary voice. He jogs. No allergies except ragweed, and he heals rapidly.

    Yeah, Ryan confirmed. Her teethmarks go away in under a week, usually. He thought this uproariously funny, but no one laughed.

    Good, Sir Charles said. So, Doctor, you can see that your husband is in good hands. I will leave the two of you together for five minutes. After that, I wish that he should get some rest, and you look as though you could use some also. The surgeon moved off with Bette Davis in his wake.

    Cathy moved closer to him, changing yet again from cool professional to concerned wife. Ryan told himself for perhaps the millionth time how lucky he was to have this girl. Caroline Ryan had a small, round face, short butter-blond hair, and the world’s prettiest blue eyes. Behind those eyes was a person with intelligence at least the equal of his own, someone he loved as much as a man could. He would never understand how he’d won her. Ryan was painfully aware that on his best day his own undistinguished features, a heavy beard and a lantern jaw, made him look like a dark-haired Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties. She played pussycat to his crow. Jack tried to reach out for her hand, but was foiled by straps. Cathy took his.

    Love ya, babe, he said softly.

    Oh, Jack. Cathy tried to hug him. She was foiled by the cast that he couldn’t even see. Jack, why the hell did you do that?

    He had already decided how to answer that. It’s over and I’m still alive, okay? How’s Sally?

    I think she’s finally asleep. She’s downstairs with a policeman. Cathy did look tired. How do you think she is, Jack? Dear God, she saw you killed almost. You scared us both to death. Her china-blue eyes were rimmed in red, and her hair looked terrible, Jack saw. Well, she never was able to do much of anything with her hair. The surgical caps always ruined it.

    Yeah, I know. Anyway, it doesn’t look like I’ll be doing much more of that for a while, he grunted. Matter of fact, it doesn’t look like I’ll be doing much of anything for a while. That drew a smile. It was good to see her smile.

    Fine. You’re supposed to conserve your energy. Maybe this’ll teach you a lesson—and don’t tell me about all those strange hotel beds going to waste. She squeezed his hand. Her smile turned impish. We’ll probably work something out in a few weeks. How do I look?

    Like hell. Jack laughed quietly. I take it the doc was a somebody?

    He saw his wife relax a little. You might say that. Sir Charles Scott is one of the best orthopods in the world. He trained Professor Knowles—he did a super job on you. You’re lucky to have an arm at all, you know—my God!

    Easy, babe. I’m going to live, remember?

    I know, I know.

    It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?

    Another smile. Just a bit. Well. I’ve got to put Sally down. I’ll be back tomorrow. She bent down to kiss him. Skin full of drugs, oxygen tube, dry mouth, and all, it felt good. God, he thought, God, how I love this girl. Cathy squeezed his hand one more time and left.

    The Bette Davis nurse came back. It was not a satisfactory trade.

    I’m ‘Doctor’ Ryan, too, you know, Jack said warily.

    Very good, Doctor. It is time for you to get some rest. I’ll be here to look after you all night. Now sleep, Doctor Ryan.

    On this happy note Jack closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be a real bitch, he was sure. It would keep.

    CHAPTER TWO

    COPS AND ROYALS

    Ryan awoke at 6:35 A.M. He knew that because it was announced by a radio disc-jockey whose voice faded to an American Country & Western song of the type which Ryan avoided at home by listening to all-news radio stations. The singer was admonishing mothers not to allow their sons to become cowboys, and Ryan’s first muddled thought of the day was, Surely they don’t have that problem over here . . . do they? His mind drifted along on this tangent for half a minute, wondering if the Brits had C&W bars with sawdust on the floors, mechanical bull rides, and office workers who strutted around with pointy-toed boots and five-pound belt buckles. . . . Why not? he concluded. Yesterday I saw something right out of a Dodge City movie.

    Jack would have been just as happy to slide back into sleep. He tried closing his eyes and willing his body to relax, but it was no use. The flight from Dulles had left early in the morning, barely three hours after he’d awakened. He hadn’t slept on the plane—it was something he simply could not do—but flying always exhausted him, and he’d gone to bed soon after arriving at the hotel. Then how long had he been unconscious in the hospital? Too long, he realized. Ryan was all slept out. He would have to begin facing the day.

    Someone off to his right was playing a radio just loudly enough to hear. Ryan turned his head and was able to see his shoulder—

    Shoulder, he thought, that’s why I’m here. But where’s here? It was a different room. The ceiling was smooth plaster, recently painted. It was dark, the only illumination coming from a light on the table next to the bed, perhaps enough to read by. There seemed to be a painting on the wall—at least a rectangle darker than the wall, which wasn’t white. Ryan took this in, consciously delaying his examination of his left arm until no excuses remained. He turned his head slowly to the left. He saw his arm first of all. It was sticking up at an angle, wrapped in a plaster and fiberglass cast that went all the way to his hand. His fingers stuck out like an afterthought, about the same shade of gray as the plaster-gauze wrappings. There was a metal ring at the back of the wrist, and in the ring was a hook whose chain led to a metal frame that arced over the bed like a crane.

    First things first. Ryan tried to wiggle his fingers. It took several seconds before they acknowledged their subservience to his central nervous system. Ryan let out a long breath and closed his eyes to thank God for that. About where his elbow was, a metal rod angled downward to join the rest of the cast, which, he finally appreciated, began at his neck and went diagonally to his waist. It left his arm sticking out entirely on its own and made Ryan look like half a bridge. The cast was not tight on his chest, but touched almost everywhere, and already he had itches where he couldn’t scratch. The surgeon had said something about immobilizing the shoulder, and, Ryan thought glumly, he hadn’t been kidding. His shoulder ached in a distant sort of way with the promise of more to come. His mouth tasted like a urinal, and the rest of his body was stiff and sore. He turned his head the other way.

    Somebody over there? he asked softly.

    Oh, hello. A face appeared at the edge of the bed. Younger than Ryan, mid-twenties or so, and lean. He was dressed casually, his tie loose in his collar, and the edge of a shoulder holster showed under his jacket. How are you feeling, sir?

    Ryan attempted a smile, wondering how successful it was. About how I look, probably. Where am I, who are you—first, is there a glass of water in this place?

    The policeman poured ice water from a plastic jug into a plastic cup. Ryan reached out with his right hand before he noticed that it wasn’t tied down as it had been the last time he awoke. He could now feel the place where the IV catheter had been. Jack greedily sucked the water from the straw. It was only water, but no beer ever tasted better after a day’s yardwork. Thanks, pal.

    My name is Anthony Wilson. I’m supposed to look after you. You are in the VIP suite of St. Thomas’s Hospital. Do you remember why you’re here, sir?

    Yeah, I think so, Ryan nodded. Can you unhook me from this thing? I have to go. The other reminder of the IV.

    I’ll ring the sister—here. Wilson squeezed the button that was pinned to the edge of Ryan’s pillow.

    Less than fifteen seconds later a nurse came through the door and flipped on the overhead lights. The blaze of light dazzled Jack for a moment before he saw it was a different nurse. Not Bette Davis, this one was young and pretty, with the eager, protective look common to nurses. Ryan had seen it before, and hated it.

    Ah, we’re awake, she observed brightly. How are we feeling?

    Great, Ryan grumped. Can you unhook me? I have to go to the john.

    We’re not supposed to move just yet, Doctor Ryan. Let me fetch you something. She disappeared out the door before he could object. Wilson watched her leave with an appraising look. Cops and nurses, Ryan thought. His dad had married a nurse; he’d met her after bringing a gunshot victim into the emergency room.

    The nurse—her name tag said KITTIWAKE—returned in under a minute bearing a stainless steel urinal as though it were a priceless gift, which under the circumstances, it was, Ryan admitted to himself. She lifted the covers on the bed and suddenly Jack realized that his hospital gown was not really on, but just tied loosely around his neck—worse, the nurse was about to make the necessary adjustments for him to use the urinal. Ryan’s right hand shot downward under the covers to take it away from her. He thanked God for the second time this morning that he was able, barely, to reach down far enough.

    Could you, uh, excuse me for a minute? Ryan willed the girl out of the room, and she went, smiling her disappointment. He waited for the door to close completely before continuing. In deference to Wilson he stifled his sigh of relief. Kittiwake was back through the door after counting to sixty.

    Thank you. Ryan handed her the receptacle and she disappeared out the door. It had barely swung shut when she was back again. This time she stuck a thermometer in his mouth and grabbed his wrist to take his pulse. The thermometer was one of the new electronic sort, and both tasks were completed in fifteen seconds. Ryan asked for the score, but got a smile instead of an answer. The smile remained fixed as she made the entries on his chart. When this task was fulfilled, she made a minor adjustment in the covers, beaming at Ryan. Little Miss Efficiency, Ryan told himself. This girl is going to be a real pain in the ass.

    Is there anything I might get you, Doctor Ryan? she asked. Her brown eyes belied the wheat-colored hair. She was cute. She had that dewy look. Ryan was unable to remain angry with pretty women, and hated them for it. Especially young nurses with that dewy look.

    Coffee? he asked hopefully.

    Breakfast is not for another hour. Can I fetch you a cup of tea?

    Fine. It wasn’t, but it would get rid of her for a little while. Nurse Kittiwake breezed out the door with her ingenuous smile.

    "Hospitals!" Ryan snarled when she was gone.

    Oh, I don’t know, Wilson observed, the image of Nurse Kittiwake fresh in his mind.

    You ain’t the one getting your diapers changed. Ryan grunted and leaned back into the pillow. It was useless to fight it, he knew. He smiled in spite of himself. Useless to fight it. He’d been through this twice before, both times with young, pretty nurses. Being grumpy only made them all the more eager to be overpoweringly nice—they had time on their side, time and patience enough to wear anyone down. He sighed out his surrender. It wasn’t worth the waste of energy. So, you’re a cop, right? Special Branch?

    No, sir. I’m with C-13, Anti-Terrorist Branch.

    Can you fill me in on what happened yesterday? I kinda missed a few things.

    How much do you remember, Doctor? Wilson slid his chair closer. Ryan noted that he remained halfway facing the door, and kept his right hand free.

    "I saw—well, I heard an explosion, a hand grenade, I think—and when I turned I saw two guys shooting the hell out of a Rolls-Royce. IRA, I guess. I took two of them out, and another one got away in a car. The cavalry arrived, and I passed out and woke up here."

    Not IRA. ULA—Ulster Liberation Army, a Maoist offshoot of the Provos. Nasty buggers. The one you killed was John Michael McCrory, a very bad boy from Londonderry—one of the chaps who escaped from the Maze last July. This is the first time he’s surfaced since. And the last—Wilson smiled coldly—we haven’t identified the other chap yet. That is, not as of when I came on duty three hours ago.

    ULA? Ryan shrugged. He remembered hearing the name, though he couldn’t talk about that. The guy I—killed. He had an AK, but when I came around the car he was using a pistol. How come?

    "The fool jammed it. He had two full magazines taped end to end, like you see all the time in the movies, but like they trained us specifically not to do in the paras. We reckon he bashed it, probably when he came out of the car. The second magazine was bent at the top end—wouldn’t feed the rounds properly, you see. Damn good luck for you. You knew you were going after a chap with a Kalashnikov?" Wilson examined Ryan’s face closely.

    Jack nodded. Doesn’t sound real smart, does it?

    You bloody fool. Wilson said this just as Kittiwake came through the door with a tea tray. The nurse flashed the cop an emphatically disapproving look as she set the tray on the bedstand and wheeled it over. Kittiwake arranged things just so, and poured Ryan a cup with delicacy. Wilson had to do his own.

    So who was in the car, anyway? Ryan asked. He noted strong reactions.

    You didn’t know? Kittiwake was dumbfounded.

    There wasn’t much time to find out. Ryan dropped two packets of brown sugar into his cup. His stirring stopped abruptly when Wilson answered his question.

    The Prince and Princess of Wales. And their new baby.

    Ryan’s head snapped around. What?

    You really didn’t know? the nurse asked.

    You’re serious, Ryan said quietly. They wouldn’t kid about this, would they?

    Too bloody right, I’m serious, Wilson went on, his voice very even. Only his choice of words betrayed how deeply the affair disturbed him. Except for you, they would all three be quite dead, and that makes you a bloody hero, Doctor Ryan. Wilson sipped his tea neatly and fished out a cigarette.

    Ryan set his cup down. You mean you let them drive around here without a police or secret service—whatever you call it—without an escort?

    Supposedly it was an unscheduled trip. Security arrangements for the Royals are not my department in any case. I would speculate, however, that those whose department it is will be rethinking a few things, Wilson commented.

    They weren’t hurt?

    No, but their driver was killed. So was their security escort from DPG—Diplomatic Protection Group—Charlie Winston. I knew Charlie. He had a wife, you know, and four children, all grown.

    Ryan observed that the Rolls should have had bulletproof glass.

    Wilson grunted. "It did have bulletproof glass. Actually plastic, a complex polycarbonate material. Unfortunately, no one seems to have read what it said on the box. The guarantee is only for a year. Turns out that sunlight breaks the material down somehow or other. The windshield was no more use than ordinary safety glass. Our friend McCrory put thirty rounds into it, and it quite simply shattered, killing the driver first. The interior partition, thank God, had not been exposed to sunlight, and remained intact. The last thing Charlie did was push the button to put it up. That probably saved them, too—didn’t do Charlie much good, though. He had enough time to draw his automatic, but we don’t think he was able to get a shot off."

    Ryan thought back. There had been blood in the back of the Rolls—not just blood. The driver’s head had been blown apart, and his brains had scattered into the passenger compartment. Jack winced thinking about it. The escort had probably leaned over to push the button before defending himself. . . . Well, Jack thought, that’s what they pay them for. What a hell of a way to earn a living.

    It was fortunate that you intervened when you did. They both had hand grenades, you know.

    Yeah, I saw one. Ryan sipped away the last of his tea. What the hell was I thinking about? You weren’t thinking at all, Jack. That’s what you were thinking about.

    Kittiwake saw Ryan go pale. You feel quite all right? she asked.

    I guess. Ryan grunted in wonderment. Dumb as I was, I must feel pretty good—I ought to be dead.

    Well, that most emphatically will not happen here. She patted his hand. Please ring me if you need anything. Another beaming smile and she left.

    Ryan was still shaking his head. The other one got away?

    Wilson nodded. We found the car near a tube station a few blocks away. It was stolen, of course. No real problem for him to get clean away. Disappear into the underground. Go to Heathrow, perhaps, and catch a plane to the continent—Brussels, say—then a plane to Ulster or the Republic, and a car the rest of the way home. That’s one route; there are others, and it’s impossible to cover them all. He was drinking beer last night, watching the news coverage on television in his favorite pub, most likely. Did you get a look at him?

    No, just a shape. I didn’t even think to get the tag number—dumb. Right after that the redcoat came running up to me. Ryan winced again. Christ, I thought he’d put that pigsticker right through me. For a second there I could see it all—I do something right, then get wasted by a good guy.

    Wilson laughed. You don’t know how lucky you were. The current guard force is from the Welsh Guards.

    So?

    His Royal Highness’s own regiment, as it were. He’s their colonel-in-chief. There you were with a pistol—how would you expect him to react? Wilson stubbed out his cigarette. "Another piece of good luck, your wife and daughter came running up to you, and the soldier decides to wait a bit, just long enough for things to sort themselves out. Then our chap catches up with him and tells him to stand easy. And a hundred more of my chaps come swooping in.

    I hope you can appreciate this, Doctor. Here we were with three men dead, two others wounded, a Prince and Princess looking as though they’d been shot—your wife examined them on the scene, by the way, and pronounced them fit just before the ambulance arrived—a baby, a hundred witnesses each with his own version of what had just taken place. A bloody Yank—an Irish-American to boot!—whose wife claims he’s the chap in the white hat. Wilson laughed again. "Total chaos!

    First order of business, of course, was to get the Royals to safety. The police and guardsmen handled that, probably praying by this time that someone would make trouble. They’re still in an evil mood, they tell me, angrier even than from the bandstand bombing incident. Not hard to understand. Anyway, your wife flatly refused to leave your side until you were under doctor’s care here. Quite a forceful woman, they tell me.

    Cathy’s a surgeon, Ryan explained. When she plays doc, she’s used to having her own way. Surgeons are like that.

    After she was quite satisfied we drove her down to the Yard. Meanwhile we had a merry time identifying you. They called your Legal Attaché at the American Embassy and he ran a check through your FBI, plus a backup check through the Marine Corps. Ryan stole a cigarette from Wilson’s pack. The policeman lit it with a butane lighter. Jack gagged on the smoke, but he needed it. Cathy would give him hell for it, he knew, but one thing at a time. Mind you, we never really thought you were one of them. Have to be a maniac to bring the wife and child along on this sort of job. But one must be careful.

    Ryan nodded agreement, briefly dizzy from the smoke. How’d they know to check through the Corps . . . oh, my Marine Corps Association card. . . .

    In any event we have things pretty well sorted out. Your government are sending us everything we need—probably here by now, actually. Wilson checked his watch.

    My family’s all right?

    Wilson smiled in rather an odd way. They are being very well looked after, Doctor Ryan. You have my word on that.

    The name’s Jack.

    Fine. I’m known to my friends as Tony. They finally got around to shaking hands. And as I said, you’re a bloody hero. Care to see what the press have to say? He handed Ryan a Daily Mirror and a Times.

    Dear God!

    The tabloid Mirror’s front page was almost entirely a color photograph of himself, sitting unconscious against the Rolls. His chest was a scarlet mass.

    ATTEMPT ON HRH—MARINE TO THE RESCUE

    A bold attempt to assassinate Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales within sight of Buckingham Palace was thwarted today by the courage of an American tourist.

    John Patrick Ryan, an historian and formerly a lieutenant in the United States Marines, dashed barehanded into a pitched battle on The Mall as over a hundred Londoners watched in shocked disbelief. Ryan, 31, of Annapolis, Maryland, successfully disabled one gunman and, taking his weapon, shot another dead. Ryan himself was seriously wounded in the exchange. He was taken by ambulance to St. Thomas’s Hospital, where emergency surgery was successfully performed by Sir Charles Scott.

    A third terrorist is reported to have escaped the scene, by running east on The Mall, then turning north on Marlborough Road.

    Senior police officials were unanimous in their opinion that, but for Ryan’s courageous intervention, Their Highnesses would certainly have been slain.

    Ryan turned the page to see another color photograph of himself in happier circumstances. It was his graduation photo from Quantico, and he had to smile at himself, resplendent, then, in blue high-necked blouse, two shiny gold bars, and the Mameluke sword. It was one of the few decent photographs ever taken of him.

    Where did they get this?

    Oh, your Marine chaps were most helpful. In fact, one of your Marine ships—helicopter carrier, or something like that—is at Portsmouth right now. I understand that your former colleagues are getting all the free beer they can swill.

    Ryan laughed at that. Next he picked up the Times, whose headline was marginally less lurid.

    The Prince and Princess of Wales escaped certain death this afternoon. Three, possibly four terrorists armed with hand grenades and Kalashnikov assault rifles lay in wait for their Rolls-Royce; only to have their carefully-laid plans foiled by the bold intervention of J. P. Ryan, formerly a second lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps, and now an historian. . . .

    Ryan flipped to the editorial page. The lead item, signed by the publisher, screamed for vengeance while praising Ryan, America, and the United States Marine Corps, and thanked Divine Providence with a flourish worthy of a Papal Encyclical.

    Reading about yourself? Ryan looked up. Sir Charles Scott was standing at the foot of his bed with an aluminum chart.

    First time I ever made the papers. Ryan set them down.

    You’ve earned it, and it would seem that the sleep did you some good. How do you feel?

    Not bad, considering. How am I? Ryan asked.

    Pulse and temperature normal—almost normal. Your color isn’t bad at all. With luck we might even avoid a postoperative infection, though I should not wish to give odds on that, the doctor said. How badly does it hurt?

    It’s there, but I can live with it, Ryan answered cautiously.

    It is only two hours since your last medication. I trust you are not one of those thickheaded fools who do not want pain medications?

    Yes, I am, Ryan said. He went on slowly. Doctor, I’ve been through this twice before. The first time, they gave me too much of the stuff, and coming off was—I’d just as soon not go through that again, if you know what I mean.

    Ryan’s career in the Marine Corps had ended after a mere three months with a helicopter crash on the shores of Crete during a NATO exercise. The resulting back injury had sent Ryan to Bethesda Naval Medical Center, outside Washington, where the doctors had been a little too generous with their pain medications, and Ryan had taken two weeks to get over them. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat.

    Sir Charles nodded thoughtfully. I think so. Well, it’s your arm. The nurse came back in as he made some notations on the chart. Rotate the bed a bit.

    Ryan hadn’t noticed that the rack from which his arm hung was actually circular. As the head of the bed came up, his arm dropped to a more comfortable angle. The doctor looked over his glasses at Ryan’s fingers.

    Would you wiggle them, please? Ryan did so. Good, that’s very good. I didn’t think there’d be any nerve damage. Doctor Ryan, I am going to prescribe something mild, just enough to keep the edge off it. I will require that you take the medications which I prescribe. Scott’s head came around to face Ryan directly. "I’ve never yet got a patient addicted to narcotics, and I do not propose to start with you. Don’t be pigheaded: pain, discomfort will retard your recovery—unless, that is, you want to remain in hospital for several months?"

    Message received, Sir Charles.

    Right. The surgeon smiled. If you should feel the need for something stronger, I shall be here all day. Just ring nurse Miss Kittiwake here. The girl beamed in anticipation.

    How about something to eat?

    You think you can keep something down?

    If not, Kittiwake will probably love to help me throw up. Doc, in the last thirty-six hours I’ve had a continental breakfast and a light lunch.

    Very well. We’ll try some soft foods. He made another notation on the chart and flashed a look to Kittiwake: Keep an eye on him. She nodded.

    Your charming wife told me that you are quite obstinate. We’ll see about that. Still and all you are doing rather nicely. You can thank your physical condition for that—and my outstanding surgical skill, of course. Scott chuckled to himself. After breakfast an orderly will help you freshen up for your more, ah, official visitors. Oh, don’t expect to see your family soon. They were quite exhausted last night. I gave your wife something to help her sleep; I hope she took it. Your darling little daughter was all done in. Scott gave Ryan a serious look. "I was not misleading you earlier. Discomfort will slow your recovery. Do what I tell you and we’ll have you out of that bed in a week, and discharged in two—perhaps. But you must do exactly as I say."

    Understood, sir. And thanks. Cathy said you did a good job on the arm.

    Scott tried to shrug it off. The smile showed only a little. One must take proper care of one’s guests. I’ll be back late this afternoon to see how you are progressing. He left, mumbling instructions to the nurse.

    •   •   •

    THE POLICE ARRIVED in force at 8:30. By this time Ryan had been able to eat his hospital breakfast and wash up. Breakfast had been a huge disappointment, with Wilson collapsing in laughter at Ryan’s comment on its appearance—but Kittiwake had been so downcast from this that Ryan had felt constrained to eat all of it, even the stewed prunes that he’d loathed since childhood. Only after finishing had he realized that her demeanor had probably been a sham, a device to get him to eat all the slop. Nurses, he reminded himself, are tricky. At eight the orderly had arrived to help him clean up. Ryan shaved himself, with the orderly holding the mirror and clucking

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1
    pFad - Phonifier reborn

    Pfad - The Proxy pFad of © 2024 Garber Painting. All rights reserved.

    Note: This service is not intended for secure transactions such as banking, social media, email, or purchasing. Use at your own risk. We assume no liability whatsoever for broken pages.


    Alternative Proxies:

    Alternative Proxy

    pFad Proxy

    pFad v3 Proxy

    pFad v4 Proxy