“She’s coming toward you, Ding,” Jack said.
With his eyes on the brunette, he didn’t see the oncoming Japanese woman until it was too late, and the two ran headlong into each other. The woman bounced away, falling sideways, spitting like an angry cat. Ryan was stunned from the impact but able to remain standing. He reached down to offer the woman a hand, but she slapped it away, springing to her feet, ready to run again. Midas had caught up by now and grabbed a handful of her collar, giving it a yank, lifting the sputtering woman off her feet. She’d been holding a cell phone when they collided and it now lay on the ground with a badly damaged screen.
People on the street were still stampeding away from the bomb blast around the corner, and ran by without interfering.
“Let. Me. Go.” The woman said it through a clenched jaw. Her English was accented English but very good. “She is… escaping.”
Ryan turned to watch the brunette disappear into the darkness at the other end of the block, then turned back to Midas, both hands up, as if to say What gives?
Midas knew exactly what he meant. “You can’t hear me, can you?”
Ryan shook his head.
Midas raised his eyebrows. “Then my radio’s tits-up. I tried to tell you we were coming. Took me a half a block to realize I wasn’t hearing my own voice.”
Chavez came across the net, unaware of this new development.
“We’re walking toward you on south side of the cemetery,” he said. “We’re trying to find a way in that won’t get our asses handed to us.”
“Copy,” Ryan said. “Midas is with me, but his comms are down. I’ve lost sight of the brunette. We’re having a talk with our Japanese friend.”
Chavez’s dismay was apparent. “You made contact?”
Ryan rubbed his aching ribs, injured for a second time by a female hurtling through space. We sure did, he thought. He said, “I’ll explain later.”
He relayed Chavez’s situation and location to Midas.
The Japanese woman reached for the shattered phone, but Midas wrenched her arm back with the hand that wasn’t holding her neck. She was shorter than Jack by seven or eight inches, fit, built like a runner. Even restrained, her chin tilted upward slightly — a match to the defiant glint in her eyes.
She tried to jerk away and, when she found that was impossible, turned her glare on Jack. “You are wasting time.”
“I’ll take care of this,” Jack said, scooping up the broken phone. Close enough to study now, the scratches down the left side of her face looked like they were maybe a week old. Healing, but still pink and quite deep, probably caused by a very determined set of fingernails. “Who are you?”
She scoffed, then mocked his tone. “Who are you?”
Ryan feigned an unconcerned shrug. The truth was this woman was beginning to piss him off. He needed to get this done and catch up with the brunette. “You might reconsider that attitude since we just saw you shoot someone in the head.”
The Japanese woman’s eyes went momentarily wide, but she regained her composure quickly.
“Have it your way,” Midas said, increasing his grip on her arm until she winced. “I guess you’d rather talk to the police.”
“Bakayaro!” she spat. “You fools! I am the police.”
43
President Ryan sat in the Oval Office, waiting, mulling over what he was about to say. An eight-by-ten color photograph of a smiling sailor with rosy cheeks looked up at him. The twenty-year-old sailor sat in front of an American flag, wearing enlisted “crackerjack” blues and a white Dixie cup hat. It was one of those boot-camp graduation portraits that proud grandpas and nervous parents keep on the mantel. Petty Officer 3rd Class Stephen Ridgeway had helped save a life — a woman under attack from pirates, no less. Parents would want to know that. Wouldn’t they? Ryan would want to know, if something happened to one of his children. That was the thing about death. It was always personal. Somebody else’s kid died and you immediately thought of your own, how fickle life was, how incredibly easy it was to snuff out the spark that made someone alive — no matter how brightly it burned.
Betty Martin’s sure voice came over the intercom.
“Mr. President, the White House operator has Randy and Lois Ridgeway on the line.”
“Thank you, Betty.” Ryan took a deep breath, attempting to settle himself. Best not to think about things like this for too long. It made the speeches sound canned. Truth was, he thought about it all the time. He couldn’t help it.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ridgeway,” he said, “this is Jack Ryan. I am so very sorry for your loss…”
The condolence call lasted four minutes. There was not much he could say, at least nothing worthwhile. The Ridgeways already knew what sort of man their son was. They didn’t need the President of the United States to remind them to be proud of him. Ryan looked at Stephen Ridgeway’s portrait for another full minute while he thought over his next course of action. At length, he moved it reverently to the side and centered a yellow notepad on his desk.
He pushed the intercom button.
“It’s a Saturday night, Betty,” he said. “You shouldn’t even be here. Go ahead, take off.”
“Right away, Mr. President.” It was what Betty Martin said when she wouldn’t commit to leaving. Her husband probably sat at home sticking pins in a Jack Ryan doll for all the time she spent at the White House.
“Seriously,” Ryan pressed. “I just have one more call to make.”
“I’ll get the party on the line for you.”
“Go home,” Ryan said. “That’s an order from your commander in chief. I’ll make the call myself.”
“There are protocols, Mr. President,” Betty said.
“Very well.” He read back the number written on his notepad and then said, “Now will you go home?”
“Right away, Mr. President,” she said.
The Watermelon Park Campground wasn’t exactly roughing it, but compared to the bustle of downtown Arlington, Virginia, the picnic tables, drop toilets, and fire pits overlooking the Shenandoah River were a blissful wilderness. It had taken Dr. Ann Miller all the way to Leesburg just to calm down the night before after her command performance at the White House. Her boyfriend was getting sick of hearing the story.
Miller wore the same red-and-black buffalo-plaid shirt that she’d worn to the meeting, but she and Eric had spent the day canoeing, so she’d traded the long pants for a pair of swimming shorts. She was strictly a yogurt-and-blueberries girl back in civilization, but she’d opted to splurge with s’mores tonight. She hunkered shoulder to shoulder with Eric, toasting marshmallows over a snapping fire. It was marvelously dark beyond the chestnut trees, just cool enough to make the heat of the fire against her bare knees feel perfect.
She teased at Eric’s toasting stick with hers, pushing it out of her way.
He chuckled, letting his marshmallow catch on fire, and watched it burn. “I guess people who get summoned to the White House should have the prime coal areas.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Ann said smugly.
“You know,” Eric said, casting a glance at the tent, “you being in such demand by the highest officials in the land is a real turn-on…”
She scoffed. “Eric Jordan, a leaf falling off one of those red oaks would turn you on.”
Eric moved his eyebrows up and down. “Depends on where it fell. But seriously, getting called to the White House is a big friggin’ deal.”