Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

“Bob, if you know it was fancy footwork, then you know why.” Ryan

motioned to the sign over the mirror, then decided to tap it to make sure

everyone caught the message.

“I know that when the last government fell, it was us who developed the

information on the bribery scandal,” Holtzman said. Jack gave him a look

but nothing else. Even no comment would have been a substantive comment

under these circumstances.

“That killed Goto’s first chance to become Prime Minister. He was next

in line, remember?”

“Well, now he’s got another. His patience is rewarded,” Ryan observed.

“If he can get a coalition together.”

‘ ‘Don’t give me that,” Hunter leaned toward the mirror to finish cleaning

her nose off. “You’ve read the stuff he’s been telling their papers, same as I

have, lie will get a cabinet formed, and you know what arguments lie’s been

using.”

“Talk is cheap, especially for somebody in thai business,” Jack said, lie

still hadn’t quite made the leap of imagination to include himself “in that

business.” “Probably just a blip, one more politician with a few too many

drinks under his belt who had a bad day at the office or the track ”

“Or the geisha house,” Kris Hunter suggested. She finished removing the

makeup, then sat on the edge of the counter and lit a cigarette. Kristyn

Hunter was an old-fashioned reporter. Though still on the sunny side of fifty,

she was a graduate of Columbia’s School of Journalism and had just been

appointed chief foreign correspondent for the Chicago Tribune. Her voice

was as dry as dust. “Two years ago that bastard put a move on me. His

language would shock a Marine, and his suggestions were . . . shall we say,

eccentric. I presume you have information on his personal habits, Dr.

Ryan?”

“Kris, never, ever, not even once will I discuss what personal stuff, if any,

we have on foreign officials.” Jack paused. “Wait. He doesn’t speak En-

glish, does he?” Ryan closed his eyes, trying to remember what his briefing

documents had said on that point.

“You didn’t know? He can when it pleases him, but he doesn’t when it

doesn’t. That day, it didn’t. And his translator that day was a female, about

twenty-seven. She didn’t even blush.” Hunter chuckled darkly. “I sure as

hell did. What does that tell you, Dr. Ryan?”

Ryan had few doubts about the information that had come out of Opera-

lion SANDALWOOD. Despite that, it was very nice to hear this from a com-

pletely independent source. “I guess he likes blondes,” Jack said lightly.

“So they say. They also say that he has a new one now.”

“This is getting serious,” Holtzman noted. “Lots of people like to fool

around, Kris.”

“Goto loves to show people how tough he is. Some of the rumors about

Goto are downright ugly.” Kris Hunter paused. “I believe them, too.”

“Really?” Ryan asked with the utmost innocence. “Woman’s intui-

tion?”

“Don’t be sexist,” Hunter warned, too seriously.for the mood of the mo-

ment.

Ryan’s voice turned earnest. “I’m not. My wife has better instincts for

judging people than I do. I guess it helps that she’s a doc. Fair enough?”

“Dr. Ryan, I know you know. I know the FBI has been looking very dis-

creetly at a few things out in the Seattle area.”

“Is that so?”

Kris Hunter wasn’t buying. “You don’t keep secrets about this sort of

thing, not if you have friends in the Bureau like I do, and not if one of the

missing girls is the daughter of a police captain whose next-door neighbor is

S-A-C of the FBI’s Seattle Field Division. Do I need to go on?”

“Then why are you sitting on it?”

Kris Hunter’s green eyes blazed at the National Security Advisor. “I’ll

tell you why, Dr. Ryan. I was raped in college. I thought the bastard was

going to kill me. I looked at death. You don’t forget that. If this story comes

out the wrong way, that girl and maybe others like her could end up dead.

You can recover from rape: I did. You can’t recover from death.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said quietly. His eyes and his nod said even more. Yes, I

understand. And you know that I understand.

“And he’s the next head of that country’s government.” Kris Hunter’s

eyes were even more intense now. “He hates us, Dr. Ryan. I’ve interviewed

him. He didn’t want me because he found me attractive. He wanted me be-

cause he saw me as a blond-and-blue symbol. He’s a rapist. He enjoys hurt-

ing people. You don’t forget the look in the eyes once you’ve seen it. He’s

got that look. We need to watch out for this guy. You tell the President that.”

”I will,” Ryan said as he headed out the door.

The White House car was waiting just outside. Jack had something to

think about as it headed for the Beltway.

“Softball,” the Secret Service agent commented. “Except for after.”

“How long you been doing this, Paul?”

“Fourteen fascinating years,” Paul Robberton said, keeping an eye on

things from the front seat. The driver was just a guy from the General Ser-

vices Administration, but Jack rated a Secret Service bodyguard now.

“Fieldwork?”

“Counterfeiters. Never drew my weapon,” Robberton added. “Had a

few fair-sized cases.”

“You can read people?”

Robberton laughed. “In this job, you’d better hope so, Dr. Ryan.”

“Tell me about Kris Hunter.”

“Smart and tough as nails. She’s right: she was sexually assaulted in col-

lege, a serial rapist. She testified against the mutt. It was back when lawyers

were a little … free with how they treated rape victims. You know-did you

encourage the rat, stuff like that. It got ugly, but she rode it out and they

convicted the bum. He bit the big one in prison, evidently said the wrong

thing to an armed robber. Pity,” Robberton concluded dryly.

“Pay attention to what she thinks, you’re telling me.”

“Yes, sir. She would have been a good cop. I know she’s a pretty fair

reporter.”

“She’s gathered in a lot of information,” Ryan murmured. Not all of it

good, not yet pulled together properly, and colored by her own life experi-

ences, but sure as hell, she had sources. Jack looked at the passing scenery

and tried to assemble the incomplete puzzle.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“The house,” Ryan said, drawing a surprised look from Robberton. In

this case, “the house” didn’t mean “home.” “No. wail a minute.” Ryan

lifted his earphone. Fortunately he knew the number from memory.

“Hello?”

“Ed? Jack Ryan. You guys busy?”

“We are allowed Sunday off, Jack. The Caps play the Bruins this after-

noon.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Fair enough.” Ed Foley set the phone back in its place on the wall.

“Ryan’s coming over,” he told his wife. Damn it.

Sunday was the one day they allowed themselves to sleep. Mary Pat was

still in her housecoat, looking unusually frowzy. Without a word she left the

morning paper and walked off toward the bathroom to fix her hair. There

was a knock at the door fifteen minutes later.

“Overtime?” Ed asked at the door. Robberton came in with his guest.

“I had to do one of the morning shows.” Jack checked his watch.’ Til be

on in another twenty minutes or so.”

“What gives?” Mary Pat entered the room, looking about normal for an

American female on a Sunday morning.

“Business, honey,” Ed answered. He led everyone to the basement recre-

ation room.

“SANDALWOOD,” Jack said when they got there. He could speak freely

here. The house was swept for bugs every week. “Do Clark and Chavez

have orders to get the girl out yet?”

“Nobody gave us the execute order,” Ed Foley reminded him. “It’s just

about setup, but-”

“The order is given. Get the girl out now.”

“Anything we need to know?” Mary Pat asked.

“I haven’t been comfortable with this from the beginning. I think maybe

we deliver a little message to her sugar daddy-and we do it early enough to

get his attention.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Foley said. “I read the paper this morning, too. He isn’t

saying friendly stuff, but we are laying it on them pretty hard, y’know?”

“Sit down, Jack,” Mary Pat said. “Can I get you coffee or anything?’

“No, thanks, MP.” He looked up after taking a place on a worn couch.

“A light just went off. Our friend Goto seems to be an odd duck.”

“He does have his quirks,” Ed agreed. “Not terribly bright, a lot of bom-

bast once you get through the local brand of rhetoric, but not all that many

ideas. I’m surprised he’s getting the chance.”

“Why?” Jack asked. The State Department material on Goto had been

typically respectful of the foreign statesman.

“Like I said, he’s no threat to win the Nobel in physics, okay? He’s an

apparatchik. Worked his way up the way politicos do. I’m sure he’s kissed