“No, isn’t,” Sally replied. She grabbed his briefcase and carried it with two hands, puffing as she climbed up the three steps into the house.
Ryan got out of his coat and hung it in the entry closet. As with everything else, it was hard to do with one hand. He was cheating a little now. As with steering the car, he was starting to use his left hand, careful to avoid putting any strain on his shoulder. The pain was completely gone now, but Ryan was sure that he could bring it back quickly enough if he did something dumb. Besides which, Cathy would yell at him. He found his wife in the kitchen. She was looking at the pantry and frowning.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hi, Jack. You’re late.”
“So are you.” Ryan kissed his wife. Cathy smelled his breath. Her nose crinkled.
“How’s Robby?”
“Fine — and I just had two very light ones.”
“Uh-huh.” She turned back to the pantry. “What do you want for dinner?”
“Surprise me,” Jack suggested.
“You’re a big help! I ought to let you fix it.”
“It’s not my turn, remember?”
“I knew I should have stopped at the Giant,” Cathy groused.
“How was work?”
“Only one procedure. I assisted Bernie on a cornea transplant, then I had to take the residents around for rounds. Dull day. Tomorrow’ll be better. Bernie says hi, by the way. How does franks and beans grab you?”
“Jack laughed. Ever since they came back, their diet had consisted mainly of basic American staples, and it was a little late for something fancy.
“Okay. I’m going to change and punch up something on the computer for a few minutes.”
“Careful with the arm. Jack.”
Five times a day she warns me. Jack sighed. Never marry a doctor. The Ryan home was a deckhouse design. The living/dining room had a cathedral ceiling that peaked sixteen feet over the carpeted floor with an enormous wood beam. A wall of triple-paned windows faced the bay, with a large deck beyond the sliding glass doors. Opposite the glass was a massive brick fireplace that reached through the roof. The master bedroom was half a level above the living room, with a window that enabled one to look down into it. Ryan trotted up the steps. The house design accommodated large closets. Ryan selected casual clothes, and went through the annoying ritual of changing himself one-handed. He was still experimenting, trying to find an efficient way to do it.
Finished, he went back down, and curved around the stairs to the next level down, his library. It was a large one. Jack read a lot, and also purchased books he didn’t have time to read, banking against the time when he would. He had a large desk up against the windows on the bay side of the house. Here was his personal computer, an Apple, and all of its peripheral equipment. Ryan flipped it on and started typing in instructions. Next he put his modem on line and placed a call into CompuServe. The time of day guaranteed easy access, and he selected MicroQuote II from the entry menu.
A moment later he was looking at Holoware, Ltd.’s stock performance over the past three years. The stock was agreeably unimpressive, fluctuating from two dollars to as much as six, but that was two years back — it was a company which had once held great promise, but somewhere along the way investors had lost confidence. Jack made a note, then exited the program and got into another, Disclosure II, to look at the company’s SEC filings and last annual report. Okay, Ryan told himself. The company was making money, but not very much. One problem with hi-tech issues was that so many investors wanted big returns very quickly, or they’d move on to something else, forgetting that things didn’t necessarily happen that way. This company had found a small though somewhat precarious niche, and was ready to try something bold. Ryan made a mental estimate of what the Navy contract would be worth and compared it with the company’s total revenues . . .
“Okay!” he told himself before exiting the system completely and shutting his computer down. Next he called his broker. Ryan worked through a discount brokerage firm that had people on duty around the clock. Jack always dealt with the same man.
“Hi, Mort, it’s Jack. How’s the family?”
“Hello again, Doctor Ryan. Everything’s fine with us. What can we do for you tonight?”
“An outfit called Holoware, one of the hi-tech bunch on Highway 128 outside Boston. It’s on the AMEX.”
“Okay.” Ryan heard tapping on a keyboard. Everyone used computers. “Here it is. Going at four and seven-eighths, not a very active issue . . . until lately. There has been some modest activity over the past month.”
“What kind?” Ryan asked. This was another sign to look for.
“Oh, I see. The company is buying itself back a little. No big deal, but they’re buying their own stock out.”
Bingo! Ryan smiled to himself. Thank you, Robby. You gave me a tip on a real live one. Jack asked himself if this constituted trading on inside information. His initial tip might be called that, but his decision to buy was based on confirmation made legally, on the basis of his experience as a stock trader. Okay, it’s legal. He could do whatever he wanted.
“How much do you think you can get for me?”
“It’s not a very impressive stock.”
“How often am I wrong, Mort?”
“How much do you want?”
“At least twenty-K, and if there’s more, I want all of it you can find.” There was no way he’d get hold of more than fifty thousand shares, but Ryan made a snap decision to grab all he could. If he lost, it was only money, and it had been over a year since he’d last had a hunch like this one. If they got the Navy contract, that stock would increase in value tenfold. The company must have had a tip, too. Buying back their own stock on the slim resources they had would, if Ryan was guessing right, dramatically increase the firm’s capital, enabling a rapid expansion of operations. Holoware was betting on the future, and betting big.
There was five seconds of silence on the phone.
“What do you know, Jack?” the broker asked finally.
“I’m playing a hunch.”
“Okay . . . twenty-K plus . . . I’ll call you at ten tomorrow. You think I should . . .?”
“It’s a toss of the dice, but I think it’s a good toss.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“No. I have to go eat dinner. Good night, Mort.”
“See ya.” Both men hung up. At the far end of the phone, the broker decided that he’d go in for a thousand shares, too. Ryan was occasionally wrong, but when he was right, he tended to be very right.
“Christmas Day,” O’Donnell said quietly. “Perfect.”
“Is that the day they’re moving Sean?” McKenney asked.
“He leaves London by van at four in the morning. That’s bloody good news. I was afraid they’d use a helicopter. No word on the route they’ll use . . .” He read on. “But they’re going to take him across on the Lymington ferry at eight-thirty Christmas morning. Excellent timing, when you think about it. Too early for heavy traffic. Everyone’ll be opening his presents and getting dressed for church. The van might even have the ferry to itself — who’d expect a prisoner transfer on Christmas Day?”
“So, we are going to break Sean out, then?”
“Michael, our men do us little good when they’re inside, don’t they? You and I are flying over tomorrow morning. I think we’ll drive down to Lymington and look at the ferry.”
Chapter 9
A Day for Celebration
“God, it’ll be nice to have two arms again,” Ryan observed.
“Two more weeks, maybe three,” Cathy reminded him. “And keep your hand still inside the damned sling!”
“Yes, dear.”
It was about two in the morning, and things were going badly — and well. Part of the Ryan family tradition — a tradition barely three years old, but a tradition nevertheless — was that after Sally was in bed and asleep, her parents would creep down to the basement storage area — a room with a padlocked door — and bring the toys upstairs for assembly. The previous two years, this ceremony had been accompanied by a couple of bottles of champagne. Assembling toys was a wholly different sort of exercise when the assemblers were half blasted. It was their method of relaxing into the Christmas spirit.
So far things had gone well. Jack had taken his daughter to the seven o’clock children’s mass at St. Mary’s, and gotten her to bed a little after nine. His daughter had slid her head around the fireplace wall only twice before a loud command from her father had banished her to her bedroom for good, her arm clasping an overly talkative AG Bear to her chest. By midnight it was decided that she was asleep enough for her parents to make a little noise. This had begun the toy trek, as Cathy called it. Both parents removed their shoes to minimize noise on the hardwood steps and went downstairs. Of course, Jack forgot the key to the padlock, and had to climb back upstairs to the master bedroom to search for it. Five minutes later the door was opened and the two of them made four trips each, setting up a lavish pile of multicolored boxes near the tree, next to Jack’s tool kit.