Patriot Games by Tom Clancy

“Those were hard times, good Father,” Platonov said smoothly. “My country has no business with those IRA madmen. They are not revolutionaries, however much they pretend to be. They have no revolutionary ethic. It is madness, what they do. The working classes should be allies, contesting together against the common enemy that exploits them both, instead of killing one another. Both sides of the conflict are victimized by bosses who play them off against each other, but instead of recognizing this they kill one another like mad dogs, and with as little point. They are bandits, not revolutionaries,” he concluded with a distinction lost on the other two.

“Maybe so, but if I ever get my hands on them, I’ll give them a lesson in revolutionary justice.” It was good to let his hatred out in the open for once.

“You have no sympathy for them, either of you?” Platonov bailed them. “After all, you are both related to the victims of British imperialism. Did not both your families flee to America to escape it?”

Ryan was caught very short by that remark. It seemed an incredible thing to say until he saw that the Russian was watching for his reaction.

“Or perhaps the direct victim of Soviet imperialism,” Jack responded with his own look. “Those two guys in London had Kalashnikov rifles. So did the ones who attacked my wife,” he lied. “You don’t buy one of those at the local hardware store. Whether you choose to admit it or not, most of the terrorists over there profess to be Marxists. That makes them your allies, not mine, and it makes it appear more than a coincidence that they use Soviet arms.”

“Do you know how many countries manufacture weapons of Soviet design? It is sadly inevitable that some will fall into the wrong hands.”

“In any case, my sympathy for their aim is, shall we say, limited by their choice of technique. You can’t build a civilized country on a foundation of murder,” Ryan concluded. “Much as some people have tried.”

“It would be well if the world worked in more peaceful ways.” Platonov ignored the implicit comment on the Soviet Union. “But it is an historical fact that nations are born in blood, even yours. As countries grow, they mature beyond such conduct. It is not easy, but I think we can all see the value of peaceful coexistence. For myself, Doctor Ryan, I can sympathize with your feelings. I have two fine sons. We once had a daughter also, Nadia. She died long ago, at age seven, from leukemia. I know it is a hard thing to see your child in pain, but you are more fortunate than I. Your daughter will live.” He allowed his voice to soften. “We disagree on many things, but no man can fail to love his children.

“So.” Platonov changed gears smoothly. “What did you really think of Professor Hunter’s little speech? Should America seek to foment counterrevolution in the socialist states of Europe?”

“Why don’t you ask the State Department? That’s not my part of the world, remember? I teach naval history. But if you want a personal opinion, I don’t see how we can encourage people to rebel if we have no prospect of helping them directly when your country reacts.”

“Ah, good. You understand that we must act to protect our fraternal socialist brothers from aggression.”

The man was good, Ryan saw, but he’d had a lot of practice at this. “I wouldn’t call the encouragement of people to seek their own freedom a form of aggression, Mr. Platonov. I was a stockbroker before I got my history degree, and that doesn’t make me much of a candidate for sympathizing with your political outlook. What I am saying is that your country used military force to crush democratic feelings in Czechoslovakia and Hungary. To encourage people toward their own suicide is both immoral and counterproductive.”

“Ah, but what does your government think?” the Russian asked with another jolly laugh.

“I’m a historian, not a soothsayer. In this town they all work for the Post. Ask them.”

“In any case,” the Russian went on, “our Naval Attache is most interested to meet you and discuss your book. We are having a reception at the embassy on the twelfth of next month. The good Father is coming, he can watch over your soul. Might you and your wife attend?”

“For the next few weeks I plan to be at home with my family. My girl needs me there for a while.”

The diplomat was not to be put off. “Yes, I can understand that. Some other time, perhaps?”

“Sure, give me a call sometime this summer.” Are you kidding?

“Excellent. Now if you will excuse me, I wish to speak to Professor Hunter.” The diplomat shook hands again and walked off to the knot of historians who were hanging on Hunter’s every word.

Ryan turned to Father Riley, who’d watched the exchange in silence while sipping at his champagne.

“Interesting guy, Sergey,” Riley said. “He loves to hit people for reactions. I wonder if he really believes in his system or if he’s just playing the game for points . . .?”

Ryan had a more immediate question. “Father, what in the hell was that all about?”

Riley chuckled. “You’re being checked out. Jack.”

“Why?”

“You don’t need me to answer that. You’re working at CIA. If I guess right, Admiral Greer wants you on his personal staff. Marty Cantor is taking a job at the University of Texas next year, and you’re one of the candidates for his job. I don’t know if Sergey’s aware of that, but you probably looked like the best target of opportunity in the room, and he wanted to get a feel for you. Happens all the time.”

“Cantor’s job? But — nobody told me that!”

“The world’s full of surprises. They probably haven’t finished the full background check on you yet, and they won’t pop the offer until they do. I presume the information you’re looking at is still pretty limited?”

“I can’t discuss that, Father.”

The priest smiled. “Thought so. The work you’ve done over there has impressed the right people. If I have things right, they’re going to bring you along like a good welterweight prospect.” Riley got another glass of champagne. “If I know James Greer, he’ll just sort of ease you into it. What did it, you see, was that Canary Trap thing. It really impressed some folks.”

“How do you know all this?” Ryan asked, shocked at what he’d just heard.

“Jack, how do you think you got over there in the first place? Who do you think got you that Center for Strategic and International Studies fellowship? The people there liked your work, too. Between what I said and what they said, Marty thought you were worth a look last summer, and you worked out better than anyone expected. There are some people around town who respect my opinion.”

“Oh.” Ryan had to smile. He’d allowed himself to forget the first thing about the Society of Jesus: they know everyone, from whom they can learn nearly everything. The President of the university belonged to both the Cosmos and University clubs, with which came access to the most important ears and mouths in Washington. That’s how it would start. Occasionally a man would need advice on something, and being unable to consult the people he worked with, he might try to discuss it with a clergyman. No one was better qualified for this than a Jesuit, meticulously educated, well versed in the ways of the world, but not spoiled by it — most of the time. Like any clergyman, each was a good listener. So effective was the Society at gathering information that the State Department’s code-breakers had once been tasked to break the Jesuits’ own cipher systems; the assignment had started a small revolt in the “Black Chamber” . . . until they’d realized what sort of information was finding its way to them.

When Saint Ignatius Loyola had founded the order, the ex-soldier set it on a path to do only two things: to send out missionaries and to build schools. Both had been done extraordinarily well. The influence passed on by the schooling would never be lost on the men who’d graduated. It wasn’t Machiavellian, not really. The colleges and universities plied its students with philosophy and ethics and theology — all required courses — to mute their baser tendencies and sharpen their wits. For centuries the Jesuits had built “men for others,” and wielded a kind of invisible temporal power, mainly for the good. Father Riley’s intellectual credentials were widely known, and his opinions would be sought, just as from any distinguished academic, added to which was his moral authority as a graduate theologian.

“We’re good security risks. Jack,” Riley said benignly. “Can you imagine one of us being a Communist agent? So, are you interested in the job?”