Tom Clancy: Red Rabbit

“So, we failed,” Ryan concluded.

“Perhaps. It depends on where the bullets went. John said there was one hit in the body, one perhaps in the hand or arm, and one other that might have gone wild, or at worst was a peripheral strike. So, whether the man survives or not is up to whatever surgeon is working on him now.” King shrugged. “Out of our hands, my friend.”

“Fuck,” Ryan breathed quietly.

“Did you do your best, Sir John?”

That snapped his head around. “Yes-I mean, of course. We all did.”

“And that is all a man can do, isn’t it? Jack, I’ve been in the field for, what? Twelve years. Sometimes things go according to plan. Sometimes they do not. Given the information we had and the manpower we were able to deploy, I don’t see how we could have done any better. You’re an analyst, aren’t you?”

“Correct.”

“Well, for a desk boffin, you acquitted yourself well, and now you know a good deal more about field operations. There are no guarantees in this line of work.” King took another swallow of his drink. “I can’t say that I like it, either. I lost an agent in Moscow two years ago. He was a young captain in the Soviet army. Seemed a decent sort. Wife and a young son. They shot him, of course. Lord only knows what happened to his family. Maybe she’s in a labor camp, or maybe in some godforsaken town in Siberia, for all I know. You never find that out, you know. Nameless, faceless victims, but victims still.”

“THE PRESIDENT IS PISSED,” Moore told his senior executives, his right ear still burning from a conversation ten minutes before.

“That bad?” Greer asked.

“That bad,” the DCI confirmed. “He wants to know who did it and why, and he’d prefer to know before lunch.”

“That’s not possible,” Ritter said.

“There’s the phone, Bob. You call him and tell him that,” the Judge suggested. None of them had ever seen the President angry. It was, for the most part, something people tried to avoid.

“So, Jack was right?” Greer offered.

“He might have made a good guess. But he didn’t stop it from happening, either,” Ritter observed.

“Well, it gives you something to say, Arthur,” Greer said, with a little hope in his voice.

“Maybe so. I wonder how good Italian doctors are.”

“What do we know?” Greer asked. “Anything?”

“One serious bullet wound in the chest. The President ought to be able to identify with that,” Moore thought out loud. “Two other hits, but not serious ones.”

“So, call Charlie Weathers up at Harvard and ask him what the likely prognosis is.” This was from Ritter.

“The President’s already talked to the meatball surgeons at Walter Reed. They’re hopeful but noncommittal.”

“I’m sure they all say, ‘If I was on it, it’d be okay.’ ” Greer had experience with military doctors. Fighter pilots were shrinking violets next to battlefield surgeons.

“I’m going to call Basil and have the Rabbit flown here as soon as the Air Force can get a plane ready. If Ryan’s available-they ought to be flying him back from Rome right now, if I know Basil-I want him on the aircraft, too.”

“Why?” Ritter asked.

“So he can brief us-maybe the President, too-on his threat analysis prior to the event.”

“Christ, Arthur.” Greer nearly exploded. “They told us about the threat four, five days ago.”

“But we wanted to interview the guy ourselves,” Moore acknowledged. “I know, James, I know.”

RYAN FOLLOWED MICK KING off the airliner. At the bottom of the steps was somebody who had to be from Century House. Ryan saw that the man was staring right at him.

“Dr. Ryan, could you come with me, please? We’ll have a man get your bags,” the fellow promised.

“Where now?”

“We have a helicopter to take you to RAF Mildenhall, and-”

“My ass. I don’t do helicopters since one nearly killed me. How far is it?”

“An hour and a half’s drive.”

“Good. Get a car,” Jack ordered. Then he turned. “Thanks for the try, guys.” Sparrow, King, and the rest shook his hand. They had indeed all tried, even though no one would ever know about their effort. Then Jack wondered what Tom Sharp would be doing with Strokov, and decided that Mick King was right. He really didn’t want to know.

RAF MILDENHALL is just north of Cambridge, the home of one of the world’s great universities, and Ryan’s driver was in another Jaguar, and didn’t much care about whatever speed limits there were on British roads. When they pulled past the RAF Ground Defense Regiment’s security troops, the car didn’t go to the aircraft waiting there on the ramp, but rather to a low building that looked like-and was-a VIP terminal. There, a man handed Ryan a telex that took about twenty seconds to read and resulted in a muttered “Great.” Then Jack found a phone and called home.

“Jack?” his wife said when she recognized his voice. “Where the hell are you?” She must have been exercised. Cathy Ryan didn’t ordinarily talk like that.

“I’m at RAF Mildenhall. I have to fly back to Washington.”

“Why?”

“Let me ask you this, honey: How good are Italian doctors?”

“You mean-the Pope?”

“Yep.” She couldn’t see his tired but curt nod.

“Every country has good surgeons-Jack, what’s going on? Were you there?”

“Cath, I was about forty feet away, but I can’t tell you any more than that, and you can’t repeat it to anybody, okay?”

“Okay,” she replied, with wonder and frustration in her voice. “When will you be home?”

“Probably in a couple of days. I have to talk to some people at headquarters, and they’ll probably send me right back. Sorry, babe. Business. So, how good are the docs in Italy?”

“I’d feel better if Jack Cammer was working on him, but they have to have some good ones. Every big city does. The University of Padua is about the oldest medical school in the world. Their ophthalmologists are about as good as we are at Hopkins. For general surgery, they must have some good people, but the guy I know best for this is Jack.” John Michael Cammer was Chairman of Hopkins’ Department of Surgery, holder of the prestigious Halstead Chair, and one hell of a good man with a knife. Cathy knew him well. Jack had met him once or twice at fund-raisers and been impressed by his demeanor, but wasn’t a physician and couldn’t evaluate the man’s professional abilities. “It’s fairly straightforward to treat a gunshot wound, mostly. Unless the liver or spleen is hit. The real problem is bleeding. Jack, it’s like when Sally got hurt in the car with me. If you get him there fast, and if the surgeon knows his stuff, you have a good chance of surviving-unless the spleen’s ruptured or the liver is badly lacerated. I saw the TV coverage. His heart wasn’t hit-wrong angle. I’d say better than even money he’ll recover. He’s not a young man, and that won’t help, but a really good surgical team can do miracles if they get to him fast enough.” She didn’t talk about the nasty variables of trauma surgery. Bullets could ricochet off ribs and go in the most unpredictable directions. They could fragment and do damage in widely separated places. Fundamentally, you couldn’t diagnose, much less treat, a bullet wound from five seconds of TV tape. So the odds on the Pope’s survival were better than even money, but a lot of 5–1 horses had beaten the chalk horse and won the Kentucky Derby.

“Thanks, babe. I’ll probably be able to tell you more when I get home. Hug the kids for me, okay?”

“You sound tired,” she said.

“I am tired, babe. It’s been a busy couple of days.” And it wasn’t going to get any quieter. “Bye for now.”