.45 Beretta automatic pistol, and the gold badge and ID card that said he was a deputy U.S. marshal, which was very useful indeed for an armed man in an international airport. He even still had his British carry permit—rare enough that the Queen practically had to sign it. The former allowed them to speed through customs and immigration.
After customs, they found in the public reception area a nondescript man holding a cardboard card with CLARK written on it, and the party of five moved to where he was.
“How was the flight?” The usual question.
“Fine.” The usual answer.
“I’m parked outside. Blue Plymouth Voyager with Virginia tags. You’ll be staying at the Key Bridge Marriott, two top-floor suites.” Which will have been fully swept, he didn’t have to add. The Marriott chain did a lot of government business, especially the one at the Key Bridge, overlooking Washington.
“And tomorrow?” John asked.
“You’re scheduled for eight-fifteen.”
“Who are we seeing?” Clark asked.
The man shrugged. “It’ll be on the seventh floor.”
Clark and Chavez traded an oh, shit look, but for all that it wasn’t surprising, and both were ready for a lengthy night’s sleep that would probably end about 0530 at the latest, but this time without the three-mile run and the daily dozen setting-up exercises.
“How was England?” The receptionist/driver asked on the way out.
“Civilized. Some of it was pretty exciting,” Chavez told him, but then realized that the official greeter was a junior field officer who hadn’t a clue what they’d been doing in Old Blighty. Probably just as well. He didn’t have the look of former military, though you couldn’t always tell.
“You catch any rugby while you were over there?” their escort asked.
“A little. You have to be nuts to play that without pads,” Clark offered. “But they are a little peculiar over there.”
“Maybe they’re just tougher than we are.”
The ride toward D.C. was uneventful, helped by the fact that they were just ahead of the evening rush hour and not going all the way into the city. The effects of jet lag struck even these experienced travelers, and by the time they got to the hotel, the presence of bellmen seemed a very good idea. Inside five minutes they were on the top floor in adjoining suites, and J.C. was already looking at the king-size bed he’d have to himself. Patsy gave the same sort of look to the bathtub—it was smaller than the monsters the Brits built, but there was room to sit down, and a limitless supply of hot water just on the other side of the tap. Ding picked a chair and got the remote, and settled in to get reacquainted with American television.
Next door, John Clark left the unpacking to Sandy and raided the minibar for a miniature of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7. The Brits didn’t understand bourbon or its Tennessee cousin, and the first stiff shot, even without ice, was a rare delight.
“What’s tomorrow?” Sandy asked.
“Have to have a meeting on the seventh floor.”
“Who with?”
“He didn’t say. Probably a deputy assistant director of operations. I haven’t kept track of the lineup at Langley. Whoever he is, he’ll tell me about the great retirement package they have set up for me. Sandy, I think it’s about time for me to hang it up.”
He couldn’t add that he’d never really considered the possibility of living this long. So his luck hadn’t quite run out? Remarkable. He’d have to buy himself a laptop and get serious about an autobiography. But for the moment: stand up, stretch, pick up his suit jacket and hang it in the closet before Sandy yelled at him for being a slob again. On the lapel was the sky-blue ribbon and five white stars that denoted the Medal of Honor. Jack Ryan had arranged that for him, after looking into his Navy service record and a lengthy document written by Vice Admiral Dutch Maxwell, God rest his soul. He’d been away when Maxwell had checked out at eighty-three—he’d been in Iran, of all places, trying to see if a network of agents had been completely rolled up by Iranian security. That process had begun, but John had managed to get five of them out of the country alive, via the UAE, along with their families. Sonny Maxwell was still flying, a senior captain for Delta, father of four. The medal was for getting Sonny out of North Vietnam. It now seemed like something that had happened during the last ice age. But he had this little