now.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” his secretary acknowledged. This sounded hot, but Robby Jackson was on his way out of town again, to give a speech in Seattle, at the Boeing plant of all places, where the workers and the management wanted to know about the 777 order to China. Robby didn’t have much to say on that point, and so he’d talk about the importance of human rights and America’s core beliefs and principles, and all that wave-the-flag stuff. The Boeing people would be polite about it, and it was hard to be impolite to a black man, especially one with Navy Wings of Gold on his lapel, and learning to handle this political bullshit was Robby’s main task. Besides, it took pressure off Ryan, and that was Jackson’s primary mission in life, and oddly enough, one which he accepted with relative equanimity. So, his VC-20B would be over Ohio right about now, Jack thought. Maybe Indiana. Just then Andrea came in.
“Company coming?” Special Agent Price-O’Day asked. She looked a little pale, Jack thought.
“The usual suspects. You feeling okay?” the President asked.
“Stomach is a little upset. Too much coffee with breakfast.”
Morning sickness? Ryan wondered. If so, too bad. Andrea tried so hard to be one of the boys. Admitting this female failing would scar her soul as though from a flamethrower. He couldn’t say anything about it. Maybe Cathy could. It was a girl thing.
“Well, the DCI’s coming over with something he says is important. Maybe they’ve changed the toilet paper in the Kremlin, as we used to say at Langley back when I worked there.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled. Like most Secret Service agents, she’d seen the people and the secrets come and go, and if there were important things for her to know, she’d find out in due course.
General-Lieutenant Kirillin liked to drink as much as most Russians, and that was quite a lot by American standards. The difference between Russians and Brits, Chavez had learned, was that the Brits drank just as much, but they did it with beer, while the Russians made do with vodka. Ding was neither a Mormon nor a Baptist, but he was over his capacity here. After two nights of keeping up with the local Joneses, he’d nearly died on the morning run with his team, and only avoided falling out for fear of losing face before the Russian Spetsnaz people they were teaching to come up to Rainbow standards. Somehow he’d managed not to puke, though he had allowed Eddie Price to take charge of the first two classes that day while he’d wandered off to drink a gallon of water to chase down three aspirins. Tonight, he’d decided, he’d cut off the vodkas at two ... maybe three.
“How are our men doing?” the general asked.
“Just fine, sir,” Chavez answered. “They like their new weapons, and they’re picking up on the doctrine. They’re smart. They know how to think before they act.”
“Does this surprise you?”
“Yes, General, it does. It was the same for me once, back when I was a squad sergeant in the Ninjas. Young soldiers tend to think with their dicks rather than their brains. I learned better, but I had to learn it the hard way in the field. It’s sometimes a lot easier to get yourself into trouble than it is to think yourself out of it. Your Spetsnaz boys started off that way, but if you show them the right way, they listen pretty good. Today’s exercise, for example. We set it up with a trap, but your captain stopped short on the way in and thought it through before he committed, and he passed the test. He’s a good team leader, by the way. I’d say bump him to major.” Chavez hoped he hadn’t just put the curse of hell on the kid, realizing that praise from a CIA officer wasn’t calculated to be career-enhancing for a Russian officer.
“He’s my nephew. His father married my sister. He’s an academician, a professor at Moscow State University.”
“His English is superb. I’d take him for a native of Chicago.” And so Captain Leskov had probably been talent-scouted by KGB or its successor agency. Language skills of that magnitude didn’t just happen.
“He was a parachutist before they sent him to Spetsnaz,” Kirillin went on, “a good light-infantryman.”
“That’s what Ding was, once upon a time,” Clark told the Russian.
“Seventh Light Infantry. They de-established the division after I left. Seems like a long time now.”
“How did you go from the American army into