“You can’t just wing it, you know. You’re giving the keynote speech.”
“I’m working on it,” Elias said, pointing his sword at his sensei. The Japanese swordsman nodded curtly and flicked his cigarette butt away before reaching for his sword and mask.
“Look, I gotta run, Amanda. Hey, take tomorrow off. You deserve it.”
“I wish I could.”
“Call me when you land so I know you’re okay.”
“I will. Thanks.”
She rang off, a tinge of sadness and longing in her voice. Exactly as Elias desired. He forgot about her as soon as the call ended.
Elias grabbed his padded fighting gloves, peppering his sensei with a dozen technical questions about suburi in faultless Japanese as they both geared up. He couldn’t wait for their next round to begin, each strike of his bamboo sword a blow against the mountain of worries looming over him.
10
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
HENDLEY ASSOCIATES
Jack Ryan, Jr., sat in his cubicle, staring at the Excel spreadsheet and scratching behind his ear, a nervous habit. It wasn’t really itchy. But ever since it had been nearly torn off that night in Afghanistan by the sticky-bomb explosion and sewn back on with nine stitches of catgut by an ISIS drug smuggler, Jack couldn’t shake the feeling it was going to fall off. His finger kept gravitating to the stitch line the same way his tongue would automatically float to the empty space where a tooth fell out when he was a kid. Or the way it did now, touching the capped tooth that had been chipped in the same explosion.
He’d fully recovered from the aches, pains, and sprains of one of the hairiest ops he’d ever been on, grateful to be alive. He was even more grateful that Ysabel Kashani was in his life again.
Sort of.
She was back in London with her family, partly recovering from their operation together in Afghanistan and Iran, and partly to figure out where she was with everything, including Jack. She had been working with the United Nations Office on Drug and Crime when he found her again in Afghanistan, but after everything that happened over there, she couldn’t possibly return to either the land of her birth, Iran, or Afghanistan.
“I just need some time, Jack,” she’d said, and in truth, so did Jack. He thought she’d been married and had a kid—a clever cover he’d stumbled across on social media, and, like an idiot, he’d swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. He figured he’d lost her forever, and now she was back. But neither of them was exactly sure what that meant or what the future held.
Just one of the many reasons he was glad for the current assignment.
Jack rubbed his tired face. It was getting late. The numbers swarmed on the screen like ants on a candy bar. He’d been staring at the electronic spreadsheet for hours, trying to puzzle out this company’s Rubik’s Cube of international bank accounts, wire transfers, and conflicting calendar dates against the data presented in the 10-K annual filing. Something just wasn’t adding up.
Jack was a financial analyst with the “white side” Hendley Associates but also a field operative with the “black side” Campus. The Campus was an off-the-books intelligence agency designed to carry out missions on behalf of the United States when traditional security agencies couldn’t be called upon.
But when Jack was back home, he was still responsible for helping Hendley Associates accomplish its mission as one of the world’s premier private equity management firms. After all, it was the money Hendley Associates earned that paid the bills for all Campus operations.
Jack had started out as a financial analyst and he loved the work, though if he had to choose between the two jobs, he would prefer being an operator for The Campus. But in truth, he enjoyed the downtime as a financial analyst, using that part of his brain to decompress from the high-adrenaline stress of close-quarters combat and large-caliber gunfights.
In fact, he needed it. Jack had no problem carrying his share of the load on a mission. Thanks to John Clark’s training, Jack liked to think he handled himself well in tactical situations—though there was still much more for him to learn—and he was proficient with small arms, CQB, and even knife fighting.
But like his dad, Jack’s mind was his best weapon.
Jack ran a hand over his neatly trimmed beard absentmindedly as his eyes scanned the screen, searching for clues. He needed to crack this nut before he could move on with the project, an