tc.redrabbit-第66部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　　〃Think　so。〃
　　　You　couldn't　be　sure；　but　MP　had　a　good　eye　for　reading　people；　and　he　was　willing　to　wager　on　those　cards。　He　nodded。　〃Okay。〃
　　　〃Any　pany？〃　she　asked　next。
　　　Foley's　eyes　were　about　equally　divided　between　the　street　and　the　mirrors。　If　they　were　being　followed；　it　was　by　the　Invisible　Man。　〃Nope。〃
　　　〃Good。〃　She　turned　the　sound　down　some。　〃You　know；　I　like　it；　too；　Ed；　but　easy　on　the　ears。〃
　　　〃Fine；　honey。　I　have　to　go　back　to　the　office　this　afternoon。〃
　　　〃What　for？〃　she　asked　in　the　semi…angry　voice　every　husband　in　the　world　knows。
　　　〃Well；　I　have　some　paperwork　from　yesterday…〃
　　　〃And　you　want　to　check　the　baseball　scores；〃　she　huffed。　〃Ed；　why　can't　we　get　satellite　TV　in　our　apartment　block？〃
　　　〃They're　working　on　getting　it　for　us；　but　the　Russians　are　making　a　little　trouble。　They're　afraid　it　might　be　a　spy　tool；〃　he　added　in　a　disgusted　voice。
　　　〃Yeah；〃　she　observed。　〃Sure。　Give　me　a　break。〃　Just　in　case　KGB　had　a　very　clever　black…bag　guy　who　prowled　the　parking　lot　at　night。　Maybe　the　FBI　could　pull　that　one　off　but；　though　they　had　to　guard　against　the　possibility；　she　doubted　that　the　Russians　had　anybody　that　clever。　Their　radios　were　just　too　bulky。　Even　so；　yes。　They　were　paranoid；　but　were　they　paranoid　enough？
　　　Cathy　took　sally　and　Little　Jack　outside。　There　was　a　park　just　a　block　and　a　half　away；　off　Fristow　Way；　where　there　were　a　few　swings　that　Sally　liked　and　grass　for　the　little　guy　to　pull　at　and　try　to　eat。　He'd　just　figured　out　how　to　use　his　hands；　badly　and　awkwardly；　but　whatever　found　its　way　into　his　little　fist　immediately　thereafter　found　its　way　to　his　mouth；　a　fact　known　by　every　parent　in　the　world。　Still　and　all；　it　was　a　chance　to　get　the　kids　some　sun…the　winter　nights　would　be　long　and　dark　here…and　it　got　the　house　quiet　for　Jack　to　get　some　work　done　on　his　Halsey　book。
　　　He'd　already　taken　out　one　of　Cathy's　medical　textbooks；　Principles　of　Internal　Medicine；　to　read　up　on　shingles；　the　skin　disease　that　had　tormented　the　American　admiral　at　a　very　inconvenient　rime。　Just　from　reading　the　subchapter　on　the　ailment…related　to　chicken　pox；　it　turned　out…it　must　have　been　like　medieval　torture　to　the　then　elderly　naval　aviator。　Even　more　so　that　his　beloved　carrier　battle　group；　Enterprise　and　Yorktown；　would　have　to　sail　into　a　major　engagement　without　him。　But　he'd　taken　it　like　a　man…the　only　way　William　Frederick　Halsey；　Jr。；　had　ever　taken　anything…and　remended　his　friend　Raymond　Spruance　to　take　his　place。　The　two　men　could　scarcely　have　been　more　different。　Halsey　the　profane；　hard…drinking；　chain…smoking　former　football　player。　Spruance；　the　nonsmoking；　teetotaling　intellectual　reputed　never　to　have　raised　his　voice　in　anger。　But　they'd　bee　the　closest　of　friends；　and　would　later　in　the　war　switch　off　mand　of　the　Pacific　Fleet；　renaming　it　from
　　　Third　Fleet　to　Fifth　Fleet　and　back　again　when　mand　was　exchanged。　That；　Ryan　thought；　was　the　most　obvious　clue　that　Halsey　had　been　the　intellectual；　too；　and　not　the　blustering　hell…for…leather　aggressor　that　the　contemporary　newspapers　had　proclaimed　him　to　be。　Spruance　the　intellectual　would　not　have　befriended　a　knuckle…dragger。　But　their　staffs　had　snarled　at　each　other　like　tomcats　fighting　over　a　tabby　in　heat；　probably　the　military　equivalent　of　〃my　daddy　can　whip　your　daddy；〃　engaged　in　by　children　up　to　the　age　of　seven　or　so…and　no　more　intellectually　respectable。
　　　He　had　Halsey's　own　words　on　the　illness；　though　what　he'd　really　said　must　have　been　muted　by　his　editor　and　co…writer；　since　Bill　Halsey　really　had　spoken　like　a　Chief　Bosun's　Mate　with　a　few　drinks　under　his　belt…probably　one　of　the　reasons　reporters　had　liked　him　so　much。　He'd　made　such　good　copy。
　　　His　notes　and　some　source　documents　were　piled　next　to　his　Apple　He　puter。　Jack　used　WordStar　as　his　word…processing　program。　It　was　fairly　plicated；　but　a　damned　sight　better　than　using　a　typewriter。　He　wondered　which　publisher　would　be　right　for　the　book。　The　Naval　Institute　Press　was　after　him　again；　but　he　found　himself　wondering　whether　to　switch　over　to　a　big…league　publisher。　But　he　had　to　finish　the　damned　book　first；　didn't　he？　And　so；　back　into　Halsey's　plex　brain。
　　　But　he　was　hesitating　today。　That　was　unusual。　His　typing…three　fingers　and　a　thumb　（two　thumbs　on　a　good　day）…was　the　same；　but　his　brain　wasn't　concentrating　properly；　as　though　it　wanted　to　look　at　something　else。　This　was　an　occasional　curse　of　his　CIA　analysis　work。　Some　problems　just　wouldn't　go　away；　forcing　his　mind　to　go　over　the　same　material　time　and　again　until　he　stumbled　upon　the　answer　to　a　question　that　often　enough　made　little　sense　in　and　of　itself。　The　same　thing　had　occasionally　happened　during　his　time　at　Merrill　Lynch；　when　he'd　investigated　stock　issues；　looking　for　hidden　worth　or　danger　in　the　operations　and　finances　of　some　publicly　traded　pany。　That　had　occasionally　put　him　at　odds　with　the　big　boys　up　in　the　New　York　office；　but　Ryan　had　never　been　one　to　do　something　just　because　a　superior　told　him　to。　Even　in　the　Marine　Corps；　an　officer；　however　junior；　was　expected　to　think；　and　a　stockbroker　with　clients　was　entrusted　by　them　to　safeguard　their　money　as　though　it　were　his　own。　Mostly；　he'd　succeeded。　After　putting　his　own　funds　into　Chicago　and　North　Western　Railroad；　he'd　been　hammered　by　his　supervisors；　but　he'd　stood　his　ground；　and　those　clients　who'd　listened　to　him　had　cashed　in　rather　nicely…which　had　earned　him　a　crowd　of　new　clients。　So　Ryan　had　learned　to　listen　to　his　instincts；　to　scratch　the　itches　he　couldn't　quite　see　and　could　barely　feel。　This　was　one　of　those；　and　〃this〃　was　the　Pope。　The　information　he　had　did　not　form　a　plete　picture；　but　he　was　used　to　that。　In　the　stock…trading　business；　he'd　learned　how　and　when　to　bet　his　money　on　inplete　pictures；　and　nine　times　out　of　ten　he'd　been　right。
　　　He　had　nothing　to　bet　on　this　one　but　his　itch；　however。　Something　was　happening。　He　just　didn't　know　what。　All　he'd　seen　was　a　copy　of　a　warning　letter　sent　to　Warsaw；　and　certainly　forwarded　to　Moscow；　where　a　bunch　of　old　men　would　look　upon　it　as　a　threat。
　　　That　wasn't　much　to　go　on；　was　it？　Ryan　asked　himself。　He　found　himself　wishing　for　a　cigarette。　Such　things　helped　his　thinking　process　sometimes；　but　there'd　be　hell　to　pay　if　Cathy　smelled　smoke　in　their　house。　But　chewing　gum；　even　bubble　gum；　just　didn't　cut　it　at　times　like　this。
　　　He　needed　Jim　Greer。　The　Admiral　often　treated　him　like　a　surrogate　son…his　own　son　had　been　killed　as　a　Marine　lieutenant　in　Vietnam；　Ryan　had　learned　along　the　way…giving　him　the　occasional　chance　to　talk　through　a　problem。　But　he　wasn't　that　close　to　Sir　Basil　Charleston；　and　Simon　was　too　near　to　him　in　age；　if　not　quite　in　experience。　And　this　was　not　a　problem　to　be　kicked　around　alone。　He　wished　he　could　discuss　it　with　his　wife…doctors；　he　knew；　were　pretty　smart…but　that　wasn't　allowed；　and；　anyway；　Cathy　didn't　really　know　the　situation　well　enough　to　understand　the　threats。　No；　she'd　grown　up　in　a　more　privileged　environment；　daughter　of　a　millionaire　stock…and…bonds　trader；　living　in　a　large　Park　Avenue　apartment；　all　the　best　schools；　her　own　new　car　for　her　sixteenth　birthday；　and　all　the　hazards　of　life　held　off　well　beyond　arm's　length。　Not　Jack。　His　dad　had　been　a　cop；　mostly　a　homicide　investigator；　and；　while　his　father　hadn't　brought　work　home；　Jack　had　asked　enough　questions　to　understand　that　the　real　world　could　be　a　place　of　unpredictable　danger　and　that　some　people　just　didn't　think　like　real　people。　They　were　called　Bad　Guys…and　they　could　be　pretty　goddamned　bad。　He'd　never　lived　without　a　conscience。　Whether　he'd　picked　that　up　in　distant　childhood　or　Catholic　schools；　or　it　had　been　part　of　his　genetic　makeup；　Jack　didn't　know。　He　did　know　that　breaking　the　rules　was　rarely　a　good　thing；　but　he　also　knew　that　the　rules　were　a　product　of　reason；　and　reason　was　paramount；　and　so　the　rules　could　be　broken　if　you　had　a　good…a　very　goddamned　good…reason　for　doing　so。　That　was　called　judgment；　and　the　Marines；　oddly　enough；　had　nurtured　that　particular　flower。　You　made　an　estimate　of　the　situation　and　thought　through　the　options；　and　then　you　acted。　Sometimes　you　had　to　do　it　in　a　very　big　hurry…and　that　was　why　officers　were　paid　more　than　sergeants；　though　you　were　always　well　advised　to　listen　to　your　gunny　if　you　had　the　time。
　　　But　Ryan　had　none　of　those　things　now；　and　that　was　the　bad　news。　There　was　no　immediately　identifiable　threat　in　view；　and　that　was　the　good　news。　But　now　he　was　in　an　environment　in　which　the　threats　were　not　always　readily　visible；　and　it　was　his　job　to　find　them　out　by　piecing　the　available　information　together。　But　there　wasn't　much　of　that　now　either。　Just　a　possibility；　which　he　had　to　apply　to　the　minds　of　people　he　didn't　know　and　would　never　meet；　except　as　paper　documents　written　up　by　other　people　he　didn't　know。　It　was　like　being　the　navigator　on　a　ship　in　Christopher　Columbus's　little　fleet；　thinking　land　might　be　out　there；　but　not　knowing　where　or　when　he　might　e　upon　it…and　hoping　to　God　it　wouldn't　be　at　night；　in　a　storm；　and　that　the　land　would　not　appear　as　a　barrier　reef　to　rip　th