security service. If you publicize this internationally, it might have a cooling effect on Talanov and Volodin’s plans.”
Haldane caught himself wondering about the impact this news would have on his investments in Europe. He was, after all, a businessman first and foremost. But he cleared his head of business and did his best to remember his past life in the intelligence field.
He found this hard to do; he had not worked as an employee of MI6 in nearly two decades. He put his hands up in the air in a show of surrender. “I . . . I really am out of the game, my friend. Of course I can return to London straightaway and talk to some old acquaintances, and then they will find someone more appropriate to serve as a conduit for your information in the future.”
“
You
, Tony. I will only talk to you.”
Haldane nodded slowly. “I understand.” He thought for a moment. “I have business here, next week. Can we meet again?”
“Yes, but after that we will need to automate the flow of information.”
“Quite. I don’t suppose it would do for us to have a regular date night.”
Stanislav smiled. “I will warn you now. My wife is every bit as dangerous as FSB director Roman Talanov.”
“I rather doubt
that
, old boy.”
7
P resident of the United States Jack Ryan stood outside the White House’s South Portico with his wife, Cathy, by his side and his Secret Service contingent flanking them both. It was a crisp spring afternoon in D.C., with bright blue skies and temperatures in the low forties, and as Ryan watched a black Ford Expedition roll up the driveway he could not help thinking this great weather would make for a nice photo op here with his guest on the South Lawn.
But there would be no photos today, nor would the meeting go in the visitor log kept by the White House. The President’s official schedule, put online for all the world to see, for reasons Ryan could not fathom, was cryptic regarding Ryan’s activities today. It said only, “Private Lunch—Residence. 1:00 p.m. to 2:30 p.m.”
And if Scott Adler, the secretary of state, had his way, this meeting would not be happening at all.
But Ryan was President of the United States, and, on this, POTUS got his way. His visitor today was his friend, he was in town, and Ryan saw no reason why he shouldn’t have him over for lunch.
As they waited for the Expedition to come to a stop, Cathy Ryan leaned closer to her husband. “This guy pointed a gun at you once, didn’t he?”
There was
that
, Ryan conceded to himself.
With a sly smile he replied, “I’m sorry, hon. That’s classified. Anyway, you know Sergey. He’s a friend.”
Cathy pinched her husband’s arm playfully, and her next comment was delivered in jest. “They’ve searched him, right?”
“Cathy.” Ryan said it in a mock scolding voice, and then he joked, “Hell . . . I hope so.”
Ryan’s lead personal protection agent, Andrea Price-O’Day, was standing close enough to hear the exchange. “If it comes down to it, Mr. President, I think you could take him.”
The Expedition parked in front of them, and one of the Secret Service agents opened the back door.
Seconds later, Sergey Golovko, former officer in the KGB and former director of Russia’s foreign intelligence service, climbed slowly out of the vehicle.
“Sergey!” Ryan said, his smile warm and his hand outstretched.
“Mr. President,” Golovko replied with a smile of his own.
Cathy came forward and accepted a kiss; she’d met Sergey before and thought him to be a kind and gentle man, despite whatever had happened between him and Jack a long time ago.
As they turned to head back into the White House, Ryan could not help noticing that Sergey seemed noticeably older than he had the last time the two had met. Though he smiled, he moved slowly and sluggishly, and his shoulders hung slumped inside his blue suit.
Ryan told himself this should not come as a great surprise. Statistically, the life
Haldane caught himself wondering about the impact this news would have on his investments in Europe. He was, after all, a businessman first and foremost. But he cleared his head of business and did his best to remember his past life in the intelligence field.
He found this hard to do; he had not worked as an employee of MI6 in nearly two decades. He put his hands up in the air in a show of surrender. “I . . . I really am out of the game, my friend. Of course I can return to London straightaway and talk to some old acquaintances, and then they will find someone more appropriate to serve as a conduit for your information in the future.”
“
You
, Tony. I will only talk to you.”
Haldane nodded slowly. “I understand.” He thought for a moment. “I have business here, next week. Can we meet again?”
“Yes, but after that we will need to automate the flow of information.”
“Quite. I don’t suppose it would do for us to have a regular date night.”
Stanislav smiled. “I will warn you now. My wife is every bit as dangerous as FSB director Roman Talanov.”
“I rather doubt
that
, old boy.”
7
P resident of the United States Jack Ryan stood outside the White House’s South Portico with his wife, Cathy, by his side and his Secret Service contingent flanking them both. It was a crisp spring afternoon in D.C., with bright blue skies and temperatures in the low forties, and as Ryan watched a black Ford Expedition roll up the driveway he could not help thinking this great weather would make for a nice photo op here with his guest on the South Lawn.
But there would be no photos today, nor would the meeting go in the visitor log kept by the White House. The President’s official schedule, put online for all the world to see, for reasons Ryan could not fathom, was cryptic regarding Ryan’s activities today. It said only, “Private Lunch—Residence. 1:00 p.m. to 2:30 p.m.”
And if Scott Adler, the secretary of state, had his way, this meeting would not be happening at all.
But Ryan was President of the United States, and, on this, POTUS got his way. His visitor today was his friend, he was in town, and Ryan saw no reason why he shouldn’t have him over for lunch.
As they waited for the Expedition to come to a stop, Cathy Ryan leaned closer to her husband. “This guy pointed a gun at you once, didn’t he?”
There was
that
, Ryan conceded to himself.
With a sly smile he replied, “I’m sorry, hon. That’s classified. Anyway, you know Sergey. He’s a friend.”
Cathy pinched her husband’s arm playfully, and her next comment was delivered in jest. “They’ve searched him, right?”
“Cathy.” Ryan said it in a mock scolding voice, and then he joked, “Hell . . . I hope so.”
Ryan’s lead personal protection agent, Andrea Price-O’Day, was standing close enough to hear the exchange. “If it comes down to it, Mr. President, I think you could take him.”
The Expedition parked in front of them, and one of the Secret Service agents opened the back door.
Seconds later, Sergey Golovko, former officer in the KGB and former director of Russia’s foreign intelligence service, climbed slowly out of the vehicle.
“Sergey!” Ryan said, his smile warm and his hand outstretched.
“Mr. President,” Golovko replied with a smile of his own.
Cathy came forward and accepted a kiss; she’d met Sergey before and thought him to be a kind and gentle man, despite whatever had happened between him and Jack a long time ago.
As they turned to head back into the White House, Ryan could not help noticing that Sergey seemed noticeably older than he had the last time the two had met. Though he smiled, he moved slowly and sluggishly, and his shoulders hung slumped inside his blue suit.
Ryan told himself this should not come as a great surprise. Statistically, the life
Similar Books
