Greville went on. "I am also directed by my colonel to extend an invitation to our regimental mess."
Ryan gestured at his suspended arm. "Thanks, but that might have to wait a while."
"We understand. No matter, sir. Whenever you have the chance, we'll be delighted to have you in for dinner. We wanted to extend the invitation before the bootnecks, you see." Greville grinned. "What you did was more our sort of op, after all. Well, I had to extend the invitation. You want to see your family, not me."
"Take good care of them… Lieutenant?"
"Captain," Greville corrected. "We will do that, sir." Ryan watched the young officer leave as Cathy and Sally emerged from the bathroom.
"What do you think of him?" Cathy asked.
"His daddy's a count, Daddy!" Sally announced. "He's nice."
"What?"
"His father's Viscount-something-or-other," his wife explained as she walked over. "You look a lot better."
"So do you, babe." Jack craned his neck up to meet his wife's kiss.
"Jack, you've been smoking." Even before they'd gotten married, Cathy had bullied him into stopping.
Her damned sense of smell, Jack thought. "Be nice, I've had a hard day."
"Wimp!" she observed disgustedly.
Ryan looked up at the ceiling. To the whole world I'm a hero, but I smoke a couple of cigarettes and to Cathy that makes me a wimp. He concluded that the world was not exactly overrun with justice.
"Gimme a break, babe."
"Where'd you get them?"
"I have a cop baby-sitting me in here—he had to go someplace a few minutes ago."
Cathy looked around for the offending cigarette pack so that she could squash it. Jack had it stashed under his pillow. Cathy Ryan sat down. Sally climbed into her lap.
"How do you feel?"
"I know it's there, but I can live with it. How'd you make out last night?"
"You know where we are now, right?"
"I heard."
"It's like being Cinderella." Caroline Muller Ryan, MD, grinned.
John Patrick Ryan, PhD, wiggled the fingers of his left hand. "I guess I'm the one who turned into the pumpkin. I guess you're going to make the trips we planned. Good."
"Sure you don't mind?"
"Half the reason for the vacation was to get you away from hospitals, Cathy, remember? No sense taking all the film home unused, is it?"
"It'd be a lot more fun with you."
Jack nodded. He'd looked forward to seeing the castles on the list, too. Like many Americans, Ryan could not have abided the English class system, but that didn't stop him from being fascinated with its trappings. Or something like that, he thought. His knighthood, he knew, might change that perspective if he allowed himself to dwell on it.
"Look on the bright side, babe. You've got a guide who can tell you everything you ever wanted to know about Lord Jones's castle on the coast of whatever. You'll have plenty of time for it, too."
"Yeah," she said, "the police said we'd be staying over a while longer than we planned. I'll have to talk to Professor Lewindowski about that." She shrugged. "They'll understand."
"How do you like the new place? Better than the hotel?"
"You're going to have to see—no, you'll have to experience it." She laughed. "I think hospitality is the national sport over here. They must teach it in the schools, and have quarterly exams. And guess who we're having dinner with tonight?"
"I don't have to guess."
"Jack, they're so nice."
"I noticed. Looks like you're really getting the VIP treatment."
"What's the Special Air Service—he's some kind of pilot?"
"Something like that," Jack said diffidently. Cathy might feel uncomfortable sitting next to a man who had to be carrying a gun. And was trained to use it with as little compunction as a wolf might use his teeth. "You're not asking how I feel."
"I got hold of your chart on the way in," Cathy explained.
"And?"
"You're doing okay, Jack. I see you can move your fingers. I was worried about that."
"How come?"
"The brachial plexus—it's a nerve junction inside your shoulder. The bullet missed it by about an inch and a half. That's why you can move your fingers. The way you were bleeding, I thought the brachial artery was cut, and that runs right next to the nerves. It would have put your arm out of business for good. But" — she smiled—"you lucked out. Just broken bones. They hurt but they heal."
Doctors are so wonderfully objective, Ryan told himself, even the ones you marry. Next thing, she'll say the pain is good for me.
"Nice thing about pain," Cathy went on. "It tells you the nerves are working."
Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened them when he felt Cathy take his hand.
"Jack, I'm so proud of you."
"Nice to be married to a hero?"
"You've always been a hero to me."
"Really?" She'd never said that before. What was heroic about being an historian? Cathy didn't know the other stuff he did, but that wasn't especially heroic either.
"Ever since you told Daddy to—well, you know. Besides, I love you, remember?"
"I seem to recall a reminder of that the other day."
Cathy made a face. "Better get your mind off that for a while."
"I know." Ryan made a face of his own. "The patient must conserve his energy—or something. What ever happened to that theory about how a happy attitude speeds recovery?"
"That's what I get for letting you read my journals. Patience, Jack."
Nurse Kittiwake came in, saw the family, and made a quick exit.
"I'll try to be patient," Jack said, and looked longingly at the closing door.
"You turkey," Cathy observed. "I know you better than that."
She did, Jack knew. He couldn't even make that threat work. Oh, well—that's what you get for loving your wife.
Cathy stroked his face. "What did you shave with this morning, a rusty nail?"
"Yeah—I need my razor. Maybe my notes, too?"
"I'll bring them over or have somebody do it." She looked up when Wilson came back in.
"Tony, this is Cathy, my wife, and Sally, my daughter. Cathy, this is Tony Wilson. He's the cop who's baby-sitting me."
"Didn't I see you last night?" Cathy never forgot a face—so far as Jack could tell, she never forgot much of anything.
"Possibly, but we didn't speak—rather a busy time for all of us. You are well, Lady Ryan?"
"Excuse me?" Cathy asked. "Lady Ryan?"
"They didn't tell you?" Jack chuckled.
"Tell me what?"
Jack explained. "How do you like being married to a knight?"
"Does that mean you have to have a horse, Daddy?" Sally asked hopefully. "Can I ride it?"
"Is it legal, Jack?"
"They told me that the Prime Minister and the President would discuss it today."
"My God," Lady Ryan said quietly. After a moment, she started smiling.
"Stick with me, kid." Jack laughed.
"What about the horse, Daddy!" Sally insisted.
"I don't know yet. We'll see." He yawned. The only practical use Ryan acknowledged for horses was running at tracks—or maybe tax shelters. Well, I already have a sword, he told himself.
"I think Daddy needs a nap," Cathy observed. "And I have to buy something for dinner tonight."
"Oh, God!" Ryan groaned. "A whole new wardrobe."
Cathy grinned. "Whose fault is that, Sir John?"
They met at Flanagan's Steakhouse on O'Connell Street in Dublin. It was a well-regarded establishment whose tourist trade occasionally suffered from being too close to a McDonald's. Ashley was nursing a whiskey when the second man joined him. A third and fourth took a booth across the room and watched. Ashley had come alone. This wasn't the first such meeting, and Dublin was recognized—most of the time—as neutral ground. The two men on the other side of the room were to keep a watch for members of the Garda, the Republic's police force.