Out in the parking lot, things were a little different. Captain Bisyarina broke tradecraft by opening the capsule and reading the contents. That evoked a brief but nasty curse. The message was but a single sheet of notepaper. Bisyarina lit a cigarette with a butane lighter, then burned the paper in her car's ashtray.
All that work wasted! And it was already in Moscow, was already being analyzed. She felt like a fool. It was doubly annoying that her agent had been completely honest, had forwarded what she'd thought was highly classified material, and on learning that it had been rendered invalid, had gotten that word out quickly. She would not even have the satisfaction of forwarding a small portion of the reprimand that she would surely get for wasting Moscow Center's time.
Well, they warned me about this. It may be the first time, but it will not be the last. She drove home and dashed off her message.
The Ryans weren't known for their attendance on the Washington cocktail circuit, but there were a few that they couldn't avoid. The reception was intended to raise money for D.C. Children's Hospital, and Jack's wife was a friend of the chief of surgery. The evening's entertainment was the big draw. A prominent jazz musician owed his granddaughter's life to the hospital, and he was paying off that debt with a major benefit performance at the Kennedy Center. The reception was intended to give the D.C. elite a chance to meet him "up close and personal" and hear his sax in greater privacy. Actually, as with most "power" parties, it was really for the elite to see and be seen by one another, confirming their importance. As was true in most parts of the world, the elite felt the need to pay for the privilege. Jack understood the phenomenon, but felt that it made little sense. By eleven o'clock the elite of Washington had proved that they could talk just as inanely about just as little, and get just as drunk, as anyone else in the world. Cathy had held herself to one glass of white wine, however; Jack had won the toss tonight: he could drink and she had to drive. He'd indulged himself tonight, despite a few warning looks from his wife, and was basking in a mellow, philosophical glow that made him think he'd overdone the act a little bit – but then it wasn't supposed to look like an act. He just hoped to God everything went as planned tonight.
The amusing part was the way in which Ryan was treated. His position at the Agency had always been a sketchy one. The opening comments went something like, "How are things at Langley?" usually in an affected conspiratorial tone, and Jack's reply that CIA was just another government bureaucracy, a large building that contained lots of moving paper, surprised most questioners. The CIA was thought to have thousands of active field spooks. The actual figure was classified, of course, but far lower.
"We work normal business hours," Jack explained to a well-dressed woman whose eyes were slightly dilated. "I even have tomorrow off."
"Really?"
"Yes, I killed a Chinese agent on Tuesday and you always get a day off with pay for that sort of thing," he said seriously, then grinned.
"You're kidding!"
"That's right, I'm kidding. Please forget that I ever said it." Who is this averaged bimbo? he wondered.
"What about the reports that you're under investigation?" another person asked.
Jack turned in surprise. "And who might you be?"
"Scott Browning, Chicago Tribune." He didn't offer to shake hands. The game had just begun. The reporter didn't know that he was a player, but Ryan did.
"Could you run that one by me again?" Jack said politely.
"My sources tell me that you're being investigated for illegal stock transactions."
"It's news to me," Jack replied.
"I know that you've met with investigators from the SEC," the reporter announced.
"If you know that, then you also know that I gave them the information they wanted, and they left happy."
"You're sure of that?"
"Of course I am. I didn't do anything wrong and I have the records to prove it," Ryan insisted, perhaps a little too forcefully, the reporter thought. He loved it when people drank too much. In vino veritas.
"That's not what my sources tell me," Browning persisted.
"Well, I can't help that!" Ryan said. There was emotion in his voice now, and a few heads turned.
"Maybe if it wasn't for people like you, we might have an intelligence agency that worked," observed a newcomer.
"And who the fuck are you!" Ryan said before he turned. Act I, Scene 2.
"Congressman Trent," the reporter said. Trent was on the House Select Committee.
"I think an apology is owed," Trent said. He looked drunk.
"What for?" Ryan asked.
"How about for all the screw-ups across the river?"
"As opposed to the ones on this side?" Jack inquired. People were drifting over. Entertainment is where you find it.
"I know what you people just tried to pull off, and you fell right on your ass. You didn't let us know, as the law requires. You went ahead anyway, and I'm telling you, you're going to pay, you're going to pay big."
"If we have to pay your bar bill, we'll have to pay big." Ryan turned, dismissing the man.
"Big man," Trent said behind his back. "You're heading for a fall, too."
Perhaps twenty people were watching and listening now. They saw Jack take a glass of wine off a passing tray. They saw a look that could kill, and a few people remembered that Jack Ryan was a man who had killed. It was a fact and a reputation that gave him a sort of mystery. He took a measured sip of the chablis before turning back around.
"What sort of fall might that be, Mr. Trent?"
"You might be surprised."
"Nothing you do would surprise me, pal."
"That may be, but you've surprised us. Dr. Ryan. We didn't think you were a crook, and we didn't think you were dumb enough to be involved in that disaster, I guess we were wrong."
"You're wrong about a lot of things," Jack hissed.
"You know something, Ryan? For the life of me I can't figure just what the hell kind of a man you are."
"That's no surprise."
"So, what kind of man are you, Ryan?" Trent inquired.
"You know, Congressman, this is a unique experience for me," Jack observed lightheartedly.
"How's that?"
Ryan's manner changed abruptly. His voice boomed across the room. "I've never had my manhood questioned by a queer before!" Sorry, pal…
The room went very quiet. Trent made no secret of his orientation, had gone public six years before. That didn't prevent him from turning pale. The glass in his hand shook enough to spill some of its contents onto the marble floor, but the Congressman regained his control and spoke almost gently.
"I'll break you for that."
"Take your best shot, sweetie." Ryan turned and walked out of the room, the eyes heavy on his back. He kept going until he stared at the traffic on Massachusetts Avenue. He knew that he'd drunk too much, but the cold air started to clear his head.
"Jack?" His wife's voice.
"Yeah, babe?"
"What was that all about?"
"Can't say."
"I think it's time for you to go home."
"I think you're right. I’ll get the coats." Ryan walked back inside and handed over the claim check. He heard the silence happen when he returned. He could feel the looks at his back. Jack shrugged into his overcoat and slung his wife's fur over his arm, before turning to see the eyes on him. Only one pair held any interest for him. They were there.
Misha was not an easy man to surprise, but the KGB succeeded. He'd steeled himself for torture, for the worst sort of abuse, only to be… disappointed? he asked himself. That certainly wasn't the right word.