Patriot games - Tom Clancy [14]
James Owens appeared to be the most senior, and inquired as to Ryan's condition-politely enough that he probably meant it. He reminded Ryan of his own father, a craggy, heavyset man, and, judging from his large, gnarled hands, one who had earned his way to commander's rank after more than a few years of walking the streets and enforcing the law the hard way.
Chief Superintendent William Taylor was about forty, younger than his Anti-Terrorist Branch colleague, and neater. Both senior detectives were well dressed, and both had the red-rimmed eyes that came from an uninterrupted night's work.
David Ashley was the youngest and best dressed of the three. About Ryan's size and weight, perhaps five years older. He described himself as a representative of the Home Office, and he looked a great deal smoother than either of the others.
"You're quite certain you're up to this?" Taylor asked.
Ryan shrugged. "No sense waiting."
Owens took a cassette tape recorder from his portfolio and set it on the bedstand. He plugged in two microphones, one facing Ryan, the other toward the officers. He punched the record button and announced the date, time, and place.
"Doctor Ryan," Owens asked formally, "do you know that this interview is being recorded?"
"Yes, sir."
"And do you have any objection to this?"
"No, sir. May I ask a question?"
"Certainly," Owens answered.
"Am I being charged with anything? If so, I would like to contact my embassy and have an attor-" Ryan was more than a little uneasy to be the focus of so much high- level police attention, but was cut off by the chuckles of Mr. Ashley. He noted that the other police officers deferred to him for the answer.
"Doctor Ryan, you may just have things the wrong way 'round. For the record, sir, we have no intention whatever of charging you with anything. Were we to do so, I dare say we'd be looking for new employment by day's end."
Ryan nodded, not showing his relief. He'd not yet been sure of this, sure only that the law doesn't have to make sense. Owens began reading his questions from a yellow pad.
"Can you give us your name and address, please?"
"John Patrick Ryan. Our mailing address is Annapolis, Maryland. Our home is at Peregrine Cliff, about ten miles south of Annapolis on the Chesapeake Bay."
"And your occupation?" Owens checked off something on his pad.
"I guess you could say I have a couple of jobs. I'm an instructor in history at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. I lecture occasionally at the Naval War College in Newport, and from time to time I do a little consulting work on the side."
"That's all?" Ashley inquired with a friendly smile-or was it friendly? Ryan asked himself. Jack wondered just how much they'd managed to find out about him in the past-what? fifteen hours or so-and exactly what Ashley was hinting at. You're no cop, Ryan thought. What exactly are you? Regardless, he had to stick to his cover story, that he was a part-time consultant to the Mitre Corporation.
"And the purpose of your visit to this country?" Owens went on.
"Combination vacation and research trip. I'm gathering data for a new book, and Cathy needed some time off. Sally is still a preschooler, so we decided to head over now and miss the tourist season." Ryan took a cigarette from the pack Wilson had left behind. Ashley lit it from a gold lighter. "In my coat-wherever that is-you'll find letters of introduction to your Admiralty and the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth."
"We have the letters," Owens replied. "Quite illegible. I'm afraid, and I fear your suit is a total loss also. What the blood did not ruin, your wife and our sergeant finished off with a knife. So when did you arrive in Britain?"
"It's still Thursday, right? Well, we got in Tuesday night from Dulles International outside Washington. Arrived about seven-thirty, got to the hotel about nine-thirty or so, had a snack sent up, and went right to sleep. Flying always messes me up-jet lag, whatever. I conked right out." That was