Patriot games - Tom Clancy [215]
Jack, she knew, had the courage to face up to that. This, too, had its price. The anguish she occasionally saw in him could only be that kind of question. She was sure that his unspoken work at CIA was aimed at finding and killing the people who had attacked her. She felt it necessary, and she would shed no tears for those who had nearly killed her little girl, but it was a task which, as a physician, she could not herself contemplate. Clearly it wasn't easy for her man. Something had just happened a few days ago. He was struggling with whatever it was, unable to discuss it with anyone while he tried to retain the rest of his world in an undamaged state, trying to love his family while he labored to bring others to their death? It could not have come easily to him. Her husband was a genuinely good man, in so many ways the ideal man-at least for me, she thought. He'd fallen in love with her at their first meeting, and she could recount every step of their courtship. She remembered his clumsy-in retrospect, hilarious-proposal of marriage, the terror in his eyes as she'd hesitated over the answer, as though he felt himself unworthy of her, the idiot. Most of all, she remembered the look on his face when Sally had been born. The man who had turned his back on the dog-eat-dog world of investments-the world that since the death of her mother had made her father into a driven, unhappy man-who had returned to teaching eager young minds, was now trapped in something he didn't like. But she knew that he was doing his best, and she knew just how good his best was. She'd just experienced that. Cathy wished that she could share it, as he occasionally had to share with her the depression following a failed procedure. As much as she had needed him a few painful weeks past, now he needed her. She couldn't do that-or could she?
"What's been bothering you? Can I help?"
"I can't really talk about it," Jack said as he knotted his tie. "It was the right thing, but not something you can feel very good about."
"The people who-"
"No, not them. If it was them " He turned to face his wife. "If it was them, I'd be all smiles. There's been a break. The FBI-I shouldn't be telling you this, and it doesn't go any farther than this room-they found the gun. That might be important, but we don't know for sure yet. The other thing-well, I can't talk about that at all. Sorry. I wish I could."
"You haven't done anything wrong?" His face changed at that question.
"No. I've thought that one over the past few days. Remember the time you had to take that lady's eye out? It was necessary, but you still felt pretty bad about it. Same thing." He looked in the mirror. Sort of the same thing.
"Jack, I love you and I believe in you. I know that you'll do the right thing."
"I'm glad, babe, because sometimes I'm not so sure." He held out his arms and she came to him. At some French military base in Chad, another young woman was experiencing something other than a loving embrace, Ryan thought. Whose fault is that? One thing for sure, she isn't the same as my wife. She's not like this girl of mine.
He felt her against himself, felt the baby move again, and finally he was sure. As his wife had to be protected, so did all the other wives, and all the children, and all the living people who were judged as mere abstractions by the ones who trained in those camps. Because they weren't abstractions, they were real. It was the terrorists who had cast themselves out of the civilized community and had to be hunted down one way or another. If we can do it by civilized rules, well and