Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [276]
"How's work?"
"I did glasses all day. Got some surgery tomorrow morning, though. Wait a minute, here's Sally."
"Hi, Daddy," a new and small voice said.
"Hi, Sally. How are you?"
"Fine." What kids always said.
"What did you do today?"
"Miss Margaret and I colored."
"Anything good?"
"Yeah, cows and horses!" she reported with considerable enthusiasm. Sally especially liked pelicans and cows.
"Well, I need to talk to Mommy."
"Okay." And Sally would think of this as a deep and weighty conversation, as she went back to the Wizzerdaboz tape in the living room.
"And how's the little guy?" Jack asked his wife.
"Chewing on his hands, mostly. He's in the playpen right now, watching the TV."
"He's easier than Sally was at that age," Jack observed with a smile.
"He's not colicky, thank God," Mrs. Dr. Ryan agreed.
"I miss you," Jack said, rather forlornly. It was true. He did miss her.
"I miss you, too."
"Gotta get back to work," he said next.
"When will you be home?"
"Couple of days, I think."
"Okay." She had to surrender to that unhappy fact. "Call me."
"Will do, babe."
"Bye."
"See you soon. Love ya."
"I love you, too."
"Bye."
"Bye, Jack."
Ryan put the phone back in the cradle and told himself that he wasn't designed for this kind of life. Like his father before him, he wanted to sleep in the same bed as his wife—had his father ever slept away from home? Jack wondered. He couldn't remember such a night. But Jack had chosen a line of work in which that was not always possible. It was supposed to have been. He was an analyst who worked at a desk and slept at home, but somehow it wasn't working out that way, God damn it.
Dinner was beef Wellington with Yorkshire pudding. Mrs. Thompson could have been head chef at a good restaurant. Jack didn't know where the beef came from, but it seemed more succulent than the usual grass-fed British sort. Either she got the meat in a special place—they still had specialty butcher shops over here—or she really knew how to tenderize it, and the Yorkshire pudding was positively ethereal. Toss in the French wine, and this dinner was just plain brilliant—an adjective popular in the U.K.
The Russians attacked the food rather as Georgiy Zhukov had attacked Berlin, with considerable gusto.
"Oleg Ivan'ch, I have to tell you," Ryan admitted in a fit of honesty, "the food in America is not always of this quality." He'd timed this for Mrs. Thompson's appearance at the dining-room door. Jack turned to her. "Ma'am, if you ever need a recommendation as a chef, you just call me, okay?"
Emma had a very friendly smile. "Thank you, Sir John."
"Seriously, ma'am, this is wonderful."
"You're very kind."
Jack wondered if she'd like his steaks on the grill and Cathy's spinach salad. The key was getting good corn-gorged Iowa beef, which wasn't easy here, though he could try the Air Force commissary at Greenham Commons…
It took nearly an hour to finish dinner, and the after-dinner drinks were excellent. They even served Starka vodka, in a gesture of additional hospitality to their Russian guests. Oleg, Jack saw, really gunned it down.
"Even the Politburo does not eat so well," the Rabbit observed, as dinner broke up.
"Well, we raise good beef in Scotland. This was Aberdeen Angus," Nick Thompson advised, as he collected the plates.
"Fed on corn?" Ryan asked. They didn't have that much corn over here, did they?
"I do not know. The Japanese feed beer to their Kobe beef," the former cop observed. "Perhaps they do that up in Scotland."
"That would explain the quality," Jack replied with a chuckle. "Oleg Ivan'ch, you must learn about British beer. It's the best in the world."
"Not American?" the Russian asked.
Ryan shook his head. "Nope. That's one of the things they do better than us."
"Truly?"
"Truly," Kingshot confirmed. "But the Irish are quite good as well. I do love my Guinness, though it's better in Dublin than in London."
"Why waste the good stuff on you guys?" Jack asked.
"Once a bloody Irishman,