The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [328]
"Lenin was not such a man, but Stalin was," Golovko observed. "So, then Ivan Emmetovich is a friend of Russia. What shall I do with this?"
"That's up to you, pal," Clark told him.
"I must speak to my president. Yours comes to Poland tomorrow, doesn't he?"
"I think so."
"I must make some phone calls. Thank you for coming, my friends. Perhaps another time I will be able to entertain you properly."
"Fair enough." Clark stood and tossed off the end of his drink. More handshakes, and they left the way they'd come.
"Christ, John, what happens now?" Ding asked, as they drove back out.
"I suppose everybody tries to beat some sense into the Chinese."
"Will it work?"
A shrug and arched eyebrows: "News at eleven, Domingo."
Packing for a trip isn't easy, even with a staff to do it all for you. This was particularly true for SURGEON, who was not only concerned about what she wore in public while abroad, but was also the Supreme Authority on her husband's clothes, a status which her husband tolerated rather than entirely approved. Jack Ryan was still in the Oval Office trying to do business that couldn't wait—actually it mostly could, but there were fictions in government that had to be honored—and also waiting for the phone to ring.
"Arnie?"
"Yeah, Jack?"
"Tell the Air Force to have another G go over to Warsaw in case Scott has to fly to Moscow on the sly."
"Not a bad idea. They'll probably park it at some air force base or something." Van Damm went off to make the phone call.
"Anything else, Ellen?" Ryan asked his secretary.
"Need one?"
"Yeah, before Cathy and I wing off into the sunset." Actually, they were heading east, but Mrs. Sumter understood. She handed Ryan his last cigarette of the day.
"Damn," Ryan breathed with his first puff. He'd be getting a call from Moscow sure as hell—wouldn't he? That depended on how quickly they digested the information, or maybe Sergey would wait for the morning to show it to President Grushavoy. Would he? In Washington, something that hot would be graded CRITIC and shoved under the President's nose inside twenty minutes, but different countries had different rules, and he didn't know what the Russians did. For damned sure he'd be hearing from one of them before he stepped off the plane at Warsaw. But for now … He stubbed the smoke out, reached inside his desk for the breath spray, and zapped his mouth with the acidic stuff before leaving the office and heading outside—the West Wing and the White House proper are not connected by an indoor corridor, due to some architectural oversight. In any case, inside six minutes he was on the residential level, watching the ushers organize his bags. Cathy was there, trying to supervise, under the eyes of the Secret Service as well, who acted as though they worried about having a bomb slipped in. But paranoia was their job. Ryan walked over to his wife. "You need to talk to Andrea."
"What for?"
"Stomach trouble, she says."
"Uh-oh." Cathy had suffered from queasiness with Sally, but that was ages ago, and it hadn't been severe. "Not really much you can do about it, you know."
"So much for medical progress," Jack commented. "She probably could use some girl-girl support anyway."
Cathy smiled. "Oh, sure, womanly solidarity. So, you're going to bond with Pat?"
Jack grinned back at her. "Yeah, maybe he'll teach me to shoot a pistol better."
"Super," SURGEON observed dryly.
"Which dress for the big dinner?" POTUS asked FLOTUS.
"The light-blue one."
"Slinky," Jack said, touching her arm.
The kids showed up then, shepherded up to the bedroom level by their various detail leaders, except for Kyle, who was carried by one of his lionesses. Leaving the kids was never particularly easy, though all concerned were somewhat accustomed to it. The usual kisses and hugs took place, and then Jack took his wife's hand and led her to the elevator.
It let them off at the ground level, with a straight walk out