Patriot Games - vastav

tomorrow." She bent down to kiss him. Skin full of drugs, oxygen tube, dry mouth,
and all, it felt good. God, he thought, God, how I love this girl. Cathy squeezed his
hand one more time and left.
The Bette Davis nurse came back. It was not a satisfactory trade.
"I'm 'Doctor' Ryan, too, you know," Jack said warily.
"Very good, Doctor. It is time for you to get some rest. I'll be here to look after
you all night. Now sleep. Doctor Ryan."
On this happy note Jack closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be a real bitch, he was
sure. It would keep.
Chapter 2
Cops and Royals
Ryan awoke at 6:35 A.M. He knew that because it was announced by a radio disc
jockey whose voice faded to an American Country & Western song of the type
which Ryan avoided at home by listening to all-news radio stations. The singer was
admonishing mothers not to allow their sons to become cowboys, and Ryan's first
muddled thought of the day was. Surely they don't have that problem over here . . .
do they? His mind drifted along on this tangent for half a minute, wondering if the
Brits had CAW bars with sawdust on the floors, mechanical bull rides, and office
workers who strutted around with pointy-toed boots and five-pound belt buckles . . .
Why not? he concluded. Yesterday I saw something right out of a Dodge City
movie.
Jack would have been just as happy to slide back into sleep. He tried closing his
eyes and willing his body to relax, but it was no use. The flight from Dulles had left
early in the morning, barely three hours after he'd awakened. He hadn't slept on the
plane – it was something he simply could not do – but flying always exhausted him,
and he'd gone to bed soon after arriving at the hotel. Then how long had he been
unconscious in the hospital? Too long, he realized. Ryan was all slept out. He
would have to begin facing the day.
Someone off to his right was playing a radio just loudly enough to hear. Ryan
turned his head and was able to see his shoulder –
Shoulder, he thought, that's why I'm here. But where's here? It was a different
room. The ceiling was smooth plaster, recently painted. It was dark, the only
illumination coming from a light on the table next to the bed, perhaps enough to
read by. There seemed to be a painting on the wall – at least a rectangle darker than
the wall, which wasn't white. Ryan took this in, consciously delaying his
examination of his left arm until no excuses remained. He turned his head slowly to