Patriot Games - vastav

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 not exactly true, but Ryan didn't think
they needed to know everything.
Owens nodded. They had already learned why Ryan hated flying. "And
yesterday?"
"I woke up about seven, I guess, had breakfast and a paper sent up, then just kinda
lazed around until about eight-thirty. I arranged to meet Cathy and Sally in the park
around four, then caught a cab to the Admiralty building – close, as it turned out, I
could have walked it. As I said, I had a letter of introduction to see Admiral Sir
Alexander Woodson, the man in charge of your naval archives – he's retired,
actually. He took me down to a musty sub-sub-basement. He had the stuff I wanted