The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

'The Father General of the Society of Jesus. The head Jesuit, Spanish guy, his
name is Francisco Alcalde. He and Father Tim taught together at St John
Bellarmine University in Rome. They're both historians, and Father Tim's his
unofficial rep over here. You've never met Father Tim?'
'No. Is he worth it?'
'Oh, yeah. One of the best teachers I ever had. Knows D.C. inside and out. Good
contacts back at the home office.' Ryan grinned, but the joke was lost on van
Damm.
'Can you set up a quiet lunch?' Alden asked. 'Not here, someplace else.'
'The Cosmos Club up in Georgetown. Father Tim belongs. The University Club is
closer, but – '
'Right. Can he keep a secret?'
'A Jesuit keep a secret?' Ryan laughed. 'You're not Catholic, are you?'
'How soon could you set it up?'
'Tomorrow or day after all right?'
'What about his loyalty?' van Damm asked out of a clear sky.
'Father Tim is an American citizen and he's not a security risk. But he's also a
priest, and he has taken vows to what he naturally considers an authority higher
than the Constitution. You can trust the man to honor all his obligations, but
don't forget what all those obligations are,' Ryan cautioned. 'You can't order
him around, either.'
'Set up the lunch. Sounds like I ought to meet the guy in any case. Tell him
it's a get-acquainted thing,' Alden said. 'Make it soon. I'm free for lunch
tomorrow and next day.'
'Yes, sir.' Ryan stood.
***
The Cosmos Club in Washington is located at the corner of Massachusetts and
Florida Avenues. The former manor house of Sumner Welles, Ryan thought it looked
naked without about four hundred acres of rolling ground, a stable of
thoroughbred horses, and perhaps a resident fox that the owner would hunt, but
not too hard. These were surroundings the place had never possessed, and Ryan
wondered why it had been built in this place in this style, so obviously at odds
with the realities of Washington, but built by a man who had understood the
workings of the city so consummately well. Chartered as a club of the
intelligentsia – membership was based on 'achievement' rather than money – it
was known in Washington as a place of erudite conversation, and the worst food
in a town of undistinguished restaurants. Ryan led Alden into a small private
room upstairs.
Father Timothy Riley, S.J., was waiting for them, a briar pipe clamped in his
teeth as he paged through the morning's Post. A glass sat at his right hand, a
skim of sherry at the bottom of it. Father Tim was wearing a rumpled shirt and a
jacket that needed pressing, not the formal priest's uniform that he saved for
important meetings and had been hand-tailored by one of the nicer shops on
Wisconsin Avenue. But the white Roman collar was stiff and bright, and Jack had
the sudden thought that despite all his years of Catholic education he didn't
know what the things were made of. Starched cotton? Celluloid like the
detachable collars of his grandfather's age? In either case, its evident