The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

Clark had to laugh to himself. Ryan still didn't know beans about
counter-surveillance techniques. He watched the taillights of the car diminish,
then disappear entirely around the bend of the road before heading into the Ryan
driveway.
'You're Mr Clark?' the sitter asked.
'That's right.'
'They're in the bedroom.' The sitter pointed.
'Thank you.' Clark returned a minute later. Typical woman, he thought, they all
overpack. Even Caroline Ryan wasn't perfect. 'Good night.'
'Night.' The sitter was already entranced with the TV.
It takes just under an hour to drive from Annapolis, Maryland, into Central D.C.
Ryan missed having an official car, but his wife had insisted that they drive
themselves. They turned off of Pennsylvania Avenue, through the gate into East
Executive Drive, where uniformed police directed them to a parking place. Their
wagon looked a little humble mixed in with Caddys and Lincolns, but that was all
right with Jack. The Ryans walked up the gentle slope to the East Entrance,
where Secret Service personnel checked their invitations against the guest list,
and checked them off. Jack's car keys set off the metal detector, evoking an
embarrassed smile.
No matter how many times one goes there, there is always something magical about
visiting the White House, especially at night. Ryan led his wife westward. They
handed off their coats, and took their numbered tokens right next to the White
House's own small theater, then continued. At the chicane turn there were the
usual three social reporters, women in their sixties who stared you in the face
while making their notes and generally looked like the witches from Macbeth with
their open-mouth, drooly smiles. Officers from all the military services decked
out in their full-dress – what Ryan used to call 'Head Waiter' – uniforms waited
in files to provide escort duty. As usual, the Marines looked best with their
scarlet sashes, and a disgustingly goodlooking captain motioned them up the
stairs to the main level. Jack noted the admiring glance cast at his wife and
decided to smile about it.
At the top of the marble stairs, another officer, this one a female Army
lieutenant, directed them into the East Room. They were announced into the room
– as though anyone were listening – and a liveried usher approached at once with
a silver tray of drinks.
'You're driving, Jack,' Cathy whispered. Jack took a Perrier and a twist. Cathy
got champagne.
The East Room of the White House is the size of a small gymnasium. The walls are
ivory-white, its false columns decorated with gold leaf. There was a string
quartet in one corner, along with a grand piano that was being played, rather
well, Ryan thought, by an Army sergeant. Half the people were already here, the
men in black tie and the women in dresses. Perhaps there were people who were
totally comfortable at such affairs, Ryan told himself, but he wasn't one of
them. He started circulating, and soon found Defense Secretary Bunker and his
wife, Charlotte.
'Hello, Jack.'
'Hi, Dennis, you know my wife?'