Page 13 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
As soon as Jack passed through customs, he shoved his carry-ons into a storage locker in the baggage area and grabbed a cab for the forty-minute ride into the city. He had six hours before he needed to get back to the terminal, and he was determined to enjoy every minute of it.
8
The narrow pedestrian street was packed with a slow-moving parade of protesters, chanting against tomorrow’s visit by Scott Adler, the American secretary of state. Jack didn’t realize that Scott, one of his father’s closest advisers, was scheduled to lecture at the London School of Economics’ prestigious Department of International Relations.
Jack checked his iWatch. He was right on time. He pushed his way toward the school’s high-arched doorway where a phalanx of nervous police kept the belligerent crowd at bay. Protesters of every stripe and hue waved signs and shouted slogans against American imperialism, predatory capitalism, Thatcherism (Really?Jack asked himself), white privilege, and a host of other alt-left complaints.
Sloganeering like that was typical of college campuses these days, even in Europe. Some of them were true believers, but he’d seen his share of them at Georgetown, and most of them were poseurs who preferred protesting to the actual heavy lifting of making the world a better place. And for too many ofthese malcontents, especially the guys, that kind of virtue signaling was designed primarily to enhance their shaky social status and, possibly, even to get laid.
As Jack neared the doorway, a police sergeant showed him her palm to block his entry. “Business with the school, sir?”
Just then he saw the familiar smile and shock of silver hair of Dr. Costello as he stepped through the glass doors.
“Jack! So good to see you!” The professor touched the sergeant’s shoulder gently with an “Excuse me,” as he squeezed past her.
The two men shook hands.
“You look good, Jack. Staying in shape, I see.”
“You look pretty dapper yourself, Dr. C.”
“Comes with the job. And please, it’s Patrick.” Dr. Costello was in his traditional priest’s black suit coat and white collar, both spotless. Besides being a visiting lecturer at LSE, the shorter, bantamweight priest not only served an inner-city parish church but also tutored neighborhood kids in math.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Dr. Costello said, pointing the way.
“Famished.”
“Good. We’re going to my favorite pub. Best shepherd’s pie in the city. How’s your father?”
“Great. Thanks for asking. He sends his best.” Senior had taken a graduate course in international political economy with Costello years ago, and had recommended the professor to his son when Jack decided to attend Georgetown, too.
“Tell him hello for me, will you? And please let him know he’s in my prayers.”
They chatted briefly, dodging the protesters ambling down the sidewalk, many of whom seemed like only interested spectators. Jack caught sight of flags, banners, lapel pins, hijabs, andtattoos of communists, anarchists, fundamentalist Muslims, and symbols of a dozen other radical causes. Too many faces were covered by the black bandannas of Antifa for Jack’s liking. Only cowards hid their faces at public protests. Or criminals. He tensed up a little, half expecting something to happen.
Just as they turned a corner, a large protester, three inches taller than Jack, shoved a flyer into Jack’s chest. His long, dark hair was pulled into a ponytail. He had a plain, unremarkable face, but his towering frame and intense gaze intimidated most people. Ponytail’s black T-shirt caught Jack’s eye, emblazoned with bold white letters that readFUCK FASCIST AMERIKA!above an upside-down American flag.
“Hey, man. Careful,” Jack said.
“Read that, dude. Join the revolution.”
Jack recognized the man’s California accent. He read the flyer.
Students for a Moral Order demand that American imperialism stops now! End racist American foreign policy! Impeach the fascist president Jack Ryan! Deport war criminal Secretary of State Adler!
“Interesting,” Jack said, handing the flyer to Dr. Costello, who chuckled as he read it.
“What are you laughing at, old man?” Ponytail said.
“So I take it you know President Ryan personally,” Jack said.
“Yeah, he’s a fascist fuck. You’re an American, so you know it’s true.”
“Trust me, he’s not a fascist. His dad killed fascists with the 101st Airborne at the Battle of the Bulge. What did you ever do for your country?”
“Oh, Christ—you sound like you voted for that bastard!”
Jack’s fists clenched and he stepped forward.
