Free Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders by Tom Clancy

for you last night,” the agent explained in a whisper. A second agent handed over Cathy's rather tattered maroon housecoat. So, someone had broken into their home last night—must have, Jack realized, as he hadn't handed over his keys to anyone; and defeated the burglar alarm he'd installed a few years earlier. He padded back to the bed and deposited the housecoat there before heading back out. Yet a third agent pointed him down the hall to an unoccupied bedroom. Four suits were hanging on a poster bed, along with four shirts, all newly pressed by the look of them, along with half a score of ties and everything else. It wasn't so much pathos as desperation, Jack realized. The staff knew, or at least had an idea of what he was going through, and every single thing they could do to make things easier for him was being done with frantic perfection. Someone had even spit-shined his three pair of black shoes to Marine specifications. They'd never looked so good before, Ryan thought, heading for the bathroom—where, of course, he found all of his things, even his usual bar of Zest soap. Next to that was the skin-friendly stuff Cathy used. Nobody thought that being President was easy, but he was now surrounded by people who were grimly determined to eliminate every small worry he might have.
    A warm shower helped loosen his muscles, and clouded the mirror with mist, which made things even better when he shaved. The usual morning mechanics were finished by
    
     5:20
    
    , and Ryan made his way down the stairs. Outside, he saw through a window, a phalanx of camouflage-clad Marines stood guard on the quad, their breathing marked by little white puffs. Those inside braced to attention as he passed. Perhaps he and his family had gotten a few hours of sleep, but no one else had. That was something he needed to remember, Jack told himself as the smells drew him to the kitchen.
    “Attention on deck!” The voice of the sergeant-major of the Marine Corps was muted in deference to the sleeping children upstairs, and for the first time since dinner the previous night, Ryan managed a smile.
    “Settle down, Marines.” President Ryan headed toward the coffeepot, but a corporal beat him there. The correct proportions of cream and sugar were added to the mug—again, someone had done some homework—before she handed it across.
    “The staff is in the dining room, sir,” the sergeant-major told him.
    “Thank you.” President Ryan headed that way.
    They looked the worse for wear, making Jack feel briefly guilty for his shower-fresh face. Then he saw the pile of documents they'd prepared.
    “Good morning, Mr. President,” Andrea Price said. People started to rise from their chairs. Ryan waved them back down and pointed to
    
    
     Murray
    
    
    .
    “Dan,” the President began. “What do we know?”
    “We found the body of the pilot about two hours ago. Good ID. His name was Sato, as expected. Very experienced airplane driver. We're still looking for the co-pilot.”
    
    
     Murray
    
    
     paused. “The pilot's body is being checked for drugs, but finding that would be a surprise. NTSB has the flight recorder—they got that around four, and it's being checked out right now. We've recovered just over two hundred bodies—”
    “President Durling?”
    Price handled that one with a shake of the head. “Not yet. That part of the building—well, it's a mess, and they decided to wait for daylight to do the hard stuff.”
    “Survivors?”
    “Just the three people who we know to have been inside that part of the building at the time of the crash.”
    “Okay.” Ryan shook his head as well. That information was important, but irrelevant. “Anything important that we know?”
    Murray
    
    
     consulted his notes. “The aircraft flew out of Vancouver International, B.C. They filed a false flight-plan for London Heathrow, headed east, departed Canadian airspace at
    
     7:51
    
     local time. All very routine stuff. We assume that he headed out a