Read Online Jack Ryan 12 - The Teeth of the Tiger by Tom Clancy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tom Clancy
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not worth that price. Even to be President of the
United States
. One of the reasons why he and Jack Ryan, Sr., had always gotten along was that they were so alike.
“You really think this is an intelligence agency?” he asked his guest as lightly as the situation allowed.
“Yes, sir, I do. If NSA, say, pays attention to what the big central banks are doing, you are ideally located to take advantage of the signals-intelligence they gather and cross-deck to Langley. Must give your currency-trading troops the best sort of insider information, and if you play your cards carefully—that is, if you don't get greedy—you can make a ton of long-term money without anybody really noticing. You do that by not attracting investors. They'd talk way too much. So, that activity funds the things you do here. Exactly what it is you do, that I have not speculated on very much.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, sir, that is a fact.”
“You haven't talked to your father about this?”
“No, sir.” Jack Jr. shook his head. “He'd just blow it off. Dad told me a lot when I asked, but not stuff like this.”
“What did he tell you?”
“People stuff. You know, dealing with politicians, which foreign president likes little girls or little boys. Jeez, a lot of that going around, especially overseas. What sort of people they were, how they think, what their individual priorities and eccentricities are. Which country took good care of its military. Which country's spook services were good, and which ones were not. A lot of things about the people on The Hill. The sort of stuff you read in books or the papers, except what Dad told me was the real shit. I knew not to repeat it anywhere,” the young Ryan assured his host.
“Even in school?”
“Nothing I didn't see in the Post first. The papers are pretty good about finding stuff out, but they're too quick to repeat damaging things about people they don't like, and they frequently don't publish stuff about people they do like. I guess the news business is pretty much the same as women trading gossip over the phone or the card table. Less a matter of hard facts than sniping at people you don't care for.”
“They're as human as everybody else.”
“Yes, sir, they are. But when my mom operates on somebody's eyes, she doesn't care if she likes the person or not. She swore an oath to play her game by the rules. Dad's the same way. That's how they raised me to be,” John Patrick Ryan, Jr., concluded. “Same thing every dad tells every son: If you're going to do it, do it right or don't do it at all.”
“Not everybody thinks that way anymore,” Hendley pointed out, though he'd told his two sons, George and Foster, exactly the same thing.
“Maybe so, Senator, but that's not my fault”
“What do you know about the trading business?” Hendley asked.
“I know the basics. I can talk the talk, but I haven't learned the nitty-gritty enough to walk the walk.”
“And your degree from
Georgetown
?”
“History, strong minor in economics, kinda like Dad. Sometimes I'd ask him about his hobby—he still likes to play the market, and he has friends in the business, like George Winston, his Secretary of the Treasury. They talk a lot. George has tried and tried to get Dad to come inside his company, but he won't do anything more than go in and schmooze. They're still friends, though. They even hack away at golf together. Dad's a lousy golfer.”
Hendley smiled. “I know. Ever try it yourself?”
Little Jack shook his head. “I already know how to swear. Uncle Robby was pretty good. Jeez, Dad really misses him. Aunt Sissy still comes to the house a lot. She and Mom play piano together.”
“That was pretty bad.”
“That redneck racist fuck,” Junior observed. “Excuse me. Robby was the first guy I ever knew who got murdered.” The amazing thing was that his murderer had been taken alive. The Secret Service detail had been half a second
United States
. One of the reasons why he and Jack Ryan, Sr., had always gotten along was that they were so alike.
“You really think this is an intelligence agency?” he asked his guest as lightly as the situation allowed.
“Yes, sir, I do. If NSA, say, pays attention to what the big central banks are doing, you are ideally located to take advantage of the signals-intelligence they gather and cross-deck to Langley. Must give your currency-trading troops the best sort of insider information, and if you play your cards carefully—that is, if you don't get greedy—you can make a ton of long-term money without anybody really noticing. You do that by not attracting investors. They'd talk way too much. So, that activity funds the things you do here. Exactly what it is you do, that I have not speculated on very much.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, sir, that is a fact.”
“You haven't talked to your father about this?”
“No, sir.” Jack Jr. shook his head. “He'd just blow it off. Dad told me a lot when I asked, but not stuff like this.”
“What did he tell you?”
“People stuff. You know, dealing with politicians, which foreign president likes little girls or little boys. Jeez, a lot of that going around, especially overseas. What sort of people they were, how they think, what their individual priorities and eccentricities are. Which country took good care of its military. Which country's spook services were good, and which ones were not. A lot of things about the people on The Hill. The sort of stuff you read in books or the papers, except what Dad told me was the real shit. I knew not to repeat it anywhere,” the young Ryan assured his host.
“Even in school?”
“Nothing I didn't see in the Post first. The papers are pretty good about finding stuff out, but they're too quick to repeat damaging things about people they don't like, and they frequently don't publish stuff about people they do like. I guess the news business is pretty much the same as women trading gossip over the phone or the card table. Less a matter of hard facts than sniping at people you don't care for.”
“They're as human as everybody else.”
“Yes, sir, they are. But when my mom operates on somebody's eyes, she doesn't care if she likes the person or not. She swore an oath to play her game by the rules. Dad's the same way. That's how they raised me to be,” John Patrick Ryan, Jr., concluded. “Same thing every dad tells every son: If you're going to do it, do it right or don't do it at all.”
“Not everybody thinks that way anymore,” Hendley pointed out, though he'd told his two sons, George and Foster, exactly the same thing.
“Maybe so, Senator, but that's not my fault”
“What do you know about the trading business?” Hendley asked.
“I know the basics. I can talk the talk, but I haven't learned the nitty-gritty enough to walk the walk.”
“And your degree from
Georgetown
?”
“History, strong minor in economics, kinda like Dad. Sometimes I'd ask him about his hobby—he still likes to play the market, and he has friends in the business, like George Winston, his Secretary of the Treasury. They talk a lot. George has tried and tried to get Dad to come inside his company, but he won't do anything more than go in and schmooze. They're still friends, though. They even hack away at golf together. Dad's a lousy golfer.”
Hendley smiled. “I know. Ever try it yourself?”
Little Jack shook his head. “I already know how to swear. Uncle Robby was pretty good. Jeez, Dad really misses him. Aunt Sissy still comes to the house a lot. She and Mom play piano together.”
“That was pretty bad.”
“That redneck racist fuck,” Junior observed. “Excuse me. Robby was the first guy I ever knew who got murdered.” The amazing thing was that his murderer had been taken alive. The Secret Service detail had been half a second
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