Jack Ryan 12 - The Teeth of the Tiger Read Online Free PDF Page B

TV, and despite Hendley's protest that the Securities and Exchange Commission had never actually published guidelines about what the law meant, it appeared to some that he'd used his inside knowledge on future government expenditures to benefit a real-estate investment enterprise which would profit him and his co-investors over fifty million dollars. Worse still, when challenged on the question in a public debate by the Republican candidate—a self-described “Mr. Clean”—he'd responded with two mistakes. First, he'd lost his temper in front of rolling cameras. Second, he'd told the people of
    
    
     South Carolina
    
    
     that if they doubted his honesty, then they could vote for the fool with whom he shared the stage. For a man who'd never put a political foot wrong in his life, that surprise alone had cost him five percent of the state's voters. The remainder of his lackluster campaign had only slid downhill, and despite the lingering sympathy vote from those who remembered the annihilation of his family, his seat had ended up an upset-loss for the Democrats, which had further been exacerbated by a venomous concession statement. Then he'd left public life for good, not even returning to his antebellum plantation northwest of Charleston but rather moving to Maryland and leaving his life entirely behind. One further flamethrower statement at the entire congressional process had burned whatever bridges might have remained open to him.
    His current home was a farm dating back to the eighteenth century, where he raised Appaloosa horses—riding and mediocre golf were his only remaining hobbies—and lived the quiet life of a gentleman farmer. He also worked at The Campus seven or eight hours per day, commuting back and forth in a chauffeured stretch Cadillac.
    Fifty-two now, tall, slender and silver-haired, he was well known without being known at all, perhaps the one lingering aspect of his political past.
     
     
    “YOU DID
    
     well in the mountains,” Jim Hardesty said, waving the young Marine to a chair.
    “Thank you, sir. You did okay, too, sir.”
    “Captain, anytime you walk back through your front door after it's all over, you've done well. I learned that from my training officer. About sixteen years ago,” he added.
    Captain Caruso did the mental arithmetic and decided that Hardesty was a little older than he looked. Captain in the U.S. Army Special Forces, then CIA, plus sixteen years made him closer to fifty than forty. He must have worked very hard indeed to keep in shape.
    “So,” the officer asked, “what can I do for you?”
    “What did Terry tell you?” the spook asked.
    “He told me I'd be talking with somebody named Pete Alexander.”
    “Pete got called out of town suddenly,” Hardesty explained.
    The officer accepted the explanation at face value. “Okay, anyway, the general said you Agency guys are on some kind of talent hunt, but you're not willing to grow your own,” Caruso answered honestly.
    “Terry is a good man, and a damned fine Marine, but he can be a little parochial.”
    “Maybe so, Mr. Hardesty, but he's going to be my boss soon, when he takes over Second Marine Division, and I'm trying to stay on his good side. And you still haven't told me why I'm here.”
    “Like the Corps?” the spook asked. The young Marine nodded.
    “Yes, sir. The pay ain't all that much, but it's all I need, and the people I work with are the best.”
    “Well, the ones we went up the mountain with are pretty good. How long did you have them?”
    “Total? About fourteen months, sir.”
    “You trained them pretty well.”
    “It's what they pay me for, sir, and I had good material to start with.”
    “You also handled that little combat action well,” Hardesty observed, taking note of the distant replies he was getting.
    Captain Caruso was not quite modest enough to regard it as a “little” combat action. The bullets flying around had been real enough, which made the action big enough. But his