"Clancy, Tom - Jack Ryan 02 - Patriot Games" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clancy Tom)

"You think you can keep something down?"
If not, Kittiwake will probably love to help me throw up. "Doc, in the
last thirty-six hours I've had a continental breakfast and a light lunch."
"Very well. We'll try some soft foods." He made another notation on
the chart and flashed a look to Kittiwake: Keep an eye on him. She nodded.
"Your charming wife told me that you are quite obstinate. We'll see
about that. Still and all you are doing rather nicely. You can thank your
physical condition for that -- and my outstanding surgical skill, of
course." Scott chuckled to himself. "After breakfast an orderly will help
you freshen up for your more, ah, official visitors. Oh, don't expect to
see your family soon. They were quite exhausted last night. I gave your
wife something to help her sleep; I hope she took it. Your darling little
daughter was all done in." Scott gave Ryan a serious look. "I was not
misleading you earlier. Discomfort will slow your recovery. Do what I tell
you and we'll have you out of that bed in a week, and discharged in two --
perhaps. But you must do exactly as I say."
"Understood, sir. And thanks. Cathy said you did a good job on the
arm."
Scott tried to shrug it off. The smile showed only a little. "One must
take proper care of one's guests. I'll be back late this afternoon to see
how you are progressing." He left, mumbling instructions to the nurse.

The police arrived in force at 8:30. By this time Ryan had been able
to eat his hospital breakfast and wash up. Breakfast had been a huge
disappointment, with Wilson collapsing in laughter at Ryan's comment on
its appearance -- but Kittiwake had been so downcast from this that Ryan
had felt constrained to eat all of it, even the stewed prunes that he'd
loathed since childhood. Only after finishing had he realized that her
demeanor had probably been a sham, a device to get him to eat all the
slop. Nurses, he reminded himself, are tricky. At eight the orderly had
arrived to help him clean up. Ryan shaved himself, with the orderly
holding the mirror and clucking every time he nicked himself. Four nicks
-- Ryan customarily used an electric shaver, and hadn't faced a bare blade
in years. By 8:30 Ryan felt and looked human again. Kittiwake had brought
in a second cup of coffee. It wasn't very good, but it was still coffee.
There were three police officers, very senior ones, Ryan thought, from
the way Wilson snapped to his feet and scurried about to arrange chairs
for them before excusing himself out the door.
James Owens appeared to be the most senior, and inquired as to Ryan's
condition -- politely enough that he probably meant it. He reminded Ryan
of his own father, a craggy, heavyset man, and, judging from his large,
gnarled hands, one who had earned his way to commander's rank after more
than a few years of walking the streets and enforcing the law the hard
way.
Chief Superintendent William Taylor was about forty, younger than his
Anti-Terrorist Branch colleague, and neater. Both senior detectives were
well dressed, and both had the red-rimmed eyes that came from an
uninterrupted night's work.
David Ashley was the youngest and best dressed of the three. About
Ryan's size and weight, perhaps five years older. He described himself as