“Exactly. Your introspection is a fundamentally healthy thing, but you should not overdo it. Put it behind you. Jack. It was my impression of Americans that you prefer to look to the future rather than the past. If you cannot do that professionally, at least try to do it personally.”
“Understood, sir. Thank you.” Now if I could just make the dreams stop. Nearly every night Jack relived the shoot-out on The Mall. Almost three weeks now. Something else they didn’t tell you about on TV. The human mind has a way of punishing itself for killing a fellow man. It remembers and relives the incident again and again. Ryan hoped it would stop someday.
The car turned left onto Westminster Bridge. Jack hadn’t known exactly where the hospital was, just that it was close to a railway station and close enough to Westminster to hear Big Ben toll the hours. He looked up at the gothic stonework. “You know, besides the research I wanted to do, I actually wanted to see part of your country, sir. Not much time left for that.”
“Jack, do you really think that we will let you return to America without experiencing British hospitality?” The Duke was greatly amused. “We are quite proud of our hospitals, of course, but tourists don’t come here to see those. Some small arrangements have been made.”
“Oh.”
Ryan had to think a moment to figure where they were, but the maps he’d studied before coming over came back to him. It was called Birdcage Walk — he was only three hundred yards from where he’d been shot . . . there was the lake that Sally liked. He could see Buckingham Palace past the head of the security officer in the left front seat. Knowing that he was going there was one thing, but now the building loomed in front of him and the emotional impact started to take hold.
They entered the Palace grounds at the northeast gate. Jack hadn’t seen the Palace before except from a distance. The perimeter security didn’t seem all that impressive, but the Palace’s hollow-square design hid nearly everything from outside view. There could easily be a company of armed troops inside — and who could tell? More likely civilian police, Ryan knew, backed up by a lot of electronic hardware. But there would be some surprises hidden away, too. After the scares in the past, and this latest incident, he imagined that this place was as secure as the White House — or even better, given greater space in and around the buildings.
It was too dark to make out many details, but the Rolls pulled through an archway into the building’s courtyard, then under a canopy, where a sentry snapped to present-arms in the crisp three-count movement the Brits used. As the car stopped, a footman in livery pulled the door open.
Getting out was the reverse of getting in. Ryan turned counterclockwise, stepped out backwards, and pulled his arm out behind. The footman grabbed his arm to help. Jack didn’t want the help, but this wasn’t a good time to object.
“You’ll need a little practice on that,” the Duke observed.
“I think you’re right, sir.” Jack followed him to the door, where another servant did his duty.
“Tell me. Jack — the first time we visited you, you seemed far more intimidated by the presence of the Queen than of me. Why is that?”
“Well, sir, you used to be a naval officer, right?”
“Of course.” The Duke turned and looked rather curious.
Ryan grinned. “Sir, I work at Annapolis. The Academy crawls with naval officers, and remember I used to be a Marine. If I let myself get intimidated by every swabbie who crossed my path, the Corps would come and take my sword back.”
“You cheeky bugger!” They both had a laugh.
Ryan had expected to be impressed by the Palace. Even so, it was all he could manage to keep from being overwhelmed. Half the world had once been run from this house, and in addition to what the Royal Family had acquired over the centuries had come gifts from all over the world. Everywhere he looked the wide corridors were decorated with too many masterpieces of painting and sculpture to count. The walls were mainly covered with ivory-colored silk brocaded with gold thread. The carpets, of course, were imperial scarlet over marble or parquet hardwood. The money manager that Jack had once been tried to calculate the value of it all. He overloaded after about ten seconds. The paintings alone were so valuable that any attempt to sell them off would distort the world market in fine art. The gilt frames alone . . . Ryan shook his head, wishing he had the time to examine every painting. You could live here five years and not have time to appreciate it all. He almost fell behind, but managed to control his gawking and kept pace with the older man. Ryan’s discomfiture was growing. To the Duke this was home — perhaps one so large as to be something of a nuisance, but nonetheless home, routine. The Rubens masterpieces on the wall were part of the scenery, as familiar to him as the photographs of wife and kids on any man’s office desk. To Ryan the impact of where he was, an impact made all the more crushing by the trappings of wealth and power, made him want to shrink away to nothingness. It was one thing to take his chance on the street — the Marines, after all, had prepared and trained him for that — but . . . this.
Get off it, Jack, he told himself. They’re a royal family, but they’re not your royal family. This didn’t work. They were a royal family. That was enough to lacerate most of his ego.
“Here we are,” the Duke said after turning right through an open door. “This is the Music Room.”
It was about the size of the living/dining room in Ryan’s house, the only thing he had seen thus far that could be so compared with any part of his $300,000 home on Peregrine Cliff. The ceiling was higher here, domed with gold-leaf trim. There were about thirty people, Ryan judged, and the moment they entered all conversation stopped. Everyone turned to stare at Ryan — Jack was sure they’d seen the Duke before — and his grotesque cast. He had a terrible urge to slink away. He needed a drink.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment. Jack, I must be off. Back in a few minutes.”
Thanks a lot, Ryan thought as he nodded politely. Now what do I do?
“Good evening, Sir John,” said a man in the uniform of a vice admiral of the Royal Navy. Ryan tried not to let his relief show. Of course, he’d been handed off to another custodian. He realized belatedly that lots of people came here for the first time. Some would need a little support while they got used to the idea of being in a palace, and there would be a procedure to take care of them. Jack took a closer look at the man’s face as they shook hands. There was something familiar about it. “I’m Basil Charleston.”
Aha! “Good evening, sir.” His first week at Langley he’d seen the man, and his CIA escort had casually noted that this was “B.C.” or just “C,” the chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service, once known as MI-6. What are you doing here?
“You must be thirsty.” Another man arrived with a glass of champagne. “Hello. I’m Bill Holmes.”
“You gentlemen work together?” Ryan sipped at the bubbling wine.
“Judge Moore told me you were a clever chap,” Charleston observed.
“Excuse me? Judge who?”
“Nicely done, Doctor Ryan,” Holmes smiled as he finished off his glass. “I understand that you used to play football — the American kind, that is. You were on the junior varsity team, weren’t you?”
“Varsity and junior varsity, but only in high school. I wasn’t big enough for college ball,” Ryan said, trying to mask his uneasiness. “Junior Varsity” was the project name under which he’d been called in to consult with CIA.
“And you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the chap who wrote Agents and Agencies’!” Charleston smiled. Jack went rigid.
“Admiral, I cannot talk about that without –”
“Copy number sixteen is sitting on my desk. The good judge told me to tell you that you were free to talk about the ‘smoking word-processor.’ ”
Ryan let out a breath. The phrase must have come originally from James Greer. When Jack had made the Canary Trap proposal to the Deputy Director, Intelligence, Admiral James Greer had made a joke about it, using those words. Ryan was free to talk. Probably. His CIA security briefing had not exactly covered this situation.
“Excuse me, sir. Nobody ever told me that I was free to talk about that.”