tc.redrabbit-第8章

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　　　〃I　know；〃　Dr。　Caroline　Ryan　said；　wondering　why　Jack　hadn't　called　for　a　cab。　She　still　had　a　ton　of　work　to　do　with　the　house；　and　didn't　need　a　driving　lesson。　Well；　at　least　it　seemed　to　be　a　nimble　car；　she　found；　giving　it　a　kick　that　was　answered　by　rapid　acceleration。　Not　her　old　Porsche；　though。
　　　〃Bottom　of　the　hill；　turn　right。〃
　　　〃Uh…huh。〃　Good；　this　would　be　simple。　She'd　have　to　find　her　way　home；　and　she　hated　asking　for　directions。　It　came　from　being　a　surgeon；　as　in　mand　of　her　world　as　a　fighter　pilot　in　his　cockpit。。。　And；　being　a　surgeon；　she　wasn't　allowed　to　panic；　was　she？
　　　〃Right　here；〃　Jack　told　her。　〃Remember　oning　traffic。〃　There　was　none　at　the　moment；　but　that　would　change；　probably　as　soon　as　he　got　out　of　the　car。　He　didn't　envy　her　attempt　to　learn　local　navigation　solo；　but　the　surest　way　to　learn　to　swim　was　to　jump　in…assuming　you　didn't　drown。　But　the　Brits　were　hospitable　people；　and　if　necessary　some　kind　local　driver　would　probably　lead　her　all　the　way　home。
　　　The　train　station　was　about　as　impressive　as　a　Bronx　elevated　platform；　a　smallish　stone　building　with　stairs　and/or　escalators　that　led　down　to　the　tracks。　Ryan　bought　his　ticket　with　cash；　but　noted　a　sign　that　offered　books　of　muter　tickets　for　daily　use。　He　picked　up　a　copy　of　The　Daily　Telegraph。　That　would　mark　him　to　the　locals　as　a　conservative　sort　of　person。　Those　of　a　more　liberal　bent　chose　The　Guardian。　He　decided　to　pass　on　the　tabloids　that　had　naked　women　on　the　inside。　Hell　of　a　thing　to　see　right　after　breakfast。
　　　He　had　to　wait　about　ten　minutes　for　the　train；　which　arrived　with　little　noise；　being　a　cross　between　an　American　electric　intercity　train　and　a　subway。　His　ticket　was　first　class；　which　placed　him　in　a　small　partment。　The　windows　went　up　and　down　if　you　pulled　on　a　leather　strap；　and　the　partment　door　hinged　outward　to　let　him　exit　directly　instead　of　walking　down　the　corridor。　With　that　set　of　discoveries　made；　Ryan　sat　down　and　scanned　the　paper's　front　page。　As　in　America；　local　politics　covered　about　half　of　the　sheet；　and　Ryan　looked　at　two　of　the　articles；　figuring　he　might　as　well　learn　the　local　customs　and　beefs。　The　schedule　said　about　forty　minutes　to　Victoria　Station。　Not　too　bad；　and　much　better　than　driving　it；　Dan　Murray　had　told　him。　In　addition；　parking　a　car　in　London　was　even　worse　than　it　was　in　New　York；　wrong　side　of　the　street　and　all。
　　　The　ride　on　the　train　was　agreeably　smooth。　The　trains　were　evidently　a　government…run　monopoly；　and　somebody　spent　money　on　the　roadbeds。　A　conductor　took　his　ticket　with　a　smile…doubtless　marking　Jack　as　a　Yank　instantly…and　moved　on；　leaving　Ryan　to　his　paper。　The　passing　scenery　soon　overtook　his　interest。　The　countryside　was　green　and　lush。　The　Brits　did　love　their　lawns。　The　row　houses　here　were　smaller　than　those　in　his　childhood　neighborhood　in　Baltimore；　with　what　looked　like　slate　roofs；　and　Jesus；　the　streets　were　narrow　here。　You'd　really　have　to　pay　attention　while　driving；　lest　you　end　up　in　someone's　living　room。　That　probably　wouldn't　sit　well；　even　to　Englishmen　accustomed　to　dealing　with　the　shortings　of　visiting　Yanks。
　　　It　was　a　clear　day；　some　white　fluffy　clouds　aloft；　and　the　sky　a　delightful　blue。　He'd　never　experienced　rain　over　here。　Yet　they　had　to　have　it。　Every　third　man　on　the　street　carried　a　furled　umbrella。　And　a　lot　of　them　wore　hats。　Ryan　hadn't　done　that　since　his　time　in　the　Marine　Corps。　England　was　just　different　enough　from　America　to　be　dangerous；　he　decided。　There　were　a　lot　of　similarities；　but　the　differences　rose　up　and　bit　you　on　the　ass　when　you　least　expected　them。　He'd　have　to　be　very　careful　with　Sally　crossing　the　street。　At　four　and　a　half；　she　was　just　imprinted　enough　to　look　the　wrong　way　at　the　wrong　time。　He'd　seen　his　little　girl　in　the　hospital　once；　and　that　was；　by　God；　enough　for　a　lifetime。
　　　He　was　rumbling　through　a　city　now；　a　thick　one。　The　right…of…way　was　elevated。　He　looked　around　for　recognizable　landmarks。　Was　that　St。　Paul's　Cathedral　off　to　the　right？　If　so；　he'd　be　at　Victoria　soon。　He　folded　his　paper。　Then　the　train　slowed；　and…yeah。　Victoria　Station。　He　opened　the　partment　door　like　a　native　and　stepped　out　on　the　platform。　The　station　was　a　series　of　steel　arches　with　embedded　glass　panes；　long　since　blackened　by　the　stack　gasses　of　steam　trains　long　departed。。。　But　nobody　had　ever　cleaned　the　glass。　Or　was　it　just　air　pollution　that　did　it？
　　　There　was　no　telling。　Jack　followed　the　rest　of　the　people　to　the　brick　wall　that　seemed　to　mark　the　station's　waiting/arrival　area。　Sure　enough；　there　were　the　usual　collection　of　magazine　stands　and　small　stores。　He　could　see　the　way　out　and　found　himself　in　the　open　air；　fumbling　in　his　pocket　for　his　Chichester　map　of　London。　Westminster　Bridge　Road。　It　was　too　far　to　walk；　so　he　hailed　a　cab。
　　　From　the　cab；　Ryan　looked　around；　his　head　swiveling；　just　like　the　tourist　he　wasn't　quite　anymore。　And　there　it　was。
　　　Century　House；　so　named　because　it　was　100　Westminster　Bridge　Road；　was　what　Jack　took　to　be　a　typical　interwar　structure　of　fair　height　and　a　stone　facade　that　was。。。　peeling　off？　The　edifice　was　covered　with　an　orange　plastic　netting　that　was　manifestly　intended　to　keep　the　facade　from　falling　onto　pedestrians。　Oops。　Maybe　somebody　was　ripping　through　the　building；　looking　for　Russian　bugs？　Nobody　had　warned　him　about　that　at　Langley。　Just　up　the　road　was　Westminster　Bridge；　and　across　that　were　the　Houses　of　Parliament。　Well；　it　was　in　a　nice　neighborhood；　anyway。　Jack　trotted　up　the　stone　steps　to　the　double　door　and　made　his　way　inside　for　all　of　ten　feet；　where　he　found　an　entry…control　desk　manned　by　someone　in　a　sort　of　cop　uniform。
　　　〃Can　I　help　you；　sir？〃　the　guard　asked。　The　Brits　always　said　such　things　as　though　they　really　wanted　to　help　you。　Jack　wondered　if　there　might　be　a　pistol　just　out　of　view。　If　not　there；　then　not　too　far　away。　There　had　to　be　security　here。
　　　〃Hi；　I'm　Jack　Ryan。　I'm　starting　work　here。〃
　　　Instant　smile　and　recognition：　〃Ah；　Sir　John。　Wele　to　Century　House。　Please　let　me　call　upstairs。〃　Which　he　did。　〃Someone's　on　his　way　down；　sir。　Please　have　a　seat。〃
　　　Jack　barely　had　a　chance　to　feel　the　seat　when　someone　familiar　came　through　the　revolving　door。
　　　〃Jack！〃　he　called　out。
　　　〃Sir　Basil。〃　Ryan　rose　to　take　his　extended　hand。
　　　〃Didn't　expect　you　until　tomorrow。〃
　　　〃I'm　letting　Cathy　get　everything　unpacked。　She　doesn't　trust　me　to　do　it　anyway。〃
　　　〃Yes；　we　men　do　have　our　limitations；　don't　we？〃　Sir　Basil　Charleston　was　pushing　fifty；　tall　and　imperially　thin；　as　the　poet　had　once　called　it；　with　brown　hair　not　yet　going　gray。　His　eyes　were　hazel　and　bright…looking；　and　he　wore　a　suit　that　wasn't　cheap；　gray　wool　with　a　broad　white　pinstripe；　looking　to　all　the　world　like　a　very　prosperous　London　merchant　banker。　In　fact；　his　family　had　been　in　that　line　of　work；　but　he'd　found　it　confining；　and　opted　instead　to　use　his　Cambridge　education　in　the　service　of　his　country；　first　as　a　field　intelligence　officer；　and　later　as　an　administrator。　Jack　knew　that　James　Greer　liked　and　respected　him；　as　did　Judge　Moore。　He'd　met　Charleston　himself　a　year　earlier；　soon　after　being　shot；　then　he'd　learned　that　Sir　Basil　admired　his　invention　of　the　Canary　Trap；　which　had　been　his　path　to　high…level　notice　at　Langley。　Basil　had　evidently　used　it　to　plug　a　few　annoying　leaks。　〃e　along；　Jack。　We　need　to　get　you　properly　outfitted。〃　He　didn't　mean　Jack's　suit；　which　was　Savile　Row　and　as　expensive　as　his　own。　No；　this　meant　a　trip　to　personnel。
　　　The　presence　of　C；　as　the　job　title　went；　made　it　painless。　They　already　had　a　set　of　Ryan's　fingerprints　from　Langley；　and　it　was　mainly　a　matter　of　getting　his　picture　taken　and　inserted　in　his　pass…card；　which　would　allow　him　through　all　the　electronic　gates；　just　like　the　ones　at　the　CIA。　They　checked　it　through　a　dummy　gate　and　saw　that　it　worked。　Then　it　was　up　in　the　executive　elevator　to　Sir　Basil's　capacious　corner　office。
　　　It　was　better　than　the　long；　narrow　room　that　Judge　Moore　made　do　with。　A　decent　view　of　the　river　and　the　Palace　of　Westminster。　The　DG　waved　Jack　into　a　leather　chair；
　　　〃So；　any　first　impressions？〃　Charleston　asked。
　　　〃Pretty　painless　so　far。　Cathy　hasn't　been　to　the　hospital　yet；　but　Bernie…her　boss　at　Hopkins…says　that　the　boss…doc　there　is　a　good　guy。〃
　　　〃Yes；　Hammersmith　has　a　good　reputation；　and　Dr。　Byrd　is　regarded　as　the　best　eye　surgeon　in　Britain。　Never　met　him；　but　I'm　told　he's　a　fine　chap。　Fisherman；　loves　to　take　salmon　out　of　the　rivers　in　Scotland；　married；　three　sons；　eldest　is　a　leftenant　in　the　Coldstream　Guards。〃
　　　〃You　had　him　checked　out？〃　Jack　asked　incredulously。
　　　〃One　cannot　be　too　careful；　Jack。　Some　of　your　distant　cousins　across　the　Irish　Sea　are　not　overly　fond　of　you；　you　know。〃
　　　〃Is　that　a　problem？〃
　　　Charleston　shook　his　head。　〃Most　unlikely。　When　you　helped　to　bring　down　the　ULA；　you　probably　saved　a　few　lives　in　the　PIRA。　That's　still　sorting　itself　out；　but　that　is　mainly　a　job　for　the　Security　Service。　We　don't　really　have　much　business　with　them…at　least　nothing　that　will　concern　you　directly。〃　Which　led　to　Jack's　next　question。
　　　〃Yes；　Sir　Basil…what　exactly　is　my　job　to　be　here？〃
　　　〃Didn't　James　tell　you？〃　Charleston　asked。
　　　〃Not　exactly。　He　likes　his　surprises；　I've　learned。〃
　　　〃Well；　the　Joint　Working　Group　mainly　focuses　on　our　Soviet　friends。　We　have　some　good　sources。　So　do　your　chaps。　The　idea　is　to　share　information　in　order　to　improve　our　overall　picture。〃
　　　〃Information。　Not　sources；〃　Ryan　observed。
　　　Charleston　smiled　understandingly。　〃One　must　protect　those；　as　you　know。〃
　　　Jack　did　know　about　that。　In　fact；　he　was　allowed　to　know　damned　little　about　CIA's　sources。　Those　were　the　most　closely　guarded　secrets　in　the　Agency；　and　doubtless　here　as　well。　Sources　were　real　people；　and　a　slip　of　the　tongue　would　get　them　killed。　Intelligence　services　valued　sources　more　for　their　information　than　for　their　lives…the　intelligence　business　was　a　business；　after　all…but　sooner　or　later　you　started　worrying　about　them　and　their　families　and　their　personal　characteristics。　Mainly　booze；　Ryan　thought。　Especially　for　the　Russians。　The　ordinary　Soviet　citizen　drank　enough　to　qualify　him　as　an　alcoholic　in　America。
　　　〃No　problem　there；　sir。　I　do　not　know　the　name　or　identity　of　one　CIA　source　over　there。　Not　one；〃　Ryan　emphasized。　It　wasn't　quite　true。　He　hadn't　been　told；　but　you　could　guess　a　lot　from　the　character　of　the　information　transmitted　and　the　way　he/she　quoted　people…they　were　usually　〃he；〃　but　Ryan　wondered　about　a　few　of　the　sources。　It　was　an　intriguing　game　that　all　analysts　played；　invariably　in　the　confines　of　their　own　minds；　though　Ryan　had　speculated　a　few　times　with　his　personal　boss；　Admiral　Jim　Greer。　Usually；　the　DDO　had　warned　him　not　to　speculate　too　loudly；　but　the　way　he'd　blinked　twice　had　told　Ryan　more　than　he'd　wanted　to　convey。　Well；　they'd　hired　him　for　his　analytical　ability；　Ryan　knew。　They　didn't　really　want　him　to　turn　it　off。　When　the　information　transmitted　got　a　little　kinky；　it　told　you　that　something　had　happened　to　the　source；　like　being　caught；　or　going　nuts。　〃The　admiral　is　int