"Well, Judge?" Admiral James Greer hit the off switch on the remote control as the Cable News Network switched topics. The Director of Central Intelligence tapped his cigar on the cut-glass ashtray.
   "We know he's smart, James, and it looks like he knows how to handle himself with reporters, but he's impetuous," Judge Arthur Moore said.
   "Come on, Arthur. He's young. I want somebody in here with some fresh ideas. You going to tell me now that you didn't like his report? First time at bat, and he turns out something that good!"
   Judge Moore smiled behind his cigar. It was drizzling outside the seventh-floor window of the office of the Deputy Director, Intelligence, of the Central Intelligence Agency. The rolling hills of the Potomac Valley prevented his seeing the river, but he could spy the hills a mile or so away on the far side. It was a far prettier view than that of the parking lots.
   "Background check?"
   "We haven't done a deep one yet, but I'll bet you a bottle of your favorite bourbon that he comes up clean."
   "No bet, James!" Moore had already seen Jack's service record from the Marine Corps. Besides, he hadn't come to the Agency. They had gone to him and he'd turned them down on the first offer. "You think he can handle it, eh?"
   "You really ought to meet the kid, Judge. I had him figured out the first ten minutes he was in here last July."
   "You arranged the leak?"
   "Me? Leak?" Admiral Greer chuckled. "Nice to know how he can handle himself, though, isn't it? Didn't even blink when he fielded the question. The boy takes his clearance seriously, and" – Greer held up the telex from London – "he's asking good questions. Emil says his man Murray was fairly impressed, too. It's just a damned shame to waste him teaching history."
   "Even at your alma mater?"
   Greer smiled. "Yes, that does hurt a little. I want him, Arthur. I want to teach him, I want to groom him. He's our kind of people."
   "But he doesn't seem to think so."
   "He will." Greer was quietly positive.
   "Okay, James. How do you want to approach him?"
   "No hurry. I want a very thorough background check done first – and who knows? Maybe he'll come to us."
   "No chance," Judge Moore scoffed.
   "He'll come to us requesting information on this ULA bunch," Greer said.
   The Judge thought about that one. One thing about James Greer, Moore knew, was his ability to see into things and people as though they were made of crystal. "That makes sense."
   "You bet it does. It'll be a while – the Attache says he has to stay over for the trial and all – but he'll be in this office two weeks after he gets back, asking for a chance to research this ULA outfit. If he does, I'll pop the offer – if you agree, Arthur. I also want to talk to Emil Jacobs at FBI and compare files on these ULA characters."
   "Okay."
   They turned to other matters.

Chapter 5
Perqs and Plots

   The day Ryan was released from the hospital was the happiest in his life, at least since Sally had been born at Johns Hopkins, four years before. It was after six in the evening when he finally finished dressing himself – the cast made that a very tricky exercise – and plopped down in the wheelchair. Jack had groused about that, but it was evidently a rule as inviolable in British hospitals as in American ones: patients are not allowed to walk out – somebody might think they were cured. A uniformed policeman pushed him out of the room into the hall. Ryan didn't look back.
   Virtually the whole floor staff was lined up in the hall, along with a number of the patients Ryan had met the past week and a half as he'd relearned how to walk up and down the drab corridors – with a ten-degree list from the heavy cast. Jack flushed red at the applause, the more so when people reached out to shake his hand. I'm not an Apollo astronaut, he thought. The Brits are supposed to be more dignified than this.
   Nurse Kittiwake gave a little speech about what a model patient he was. What a pleasure and an honor . . . Ryan blushed again when she finished, and gave him some flowers, to take to his lovely wife, she said. Then she kissed him, on behalf of everyone else. Jack kissed back. It was the least he could do, he told himself, and she really was a pretty girl. Kittiwake hugged him, cast and all, and tears started running out of her eyes. Tony Wilson was at her side and gave Jack a surreptitious wink. That was no surprise. Jack shook hands with another ten or so people before the cop got him into the elevator.
   "Next time you guys find me wounded in the street," Ryan said, "let me die there."
   The policeman laughed. "Bloody ungrateful fellow you are."
   "True."
   The elevator opened at the lobby and he was grateful to see that it had been cleared except for the Duke of Edinburgh and a gaggle of security people.
   "Good evening, My Lord." Ryan tried to stand, but was waved back down.
   "Hello, Jack! How are you feeling?" They shook hands, and for a moment he was afraid that the Duke himself would wheel him out the door. That would have been intolerable, but the police officer resumed his pushing as the Duke walked alongside. Jack pointed forward.
   "Sir, I will improve at least fifty percent when we make it through that door."
   "Hungry?"
   "After hospital food? I just might eat one of your polo horses."
   The Duke grinned. "We'll try to do a little better than that."
   Jack noticed seven security people in the lobby. Outside was a Rolls-Royce . . . and at least four other cars, along with a number of people who did not look like ordinary passersby. It was too dark to see anyone prowling the roofs, but they'd be there, too. Well, Ryan thought, they've learned their lessons on security. Still a damned shame, though, and it means the terrorists have won a victory. If they make society change, even a little, they've won something. Bastards. The cop brought him right to the Rolls.
   "Can I get up now?" The cast was so heavy that it ruined his balance. Ryan stood a little too fast and nearly smashed into the car, but caught himself with an angry shake of the head before anyone had to grab for him. He stood still for a moment, his left arm sticking out like the big claw on a fiddler crab, and tried to figure how to get into the car. It turned out that the best way was to stick the cast in first, then rotate clockwise as he followed it. The Duke had to enter from the other side, and it turned out to be rather a snug fit. Ryan had never been in a Rolls before, and found that it wasn't all that spacious.
   "Comfortable?"
   "Well – I'll have to be careful not to punch a window out with this damned thing." Ryan leaned back and shook his head with an eyes-closed smile.
   "You really are glad to be out of hospital."
   "My Lord, on that you can wager one of your castles. This makes three times I've been in the body and fender shop, and that's enough." The Duke motioned for the driver to pull out. The convoy moved slowly into the street, two lead cars and two chase cars surrounding the Rolls-Royce. "Sir, may I ask what's happening this evening?"
   "Very little, really. A small party in your honor, with just a few close friends."
   Jack wondered what "a few close friends" meant. Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? He was going to dinner at . . . Scotty, beam me up! "Sir, you know that you've really been too kind to us."
   "Bloody rubbish. Aside from the debt we owe you – not exactly what one would call a small debt, Jack. Aside from that, it's been entirely worthwhile to meet some new people. I even finished your book Sunday night. I thought it was excellent; you must send me a copy of your next one. And the Queen and your wife have got on marvelously. You are a very lucky chap to have a wife like that – and that little imp of a daughter. She's a gem, Jack, a thoroughly wonderful little girl."
   Ryan nodded. He often wondered what he had done to be so lucky. "Cathy says that she's seen about every castle in the realm, and thanks a lot for the people you put with her. It made me feel much better about having them run all over the place."
   The Duke waved his hand dismissively. It wasn't worth talking about. "How did the research go on your new book?"
   "Quite well, sir." The one favorable result of his being in the hospital was that he'd had the time to sift through all of it in detail. His computer had two hundred new pages of notes stored in its bubble chips, and Ryan had a new perspective on judging the actions of others. "I guess I've learned one thing from my little escapade. Sitting in front of a keyboard isn't quite the same as looking into the front end of a gun. Decisions are a little different from that perspective." Ryan's tone made a further statement.

   The Duke clapped him on the knee. "I shouldn't think that anyone will fault yours."
   "Maybe. The thing is, my decision was made on pure instinct. If I'd known what I was doing – what if I had done the wrong thing on instinct?" He looked out the window. "Here I am, supposed to be an expert on naval history, with special emphasis on how decisions are made under stress, and I'm still not satisfied with my own. Damn." Jack concluded quietly: "Sir, you don't forget killing somebody. You just don't."
   "You oughtn't to dwell on it. Jack."
   "Yes, sir." Ryan turned back from the window. The Duke was looking at him much the same way his father had, years before. "A conscience is the price of morality, and morality is the price of civilization. Dad used to say that many criminals don't have a conscience, not much in the way of feelings at all. I guess that's what makes us different from them."
   "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."
   Charleston went from jovial to serious for a moment. "Don't apologize, lad. One is supposed to take matters of classification seriously. That paper you wrote was an excellent bit of detective work. One of our problems, as someone doubtless told you, is that we take in so much information now that the real problem is making sense of it all. Not easy to wade through all the muck and find the gleaming nugget. For the first time in the business, your report was first-rate. What I didn't know about was this thing the Judge called the Canary Trap. He said you could explain it better than he." Charleston waved for another glass. A footman, or some sort of servant, came over with a tray. "You know who I am, of course."
   "Yes, Admiral. I saw you last July at the Agency. You were getting out of the executive elevator on the seventh floor when I was coming out of the DDI's office, and somebody told me who you were."
   "Good. Now you know that all of this remains in the family. What the devil is this Canary Trap?"
   "Well, you know about all the problems CIA has with leaks. When I was finishing off the first draft of the report, I came up with an idea to make each one unique."
   "They've been doing that for years," Holmes noted. "All one must do is misplace a comma here and there. Easiest thing in the world. If the newspeople are foolish enough to print a photograph of the document, we can identify the leak."
   "Yes, sir, and the reporters who publish the leaks know that, too. They've learned not to show photographs of the documents they get from their sources, haven't they?" Ryan answered. "What I came up with was a new twist on that. 'Agents and Agencies' has four sections. Each section has a summary paragraph. Each of those is written in a fairly dramatic fashion."
   "Yes, I noticed that," Charleston said. "Didn't read like a CIA document at all. More like one of ours. We use people to write our reports, you see, not computers. Do go on."
   "Each summary paragraph has six different versions, and the mixture of those paragraphs is unique to each numbered copy of the paper. There are over a thousand possible permutations, but only ninety-six numbered copies of the actual document. The reason the summary paragraphs are so – well, lurid, I guess – is to entice a reporter to quote them verbatim in the public media. If he quotes something from two or three of those paragraphs, we know which copy he saw and, therefore, who leaked it. They've got an even more refined version of the trap working now. You can do it by computer. You use a thesaurus program to shuffle through synonyms, and you can make every copy of the document totally unique."
   "Did they tell you if it worked?" Holmes asked.
   "No, sir. I had nothing to do with the security side of the Agency." And thank God for that.
   "Oh, it worked." Sir Basil paused for a moment. "That idea is bloody simple – and bloody brilliant! Then there was the substantive aspect of the paper. Did they tell you that your report agreed in nearly every detail with an investigation we ran last year?"
   "No, sir, they didn't. So far as I know, all the documents I worked with came from our own people."
   "Then you came up with it entirely on your own? Marvelous."
   "Did I goof up on anything?" Ryan asked the Admiral.

   "You should have paid a bit more attention to that South African chap. That is more our patch, of course, and perhaps you didn't have enough information to fiddle with. We're giving him a very close look at the moment."
   Ryan finished off his glass and thought about that. There had been a good deal of information on Mr. Martens . . . What did I miss? He couldn't ask that, not now. Bad form. But he could ask –
   "Aren't the South African people –"
   "I'm afraid the cooperation they give us isn't quite as good now as it once was, and Erik Martens is quite a valuable chap for them. One can hardly blame them, you know. He does have a way of procuring what their military need, and that rather limits the pressure his government are willing to put on him," Holmes pointed out. "There is also the Israeli connection to be considered. They occasionally stray from the path, but we – SIS and CIA – have too many common interests to rock the boat severely." Ryan nodded. The Israeli defense establishment had orders to generate as much income as possible, and this occasionally ran contrary to the wishes of Israel's allies. I remember Martens' connections, but I must have missed something important . . . what?
   "Please don't take this as criticism," Charleston said. "For a first attempt your report was excellent. The CIA must have you back. It's one of the few Agency reports that didn't threaten to put me to sleep. If nothing else, perhaps you might teach their analysts how to write. Surely they asked if you wanted to stay on?"
   "They asked, sir. I didn't think it was a very good idea for me."
   "Think again," Sir Basil suggested gently. "This Junior Varsity idea was a good one, like the Team-B program back in the seventies. We do it also – get some outside academics into the shop – to take a new look at all the data that cascades in the front door. Judge Moore, your new DCI, is a genuine breath of fresh air. Splendid chap. Knows the trade quite well, but he's been away from it long enough to have some new ideas. You are one of them, Doctor Ryan. You belong in the business, lad."
   "I'm not so sure about that, sir. My degree's history and –"
   "So is mine," Bill Holmes said. "One's degree doesn't matter. In the intelligence trade we look for the right sort of mind. You appear to have it. Ah, well, we can't recruit you, can we? I would be rather disappointed if Arthur and James don't try again. Do think about it."
   I have, Ryan didn't say. He nodded thoughtfully, mulling over his own thoughts. But I like teaching history.
   "The hero of the hour!" Another man joined the group.
   "Good evening, Geoffrey," Charleston said. "Doctor Ryan, this is Geoffrey Watkins of the Foreign Office."
   "Like David Ashley of the 'Home Office'?" Ryan shook the man's hand.
   "Actually I spend much of my time right here," Watkins said.
   "Geoff's the liaison officer between the Foreign Office and the Royal Family. He handles briefings, dabbles in protocol, and generally makes a nuisance of himself," Holmes explained with a smile. "How long now, Geoff?"
   Watkins frowned as he thought that over. "Just over four years, I think. Seems like only last week. Nothing like the glamour one might expect. Mainly I carry the dispatch box and try to hide in corners." Ryan smiled. He could identify with that.
   "Nonsense," Charleston objected. "One of the best minds in the Office, else they wouldn't have kept you here."
   Watkins made an embarrassed gesture. "It does keep me rather busy."
   "It must," Holmes observed. "I haven't seen you at the tennis club in months."
   "Doctor Ryan, the Palace staff have asked me to express their appreciation for what you have done." He droned on for a few more seconds. Watkins was an inch under Ryan's height and pushing forty. His neatly trimmed black hair was going gray at the sides, and his skin was pale in the way of people who rarely saw the sun. He looked like a diplomat. His smile was so perfect that he must have practiced it in front of a mirror. It was the sort of smile that could have meant anything. Or more likely, nothing. There was interest behind those blue eyes, though. As had happened many times in the past few weeks, this man was trying to decide what Dr. John Patrick Ryan was made of. The subject of the investigation was getting very tired of this, but there wasn't much Jack could do about it.
   "Geoff is something of an expert on the Northern Ireland situation," Holmes said.
   "No one's an 'expert,' " Watkins said with a shake of his head. "I was there at the beginning, back in 1969. I was in uniform then, a subaltern with – well, that hardly matters now, does it? How do you think we should handle the problem, Doctor Ryan?"
   "People have been asking me that question for three weeks, Mr. Watkins. How the hell should I know?"
   "Still looking for ideas, Geoff?" Holmes asked.
   "The right idea is out there somewhere," Watkins said, keeping his eyes on Ryan.
   "I don't have it," Jack said. "And even if someone did, how would you know? I teach history, remember, I don't make it."
   "Just a history teacher, and these two chaps descend on you?"
   "We wanted to see if he really works for CIA, as the papers say," Charleston responded.
   Jack took the signal from that. Watkins wasn't cleared for everything, and was not to know about his past association with the Agency – not that he couldn't draw his own conclusions, Ryan reminded himself. Regardless, rules were rules. That's why I turned Greer's offer down, Jack remembered. All those idiot rules. You can't talk to anybody about this or that, not even to your wife. Security. Security. Security . . . Crap! Sure, some things have to stay secret, but if nobody gets to see them, how is anyone supposed to make use of them – and what good is a secret you can't use?
   "You know, it'll be nice to get back to Annapolis. At least the mids believe I'm a teacher!"
   "Quite," Watkins noted. And the head of SIS is asking you for an opinion on Trafalgar. What exactly are you, Ryan? After leaving military service in 1972 and joining the Foreign Office, Watkins had often played the foreign service officer's embassy game: Who's the spook? He was getting mixed signals from Ryan, and this made the game all the more interesting. Watkins loved games. All sorts.
   "How do you keep yourself busy now, Geoff?" Holmes asked.
   "You mean, aside from the twelve-hour days? I do manage to read the occasional book. I just started going through 'Moll Flanders' again."
   "Really?" Holmes asked. "I just started 'Robinson Crusoe' a few days ago. One sure way of getting one's mind off the world is to return to the classics."
   "Do you read the classics. Doctor Ryan?" Watkins asked.
   "Used to. Jesuit education, remember? They don't let you avoid the old stuff." Is 'Moll Flanders' a classic? Jack wondered. It's not in Latin or Greek, and it's not Shakespeare . . .

   " 'Old stuff.' What a terrible attitude!" Watkins laughed.
   "Did you ever try to read Virgil in the original?" Ryan asked.
   "Arma virumque cano, trojae qui primus ab oris . . .?"
   "Geoff and I attended Winchester together," Holmes explained. "Contiquere omnes, intenteque ora tenebant . . . " Both public school graduates had a good chuckle.
   "Hey, I got good marks in Latin, I just don't remember any of it," Ryan said defensively.
   "Another colonial philistine," Watkins observed.
   Ryan decided that he didn't like Mr. Watkins. The foreign-service officer was deliberately hitting him to get reactions, and Ryan had long since tired of this game. Ryan was happy with what he was, and didn't need a bunch of amateur pshrinks, as he called them, to define his personality for him.
   "Sorry. Where I live we have slightly different priorities."
   "Of course," Watkins replied. The smile hadn't changed a whit. This surprised Jack, though he wasn't sure why.
   "You live not far from the Naval Academy, don't you? Wasn't there some sort of incident there recently?" Sir Basil asked. "I read about it in some report somewhere. I never did get straight on the details."
   "It wasn't really terrorism – just your basic crime, A couple of midshipmen saw what looked like a drug deal being made in Annapolis, and called the police. The people who got arrested were members of a local motorcycle gang. A week later, some of the gang members decided to take the mids out. They got past the Jimmy Legs – the civilian security guards – about three in the morning and sneaked into Bancroft Hall. They must have assumed that it was just another college dorm – not hardly. The kids standing midwatch spotted them, got the alarm out, and then everything came apart. The intruders got themselves lost – Bancroft has a couple of miles of corridors – and cornered. It's a federal case since it happened on government property, and the FBI takes a very dim view of people who try to tamper with witnesses. They'll be gone for a while. The good news is that the Marine guard force at the Academy has been beefed up, and it's a lot easier to get in and out now."
   "Easier?" Watkins asked. "But –"
   Jack smiled. "With Marines on the perimeter, they leave a lot more gates open – a Marine guard beats a locked gate any day."
   "Indeed. I –" Something caught Charleston's eye. Ryan was facing the wrong way to see what it was, but the reactions were plain enough. Charleston and Holmes began to disengage, with Watkins making his way off first. Jack turned in time to see the Queen appear at the door, coming past a servant.
   The Duke was at her side, with Cathy trailing a diplomatically defined distance behind and to the side. The Queen came first to him.
   "You are looking much better."
   Jack tried to bow – he thought he was supposed to – without endangering the Queen's life with his cast. The main trick was standing still, he'd learned. The weight of the thing tended to induce a progressive lean to the left. Moving around helped him stay upright.
   "Thank you, Your Majesty. I feel much better. Good evening, sir."
   One thing about shaking hands with the Duke, you knew there was a man at the other end. "Hello again, Jack. Do try to be at ease. This is completely informal. No receiving line, no protocol. Relax."
   "Well, the champagne helps."
   "Excellent," the Queen observed. "I think we'll let you and Caroline get reacquainted for the moment." She and the Duke moved off.
   "Easy on the booze. Jack." Cathy positively glowed in a white cocktail dress so lovely that Ryan forgot to wonder what it had cost. Her hair was nicely arranged and she had makeup on, two things that her profession regularly denied her. Most of all, she was Cathy Ryan. He gave his wife a quick kiss, audience and all.
   "All these people –"
   "Screw 'em," Jack said quietly. "How's my favorite girl?"
   Her eyes sparkled with the news, but her voice was deadpan professional:
   "Pregnant."
   "You sure – when?"
   "I'm sure, darling, because, A, I'm a doctor, and B, I'm two weeks late. As to when, Jack, remember when we got here, as soon as we put Sally down to bed . . . It's those strange hotel beds. Jack." She took his hand. "They do it every time."
   There wasn't anything for Jack to say. He wrapped his good arm around her shoulders and squeezed as discreetly as his emotions would allow. If she was two weeks late – well, he knew Cathy to be as regular as her Swiss watch. I'm going to be a daddy – again!
   "We'll try for a boy this time," she said.
   "You know that's not important, babe."
   "I see you've told him." The Queen returned as quietly as a cat. The Duke, Jack saw, was talking to Admiral Charleston. About what? he wondered. "Congratulations, Sir John."
   "Thank you. Your Majesty, and thank you for a lot of things. We'll never be able to repay you for all your kindness."
   The Christmas-tree smile again. "It is we who are repaying you. From what Caroline tells me, you will now have at least one positive reminder of your visit to our country."
   "Indeed, ma'am, but more than one." Jack was learning how the game was played.
   "Caroline, is he always so gallant?"

   "As a matter of fact, ma'am, no. We must have caught him at a weak moment," Cathy said. "Or maybe being over here is a civilizing influence."
   "That is good to know, after all the horrid things he said about your little Olivia. Do you know that she refused to go to bed without kissing me goodnight? Such a lovely, charming little angel. And he called her a menace!"
   Jack sighed. It wasn't hard for him to get the picture. After three weeks in this environment, Sally was probably doing the cutest curtsies in the history of Western Civilization. By this time the Palace staff was probably fighting for the right to look after her. Sally was a true daddy's girl. The ability to manipulate the people around her came easily. She'd practiced on her father for years.
   "Perhaps I exaggerated, ma'am."
   "Libelously." The Queen's eyes flared with amusement. "She has not broken a single thing. Not one. And I'll have you know that she's turning into the best equestrienne we have seen in years."
   "Excuse me?"
   "Riding lessons," Cathy explained.
   "You mean on a horse?"
   "What else would she ride?" the Queen asked.
   "Sally, on a horse?" Ryan looked at his wife. He didn't like that idea very much.
   "And doing splendidly." The Queen sprang to Cathy's defense. "It's quite safe, Sir John. Riding is a fine skill for a child to learn. It teaches discipline, coordination, and responsibility."
   Not to mention a fabulous way to break her pretty little neck, Ryan thought. Again he remembered that one does not argue with a queen, especially under her own roof.
   "You could even try to ride yourself," the Queen said. "Your wife rides."
   "We have enough land now. Jack," Cathy said. "You'd love it."
   "I'd fall off," Ryan said bleakly.
   "Then you climb back on again until you get it right," said a woman with over fifty years of riding behind her.
   It's the same with a bike, except you don't fall as far off a bike, and Sally's too little for a bike, Ryan told himself. He got nervous watching Sally move her Hotwheel trike around the driveway. For God's sake, she's so little the horse wouldn't even know if she was there or not. Cathy read his mind.
   "Children do have to grow up. You can't protect her from everything," his wife pointed out.
   "Yes, dear, I know." The hell I can't. That's my job.
   A few minutes later everyone headed out the room for dinner. Ryan found himself in the Blue Drawing Room, a breathtaking pillared hall, and then passed through mirrored double doors into the State Dining Room.
   The contrast was incredible. From a room of muted blue they entered one ablaze with scarlet, fabric-covered walls. Overhead the vaulted ceiling was ivory and gold, and over the snow-white fireplace was a massive portrait – of whom? Ryan wondered. It had to be a king, of course, probably 18th or 19th century, judging by his white . . . pantyhose, or whatever they'd called them then, complete with garter. Over the door they'd entered was the royal cipher of Queen Victoria, VR, and he wondered how much history had passed through – or been made right in this single room.
   "You will sit at my right hand, Jack," the Queen said.
   Ryan took a quick look at the table. It was wide enough that he didn't have to worry about clobbering Her Majesty with his left arm. That wouldn't do.
   The worst thing about the dinner was that Ryan would be forever unable to remember – and too proud to ask Cathy – what it was. Eating one-handed was something he'd had a lot of practice at, but never had he had such an audience, and Ryan was sure that everyone was watching him. After all, he was a Yank and would have been something of a curiosity even without his arm. He constantly reminded himself to be careful, to go easy on the wine, to watch his language. He shot the occasional glance at Cathy, sitting at the other end of the table next to the Duke and clearly enjoying herself. It made her husband slightly angry that she was more at ease than he was. If there was ever a pig in the manger, Ryan thought while chewing on something he immediately forgot, it's me. He wondered if he would be here now, had he been a rookie cop or a private in the Royal Marines who just happened to be at the right place. Probably not, he thought. And why is that? Ryan didn't know. He did know that something about the institution of nobility went against his American outlook. At the same time, being knighted – even honorarily – was something he liked. It was a contradiction that troubled him in a way he didn't understand. All this attention was too seductive, he told himself. It'll be good to get away from it. Or will it? He sipped at a glass of wine. I know I don't belong here, but do I want to belong here? There's a good question. The wine didn't give him an answer. He'd have to find it somewhere else.
   He looked down the table to his wife, who did seem to fit in very nicely. She'd been raised in a similar atmosphere, a monied family, a big house in Westchester County, lots of parties where people told one another how important they all were. It was a life he'd rejected, and that she had walked away from. They were both happy with what they had, each with a career, but did her ease with this mean that she missed . . . Ryan frowned.
   "Feeling all right. Jack?" the Queen asked.

   "Yes, ma'am, please excuse me. I'm afraid it will take me a while to adjust to all of this."
   "Jack," she said quietly, "the reason everyone likes you – and we all do, you know – is because of who and what you are. Try to keep that in mind."
   It struck Ryan that this was probably the kindest thing he'd ever been told. Perhaps nobility was supposed to be a state of mind rather than an institution. His father-in-law could learn from that, Ryan thought. His father-in-law could learn from a lot of things.

   Three hours later Jack followed his wife into their room. There was a sitting room off to the right. In front of him the bed had already been turned down. He pulled the tie loose from his collar and undid the button, then let out a long, audible breath.
   "You weren't kidding about turning into pumpkins."
   "I know," his wife said.
   Only a single dim light was lit, and his wife switched it off. The only illumination in the room was from distant streetlights that filtered through the heavy curtains. Her white dress stood out in the darkness, but her face showed only the curve of her lips and the sparkle of her eyes as she turned away from the light. Her husband's mind filled in the remaining details. Jack wrapped his good arm around his wife and cursed the monstrosity of plaster that encased his left side as he pulled her in close. She rested her head on his healthy shoulder, and his cheek came down to the softness of her fine blond hair. Neither said anything for a minute or two. It was enough to be alone, together in the quiet darkness.
   "Love ya, babe."
   "How are you feeling, Jack?" The question was more than a simple inquiry.
   "Not bad. Pretty well rested. The shoulder doesn't hurt very much anymore. Aspirin takes care of the aches." This was an exaggeration, but Jack was used to the discomfort.
   "Oh, I see how they did it." Cathy was exploring the left side of his jacket. The tailors had put snap closures on the underside so that it would not so much conceal the cast as make it look dressed. His wife removed the snaps quickly and pulled the coat off. The shirt went next.
   "I am able to do this myself, you know."
   "Shut up, Jack. I don't want to have to wait all night for you to undress." He next heard the sound of a long zipper.
   "Can I help?"
   There was laughter in the darkness. "I might want to wear this dress again. And be careful where you put that arm."
   "I haven't crunched anyone yet."
   "Good. Let's try to keep a perfect record." A whisper of silk. She took his hand. "Let's get you sitting down."
   After he sat on the edge of the bed, the rest came easy. Cathy sat beside him. He felt her, cool and smooth at his side, a hint of perfume in the air. He reached around her shoulder, down to the soft skin of her abdomen.
   It's happening right now, growing away while we sit here. "You're going to have my baby," Jack said softly. There really is a God, and there really are miracles.
   Her hand came across his face. "That's right. I can't have anything to drink after tonight – but I wanted to enjoy tonight."
   "You know, I really do love you."
   "I know," she said. "Lie back."

Chapter 6
Trials and Troubles

   Preliminary testimony lasted for about two hours while Ryan sat on a marble bench outside Old Bailey's number two courtroom. He tried to work on his computer, but he couldn't seem to keep his mind on it, and found himself staring around the hundred-sixty-year-old building.
   Security was incredibly tight. Outside, numerous uniformed police constables stood about in plain sight, small zippered pistol cases dangling from their hands. Others, uniformed and not, stood on the buildings across Newgate Street like falcons on the watch for rabbits. Except rabbits don't carry machine guns and RPG-7 bazookas, Ryan thought. Every person who entered the building was subjected to a metal detector sensitive enough to ping on the foil inside a cigarette pack, and nearly everyone was given a pat-down search. This included Ryan, who was surprised enough at the intimacy of the search to tell the officer that he went a bit far for a first date. The grand hall was closed off to anyone not connected with the case, and less prominent trials had been switched among the building's nineteen courtrooms to accommodate Crown v Miller.
   Ryan had never been in a courthouse before. He was amused by the fact that he'd never even had a speeding ticket, his life had been so dull until now. The marble floor – nearly everything in sight was marble – gave the hall the aspect of a cathedral, and the walls were decorated with aphorisms such as Cicero's THE WELFARE OF THE PEOPLE IS THE HIGHEST LAW, a phrase he found curiously – or at least potentially – expedient in what was certainly designed as a temple to the idea of law. He wondered if the members of the ULA felt the same way, and justified their activities in accordance with their view of the welfare of the people. Who doesn't? Jack asked himself. What tyrant ever failed to justify his crimes? Around him were a half-dozen other witnesses. Jack didn't talk with them. His instructions were quite specific: even the appearance of conversation might give cause to the defense attorneys to speculate that witnesses had coached one another. The prosecution team had bent every effort to make their case a textbook example of correct legal procedure.
   The case was being handled on a contradictory basis. The ambush had taken place barely four weeks ago, and the trial was already under way – an unusually speedy process even by British standards. Security was airtight. Admittance to the public gallery (visitors entered from another part of the building) was being strictly controlled. But at the same time, the trial was being handled strictly as a criminal matter. The name "Ulster Liberation Army" had not been mentioned. The prosecutor had not once used the word terrorist. The police ignored – publicly – the political aspects of the case. Two men were dead, and this was a trial for first-degree murder – period. Even the press was playing along, oh the theory that there was no more contemptuous way to treat the defendant than to call him a simple criminal, and not sanctify him as a creature of politics. Jack wondered about additional political or intelligence-related motives in this treatment, but no one was talking along those lines, and the defense attorney certainly couldn't defend his client better by calling him a member of a terrorist group. In the media, and in the courtroom, this was a case of murder.
   The truth was different, of course, and everyone knew it. But Ryan knew enough about the law to remember that lawyers rarely concern themselves with truth. The rules were far more important. There would therefore be no official speculation on the goal of the criminals, and no involvement of the Royal Family, aside from depositions that they could not identify the living conspirator and hence had no worthwhile evidence to offer.
   It didn't matter. From the press coverage of the evidence it seemed clear enough that the trial was as airtight as was possible without a videotape of the entire event. Similarly, Cathy was not to testify. In addition to forensic experts who had testified the day before, the Crown had eight eyewitnesses. Ryan was number two. The trial was expected to last a maximum of four days. As Owens had told him in the hospital, there would be no mucking about with this lad.
   "Doctor Ryan? Would you please follow me, sir?" The VIP treatment continued here also. A bailiff in short sleeves and tie came over and led him into the courtroom through a side door. A police officer took his computer after opening the door. "Show-time," Ryan whispered to himself.
   Old Bailey #2 was an extravagance of 19th-century woodworking. The large room was paneled with so much solid oak that the construction of a similar room in America would draw a protest from the Sierra Club for all the trees it required. The actual floorspace was surprisingly small, scarcely as much as the dining room in his house, a similarity made all the more striking by a table set in the center. The judge's bench was a wooden fortress adjacent to the witness box. The Honorable Mr. Justice Wheeler sat in one of the five high-backed chairs behind it. He was resplendent in a scarlet robe and sash, and a horsehair wig, called a "peruke," Ryan had been told, that fell to his narrow shoulders and clearly looked like something from another age. The jury box was to Ryan's left. Eight women and four men sat in two even rows, each face full of anticipation. Above them was the public gallery, perched like a choir loft and angled so that Ryan could barely see the people there. The barristers were to Ryan's right, across the small floorspace, wearing black robes, 18th-century cravats, and their own, smaller wigs. The net effect of all this was a vaguely religious atmosphere that made Ryan slightly uneasy as he was sworn in.
   William Richards, QC, the prosecutor, was a man of Ryan's age, similar in height and build. He began with the usual questions: your name, place of residence, profession, when did you arrive, for what purpose? Richards predictably had a flair for the dramatic, and by the time the questions carried them to the shooting, Ryan could sense the excitement and anticipation of the audience without even looking at their faces.
   "Doctor Ryan, could you describe in your own words what happened next?"
   Jack did exactly this for ten minutes, without interruption, all the while half-facing the jury. He tried to avoid looking into their faces. It seemed an odd place to get stage fright, but this was precisely what Ryan felt. He focused his eyes on the oak panels just over their heads as he ran through the events. It was almost like living it again, and Ryan could feel his heart beating faster as he concluded.
   "And, Doctor Ryan, can you identify for us the man whom you first attacked?" Richards finally asked.
   "Yes, sir." Ryan pointed. "The defendant, right there, sir."
   It was Ryan's first really good look at him. His name was Sean Miller – not a particularly Irish name to Ryan's way of thinking. He was twenty-six, short, slender, dressed neatly in a suit and tie. He was smiling up at someone in the visitors' gallery, a family member perhaps, when Ryan pointed. Then his gaze shifted, and Ryan examined the man for the first time. What sort of person, Jack had wondered for weeks, could plan and execute such a crime? What was missing in him, or what terrible thing lived in him that most civilized people had the good fortune to lack? The thin, acne-scarred face was entirely normal. Miller could have been an executive trainee at Merrill Lynch or any other business concern. Jack's father had spent his life dealing with criminals, but their existence was a puzzlement to Ryan. Why are you different? What makes you what you are? Ryan wanted to ask, knowing that even if there were an answer the question would remain. Then he looked at Miller's eyes. He looked for . . . something, a spark of life, humanity – something that would say that this was indeed another human being. It could only have been two seconds, but for Ryan the moment seemed to linger into minutes as he looked into those pale gray eyes and saw . . .
   Nothing. Nothing at all. And Jack began to understand a little.
   "The record will show," the Lord Justice intoned to the court reporter, "that the witness identified the defendant, Sean Miller."
   "Thank you, My Lord," Richards concluded.

   Ryan took the opportunity to blow his nose. He'd acquired a head cold over the preceding weekend.
   "Are you quite comfortable, Doctor Ryan?" the judge inquired. Jack realized that he'd been leaning on the wooden rail.
   "Excuse me, your hon – My Lord. This cast is a little tiring." Every time Sally came past her father, she had taken to singing, "I'm a little teapot . . ."
   "Bailiff, a stool for the witness," the judge ordered.
   The defense team was seated adjacent to the prosecution, perhaps fifteen feet farther away in the same row of seats, green leather cushions on the oak benches. In a moment the bailiff arrived with a simple wooden stool, and Ryan settled down on it. What he really needed was a hook for his left arm, but he was gradually becoming used to the weight. It was the constant itching that drove him crazy, though there was nothing anybody could do about that.
   The defense attorney – barrister – rose with elegant deliberation. His name was Charles Atkinson, more commonly known as Red Charlie, a lawyer with a penchant for radical causes and radical crimes. He was supposed to be an embarrassment to the Labour Party, which he had served until recently in Parliament. Red Charlie was about thirty pounds overweight, his wig askew atop a florid, strangely thin face for the ample frame. Defending terrorists must have paid well enough, Ryan thought. There's a question Owens must be looking into, Ryan told himself. Where is your money coming from, Mr. Atkinson?
   "May it please Your Lordship," he said formally to the bench. He walked slowly towards Ryan, a sheaf of notes in his hand.
   "Doctor Ryan – or should I say Sir John?"
   Jack waved his hand. "Whatever is convenient to you, sir," he answered indifferently. They had warned him about Atkinson. A very clever bastard, they'd said. Ryan had known quite a few clever bastards in the brokerage business.
   "You were, I believe, a leftenant in the United States Marine Corps?"
   "Yes, sir, that is correct."
   Atkinson looked down at his notes, then over at the jury. "Bloodthirsty mob, the U.S. Marines," he muttered.
   "Excuse me, sir? Bloodthirsty?" Ryan asked. "No, sir. Most of the Marines I know are beer drinkers."
   Atkinson spun back at Ryan as a ripple of laughter came down from the gallery. He gave Jack a thin, dangerous smile. They'd warned Jack most of all to beware his word games and tactical skill in the courtroom. To hell with it, Ryan told himself. He smiled back at the barrister. Go for it, asshole . . .
   "Forgive me, Sir John. A figure of speech. I meant to say that the U.S. Marines have a reputation for aggressiveness. Surely this is true?"
   "Marines are light infantry troops who specialize in amphibious assault. We were pretty well trained, but when you get down to it we weren't all that different from any other kind of soldier. It's just a matter of specialization in a particularly tough field," Ryan answered, hoping to throw him a little off balance. Marines were supposed to be arrogant, but that was mostly movie stuff. If you're really good, they'd taught him at Quantico, you don't have to be arrogant. Just letting people know you're a Marine was usually enough.
   "Assault troops?"
   "Yes, sir. That's basically correct."
   "So, you commanded assault troops, then?"
   "Yes, sir."
   "Try not to be too modest, Sir John. What sort of man is selected to lead such troops. Aggressive? Decisive? Bold? Certainly he would have more of these qualities than the average foot soldier?"
   "As a matter of fact, sir, in my edition of The Marine Officer's Guide, the foremost of the qualities that the Corps looks for in an officer is integrity." Ryan smiled again. Atkinson hadn't don6 his homework on that score. "I commanded a platoon, sure, but as my captain explained to me when I came aboard, my principal job was to carry out the orders he gave me, and to lean on my gunny – my platoon sergeant – for his practical experience. The job I was in was supposed to be as much a learning experience as a command slot. I mean, in business it's called an entry-level position. You don't start shaking the world your first day on the job in any business."
   Atkinson frowned a bit. This was not going as he'd expected.
   "Ah, then, Sir John, a leftenant of American Marines is really a leader of Boy Scouts. Surely you don't mean that?" he asked, a sarcastic edge on his voice.