by Tom Clancy
“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 doo
r. 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 comers.” 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. l’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.”
