took two suitcases out from her closet and set them in the middle of the bedroom.
“Here, can you do this?” she asked her husband.
“Sure, babe.” Ryan took the gold necklace and clasped it around her neck. It was one he'd given her on the Christmas before Little Jack was born. Some good memories went along with this necklace, Jack remembered. Then he stood back. “Turn around.”
Cathy did as she was told. Her evening dress was royal-blue silk that caught and reflected light like glass. Jack Ryan was not a man who understood women's fashions — figuring the Russians out came more easily to him — but he approved whatever the new rules were. The rich blue of the dress and the gold jewelry she wore with it set off the blush of her fair skin and the buttery yellow of her hair. “Nice,” Jack said. “All ready, babe?”
“Sure am, Jack.” She smiled back at him. “Go warm the car up.”
Cathy watched him head off into the garage, then said a few words to the sitter. She put on her fur — surgeons typically have little use for animal-rights activists — and followed Jack a minute later. Jack backed out of the garage, and headed off.
Clark had to laugh to himself. Ryan still didn't know beans about counter-surveillance techniques. He watched the taillights of the car diminish, then disappear entirely around the bend of the road before heading into the Ryan driveway.
“You're Mr. Clark?” the sitter asked.
“That's right.”
“They're in the bedroom.” The sitter pointed.
“Thank you.” Clark returned a minute later. Typical woman, he thought, they all overpack. Even Caroline Ryan wasn't perfect. “Good night.”
“Night.” The sitter was already entranced with the TV.
It takes just under an hour to drive from Annapolis, Maryland, into Central D.C. Ryan missed having an official car, but his wife had insisted that they drive themselves. They turned off of Pennsylvania Avenue, through the gate into East Executive Drive, where uniformed police directed them to a parking place. Their wagon looked a little humble mixed in with Caddys and Lincolns, but that was all right with Jack. The Ryans walked up the gentle slope to the East Entrance, where Secret Service personnel checked their invitations against the guest list, and checked them off. Jack's car keys set off the metal detector, evoking an embarrassed smile.
No matter how many times one goes there, there is always something magical about visiting the White House, especially at night. Ryan led his wife westward. They handed off their coats, and took their numbered tokens right next to the White House's own small theater, then continued. At the chicane turn there were the usual three social reporters, women in their sixties who stared you in the face while making their notes and generally looked like the witches from Macbeth with their open-mouth, drooly smiles. Officers from all the military services decked out in their full-dress — what Ryan used to call “Head Waiter”—uniforms waited in files to provide escort duty. As usual, the Marines looked best with their scarlet sashes, and a disgustingly good-looking captain motioned them up the stairs to the main level. Jack noted the admiring glance cast at his wife and decided to smile about it.
At the top of the marble stairs, another officer, this one a female Army lieutenant, directed them into the East Room. They were announced into the room — as though anyone were listening — and a liveried usher approached at once with a silver tray of drinks.
“You're driving, Jack,” Cathy whispered. Jack took a Perrier and a twist. Cathy got champagne.
The East Room of the White House is the size of a small gymnasium. The walls are ivory-white, its false columns decorated with gold leaf. There was a string quartet in one corner, along with a grand piano that was being played, rather well, Ryan thought, by an Army sergeant. Half the people were already here, the men in black tie and the women in dresses. Perhaps there were people who were totally comfortable at such affairs, Ryan told himself, but he wasn't one of them. He started circulating, and soon found Defense Secretary Bunker and his wife, Charlotte.
“Hello, Jack.”
“Hi, Dennis, you know my wife?”
“Caroline,” Cathy said, sticking her hand out.
“So, what do you think about the game?”
Jack laughed. “Sir, I know how you and Brent Talbot have been fighting over this. I was born in Baltimore. Somebody stole our team.”
“You didn't lose that much, did you? This is our year.”
“But the Vikings say the same thing.”
“They were lucky to get past New York.”
“The Raiders gave you a brief scare, as I recall.”
“They got lucky,” Bunker grumbled. “We buried 'em in the second half.”
Caroline Ryan and Charlotte Bunker traded a woman-to-woman look: Football! Cathy turned, and there she was. Mrs. Bunker made off, while the boys talked about boy things.
Cathy took a deep breath. She wondered if this were the right time and the right place, but she could no more have stopped herself now than she could have given up surgery. She left Jack facing the other way, and headed across the floor in a line as direct as a falcon's.
Dr. Elizabeth Elliot was dressed almost identically to Dr. Caroline Ryan. The cuts and pleats were a little different, but the expensive garments were close enough to make a fashion editor wonder if they had shopped at the same store. A triple string of pearls graced her neck, and she was talking with two others. Her head turned as she saw the approaching shape.
“Hello, Dr. Elliot. You remember me?” Cathy asked with a warm smile.
“No. Should I?”
“Caroline Ryan. That help?”
“Sorry,” Liz replied, knowing at once who she was, but not knowing anything else that might be of interest. “Do you know Bob and Libby Holtzman?”
“I've read your material,” Cathy said, taking Holtzman's extended hand.
“It's always nice to hear that.” Holtzman noted the delicacy of her touch and could feel the guilt shoot up his arm. Was this the woman whose marriage he had attacked? “This is Libby.”
“You're a reporter, too,” Cathy observed. Libby Holtzman was taller than she, and dressed in an outfit that emphasized her ample bosom. One of hers is worth both of mine, Cathy noted, managing not to sigh. Libby had the sort of bust on which men yearned to lay their heads.
“You operated on a cousin of mine a year or so ago,” Libby Holtzman said. “Her mom says you're the best surgeon in the world.”
“All doctors love to hear that.” Cathy decided that she would like Mrs. Holtzman, despite her physical handicap.
“I know you're a surgeon, but where have we met?” Liz Elliot asked, with the offhand interest she might have shown a dog breeder.
“ Bennington. In my freshman year, you taught PoliSci 101.”
“Is that a fact? I'm surprised you remember.” She made it clear that she did not.
“Yes. Well, you know how it is.” Cathy smiled. “Freshman Pre-Med is a real bear. We really have to concentrate on the important stuff. So the unimportant courses are all throwaways, easy A's.”
Elliot's expression didn't change. “I was never an easy grader.”
“Sure you were. It was just a matter of repeating it all back to you.” Cathy smiled even more broadly.
Bob Holtzman was tempted to take a step back, but managed not to move at all. His wife's eyes went a touch wider, having caught the signals more quickly than her husband. A war had just begun. It would be nastier than most.
“What ever happened to Dr. Brooks?”
“Who?” Liz asked.
Cathy turned to the Holtzmans. Times really were different back in the 70s, weren't they? Dr. Elliot just had her masters, and the PoliSci department was — well, kind of radical. You know, the fashionable kind.“ She turned back. ”Surely you haven't forgotten Dr. Brooks and Dr. Hemmings! Where was that house you shared with them?'
