President and the way he greeted the men and women who came up to him.
'The Prime Minister of Belgium, M. Arnaud,' the protocol officer whispered. The official photographer started clicking away to record every official greeting, and two TV cameras were doing the same, albeit more quietly.
'Your telegram was very gracious, Mr. Prime Minister, and it came at a sensitive moment,' Ryan said, wondering if the truth sounded good enough, wondering if Arnaud had even read it—well, of course he had, though he probably hadn't drafted it.
'Your talk to the children was very moving. I'm sure everyone here thinks the same,' the P.M. replied, gripping Ryan's hand, testing it for firmness, looking hard and deep into his eyes, and rather pleased with himself for the very skilled mendacity of his greeting. For all that, he had read the telegram and pronounced it fitting, and was gratified at hearing Ryan's reaction to it. Belgium was an ally, and Arnaud had been well briefed by the chief of his country's military-intelligence service, who'd worked with Ryan at several NATO conferences, and always liked the American's read on the Soviets—and now, the Russians. An unknown quantity as a political leader, the gist of the briefing had been, but a bright and capable analyst. Arnaud did his own reading now, first in line mainly by accident, by grip and look and many years of experience in such things. Then he moved on.
'Dr. Ryan, I have heard so much about you.' He kissed her hand in a very graceful Continental way. He hadn't been told how attractive the new First Lady was, and how dainty her hands were. Well, she was a surgeon, wasn't she? New to the game and uncomfortable with it, but playing along as she had to.
'Thank you, Prime Minister Arnaud,' Cathy replied, informed by her own protocol officer (this one was just behind her) who this gentleman was. The hand business, she thought, was very theatrical… but nice.
'Your children are angels.'
'How nice of you to say that.' And he moved on, to be replaced by the President of Mexico.
News cameras floated around the room, along with fifteen reporters, because this was a working function of sorts. The piano in the room's northeast corner played some light classical—not quite what on the radio was called 'easy listening,' but close.
'And how long have you known the President?' The question came from the Prime Minister of Kenya, pleased to find a black admiral in the room.
'We go back quite a ways, sir,' Robby Jackson replied.
'Robby! Excuse me, Admiral Jackson,' the Prince of Wales corrected himself.
'Captain.' Jackson shook his hand warmly. 'It's been a while, sir.'
'You two know—ah! Yes!' the Kenyan realized. Then he saw his counterpart from Tanzania and moved off to conduct business, leaving the two alone.
'How is he doing—really, I mean,' the Prince asked, vaguely saddening Jackson. But this man had a job. Sent over as a friend in what Robby knew to have been a political decision, he would, on his return to Her Britannic Majesty's embassy, dictate a contact report. It was business. On the other hand, the question deserved an answer. The three of them had «served» together briefly one hot, stormy summer night.
'We had a short meeting with the acting chiefs a couple of days ago. There'll be a working session tomorrow. Jack'11 be okay,' the J-3 decided he would say. He put some conviction behind it. He had to. Jack was now NCA— National Command Authority—and Jackson's loyalty to him was a matter of law and honor, not mere humanity.
'And your wife?' He looked over to where Sissy Jackson was talking with Sally Ryan.
'Still number two piano for the National Symphony.'
'Who's the lead?'
'Miklos Dimitri. Bigger hands,' Jackson explained. He decided it would be impolitic to ask any family questions of his own.
'You did well in the Pacific.'
'Yeah, well, fortunately we didn't have to kill all that many people.' Jackson looked his almost-friend in the eye. 'That really stopped being fun, y'know?'
'Can he handle the job, Robby? You know him better than I do.'
'Captain, he has to handle the job,' Jackson answered, looking over at his Commander-in-Chief-friend, and knowing how much Jack detested formal occasions. Watching his new President endure the circulating line, it was impossible to avoid thinking back. 'Long way from teaching history at the Trade School, Your Highness,' the admiral observed in a whisper.
For Cathy Ryan, it was more than anything else an exercise in protecting her hand. Oddly she knew the formal occasion drill better than her husband. As a senior physician at Johns Hopkins's Wilmer Ophthalmological Institute, she'd had to deal with numerous formal fund-raisers over the years, essentially a high-class version of begging— most of which occasions Jack had missed, often to her displeasure. So, here she was, again, meeting people she didn't know, would never have the chance to like, and not one of whom would support her research programs.
'The Prime Minister of India,' her protocol officer said quietly.
'Hello.' The First Lady smiled her greeting, shook the hand, which was blessedly light.
'You must be very proud of your husband.'
'I've always been proud of Jack.' They were of the same height. The Prime Minister's skin was swarthy, and she squinted her eyes behind her glasses, Cathy saw. She probably needed a prescription change, and she probably got headaches from her out-of-date one. Strange. They had some pretty good doctors in India. Not all of them came to America.
'And such lovely children,' she added.
'How nice of you to say that.' Cathy smiled again, in an automatic sort of way, to an observation that was as perfunctory as a comment on the clouds in the sky. A closer look at the woman's eyes told Cathy something she didn't like. She thinks she's better than me. But why? Be- cause she was a politician and Caroline Ryan a mere surgeon? Would it be different had she chosen to become a lawyer? No, probably not, her mind went on, racing as it sometimes did when a surgical procedure went bad unexpectedly. No, it wasn't that at all. Cathy remembered a night right here in the East Room, facing off with Elizabeth Elliot. It was the same supercilious mind-set: I'm better than you because of who I am and what I do. SURGEON—that was her Secret Service code name, which had not displeased her at all, really—looked more deeply into the dark eyes before hers. There was even more to it than that. Cathy let go of her hand as the next big shot came through the mill.
The Prime Minister departed the line and headed for a circulating waiter, from whom she took a glass of juice. It would have been too obvious to do what she really wanted to do. That would come the next day, in New York. For now she looked at one of her fellow Prime Ministers, this one representing the People's Republic of China. She raised her glass a centimeter or so, and nodded without smiling. A smile was unnecessary. Her eyes conveyed the necessary message.
'Is it true they call you SWORDSMAN?' Prince Ali bin Sheik asked with a twinkle in his eye.
'Yes, and, yes, it is because of what you gave me,' Jack told him. 'Thank you for flying over.'
'My friend, there is a bond between us.' His Royal Highness was not quite a chief of state, but with the current illness of his sovereign, Ali was taking over more and more of the Kingdom's duties. He was now in charge of foreign relations and intelligence, the former schooled by Whitehall, the latter by Israel's Mossad, in one of the most ironic and least-known contradictions in a part of the world known for its interlocking non sequiturs. On the whole, Ryan was pleased by that. Though he had much on his plate, Ali was capable.
'You've never met Cathy, have you?'
The Prince shifted his gaze. 'No, but I have met your colleague, Dr. Katz. He trained my own eye doctor. Indeed, your husband is a fortunate man, Dr. Ryan.'
And the Arabs were supposed to be cold, humorless, and disrespectful of women? Cathy asked herself. Not this guy. Prince Ali took her hand gently.
'Oh, you must have met Bernie when he went over in 1994.' Wilmer had helped establish the eye institute in Riyadh, and Bernie had stayed five months to do some clinical instruction.
'He performed surgery on a cousin who was injured in a plane crash. He's back flying. And those are your children over there?'
'Yes, Your Highness.' This one went into the card file as a good guy.
'Would you mind if I spoke with them?'
'Please.' The Prince nodded and moved off.
