could.
“Pretty good. Don't do anything different. Answer the questions. Keep your answers short.”
Mrs. Abbot came in next to check Ryan's makeup. A gentle hand touched his forehead while the other adjusted his hair with a small brush. Even for his high-school prom—what was her name? Ryan asked himself irrelevantly—neither he nor anyone else had been so fussy about his coarse black hair. Under other circumstances it would have been something to laugh about.
The CBS anchor was a woman in her middle thirties, and proof positive that brains and looks were not mutually exclusive.
“Mr. President, what is left of the government?” she asked after a couple of conventional get-acquainted questions.
“Maria”— Ryan had been instructed to address each reporter by the given name; he didn't know why, but it seemed reasonable enough—“as horrid as the last twelve hours have been for all of us, I want to remind you of a speech President Durling gave a few weeks ago: America is still America. All of the federal executive agencies will be operating today under the leadership of the sitting deputy secretaries, and—”
“But
Washington
—”
“For reasons of public safety, Washington is pretty well shut down, that is true—” She cut him off again, less from ill manners than from the fact that she only had four minutes to use, and she wanted to use them.
“The troops in the street. . . ?”
“Maria, the D.C. police and fire departments had the roughest night of all. It's been a long, cold night for those people. The
Washington
,
D.C.
, National Guard has been called out to assist the civilian agencies. That also happens after hurricanes and tornadoes. In fact, that's really a municipal function. The FBI is working with the mayor to get the job done.” It was Ryan's longest statement of the morning, and almost left him breathless, he was wound so tightly. That was when he realized that he was squeezing his hands to the point that his fingers were turning white, and Jack had to make a conscious effort to relax them.
“L
OOK AT HIS
arms,” the Prime Minister observed. “What do we know of this Ryan?”
The chief of her country's intelligence service had a file folder in his lap which he had already memorized, having had the luxury of a working day to familiarize himself with the new chief of state.
“He's a career intelligence officer. You know about the incident in
London
, and later in the States some years ago—”
“Oh, yes,” she noted, sipping her tea and dismissing that bit of history. “So, a spy . . .”
“A well-regarded one. Our Russian friends think very highly of him indeed. So does Century House,” said the army general, whose training went back to the British tradition. Like his Prime Minister, he'd been educated at
Oxford
, and, in his case,
Sandhurst
. “He is highly intelligent. We have reason to believe that in his capacity as Durling's National Security Advisor he was instrumental in controlling American operations against
Japan
—”
“And us?” she asked, her eyes locked on the screen. How convenient it was to have communications satellites—and the American networks were all global now. Now you didn't have to spend a whole day in an aircraft to go and see a rival chief of state—and then under controlled circumstances. Now she could see the man under pressure and gauge how he responded to it. Career intelligence officer or not, he didn't look terribly comfortable. Every man had his limitations.
“Undoubtedly, Prime Minister.”
“He is less formidable than your information would suggest,” she told her adviser. Tentative, uncomfortable, rattled. . . out of his depth.
“W
HEN DO YOU
expect to be able to tell us more about what happened?” Maria asked.
“I really can't say right now. It's just too soon. Some things can't be rushed, I'm afraid,” Ryan
“Pretty good. Don't do anything different. Answer the questions. Keep your answers short.”
Mrs. Abbot came in next to check Ryan's makeup. A gentle hand touched his forehead while the other adjusted his hair with a small brush. Even for his high-school prom—what was her name? Ryan asked himself irrelevantly—neither he nor anyone else had been so fussy about his coarse black hair. Under other circumstances it would have been something to laugh about.
The CBS anchor was a woman in her middle thirties, and proof positive that brains and looks were not mutually exclusive.
“Mr. President, what is left of the government?” she asked after a couple of conventional get-acquainted questions.
“Maria”— Ryan had been instructed to address each reporter by the given name; he didn't know why, but it seemed reasonable enough—“as horrid as the last twelve hours have been for all of us, I want to remind you of a speech President Durling gave a few weeks ago: America is still America. All of the federal executive agencies will be operating today under the leadership of the sitting deputy secretaries, and—”
“But
Washington
—”
“For reasons of public safety, Washington is pretty well shut down, that is true—” She cut him off again, less from ill manners than from the fact that she only had four minutes to use, and she wanted to use them.
“The troops in the street. . . ?”
“Maria, the D.C. police and fire departments had the roughest night of all. It's been a long, cold night for those people. The
Washington
,
D.C.
, National Guard has been called out to assist the civilian agencies. That also happens after hurricanes and tornadoes. In fact, that's really a municipal function. The FBI is working with the mayor to get the job done.” It was Ryan's longest statement of the morning, and almost left him breathless, he was wound so tightly. That was when he realized that he was squeezing his hands to the point that his fingers were turning white, and Jack had to make a conscious effort to relax them.
“L
OOK AT HIS
arms,” the Prime Minister observed. “What do we know of this Ryan?”
The chief of her country's intelligence service had a file folder in his lap which he had already memorized, having had the luxury of a working day to familiarize himself with the new chief of state.
“He's a career intelligence officer. You know about the incident in
London
, and later in the States some years ago—”
“Oh, yes,” she noted, sipping her tea and dismissing that bit of history. “So, a spy . . .”
“A well-regarded one. Our Russian friends think very highly of him indeed. So does Century House,” said the army general, whose training went back to the British tradition. Like his Prime Minister, he'd been educated at
Oxford
, and, in his case,
Sandhurst
. “He is highly intelligent. We have reason to believe that in his capacity as Durling's National Security Advisor he was instrumental in controlling American operations against
Japan
—”
“And us?” she asked, her eyes locked on the screen. How convenient it was to have communications satellites—and the American networks were all global now. Now you didn't have to spend a whole day in an aircraft to go and see a rival chief of state—and then under controlled circumstances. Now she could see the man under pressure and gauge how he responded to it. Career intelligence officer or not, he didn't look terribly comfortable. Every man had his limitations.
“Undoubtedly, Prime Minister.”
“He is less formidable than your information would suggest,” she told her adviser. Tentative, uncomfortable, rattled. . . out of his depth.
“W
HEN DO YOU
expect to be able to tell us more about what happened?” Maria asked.
“I really can't say right now. It's just too soon. Some things can't be rushed, I'm afraid,” Ryan
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