Patriot games - Tom Clancy [49]
"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?"