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〃I know；〃 Dr。 Caroline Ryan said； wondering why Jack hadn't called for a cab。 She still had a ton of work to do with the house； and didn't need a driving lesson。 Well； at least it seemed to be a nimble car； she found； giving it a kick that was answered by rapid acceleration。 Not her old Porsche； though。
〃Bottom of the hill； turn right。〃
〃Uh…huh。〃 Good； this would be simple。 She'd have to find her way home； and she hated asking for directions。 It came from being a surgeon； as in mand of her world as a fighter pilot in his cockpit。。。 And； being a surgeon； she wasn't allowed to panic； was she？
〃Right here；〃 Jack told her。 〃Remember oning traffic。〃 There was none at the moment； but that would change； probably as soon as he got out of the car。 He didn't envy her attempt to learn local navigation solo； but the surest way to learn to swim was to jump in…assuming you didn't drown。 But the Brits were hospitable people； and if necessary some kind local driver would probably lead her all the way home。
The train station was about as impressive as a Bronx elevated platform； a smallish stone building with stairs and/or escalators that led down to the tracks。 Ryan bought his ticket with cash； but noted a sign that offered books of muter tickets for daily use。 He picked up a copy of The Daily Telegraph。 That would mark him to the locals as a conservative sort of person。 Those of a more liberal bent chose The Guardian。 He decided to pass on the tabloids that had naked women on the inside。 Hell of a thing to see right after breakfast。
He had to wait about ten minutes for the train； which arrived with little noise； being a cross between an American electric intercity train and a subway。 His ticket was first class； which placed him in a small partment。 The windows went up and down if you pulled on a leather strap； and the partment door hinged outward to let him exit directly instead of walking down the corridor。 With that set of discoveries made； Ryan sat down and scanned the paper's front page。 As in America； local politics covered about half of the sheet； and Ryan looked at two of the articles； figuring he might as well learn the local customs and beefs。 The schedule said about forty minutes to Victoria Station。 Not too bad； and much better than driving it； Dan Murray had told him。 In addition； parking a car in London was even worse than it was in New York； wrong side of the street and all。
The ride on the train was agreeably smooth。 The trains were evidently a government…run monopoly； and somebody spent money on the roadbeds。 A conductor took his ticket with a smile…doubtless marking Jack as a Yank instantly…and moved on； leaving Ryan to his paper。 The passing scenery soon overtook his interest。 The countryside was green and lush。 The Brits did love their lawns。 The row houses here were smaller than those in his childhood neighborhood in Baltimore； with what looked like slate roofs； and Jesus； the streets were narrow here。 You'd really have to pay attention while driving； lest you end up in someone's living room。 That probably wouldn't sit well； even to Englishmen accustomed to dealing with the shortings of visiting Yanks。
It was a clear day； some white fluffy clouds aloft； and the sky a delightful blue。 He'd never experienced rain over here。 Yet they had to have it。 Every third man on the street carried a furled umbrella。 And a lot of them wore hats。 Ryan hadn't done that since his time in the Marine Corps。 England was just different enough from America to be dangerous； he decided。 There were a lot of similarities； but the differences rose up and bit you on the ass when you least expected them。 He'd have to be very careful with Sally crossing the street。 At four and a half； she was just imprinted enough to look the wrong way at the wrong time。 He'd seen his little girl in the hospital once； and that was； by God； enough for a lifetime。
He was rumbling through a city now； a thick one。 The right…of…way was elevated。 He looked around for recognizable landmarks。 Was that St。 Paul's Cathedral off to the right？ If so； he'd be at Victoria soon。 He folded his paper。 Then the train slowed； and…yeah。 Victoria Station。 He opened the partment door like a native and stepped out on the platform。 The station was a series of steel arches with embedded glass panes； long since blackened by the stack gasses of steam trains long departed。。。 But nobody had ever cleaned the glass。 Or was it just air pollution that did it？
There was no telling。 Jack followed the rest of the people to the brick wall that seemed to mark the station's waiting/arrival area。 Sure enough； there were the usual collection of magazine stands and small stores。 He could see the way out and found himself in the open air； fumbling in his pocket for his Chichester map of London。 Westminster Bridge Road。 It was too far to walk； so he hailed a cab。
From the cab； Ryan looked around； his head swiveling； just like the tourist he wasn't quite anymore。 And there it was。
Century House； so named because it was 100 Westminster Bridge Road； was what Jack took to be a typical interwar structure of fair height and a stone facade that was。。。 peeling off？ The edifice was covered with an orange plastic netting that was manifestly intended to keep the facade from falling onto pedestrians。 Oops。 Maybe somebody was ripping through the building； looking for Russian bugs？ Nobody had warned him about that at Langley。 Just up the road was Westminster Bridge； and across that were the Houses of Parliament。 Well； it was in a nice neighborhood； anyway。 Jack trotted up the stone steps to the double door and made his way inside for all of ten feet； where he found an entry…control desk manned by someone in a sort of cop uniform。
〃Can I help you； sir？〃 the guard asked。 The Brits always said such things as though they really wanted to help you。 Jack wondered if there might be a pistol just out of view。 If not there； then not too far away。 There had to be security here。
〃Hi； I'm Jack Ryan。 I'm starting work here。〃
Instant smile and recognition： 〃Ah； Sir John。 Wele to Century House。 Please let me call upstairs。〃 Which he did。 〃Someone's on his way down； sir。 Please have a seat。〃
Jack barely had a chance to feel the seat when someone familiar came through the revolving door。
〃Jack！〃 he called out。
〃Sir Basil。〃 Ryan rose to take his extended hand。
〃Didn't expect you until tomorrow。〃
〃I'm letting Cathy get everything unpacked。 She doesn't trust me to do it anyway。〃
〃Yes； we men do have our limitations； don't we？〃 Sir Basil Charleston was pushing fifty； tall and imperially thin； as the poet had once called it； with brown hair not yet going gray。 His eyes were hazel and bright…looking； and he wore a suit that wasn't cheap； gray wool with a broad white pinstripe； looking to all the world like a very prosperous London merchant banker。 In fact； his family had been in that line of work； but he'd found it confining； and opted instead to use his Cambridge education in the service of his country； first as a field intelligence officer； and later as an administrator。 Jack knew that James Greer liked and respected him； as did Judge Moore。 He'd met Charleston himself