tc.thebearandthedragon-第75部分

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　〃He's　in　better　shape　now。　Needed　about　a　month　to　get　caught　up。　He　took　some　razzing；　but　he　handled　it　just　fine。　You　know；　he's　smart。　Good　tactical　instincts；　considering　he's　a　cop　and　not　a　soldier。〃
　〃Being　a　cop　in　Sicily　isn't　like　walking　a　beat　on　Oxford　Street　in　London；　you　know？〃
　〃Yeah；　guess　so；〃　Chavez　agreed。　〃But　on　the　simulator　he　hasn't　made　a　single　shoot/no…shoot　mistake　yet；　and　that's　not　bad。　The　only　other　guy　who　hasn't　blown　one　is　Eddie　Price。〃　The　puterized　training　simulator　back　at　Hereford　was　particularly　ruthless　in　its　presentation　of　possible　tactical　scenarios；　to　the　point　that　in　one　a　twelve…year…old　picked　up　an　AK…74　and　hosed　you　if　you　didn't　pay　close　enough　attention。　The　other　nasty　one　was　the　woman　holding　the　baby　who'd　just　happened　to　pick　up　a　pistol　from　a　dead　terrorist　and　turn　innocently　to　face　the　ining　Men　of　Black。　Ding　had　taken　her　down　once；　to　find　a　Cabbage　Patch　doll　on　his　desk　the　next　morning　with　a　packet　of　McDonald's　ketchup　spread　across　the　face。　The　RAINBOW　troopers　had　a　lively；　if　somewhat　perverse；　institutional　sense　of　humor。
　〃So；　what　exactly　are　we　supposed　to　be　doing？〃
　〃The　old　Eighth　Chief　Directorate　of　the　KGB；　their　executive　protective　service；〃　John　explained。　〃They've　got　worries　about　domestic　terrorists…from　the　Chechens；　I　guess；　and　other　internal　nationalities　who　want　out　of　the　country。　They　want　us　to　help　train　up　their　boys　to　deal　with　them。〃
　〃How　good　are　they？〃　Ding　asked。
　RAINBOW　SIX　shrugged。　〃Good　question。　The　personnel　are　former　KGB　types；　but　with　Spetsnaz　training；　so；　probably　career　people　as　opposed　to　two…year　in…and…outs　in　the　Red　Army。　All　probably　titular　missioned　officers；　but　with　sergeants'　duties。　I　expect　they'll　be　smart；　properly　motivated；　probably　in　decent　physical　shape；　and　they'll　understand　the　mission。　Will　they　be　as　good　as　they　need　to　be？　Probably　not；〃　John　thought。　〃But　in　a　few　weeks　we　ought　to　be　able　to　point　them　in　the　right　direction。〃
　〃So　mainly　we're　going　to　be　training　up　their　instructors？〃
　Clark　nodded。　〃That's　how　I　read　it；　yeah。〃
　〃Fair　enough；〃　Chavez　agreed；　as　the　lunch　menu　appeared。　Why　was　it；　he　wondered；　that　airline　food　never　seemed　to　have　what　you　wanted？　This　was　dinner　food；　not　lunch　food。　What　the　hell　was　wrong　with　a　cheeseburger　and　fries？　Oh；　well；　at　least　he　could　have　a　decent　beer。　The　one　thing　he'd　e　to　love　about　life　in　the　UK　was　the　beer。　There　wouldn't　be　anything　like　it　in　Russia；　he　was　sure。
　
　Sunrise　in　Beijing　was　as　drab　as　the　polluted　air　could　make　it；　Mark　Gant　thought。　For　some　reason　he'd　slipped　out　of　synch　with　the　local　time；　despite　the　black　capsule　and　planned　sleep。　He'd　found　himself　awake　just　at　first　light；　which　fought　through　air　that　was　as　bad　as　Los　Angeles　on　its　worst…ever　day。　Certainly　there　was　no　EPA　in　the　PRC；　and　this　place　didn't　even　have　much　in　the　way　of　automobiles　yet。　If　that　ever　happened；　China　might　solve　its　local　population　problem　with　mass　gassing。　He　hadn't　been　around　enough　to　recognize　this　as　a　problem　of　Marxist　nations…but　there　weren't　many　of　them　left　to　be　examples；　were　there？　Gant　had　never　smoked…it　was　a　vice　largely　removed　from　the　stock…trading　munity；　where　the　normal　working　stress　was　enough　of　a　killer　that　they　needed　few　others…and　this　degree　of　air　pollution　made　his　eyes　water。
　He　had　nothing　to　do　and　lots　of　time　in　which　to　do　it…　once　awake　he　was　never　able　to　escape　back　into　sleep…so　he　decided　to　flip　on　his　reading　light　and　go　over　some　documents；　most　of　which　he'd　been　given　without　any　particular　expectation　that　he　would　read　them。　The　purpose　of　diplomacy；　mander　Spock　had　once　said　on　Star　Trek；　was　to　prolong　a　crisis。　Certainly　the　discourse　meandered　enough　to　make　the　Mississippi　River　look　like　a　laser　beam；　but　like　the　Father　of　Waters；　it　eventually　had　to　get　downstream；　or　downhill；　or　wherever　the　hell　it　was　that　rivers　went。　But　this　morning…what　had　awakened　him？　He　looked　out　the　window；　seeing　the　orange…pink　smudge　beginning　to　form　at　the　horizon；　backlighting　the　buildings。　Gant　found　them　ugly；　but　he　knew　he　just　wasn't　used　to　them。　The　tenements　of　Chicago　weren't　exactly　the　Taj　Mahal；　and　the　wood…frame　house　of　his　youth　wasn't　Buckingham　Palace。　Still；　the　sense　of　different…ness　here　was　overpowering。　Everywhere　you　looked；　things　seemed　alien；　and　he　wasn't　cosmopolitan　enough　to　overe　that　feeling。　It　was　like　a　background　buzz　in　the　Muzak；　never　quite　there；　but　never　gone　away　either。　It　was　almost　a　sense　of　foreboding；　but　he　shook　it　off。　There　was　no　reason　to　feel　anything　like　that。　He　didn't　know　that　he　would　be　proven　wrong　very　soon。
　
　Barry　Wise　was　already　up　in　his　hotel　room；　with　breakfast　ing…the　hotel　was　one　of　an　American　chain；　and　the　breakfast　menu　approximately　American　as　well。　The　local　bacon　would　be　different；　but　even　Chinese　chickens　laid　real　eggs；　he　was　sure。　His　previous　day's　experiment　with　waffles　hadn't　worked　out　very　well；　and　Wise　was　a　man　who　needed　a　proper　breakfast　to　function　throughout　the　day。
　Unlike　most　American　TV　correspondent/reporters；　Wise　looked　for　his　own　stories。　His　producer　was　a　partner；　not　a　boss…handler。　He　credited　that　fact　for　his　collection　of　Emmy　awards；　though　his　wife　just　grumbled　about　dusting　the　damned　things　behind　the　basement　bar。
　He　needed　a　fresh　new　story　for　today。　His　American　audience　would　be　bored　with　another　talking…head…plus…Broll　piece　on　the　trade　negotiations。　He　needed　some　local　color；　he　thought；　something　to　make　the　American　people　feel　as　one　with　the　Chinese　people。　It　wasn't　easy；　and　there'd　been　enough　stories　on　Chinese　restaurants；　which　was　the　only　Chinese　thing　with　which　most　Americans　were　familiar。　What；　then？　What　did　Americans　have　in　mon　with　the　citizens　of　the　People's　Republic　of　China？　Not　a　hell　of　a　lot；　Wise　told　himself；　but　there　had　to　be　something　he　could　use。　He　stood　when　breakfast　arrived；　looking　out　the　picture　windows　as　the　waiter　wheeled　the　cart　close　to　the　bed。　It　turned　out　that　they'd　goofed　on　his　order；　ham　instead　of　bacon；　but　the　ham　looked　okay　and　he　went　with　it；　tipping　the　waiter　and　sitting　back　down。
　Something；　he　thought；　pouring　his　coffee；　but　what？　He'd　been　through　this　process　often　enough。　The　writers　of　fiction　often　chided　reporters　for　their　own　sort　of　〃creativity；〃　but　the　process　was　real。　Finding　stuff　of　interest　was　doubly　hard　for　reporters；　because；　unlike　novelists；　they　couldn't　make　things　up。　They　had　to　use　reality；　and　reality　could　be　a　son　of　a　bitch；　Barry　Wise　thought。　He　reached　for　his　reading　glasses　in　the　drawer　of　the　night　table　and　was　surprised　to　see。。。
　Well；　it　wasn't　all　that　surprising。　It　was　a　matter　of　routine　in　any　American　hotel；　a　Bible　left　there　by　the　Gideon　Society。　It　was　only　here；　probably；　because　the　hotel　was　American…owned　and　…operated；　and　they　had　a　deal　with　the　Gideon　people　。　。　。　but　what　a　strange　place　to　find　a　Bible。　The　People's　Republic　wasn't　exactly　overrun　with　churches。　Were　there　Christians　here？　Hmph。　Why　not　find　out？　Maybe　there　was　a　story　in　that。　。　。　。　Better　than　nothing；　anyway。　With　that　semi…decided；　he　went　back　to　breakfast。　His　crew　would　be　waking　up　about　now。　He'd　have　his　producer　look　around　for　a　Christian　minister；　maybe　even　a　Catholic　priest。　A　rabbi　was　too　much　to　hope　for。　That　would　mean　the　Israeli　embassy；　and　that　was　cheating；　wasn't　it？
　
　How　was　your　day；　Jack？〃　Cathy　asked。
　The　night　was　an　accident。　They　had　nothing　to　do；　no　political　dinner；　no　speech；　no　reception；　no　play　or　concert　at　the　Kennedy　Center；　not　even　an　intimate　party　of　twenty　or　thirty　on　the　bedroom　level　of　the　residence　portion　of　the　White　House；　which　Jack　hated　and　Cathy　enjoyed；　because　they　could　invite　people　they　actually　knew　and　liked　to　those；　or　at　least　people　whom　they　wanted　to　meet。　Jack　didn't　mind　the　parties　as　such；　but　he　felt　that　the　bedroom　level　of　The　House　（as　the　Secret　Service　called　it；　as　opposed　to　the　other　House；　sixteen　blocks　down　the　street）　was　the　only　private　space　he　had　left…　even　the　place　they　owned　at　Peregrine　Cliff　on　Chesapeake　Bay　had　been　redone　by　the　Service。　Now　it　had　fire…protection　sprinklers；　about　seventy　phone　lines；　an　alarm　system　like　they　used　to　protect　nuclear…weapon　storage　sites；　and　a　new　building　to　house　the　protective　detail　who　deployed　there　on　the　weekends　when　the　Ryan's　decided　to　see　if　they　still　had　a　house　to　retreat　to　when　this　official　museum　got　to　be　too　much。
　But　tonight　there　was　none　of　that。　Tonight　they　were　almost　real　people　again。　The　difference　was　that　if　Jack　wanted　a　beer　or　drink；　he　couldn't　just　walk　to　the　kitchen　and　get　it。　That　wasn't　allowed。　No；　he　had　to　order　it　through　one　of　the　White　House　ushers；　who'd　either　take　the　elevator　down　to　the　basement…level　kitchen；　or　to　the　upstairs　bar。　He　could；　of　course；　have　insisted　and　walked　off　to　make　his　own；　but　that　would　have　meant　insulting　one　of　the　ushers；　and　while　these　men；　mainly　black　（some　said　they　traced　their　lineage　back　to　Andrew　Jackson's　personal　slaves）；　didn't　mind；　it　seemed　unnecessarily　insulting　to　them。　Ryan　had　never　been　one　to　have　others　do　his　work；　however。　Oh；　sure；　it　was　nice　to　have　his　shoes　shined　every　night　by　some　guy　who　didn't　have　anything　else　to　do；　and　who　drew　a　fortable　government　salary　to　do　it；　but　it　just　seemed　unmanly　to　be　fussed　over　as　if　he　were　some　sort　of　nobleman；　when　in　fact　his　father　had　been　a　hardworking　homicide　detective　on　the　Baltimore　city　police　force；　and　he'd　needed　a　government　scholarship　（courtesy　of　the　United　States　Marine　Corps）　to　get　through　Boston　College　without　having　his　mom　take　a　job。　Was　it　his　working…class　roots　and　upbringing？　Probably；　Ryan　thought。　Those　roots　also　explained　what　he　was　doing　now；　sitting　in　an　easy　chair　with　a　drink　in　his　hand；　watching　TV；　as　though　he　were　a　normal　person　for　a　change。
　Cathy's　life　was　actually　the　least　changed　in　the　family；　except　that　every　morning　she　flew　to　work　on　a　Marine　Corps　VH…60　Blackhawk　helicopter；　to　which　the　taxpayers　and　the　m