Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games (19 page)

The speech was delivered as perfectly as Evans had done, several times per day, for the past four years. My first castle, Jack thought, looking at the stone walls.

“Was the moat for-real?”

“Oh, yes, and a very unpleasant one at that. The problem, you see, was that it was designed so that the river would wash in and out every day, thereby keeping it fresh and clean. Unfortunately the engineer didn't do his sums quite right, and once the water came in, it stayed in. Even worse, everything that got thrown away by the people living here was naturally enough thrown into the moat -- and stayed there, and rotted. I suppose it served a tactical purpose, though. The smell of the moat alone must have been sufficient to keep all but the most adventurous chaps away. It was finally drained in 1843, and now it serves a really useful purpose -- the children can play football there. On the far side are swings and jungle gyms. Do you have children?”

“One and a ninth,” Cathy answered.

“Really?” Evans smiled in the darkness. “Bloody marvelous! I suppose that's one Yank who will be forever -- at least a little -- British! Moira and I have two, both of them born overseas. Now this is the Byward Tower.”

“These things all had drawbridges, right?” Jack asked.

“Yes, the Lion and Middle towers were essentially islands with twenty or so feet of smelly water around them. You'll also notice that the path into the grounds has a right-angle turn. The purpose of that, of course, was to make life difficult for the chaps with the battering ram.”

Jack looked at the width of the moat and the height of the walls as they passed into the Tower grounds proper. “So nobody ever took this place?”

Evans shook his head. “There has never been a serious attempt, and I wouldn't much fancy trying today.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed. “You sweat having somebody come in and bomb the place?”

“That's happened, I am sorry to say, in the White Tower, over ten years ago -- terrorists. Security is somewhat tighter now,” Evans said.

In addition to the Yeoman Warders there were uniformed guards like those Ryan had encountered on The Mall, wearing the same red tunics and bearskin hats, and carrying the same kind of modern rifle. It was rather an odd contrast to Evans' period uniform, but no one seemed to notice.

“You know, of course, that this facility served many purposes over the years. It was the royal prison, and as late as World War Two, Rudolf Hess was kept here. Now, do you know who was the first Queen of England to be executed here?”

“Anne Boleyn,” Cathy answered.

“Very good. They teach our history in America?” Evans asked.

“Masterpiece Theater,” Cathy explained. “I saw the TV show.”

“Well, then you know that all the private executions were carried out with an ax -- except hers. King Henry had a special executioner imported from France; he used a sword instead of an ax.”

“He didn't want it to hurt?” Cathy asked with a twisted smile. “Nice of him.”

“Yes, he was a considerate chap, wasn't he? And this is Traitor's Gate. You might be interested to know that it was originally called the Water Gate.”

Ryan laughed. “Lucky for you guys too, eh?”

“Indeed. Prisoners were taken through this gate by boat to Westminster for trial.”

“Then back here for their haircuts?”

“Only the really important ones. Those executions -- they were private instead of public -- were done on the Tower Green. The public executions were carried out elsewhere.” Evans led them through the gate in the Bloody Tower, after explaining its history. Ryan wondered if anyone had ever put all this place's history into one book, and if so, how many volumes it required.

The Tower Green was far too pleasant to be the site of executions. Even the signs to keep people off the grass said Please. Two sides were lined with Tudor-style (of course) houses, but the northern edge was the site where the scaffolding was erected for the high-society executions. Evans went through the procedure, which included having the executionee pay the headsman -- in advance -- in the hope that he'd do a proper job.

“The last woman to be executed here,” Evans went on, “was Jane, Viscountess Rochford, 13 February, 1542.”

“What did she do?” Cathy asked.

“What she didn't do, actually. She neglected to tell King Henry the Eighth that his fifth wife, Catherine Howard, was, uh, amorously engaged with someone other than her husband,” Evans said delicately.

“That was a real historic moment,” Jack chuckled. “That's the last time a woman was ever executed for keeping her mouth shut.”

Cathy smiled at her husband. “Jack, how about I break your other arm?”

“And what would Sally say?”

“She'd understand,” his wife assured him.

“Sergeant major, isn't it amazing how women stick together?”

“I did not survive thirty-one years as a professional soldier by being so foolish as to get involved in domestic disputes,” Evans said sensibly.

I lose, Ryan told himself. The remainder of the tour lasted about twenty minutes. The Yeoman led them downhill past the White Tower, then left toward an area roped off from the public. A moment later Ryan and his wife found themselves in another of the reasons that men applied for the job.

The Yeoman Warders had their own little pub hidden away in the 14th-century stonework. Plaques from every regiment in the British Army -- and probably gifts from many others -- lined the walls. Evans handed them off to yet another man. Dan Murray reappeared, a glass in his hand.

“Jack, Cathy, this is Bob Hallston.”

“You must be thirsty,” the man said.

“You could talk me into a beer,” Jack admitted.

“Cathy?”

“Something soft.”

“You're sure?” Hallston asked.

“I'm not a temperance worker, I just don't drink when I'm pregnant,” Cathy explained.

“Congratulations!” Hallston took two steps to the bar and returned with a glass of lager for Jack, and what looked like ginger ale for his wife. “To your health, and your baby's.”

Cathy beamed. There was something about pregnant women, Jack thought. His wife wasn't just pretty anymore. She glowed. He wondered if it was only for him.

“I understand you're a doctor?”

“I'm an ophthalmic surgeon.”

“And you teach history, sir?”

“That's right. I take it you work here, too.”

“Correct. There are thirty-nine of us. We are the ceremonial guardians of the Sovereign. We have invited you here to thank you for doing our job, and to join us in a small ceremony that we do every night.”

“Since 1240,” Murray said.

“The year 1240?” Cathy asked.

“Yeah, it's not something they cooked up for the tourists. This is the real thing,” Murray said. “Right, Bob?”

“Quite real. When we lock up for the night, this museum collection becomes the safest place in England.”

“I'll buy that,” Jack tossed off half his beer. “And if they get past those kids out there, the bad guys have you fellows to worry about.”

“Yes.” Hallston smiled. “One or two of us might remember our basic skills. I was in the original SAS, playing hare and hounds with Rommel in the Western Desert. Dreadful place, the desert. Left me with a permanent thirst.”

They never lose it, Ryan thought. They never lose the look, not the real professionals. They get older, add a few pounds, mellow out a little, but beneath all that you can still see the discipline and the essential toughness that makes them different. And the pride, the understated confidence that comes from having done it all, and not having to talk about it very much, except among themselves. It never goes away.

“Do you have any Marines in here?”

“Two,” Hallston said. “We try to keep them from holding hands.”

“Right! Be nice, I used to be a Marine.”

“No one's perfect,” Hallston sympathized.

“So, what's this Key Ceremony?”

“Well, back in the year 1240, the chap whose job it was to lock up for the night was set upon by some ruffians. Thereafter, he refused to do his duty without a military escort. Every night since, without interruption, the Chief Warder locks the three principal gates, then places the keys in the Queen's House on the Tower Green. There's a small ceremony that goes along with this. We thought that you and your wife might like to see it.” Hallston sipped his beer. “You were in court today, I understand. How did it go?”

“I'm glad it's behind me. Dan says I did all right.” Ryan shrugged. “When Mr. Evans showed us the block topside -- I wonder if it still works,” Ryan said thoughtfully, remembering the look on that young face. Is Miller sitting in his cell right now, thinking about me? Ryan drank the last of his beer. I'll bet he is.

“Excuse me?”

“That Miller kid. It's a shame you can't take him up there for a short haircut.”

Hallston smiled coldly. “I doubt anyone here would disagree with you. We might even find a volunteer to swing the ax.”

“You'd have to hold a lottery, Bob.” Murray handed Ryan another glass. “You still worrying about him. Jack?”

“I've never seen anybody like that before.”

“He's in jail. Jack,” Cathy pointed out.

“Yeah, I know.” So why are you still thinking about him? Jack asked himself. The hell with it. The hell with him. “This is great beer, Sar-major.”

“That's the real reason they apply for the job,” Murray chuckled.

“One of the reasons.” Hallston finished his glass. “Almost time.”

Jack finished off his second glass with a gulp. Evans reappeared, now wearing street clothes, and led them back out to the chilled night air. It was a clear night, with a three-quarters moon casting muted shadows on the stone battlements. A handful of electric lights added a few isolated splashes of light. Jack was surprised how peaceful it was for being in the center of a city, like his own home over the Chesapeake. Without thinking, he took his wife's hand as Evans led them west toward the Bloody Tower. A small crowd was already there, standing by Traitor's Gate, and a Warder was giving them instructions to be as quiet as possible, and not, of course, to take any photographs. A sentry was posted there, plus four other men under arms, their breath illuminated by the blue-white floodlights. It was the only sign of life. Otherwise they might have been made of stone.

“Right about now,” Murray whispered.

Jack heard a door close somewhere ahead. It was too dark to see very much, and the few lights that were turned on only served to impair his night vision. He heard the sound of jingling keys first of all, like small bells rattling to the measured tread of a walking man. Next he saw a point of light. It grew into a square lantern with a candle inside, carried by Tom Hughes, the Chief Warder. The sound of his footsteps was as regular as a metronome as he approached, his back ramrod-straight from a lifetime of practice. A moment later the four soldiers formed up on him, the warder between them, and they marched off, back into the tunnel-like darkness to the fading music of the rattling keys and cleated shoes clicking on the pavement, leaving the sentry at the Bloody Tower.

Jack didn't hear the gates close, but a few minutes later the sound of the keys returned, and he glimpsed the returning guards in the irregular splashes of light. For some reason the scene was overpoweringly romantic. Ryan reached around his wife's waist and pulled her close. She looked up.

Love you, he said with his lips as the keys approached again. Her eyes answered.

To their right, the sentry snapped to on-guard: “Halt! Who goes there?” His words reverberated down the corridor of ancient stone.

The advancing men stopped at once, and Tom Hughes answered the challenge: “The keys!”

“Whose keys?” the sentry demanded.

“Queen Anne's keys!”

“Pass, Queen Anne's keys!” The sentry brought his rifle to present-arms.

The sentries, with Hughes in their midst, resumed their march and turned left, up the slope to the Tower Green. Ryan and his wife followed close behind. At the steps that capped the upward slope waited a squad of riflemen. Hughes and his escort stopped. The squad on the steps came to present-arms, and the Chief Warder removed his uniform bonnet.

“God preserve Queen Anne!”

“Amen!” the guard force replied.

Behind them, a bugler stood. He blew Last Post, the British version of Taps. The notes echoed against the stones in a way that denoted the end of day, and when necessary, the end of life. Like the circular waves that follow a stone's fall into the water, the last mournful note lingered until it faded to nothingness in the still air. Ryan bent down to kiss his wife. It was a magical moment that they would not soon forget.

The Chief Warder proceeded up the steps to secure the keys for the night, and the crowd withdrew.

“Every night since 1240, eh?” Jack asked.

“The ceremony was interrupted during the Blitz. A German bomb fell into the Tower grounds while things were under way. The warder was bowled over by the blast, and the candle in his lantern was extinguished. He had to relight it before he could continue,” Evans said. That the man had been wounded was irrelevant. Some things are more important than that. “Shall we return to the pub?”

“We don't have anything like this at home,” Cathy said quietly.

“Well, America isn't old enough, is she?”

“It would be nice if we had something like this, maybe at Bunker Hill or Fort McHenry,” Jack said quietly.

Murray nodded agreement. “Something to remind us why we're here.”

“Tradition is important,” Evans said. “For a soldier, tradition is often the reason one carries on when there are so many reasons not to. It's more than just yourself, more than just your mates -- but it's not just something for soldiers, is it? It is true -- or should be true -- of any professional community.”

“It is,” Cathy said. “Any good medical school beats that into your head. Hopkins sure did.”

“So does the Corps,” Jack agreed. “But we don't express it as well as you just did.”

“We've had more practice.” Evans opened the door to the pub. “And better beer to aid in our contemplation.”

“Now, if you guys could only learn how to fix beef properly . . . ” Jack said to Evans.

“That's telling 'em, ace,” the FBI agent chuckled.