Russians. The ordinary Soviet citizen drank enough to qualify him as an alcoholic in America.
“No problem there, sir. I do not know the name or identity of one CIA source over there. Not one,” Ryan emphasized. It wasn't quite true. He hadn't been told, but you could guess a lot from the character of the information transmitted and the way he/she quoted people—they were usually “he,” but Ryan wondered about a few of the sources. It was an intriguing game that all analysts played, invariably in the confines of their own minds, though Ryan had speculated a few times with his personal boss, Admiral Jim Greer. Usually, the DDO had warned him not to speculate too loudly, but the way he'd blinked twice had told Ryan more than he'd wanted to convey. Well, they'd hired him for his analytical ability, Ryan knew. They didn't really want him to turn it off. When the information transmitted got a little kinky, it told you that something had happened to the source, like being caught, or going nuts. “The admiral is interested in one thing, though…”
“What's that?” the DG asked.
“Poland. It looks to us as though it's coming a little unglued, and we're wondering how far, how fast, and what it'll do—the effects, I mean.”
“So are we, Jack.” A thoughtful nod. People—especially reporters in their Fleet Street pubs—were speculating a lot about that. And reporters also had good sources, in some areas as good as his own. “What does James think?”
“It reminds both of us of something that happened in the 1930s.” Ryan leaned back in the chair and relaxed. “The United Auto Workers. When they organized Ford, there was trouble. Big time. Ford even hired thugs to work the union organizers over. I remember seeing photos of—who was it?” Jack paused for a moment's thought. “Walter Reuther? Something like that. It was in Life magazine back then. The thugs were talking to him and a few of his guys—the first few pictures show them smiling at each other like men do right before the gloves come off—and then a brawl started. You have to wonder about Ford's management—letting something like that happen in front of reporters is bad enough, but reporters with cameras? Damn, that's big-league dumb.”
“The Court of Public Opinion. Yes,” Charleston agreed. “It is quite real, and modern technology has made it even more so, and, yes, that is troubling to our friends across the wire. You know, this CNN news network that just started up on your side of the ocean. It just might change the world. Information has its own way of circulating. Rumors are bad enough. You cannot stop them, and they have a way of acquiring a life of their own—”
“But a picture really is worth a thousand words, isn't it?”
“I wonder who first said that. Whoever he was, he was no one's fool. It's even more true for a moving picture.”
“I presume we're using that…”
“Your chaps are reticent about doing so. I am less so. It's easy enough to have an embassy functionary have a pint with some reporter and maybe drop the odd hint in the course of a conversation. One thing about reporters, they are not ungracious if you give them the odd decent story.”
“At Langley, they hate the press, Sir Basil. And I do mean hate.”
“Rather backward of them. But, then, we can exercise more control over the press here than you can in America, I suppose. Still and all, it's not that hard to outsmart them, is it?”
“I've never tried. Admiral Greer says that talking to a reporter is like dancing with a rottweiler. You can't be sure if he's going to lick your face or rip your throat out.”
“They're not bad dogs at all, you know. You just need to train them properly.”
Brits and their dogs,
Ryan reflected. They like their pets more than their kids. He didn't care for big dogs all that much. A Labrador like Ernie was different. Labs had a soft mouth. Sally really missed him.
“So, what's your take on Poland,
“No problem there, sir. I do not know the name or identity of one CIA source over there. Not one,” Ryan emphasized. It wasn't quite true. He hadn't been told, but you could guess a lot from the character of the information transmitted and the way he/she quoted people—they were usually “he,” but Ryan wondered about a few of the sources. It was an intriguing game that all analysts played, invariably in the confines of their own minds, though Ryan had speculated a few times with his personal boss, Admiral Jim Greer. Usually, the DDO had warned him not to speculate too loudly, but the way he'd blinked twice had told Ryan more than he'd wanted to convey. Well, they'd hired him for his analytical ability, Ryan knew. They didn't really want him to turn it off. When the information transmitted got a little kinky, it told you that something had happened to the source, like being caught, or going nuts. “The admiral is interested in one thing, though…”
“What's that?” the DG asked.
“Poland. It looks to us as though it's coming a little unglued, and we're wondering how far, how fast, and what it'll do—the effects, I mean.”
“So are we, Jack.” A thoughtful nod. People—especially reporters in their Fleet Street pubs—were speculating a lot about that. And reporters also had good sources, in some areas as good as his own. “What does James think?”
“It reminds both of us of something that happened in the 1930s.” Ryan leaned back in the chair and relaxed. “The United Auto Workers. When they organized Ford, there was trouble. Big time. Ford even hired thugs to work the union organizers over. I remember seeing photos of—who was it?” Jack paused for a moment's thought. “Walter Reuther? Something like that. It was in Life magazine back then. The thugs were talking to him and a few of his guys—the first few pictures show them smiling at each other like men do right before the gloves come off—and then a brawl started. You have to wonder about Ford's management—letting something like that happen in front of reporters is bad enough, but reporters with cameras? Damn, that's big-league dumb.”
“The Court of Public Opinion. Yes,” Charleston agreed. “It is quite real, and modern technology has made it even more so, and, yes, that is troubling to our friends across the wire. You know, this CNN news network that just started up on your side of the ocean. It just might change the world. Information has its own way of circulating. Rumors are bad enough. You cannot stop them, and they have a way of acquiring a life of their own—”
“But a picture really is worth a thousand words, isn't it?”
“I wonder who first said that. Whoever he was, he was no one's fool. It's even more true for a moving picture.”
“I presume we're using that…”
“Your chaps are reticent about doing so. I am less so. It's easy enough to have an embassy functionary have a pint with some reporter and maybe drop the odd hint in the course of a conversation. One thing about reporters, they are not ungracious if you give them the odd decent story.”
“At Langley, they hate the press, Sir Basil. And I do mean hate.”
“Rather backward of them. But, then, we can exercise more control over the press here than you can in America, I suppose. Still and all, it's not that hard to outsmart them, is it?”
“I've never tried. Admiral Greer says that talking to a reporter is like dancing with a rottweiler. You can't be sure if he's going to lick your face or rip your throat out.”
“They're not bad dogs at all, you know. You just need to train them properly.”
Brits and their dogs,
Ryan reflected. They like their pets more than their kids. He didn't care for big dogs all that much. A Labrador like Ernie was different. Labs had a soft mouth. Sally really missed him.
“So, what's your take on Poland,
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