Red Rabbit

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Leanart, Joni, and Andy, for holding my hand behind the Old Curtain, and the crash-course in smuggling. Alex, of course, for holding the other one at all times. Tom and the lads at Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress. So fine a body of men is difficult to find, and a rare pleasure to discover. The FSOs at the United States Embassy,' Budapest, for so graciously handling an unannounced walk-in. And to Michael, Melissa, Gilbert, and CDR Marsha, in anticipation of your superior professionalism.

The scary part, Jack decided, was going to be driving. He'd already bought a Jaguar-pronounced jag-jou-ah over here, he'd have to remember-but both times he'd walked to it at the dealership, he'd gone to the left-front door instead of the right. The dealer hadn't laughed at him, but Ryan was sure he'd wanted to. At least he hadn't climbed into the passenger seat by mistake and really made an ass of himself. He'd have to remember all that: The "right" side of the road was the left. A right turn crossed oncoming traffic, not a left turn. The left lane was the slow lane on the interstates-motorways, he corrected himself. The plugs in the wall were all cockeyed. The house didn't have central heating, despite the princely price he'd paid for it. There was no air-conditioning, though that probably wasn't necessary here. It wasn't the hottest of climates: The locals started dropping dead in the street when the mercury topped 75. Jack wondered what the D.C. climate would do to them. Evidently, the "mad dogs and Englishmen" ditty was a thing of the past.

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