by Tom Clancy
"Ah, good. You understand that we must act to protect our fraternal socialist brothers from aggression."
The man was good, Ryan saw, but he'd had a lot of practice at this. "I wouldn't call the encouragement of people to seek their own freedom a form of aggression, Mr. Platonov. I was a stockbroker before I got my history degree, and that doesn't make me much of a candidate for sympathizing with your political outlook. What I am saying is that your country used military force to crush democratic feelings in Czechoslovakia and Hungary. To encourage people toward their own suicide is both immoral and counterproductive."
"Ah, but what does your government think?" the Russian asked with another jolly laugh.
"I'm a historian, not a soothsayer. In this town they all work for the Post. Ask them."
"In any case," the Russian went on, "our Naval Attache is most interested to meet you and discuss your book. We are having a reception at the embassy on the twelfth of next month. The good Father is coming, he can watch over your soul. Might you and your wife attend?"
"For the next few weeks I plan to be at home with my family. My girl needs me there for a while."
The diplomat was not to be put off. "Yes, I can understand that. Some other time, perhaps?"
"Sure, give me a call sometime this summer." Are you kidding?
"Excellent. Now if you will excuse me, I wish to speak to Professor Hunter." The diplomat shook hands again and walked off to the knot of historians who were hanging on Hunter's every word.
Ryan turned to Father Riley, who'd watched the exchange in silence while sipping at his champagne.
"Interesting guy, Sergey," Riley said. "He loves to hit people for reactions. I wonder if he really believes in his system or if he's just playing the game for points…?"
Ryan had a more immediate question. "Father, what in the hell was that all about?"
Riley chuckled. "You're being checked out. Jack."
"Why?"
"You don't need me to answer that. You're working at CIA. If I guess right, Admiral Greer wants you on his personal staff. Marty Cantor is taking a job at the University of Texas next year, and you're one of the candidates for his job. I don't know if Sergey's aware of that, but you probably looked like the best target of opportunity in the room, and he wanted to get a feel for you. Happens all the time."
"Cantor's job? But—nobody told me that!"
"The world's full of surprises. They probably haven't finished the full background check on you yet, and they won't pop the offer until they do. I presume the information you're looking at is still pretty limited?"
"I can't discuss that, Father."
The priest smiled. "Thought so. The work you've done over there has impressed the right people. If I have things right, they're going to bring you along like a good welterweight prospect." Riley got another glass of champagne. "If I know James Greer, he'll just sort of ease you into it. What did it, you see, was that Canary Trap thing. It really impressed some folks."
"How do you know all this?" Ryan asked, shocked at what he'd just heard.
"Jack, how do you think you got over there in the first place? Who do you think got you that Center for Strategic and International Studies fellowship? The people there liked your work, too. Between what I said and what they said, Marty thought you were worth a look last summer, and you worked out better than anyone expected. There are some people around town who respect my opinion."
"Oh." Ryan had to smile. He'd allowed himself to forget the first thing about the Society of Jesus: they know everyone, from whom they can learn nearly everything. The President of the university belonged to both the Cosmos and University clubs, with which came access to the most important ears and mouths in Washington. That's how it would start. Occasionally a man would need advice on something, and being unable to consult the people he worked with, he might try to discuss it with a clergyman. No one was better qualified for this than a Jesuit, meticulously educated, well versed in the ways of the world, but not spoiled by it—most of the time. Like any clergyman, each was a good listener. So effective was the Society at gathering information that the State Department's code-breakers had once been tasked to break the Jesuits' own cipher systems; the assignment had started a small revolt in the "Black Chamber"… until they'd realized what sort of information was finding its way to them.
When Saint Ignatius Loyola had founded the order, the ex-soldier set it on a path to do only two things: to send out missionaries and to build schools. Both had been done extraordinarily well. The influence passed on by the schooling would never be lost on the men who'd graduated. It wasn't Machiavellian, not really. The colleges and universities plied its students with philosophy and ethics and theology—all required courses—to mute their baser tendencies and sharpen their wits. For centuries the Jesuits had built "men for others," and wielded a kind of invisible temporal power, mainly for the good. Father Riley's intellectual credentials were widely known, and his opinions would be sought, just as from any distinguished academic, added to which was his moral authority as a graduate theologian.
"We're good security risks, Jack," Riley said benignly. "Can you imagine one of us being a Communist agent? So, are you interested in the job?"
"I don't know." Ryan looked at his reflection in a window. "It would mean more time away from the family. We're expecting another one this summer, you know."
"Congratulations, that's good news. I know you're a family man, Jack. The job would mean some sacrifices, but you're a good man for it."
"Think so?" I haven't exactly set the world on fire yet.
"I'd rather see people like you over there than some others I know. Jack, you're plenty smart enough. You know how to make decisions, but more importantly, you're a pretty good fellow. I know you're ambitious, but you've got ethics, values. I'm one of those people who thinks that still matters for something in the world, regardless of how nasty things get."
"They get pretty nasty, Father," Ryan said after a moment.
"How close are you to finding them?"
"Not very close at—" Jack stopped himself too late. "You did that one pretty well."
"I didn't mean it that way," Father Tim said very sincerely. "It would be a better world if they were off the street. There must be something wrong with the way they think. It's hard to understand how anyone could deliberately hurt a child."
"Father, you really don't have to understand them. You just have to know where to find them."
"That's work for the police, and the courts, and a jury. That's why we have laws. Jack," Riley said gently.
Ryan turned to the window again. He examined his own image and wondered what it was that he saw. "Father, you're a good man, but you've never had kids of your own. I can forgive somebody who comes after me, maybe, but not anyone who tries to hurt my little girl. If I find him—hell, I won't. But I sure would like to," Jack told the image of himself. Yes, it agreed.
"It's not a good thing, hate. It might do things to you that you'll regret, things that can change you from the person you are."
Ryan turned back, thinking about the person he'd just looked at. "Maybe it already has."
20 Data
It was a singularly boring tape. Owens was used to reading police reports, transcripts of interrogations, and, worst of all, intelligence documents, but the tape was even more boring than that. The microphone which the Security Service had hidden in Cooley's shop was sound-activated and sensitive enough to pick up any noise. The fact that Cooley hummed a lot made Owens regret this feature. The detective whose job it was to listen to the unedited tape had included several minutes of the awful, atonal noise to let his commander know what he had to suffer through. The bell finally rang.
Owens heard the clatter, made metallic by the recording system, of the door opening and closing, then the sound of Cooley's swivel chair scraping across the floor. It must have had a bad wheel, Owens noted.
"Good morning, sir!" It was Cooley's voice.
"And to you," s
aid the second. "Well, have you finished the Marlowe?"
"Yes, I have."
"So what's the price?"
Cooley didn't say it aloud, but Ashley had told Owens that the shop owner never spoke a price. He handed it to his customers on a file card. That, Owens thought, was one way to keep from haggling.
"That is quite steep, you know," Watkins' voice observed.
"I could get more, but you are one of our better clients," Cooley replied.
The sigh was audible on the tape. "Very well, it is worth it."
The transaction was made at once. They could hear the rasping sound of new banknotes being counted.
"I may soon have something new from a collection in Kerry," Cooley said next.
"Oh?" There was interest in the reply.
"Yes, a signed first edition of Great Expectations. I saw it on my last trip over. Might you be interested in that?"
"Signed, eh?"
"Yes, sir, 'Boz' himself. I realize that the Victorian period is rather more recent than most of your acquisitions, but the author's signature…"
"Indeed. I would like to see it, of course."
"That can be arranged."
"At this point," Owens told Ashley, "Watkins leaned over, and our man in the jewelry shop lost sight of him."
"So he could have passed a message."
"Possibly." Owens switched off the tape machine. The rest of the conversation had no significance.
"The last time he was in Ireland, Cooley didn't go to County Kerry. He was in Cork the whole time. He visited three dealers in rare books, spent the night in a hotel, and had a few pints at a local pub," Ashley reported.
"A pub?"
"Yes, he drinks in Ireland, but not in London."
"Did he meet anyone there?"
"Impossible to tell. Our man wasn't close enough. His orders were to be discreet, and he did well not to be spotted." Ashley was quiet for a moment as he tried to pin down something on the tape. "It sounded to me as though he paid cash for the book."
"He did, and it is out of pattern. Like most of us he uses checks and credit cards for the majority of his transactions, but not for this. His bank records show no checks to this shop, though he does occasionally make large cash withdrawals. They may or may not match with his purchases there."
"How very odd," Ashley thought aloud. "Everyone—well, someone must know that he goes there."
"Checks have dates on them," Owens suggested.
"Perhaps." Ashley wasn't convinced, but he'd done enough investigations of this kind to know that you never got all the answers. Some details were always left hanging. "I took another look at Geoff's service record last night. Do you know that when he was in Ireland, he had four men killed in his platoon?"
"What? That makes him a fine candidate for our investigation!" Owens didn't think this was good news.
"That's what I thought," Ashley agreed. "I had one of our chaps in Germany—his former regiment's assigned to the BAOR at the moment—interview one of Watkins's mates. Had a platoon in the same company, the chap's a half-colonel now. He said that Geoff took it quite hard, that he was quite vociferous on the point that they were in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing, and losing people in the process. Rather puts a different spin on things, doesn't it?"
"Another lieutenant with the solution to the problem." Owens snorted.
"Yes—we leave and let the bloody Irish sort things out. That's not exactly a rare sentiment in the Army, you know."
It wasn't exactly a rare sentiment throughout England, Commander Owens knew. "Even so, it's not much of a basis for motive, is it?"
"Better than nothing at all."
The cop grunted agreement. "What else did the Colonel tell your chap?"
"Obviously Geoff had a rather busy tour of duty in the Belfast area. He and his men saw a lot. They were there when the Army was welcomed in by the Catholics, and they were there when the situation reversed. It was a bad time for everyone," Ashley added unnecessarily.
"It's still not very much. We have a former subaltern, now in the striped-pants brigade, who didn't like being in Northern Ireland; he happens to buy rare books from a chap who grew up there and now runs a completely legitimate business in central London. You know what any solicitor would say: pure coincidence. We don't have one single thing that can remotely be called evidence. The background of each man is pure enough to qualify him for sainthood."
"These are the people we've been looking for," Ashley insisted.
"I know that." Owens almost surprised himself when he said it for the first time. His professionalism told him that this was a mistake, but his instincts told him otherwise. It wasn't a new feeling for the Commander of C-13, but one that always made him uneasy. If his instincts were wrong, he was looking in the wrong place, at the wrong people. But his instincts were almost never wrong. "You know the rules of the game, and by those rules, I don't even have enough to go to the Commissioner. He'd boot me out of the office, and be right to do so. We have nothing but unsupported suspicions." The two men stared at each other for several seconds.
"I never wanted to be a policeman." Ashley smiled and shook his head.
"I didn't get my wish, either. I wanted to be an engine driver when I was six, but my father said there were enough railway people in the family. So I became a copper." Both men laughed. There wasn't anything else to do.
"I'll increase the surveillance on Cooley's trips abroad. I don't think there's much more to be done on your side," Ashley said finally.
"We have to wait for them to make a mistake. Sooner or later they all do, you know."
"But soon enough?" That was the question.
"Here we are," Alex said.
"How did you get these?" Miller asked in amazement.
"Routine, man. Power companies shoot aerial photographs of their territory all the time. They help us plan the surveys we have to do. And here" — he reached into his briefcase—"is a topographic map. There's your target, boy." Alex handed him a magnifying glass borrowed from his company. It was a color shot, taken on a bright sunny day. You could tell the makes of the cars. It must have been done the previous summer—the grass had just been cut…
"How tall is the cliff?"
"Enough that you don't want to fall off it. Tricky, too. I forget what it's made of, sandstone or something crumbly, but you want to be careful with it. See that fence here? The man knows to keep away from the edge. We have the same problem at our reactor plant at Calvert Cliff. It's the same geological structure, and a lot of work went into giving the plant a solid foundation."
"Only one road in," Miller noted.
"Dead end, too. That is a problem. We have these gullies here and here. Notice that the power line comes in cross-country, from this road over here. It looks like there was an old farm road that connected with this one, but they let it go to seed. That's going to be helpful."
"How? No one can use it."
"I'll tell you later. Friday, you and me are going fishing."
"What?" Miller looked up in surprise.
"You want to eyeball the cliff, right? Besides, the blues are running. I love bluefish."
Breckenridge had silhouette targets up, finally. Jack's trips to the range were less frequent now, mainly in the mornings before class. If nothing else, the incident outside the gate had told the Marine and civilian guards that their jobs were valuable. Two Marines and one of the civilians were also firing their service pieces. They didn't just shoot to qualify now. They were all shooting for scores. Jack hit the button to reel his target in. His rounds were all clustered in the center of the target.
"Pretty good, Doc." The Sergeant Major was standing behind him. "If you want, we can run a competition string. I figure you'll qualify for a medal now."
Ryan shook his head. He still had to shower after his morning jog. "I'm not doing this for score, Gunny."
"When does the little girl come home?"
"Next Wednesday, I hope."
"That's g
ood, sir. Who's going to look after her?"
"Cathy's taking a few weeks off."
"My wife asked if y'all might need any help," Breckenridge said.
Jack turned in surprise. "Sissy—Commander Jackson's wife—will be over most of the time. Please thank your wife for us, Gunny, that's damned nice of her."
"No big deal. Any luck finding the bastards?" Ryan's day-hops to CIA were not much of a secret.
"Not yet."
"Good morning, Alex," the field superintendent said. "You're staying in a little late. What can I do for you?" Bert Griffin was always in early, but he rarely saw Dobbens before he went home at seven every morning.
"I've been looking over the specifications on that new Westinghouse transformer."
"Getting dull working nights?" Griffin asked with a smile. This was a fairly easy time of year for the utility company. In the summer, with all the air conditioners up and running, things would be different, of course. Spring was the time of year for new ideas.
"I think we're ready to give it a try."
"Have they ironed the bugs out?"
"Pretty much, enough for a field test, I think."
"Okay." Griffin sat back in his chair. "Tell me about it."
"Mainly, sir. I'm worried about the old ones. The problem's only going to get worse as we start retiring the old units. We had that chemical spill last month—"
"Oh, yeah." Griffin rolled his eyes. Most of the units in use contained PBBs, polybrominated biphenyls, as a cooling element within the power transformer. These were dangerous to the linemen, who were supposed to wear protective clothing when working on them, but, despite company rules, often didn't bother. PBBs were a serious health hazard to the men. Even worse, the company had to dispose of the toxic liquid periodically. It was expensive and ran the risk of spills, the paperwork for which was rapidly becoming as time-consuming as that associated with the company's nuclear reactor plant. Westinghouse was experimenting with a transformer that used a completely inert chemical in place of the PBBs. Though expensive, it held great promise for long-term economies—and would help get the environmentalists off their backs, which was even more attractive than the monetary savings. "Alex, if you can get those babies up and working, I will personally get you a new company car!"