by Tom Clancy
“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,” said 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 good, 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 line-men, 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!”
“Well, I want to try one out. Westinghouse will lend us one for free. ”
“This is really starting to sound good,” Griffin noted. “But have they really ironed the bugs out yet?”
“They say so, except for some occasional voltage fluctuations. They’re not sure what causes that, and they want to do some field tests.”
“How bad are the fluctuations?”
“Marginal.” Alex pulled out a pad and read off the numbers. “It seems to be an environmental problem. Looks like it only happens when the ambient air temperature changes rapidly. If that’s the real cause, it shouldn’t be too hard to beat.”
Griffin considered that for a few seconds. “Okay, where do you want to set it up?”
“I have a spot picked out down in Anne Arundel County, south of Annapolis.”
“That’s a long ways away. Why there?”
“It’s a dead-end line. If the transformer goes bad, it won’t hurt many houses. The other thing is, one of my crews is only twenty miles away, and I’ve been training them on the new unit. We’ll set up the test instrumentation, and I can have them check it every day for the first few months. If it works out, we can make our purchase order in the fall and start setting them up next spring.”
“Okay. Where exactly is this?”
Dobbens unfolded his map on Griffin’s table. “Right here.”
“Expensive neighborhood,” the field superintendent said dubiously.
“Aw, come on, boss!” Alex snorted. “How would it look in the papers if we did all our experiments on poor folk? Besides”—he smiled—“all those environmental freaks are rich, aren’t they?”
Dobbens had chosen his remark with care. One of Griffin’s personal hobbyhorses was the “Park Avenue Environmentalist.” The field superintendent owned a small farm, and didn’t like having some condo-owning dilettante tell him about nature.
“Okay, you can run with it. How soon can you set it up?”
“Westinghouse can have the unit to us the end of next week. I can have it up and running three days after that. I want my crew to check the lines—in fact, I’ll be going down myself to set it up if you don’t mind.”
Griffin nodded approval. “You’re my kind of engineer, son. Most of the schoolb
oys we get now are afraid to get their hands dirty. You’ll keep me posted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep up the good work, Alex. I’ve been telling management about you.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Griffin.”
Dobbens left the building and drove home in his two-year-old company Plymouth. Most of the rush-hour traffic was heading in while he headed out. He was home in under an hour. Sean Miller was just waking up, drinking tea and watching television. Alex wondered how anyone could start the day with tea. He made some instant coffee for himself.
“Well?” Miller asked.
“No problem.” Alex smiled, then stopped. It occurred to him that he’d miss his job. After all the talk in college about bringing Power to the People, he’d realized with surprise after starting with BG&E that a utility company engineer did exactly that. In a funny sort of way, he was now serving the ordinary people, though not in a manner that carried much significance. Dobbens decided that it was good training for his future ambitions. He’d remember that even those who served humbly still served. An important lesson for the future. “Come on, we’ll talk about it in the boat.”
Wednesday was a special day. Jack was away from both his jobs, carrying the bear while Cathy wheeled their daughter out. The bear was a gift from the midshipmen of his history classes, an enormous monster that weighed sixty pounds and was nearly five feet tall, topped off with a Smokey Bear hat—actually that of a Marine drill instructor courtesy of Breckenridge and the guard detail. A police officer opened the door for the procession. It was a windy March day, but the family wagon was parked just outside. Jack scooped up his daughter in both arms while Cathy thanked the nurses. He made sure she was in her safety seat and buckled the belt himself. The bear had to go in the back.
“Ready to go home, Sally?”
“Yes.” Her voice was listless. The nurses reported that she still cried out in her sleep. Her legs were fully healed, finally. She could walk again, badly and awkwardly, but she could walk. Except for the loss of her spleen, she was whole again. Her hair was trimmed short to compensate for what had been shaved, but that would grow out soon enough. Even the scars, the surgeons said, would fade, and the pediatricians assured him that in a few months the nightmares would end. Jack turned to run his hand along the little face, and got a smile for his efforts. It wasn’t the smile he was accustomed to getting. Behind his own smile, Ryan’s mind boiled with rage yet again, but he told himself that this wasn’t the time. Sally needed a father now, not an avenger.