Patriot Games

across his desk. If Greer didn't know it, it wasn't worth knowing. He looked up after a moment.

'Hello, Doctor Ryan.' The Admiral rose and came over. 'I see you're right on time.'

'Yes, sir. I remembered what a pain the commute was last summer.' Without being asked, Marty Cantor got everyone coffee as they sat on chairs around a low table. One nice thing about Greer was that he always had good coffee. Jack remembered.

'How's the arm, son?' the Admiral asked.

'Almost normal, sir. I can tell you when it's going to rain, though. They say that may go away eventually, but it's like arthritis.'

'And how's your family?'

The man doesn't miss a trick. Jack thought. But Jack had one of his own. 'A little tense at the moment, sir. I broke the news to Cathy last night. She's not real happy about it, but then neither am I.' Let's get down to business, Admiral.

'So what exactly can we do for you?' Greer's demeanor changed from pleasant old gentleman to professional intelligence officer.

'Sir, I know this is asking a lot, but I'd like to see what the Agency has on these ULA characters.'

'Not a hell of a lot.' Cantor snorted. 'These boys cover their tracks like real pros. They're being bankrolled in a pretty big way—that's inferred, of course, but it has to be true.'

'Where does your data come from?'

Cantor looked over to Greer and got a nod. 'Doctor, before we go any further, we have to talk about classification.'

Resignedly: 'Yeah. What do I have to sign?'

'We'll take care of that before you leave. We'll show you just about everything we've got. What you have to know now is that this stuff is classified SI-codeword.'

'Well, that's no surprise.' Ryan sighed. Special-Intelligence-Codeword was a level of classification higher than top secret. People had to be individually cleared for the data, which was identified by a special codeword. Even the codeword itself was secret. Ryan had only twice before seen data of this sensitivity. But now they're going to lay it all out in front of me, he thought as he looked at Cantor. Greer must really want me back to open a door like this. 'So, like I said, where does it come from?'

'Some from the Brits—actually from the PIRA via the Brits. Some new stuff from the Italians—'

'Italians?' Ryan was surprised for a moment, then realized what the implications of that were. 'Oh. Okay, yeah, they have a lot of people down in sand-dune country, don't they?'

'One of them ID'd your friend Sean Miller last week. He was getting off a certain ship that was, miraculously enough, in the English Channel on Christmas Day,' Greer said.

'But we don't know where he is?'

'He and an unknown number of associates headed south.' Cantor smiled. 'Of course the whole country is south of the Med, so that's not much of a help.'

'The FBI has everything we have, and so do the Brits,' Greer said. 'It's not much to go on, but we do have a team sifting through it.'

'Thanks for letting me take a look. Admiral.'

'We're not doing this out of charity, Doctor Ryan,' the Admiral pointed out. 'I'm hoping that you might find something useful. And this thing has a price for you, too. If you want in, you will be an Agency employee by the end of the day. We can even arrange for you to have a federal pistol permit.'

'How did you know—'

'It's my job to know, sonny.' The old man grinned at him. Ryan didn't think this situation was the least bit funny, but he granted the Admiral his points.

'When can I start?'

'How does your schedule look?'

'I can work on that,' Jack said cautiously. 'I can be here Tuesday morning, and maybe work one full day per week, plus two half-days. In the mornings. Most of my classes are in the afternoon. Semester break is coming up, and then I can give you a full week.'

'Very well. You can work out the details with Marty. Go take care of the paperwork. Nice to see you again, Jack.'

Jack shook his hand once more. 'Thank you, sir.'

Greer watched the door close before he went back to the desk. He waited a few seconds for Ryan and Cantor to clear the corridor, then walked out to the corner office that belonged to the Director of Central Intelligence.

'Well?' Judge Arthur Moore asked.

'We got him,' Greer reported.

'How's the clearance procedure going?'

'Clean. He was a little too sharp doing his stock deals a few years back, but, hell, he was supposed to be sharp.'

'Nothing illegal?' Judge Moore asked. The Agency didn't need someone who might be investigated by the SEC. Greer shook his head.

'Nah, just very smart.'

'Fine. But he doesn't see anything but this terrorist stuff until the clearance procedures are complete.'

'Okay, Arthur!'

'And I don't have Deputy Directors to do our recruiting,' the DCI pointed out.

'You're taking this awfully hard. Does a bottle of bourbon put that much of a dent in your bank account?'

The Judge laughed. The day after Miller had been sprung from British custody, Greer had made the gentlemanly wager. Moore didn't like losing at anything—he'd been a trial lawyer before becoming a jurist—but it was nice to know that his DDI had a head for prognostication.

'I'm having Cantor get him a gun permit, too,' Greer added.

'You sure that's a good idea?'

'I think so.'

* * *

'So it's decided, then?' Miller asked quietly.

O'Donnell looked over at the younger man, knowing why the plan had been formulated. It was a good plan, he admitted to himself, an effective plan. It had elements of brilliance in its daring. But Sean had allowed personal feelings to influence his judgment. That wasn't so good.

He turned toward the window. The French countryside was dark, thirty thousand feet below the airliner. All those peaceful people, sleeping in their homes, safe and secure. They were on a red-eye flight, and the plane was nearly empty. The stewardess dozed a few rows aft, and there was no one about to hear what they were saying. The whine of the jet engines would keep any electronic listening device from working, and they'd been very careful to cover their tracks. First the flight to Bucharest, then to Prague, then to Paris, and now the flight home to Ireland, with only French entry stamps on their passports. O'Donnell was a careful man, to the point of carrying notes on his fictitious business meetings in France. They'd get through customs easily enough, O'Donnell was sure. It was late, and the clerks at passport control were scheduled to go home right after this flight arrived.

Sean had a completely new passport, with the proper stamps, of course. His eyes were now brown, courtesy of some contact lenses, his hair changed in color and style, a neatly trimmed beard changing the shape of his face. Sean hated the beard for its itching. O'Donnell smiled at the darkness. Well, he'd have to get used to that.

Sean didn't say anything else. He sat back and pretended to read through the magazine he'd found in the seat pocket. The pretended patience was gratifying to his chief. The young man had gone through his refresher training (O'Donnell thought in military terms for this sort of thing) with a passion, trimming off the excess weight, reacquainting himself with his weapons, conferring with the intelligence officers from other fair-skinned nations, and living through their critique of the failed operation in London. These «friends» had not acknowledged the luck factor, and pointed out that another car of men had been needed to ensure success. Through all of it, Sean had kept his peace and listened politely. And now he waited patiently for the decision on his proposed operation. Perhaps the young man had learned something in that English Jail.

'Yes.'

Ryan signed the form, acknowledging receipt of the cartful of information. He was back in the same