"What a dreadful place," Sean Miller said. The sunset was magnificent, almost like one at sea. The sky was clear of the usual urban pollution, and the distant dunes gave a crisp, if crenelated, line for the sun to slide behind. The odd thing was the temperature range, of course. The noon temperature had reached ninety-two – and the locals thought of this as a cool day! – but now as the sun sank, a cool wind came up, and soon the temperature would drop to freezing. The sand couldn't hold the heat, and with the clear, dry air, it would just radiate away, back to the stars.
   Miller was tired. It had been that sort of day: refresher training. He hadn't touched a weapon in nearly two months. His reactions were off, his marksmanship abysmal, his physical condition little better. He'd actually gained a few pounds on prison food, something that had come as quite a surprise. In a week he'd have that run off. The desert was good for that. Like most men born in the higher latitudes. Miller had trouble tolerating this sort of climate. His physical activity made him thirsty, but he found it difficult to eat when it was so hot. So he drank water and allowed his body to turn in on itself. He'd lose the weight and harden his body more quickly here than anywhere else. But that didn't make him like the place.
   Four more of their men were here also, but the remainder of the rescue force had immediately flown home via Rome and Brussels, putting a new string of entry stamps on their "travel" passports.
   "It's not Ireland," O'Donnell agreed. His nose crinkled at the smell of dust, and his own sweat. Not like home. No smell of the mist over the peat, or coke fires on the hearths, or the alcoholic ambience of the local pub.
   That was an annoying development: no liquor. The locals had got another attack of Allah and decided that even the fellow members of the international revolutionary community could not break God's law. What a bloody nuisance.
   It wasn't much of a camp. Six buildings, one of them a garage. An unused helicopter pad, a road half-covered with sand from the last storm. One deep well for water. A firing range. Nothing else. In the past as many as fifty people had cycled through here at a time. Not now. This was the ULA's own camp, well separated from camps used by other groups. Every one of them had learned the importance of security. On a blackboard in hut #l was a schedule provided by other fair-skinned friends that gave the pass-over times for American reconnaissance satellites; everyone knew when to be out of sight, and the camp's vehicles were under cover.
   Two headlights appeared on the horizon, heading south toward the camp. O'Donnell noted their appearance, but said nothing about it. The horizon was far away. He put his arms into the sleeves of his jacket to ward off the gathering chill as he watched the lights slide left and right, their conical beams tracing over the dunes. The driver was taking his time, Kevin saw. The lights weren't bouncing about. The climate made it hard for a man to push himself hard. Things would get done tomorrow, God willing. Insh'Allah, a Latin colleague had once told him, meant the same thing as manana – but without the urgency.
   The vehicle was a Toyota Land Cruiser, the four-wheel-drive that had replaced the Land-Rover in most places. The driver took it right into the garage before getting out. O'Donnell checked his watch. The next satellite pass was in thirty minutes. Close enough. He rose and walked into hut #3. Miller followed, waving to the man who'd just come into the camp. A uniformed soldier from the camp's permanent force closed the garage door, and otherwise ignored them.
   "Glad to see you got out, Sean," the visitor said. He carried a small satchel.
   "Thank you, Shamus."
   O'Donnell held open the door. He was not one to stand on ceremony.
   "Thank you, Kevin."
   "You're just in time for dinner," the chief of the ULA said.
   "Well, one can't always be lucky," Shamus Padraig Connolly said. He looked around the inside of the hut. "No wogs about?"
   "Not in here." O'Donnell assured him.
   "Good." Connolly opened his satchel and brought out two bottles. "I thought you might like a drop of the pure."
   "How did you get it past the bastards?" Miller asked.
   "I heard about the new rule. I told them I was bringing in a gun, of course." Everyone laughed as Miller fetched three glasses and ice. You always used ice in this place.
   "When are you supposed to arrive at the camp?" O'Donnell referred to the one forty miles away used by the PIRA.
   "I'm having some car trouble, and staying the night with our uniformed friends. The bad news is that they've confiscated my whiskey."
   "Bloody heathens!" Miller laughed. The three men toasted one another.
   "How was it inside, Sean?" Connolly asked. The first round of drinks was already gone.
   "Could have been worse. A week before Kevin came for me, I had a bad time with some thugs – the peelers put them up to it, of course, and they had a merry time. Bloody faggots. Aside from that, ah, it is so entertaining to sit there and watch them talk and talk and talk like a bunch of old women."
   "You didn't think that Sean would talk, did you?" O'Donnell asked reprovingly. The smile covered his feelings – of course they had all worried about that; they had worried most of all what might happen when the PIRA and INLA lads in Parkhurst Prison got hold of him.
   "Good lad!" Connolly refilled the glasses.
   "So, what's the news from Belfast?" the chief asked.
   "Johnny Doyle is not very pleased with having lost Maureen. The men are becoming restless – not much, mind, but there is talk. Your op in London, Sean, in case you've not been told, had glasses filled and raised throughout the Six Counties." That most citizens in Northern Ireland, Protestant and Catholic, had been disgusted by the operation mattered not to Connolly. His small community of revolutionaries was the entire world.
   "One does not get drunk for a failure," Miller observed sourly. That bastard Ryan!
   "But it was a splendid attempt. It is clear enough that you were unlucky, no more than that, and we are all slaves to fortune."
   O'Donnell frowned. His guest was too poetic for Kevin's way of thinking, despite the fact, as Connolly was fond of pointing out, that Mao himself had written poetry.

   "Will they try to spring Maureen?"
   Connolly laughed at that one. "After what you did with Sean here? Not bloody likely. How ever did you pull that off, Kevin?"
   "There are ways." O'Donnell let it go at that. His intelligence source was under strict orders not to do a thing for two months. Dennis's bookstore was closed so far as he was concerned. The decision to use him to get information for the rescue operation hadn't come easy. That was the problem with good intelligence, his teachers had hammered into his head years before. The really valuable stuff was always a risk to the source itself. It was a paradox. The most useful material was often too dangerous to use, but at the same time intelligence information that could not be used had no value at all.
   "Well, you've gotten everyone's attention. The reason I'm here is to brief our lads on your operation."
   "Really!" Kevin laughed. "And what does Mr. Doyle think of us?"
   The visitor crooked a comically accusing finger. "You are a counterrevolutionary influence whose objective is to wreck the movement. The op on The Mall has had serious repercussions on the other side of the Atlantic. We'll – excuse me, they'll be sending some of their chaps to Boston in another month or so to set things right, to tell the Yanks that they had nothing to do with it," Connolly said.
   "Money – we don't need their bloody money!" Miller objected. "And they can put their 'moral support' up –"
   "Mustn't offend the Americans," Connolly pointed out.
   O'Donnell raised his glass for a toast: "The devil with the bloody Americans."
   As he drank off the last of his second whiskey. Miller's eyes snapped open sharply enough to make a click.
   "Kevin, we won't be doing much in the U.K. for a while . . . "
   "Nor in the Six Counties," O'Donnell said thoughtfully. "This is a time to lie low, I think. We'll concentrate on our training for the moment and await our next opportunity."
   "Shamus, how effective might Doyle's men be in Boston?"
   Connolly shrugged his shoulders. "Get enough liquor into them and they'll believe anything they're told, and toss their dollars into the hat as always."
   Miller smiled for a moment. He refilled his own glass this time as the other two talked on. His own mind began assembling a plan.

   Murray had had a number of assignments in the Bureau over his many years of service, ranging from junior agent involved in chasing down bank robbers to instructor in investigation procedures at the FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia. One thing he'd always told the youngsters in the classroom was the importance of intuition. Law enforcement was still as much art as science. The Bureau had immense scientific resources to process evidence, had written procedures for everything, but when you got down to it, there was never a substitute for the mind of an experienced agent. It was mostly experience, Murray knew, the way you fitted evidence together, the way you got a feel for the mind of your target and tried to predict his next move. But more than experience, there was intuition. The two qualities worked together until you couldn't separate them in your own mind.
   That's the hard part, Murray told himself on the drive home from the embassy. Because intuition can run a little wild if there's not enough evidence to hold on to.
   "You will learn to trust your instincts," Murray told the traffic, quoting from his memorized class notes. "Instinct is never a substitute for evidence and procedure, but it can be a very useful tool in adapting one to another – oh, Dan, you would have made a hell of a Jesuit." He chuckled to himself, oblivious of the stare he was getting from the car on his right.
   If it's so damned funny, why does it bother you?
   Murray's instinct was ringing a quiet but persistent bell. Why had Jimmy said that? Obviously it was bothering him, too – but what the hell was it?
   The problem was, it wasn't just one thing. He saw that now. It was several things, and they were interrelated like some kind of three-dimensional crossword puzzle. He didn't know the number of blanks, and he didn't have any of the clues to the words, but he did know roughly the way they fitted together. That was something. Given time, it might even be enough, but –
   "Damn!" His hands gripped tight on the steering wheel as good humor again gave way to renewed frustration. He could talk it over with Owens tomorrow or the next day, but the bell told him that it was more urgent than that.
   Why is it so damned urgent? There is no evidence of anything to get excited about.
   Murray reminded himself that the first case that he'd broken more or less on his own, ten months after hitting the street as a special agent, had begun with a feeling like this one. In retrospect the evidence had seemed obvious enough once he'd put the right twist on it, but that twist hadn't occurred to anyone else. And with Murray himself it had begun as nothing more than the same sort of intellectual headache he was suffering through in his car. Now he was really mad at himself.
   Fact: The ULA broke all the rules. Fact: No Irish terrorist organization had ever run an operation in the U.S. There were no more Facts. If they ran an op in America . . . well, they were undoubtedly mad at Ryan, but they hadn't made a move against him over here, and that would have been a hell of a lot easier than staging one in the U.S. What if Miller really was their chief of operations – no, Murray told himself, terrorists don't usually take things personally. It's unprofessional, and the bastards are professional. They'd have to have a better reason than that.
   Just because you don't know what the reason is doesn't mean they don't have one, Danny. Murray found himself wondering if his intuition hadn't transformed itself into paranoia with increasing age. What if there's more than one reason to do it?

   "There's a thought," he said to himself. One could be an excuse for the other – but what's the it that they want to do? Motive, all the police procedure manuals said, was the main thing to look for. Murray didn't have a clue on their motive. "I could go crazy doing this."
   Murray turned left off Kensington Road, into the upscale neighborhood of flats where he had his official residence. Parking was the usual problem. Even when he'd been assigned to the counterespionage section of the New York City Field Office, parking hadn't been this bad. He found a space perhaps two feet longer than his car and spent nearly five minutes fitting the vehicle into it.
   Murray hung his coat on the peg beside the door and walked right into the living room. His wife found him dialing the phone, a ferocious scowl on his face. She wondered what was wrong.
   It took a few seconds for the overseas call to go into the proper office.
   "Bill, this is Dan Murray . . . we're fine," his wife heard him say. "I want you to do something. You know that guy Jack Ryan? Yeah, that's the one. Tell him – hell, how do I say this? Tell him that maybe he should watch his back . . . I know that. Bill . . . I can't say, something's bothering me, and I can't – something like that, yeah . . . I know they've never done it before. Bill, but it's still bothering me . . . No, nothing specific that I can point to, but Jimmy Owens brought it up, and now he's got me worrying about it. Oh, you got the report already? Good, then you know what I mean."
   Murray leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "Call it feeling, or instinct – call it anything you want, it's bothering me. I want somebody to act on it . . . Good man. How's the family? Oh, yeah? Great! Well, I guess it'll be a happy new year for you. Okay. Take care. 'Bye." He set the phone down. "Well, that feels a little better," he said quietly to himself.
   "The party starts at nine," his wife said. She was used to his bringing work home. He was used to having her remind him of his social obligations.
   "I guess I better get dressed, then." Murray rose and kissed his wife. He did feel better now. He'd done something – probably no more than having people in the Bureau wonder what was happening to him over here, but he could live with that. "Bill's oldest is engaged. He's going to marry her off to a young agent in the D.C. Field Office."
   "Anyone we know?"
   "New kid."
   "We have to leave soon."
   "Okay, okay." He walked to the master bedroom and started to change for the big embassy party

Chapter 11
Warnings

   "As you see, ladies and gentlemen, the decision Nelson made in this case had the long-term effect of finally putting an end to the stultifying influence of the Royal Navy's formal tactics." Ryan closed his note folder. "There is nothing like a decisive victory to teach people a lesson. Questions?"
   It was Jack's first day back at teaching class. The room had forty students, all third classmen (that title included the six female mids in the class), or sophomores in civilian terms, taking Ryan's introductory course in naval history. There were no questions. He was surprised. Jack knew he was a pretty good teacher, but not that good. After a moment, one of the students stood up. It was George Winton, a football player from Pittsburgh.
   "Doctor Ryan," he said stiffly, "I've been asked to make a presentation on behalf of the class."
   "Uh-oh." Jack took half a step backward and scanned the body of students theatrically for the advancing threat.
   Mid/3 Winton walked forward and produced a small box from behind his back. There was a typed sheet on the top. The young man stood at attention.
   "Attention to orders; For service above and beyond the duty of a tourist – even a brainless Marine – the class awards Doctor John Ryan the Order of the Purple Target, in the hope that he will duck the next time, lest he become a part of history rather than a teacher of it. "
   Winton opened the box and produced a purple ribbon three inches across on which was inscribed in gold: SHOOT ME. Below it was a brass bull's-eye of equal size. The mid pinned it to Ryan's shoulder so that the target portion almost covered where he'd been shot. The class stood and applauded as Ryan shook hands with the class spokesman.
   Jack fingered the "decoration" and looked up at his class. "Did my wife put you up to this?" They started converging on him.
   "Way to go, Doc!" said an aspiring submarine driver.
   "Semper fi!" echoed a would-be Marine.
   Ryan held up his hands. He was still getting used to the idea of having his left arm back. The shoulder ached now that he was really using it, but the surgeon at Hopkins had told him that the stiffness would gradually fade away, and the net impairment to his left shoulder would be less than five percent.
   "Thank you, people, but you still have to take the exam next week!"
   There was general laughter as the kids filed out of the room to their next class. This was Ryan's last for the day. He gathered up his books and notes and trailed out of the room for the walk uphill to his office in Leahy Hall.
   There was snow on the ground this frigid January day. Jack had to watch for patches of ice on the brick sidewalk. Around him the campus of the Naval Academy was a beautiful place. The immense quadrangle bordered by the chapel to the south, Bancroft Hall to the east, and classroom buildings on the other sides, was a glistening white blanket with pathways shoveled from one place to another. The kids – Ryan thought of them as kids – marched about as they always did, a little too earnest and serious for Jack's liking. They saved their smiles for places where no outsiders might notice. Each of them had his (or her) shoes spit-shined, and they moved about with straight backs, books tucked under the left arm so as not to interfere with saluting. There was a lot of that here. At the top of the hill, at Gate #3, a Marine lance corporal stood with the "Jimmy Legs" civilian guard. A normal day at the office, Jack told himself. It was a good place to work. The mids were easily the equal of the students of any school in the country, always ready with questions, and, once you earned their trust, capable of some astonishing horseplay. This was something a visitor to the Academy might never suspect, so serious was the kids' public demeanor.
   Jack got into the steam-heated warmth of Leahy Hall and bounded up the steps to his office, laughing to himself at the absurd award that dangled from his shoulder. He found Robby sitting opposite his desk.
   "What in the hell is that?" the pilot inquired. Jack explained as he set his books down. Robby started laughing.
   "It's nice to see the kids can unwind a little, even in exam season. So what's new with you?" Jack asked his friend.
   "Well, I'm a Tomcat driver again," Robby announced. "Four hours over the weekend. Oh, man! Jack, I'm telling you, I had that baby talking to me. Took her offshore, had her up to mach one-point-four, did a midair refueling, then I came back for some simulated carrier landings, and – it was good. Jack," the pilot concluded. "Two more months and I'll be back where I belong."
   "That long, Rob?"
   "Flying this bird is not supposed to be easy or they wouldn't need people of my caliber to do it," Jackson explained seriously.
   "It must be hard to be so humble."
   Before Robby could respond, there came a knock on the opened door and a man stuck his head in. "Doctor Ryan?"
   "That's right. Join us."
   "I'm Bill Shaw, FBI." The visitor came all the way in and held up his ID card. About Robby's height, he was a slender man in his mid-forties with eyes so deep set that they almost gave him the look of a raccoon, the kind of eyes that got that way from sixteen-hour days. A sharp dresser, he looked like a very serious man. "Dan Murray asked me to come over to see you."
   Ryan rose to take his hand. "This is Lieutenant Commander Jackson."
   "Howdy." Robby shook his hand, too.
   "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
   "Not at all – we're both finished teaching for the day. Grab a chair. What can I do for you?"
   Shaw looked at Jackson but didn't say anything.
   "Well, if you guys have to talk, I can mosey on over to the O-Club –"
   "Relax, Rob. Mr. Shaw, you're among friends. Can I offer you anything?"
   "No, thank you." The FBI agent pulled the straight-back chair from next to the door. "I work in the counterterrorism unit at FBI headquarters. Dan asked me to – well, you know that the ULA rescued their man Miller from police custody."
   Now Ryan was completely serious. "Yeah – I caught that on TV. Any idea where they took him to?"
   Shaw shook his head. "They just disappeared."
   "Quite an operation," Robby noted. "They escaped to seaward, right? Some ship pick them up maybe?" This drew a sharp look. "You notice my uniform, Mr. Shaw? I earn my living out there on the water."
   "We're not sure, but that is a possibility."
   "Whose ships were out there?" Jackson persisted. This wasn't a law-enforcement problem to Robby. It was a naval matter.
   "That's being looked at."
   Jackson and Ryan traded a look. Robby fished out one of his cigars and lit it.
   "I got a call last week from Dan. He's a little – I wish to emphasize this, only a little – concerned that the ULA might . . . well, they don't have much of a reason to like you, Doctor Ryan."

  "Dan said that none of these groups has ever operated over here," Ryan said cautiously.
   "That's entirely correct." Shaw nodded. "It's never happened. I imagine Dan explained why this is true. The Provisional IRA continues to get money from over here, I am sorry to say, not much, but some. They still get some weapons. There is even reason to believe that they have some surface-to-air missiles –"
   "What the hell!" Jackson's head snapped around.
   "There have been several thefts of Redeye missiles – the man-portable one the Army's phasing out now. They were stolen from a couple of National Guard armories. This isn't new. The RUC has captured M-60 machine guns that got over to Ulster the same way. These weapons were either stolen or bought from some supply sergeants who forgot who they were working for. We've convicted several of them in the past year, and the Army's setting up a new system to keep track of things. Only one missile has turned up. They – the PIRA – tried to shoot down a British Army helicopter a few months back. It never made the papers over here, mainly because they missed, and the Brits were able to hush it up.
   "Anyway," Shaw went on, "if they were to conduct actual terrorist operations over here, the money and the weapons would probably dry up quite a bit. The PIRA knows that, and it stands to reason that the ULA does, too."
   "Okay," Jack said. "They've never operated over here. But Murray asked you to come here and warn me. How come?"
   "There isn't any reason. If this had come from anyone except Dan, I wouldn't even be here, but Dan's a very experienced agent, and he's a little bit concerned that maybe you should be made aware of his – it's not even enough to be a suspicion. Doctor Ryan. Call it insurance, like checking the tires on your car before a long drive."
   "Then what the hell are you telling me?" Ryan said testily.
   "The ULA has dropped out of sight – that's not saying much, of course. I guess it's the way they dropped out of sight. They pulled a pretty bold operation, and" – he snapped his fingers – "disappeared back under their rock."
   "Intel," Jack muttered.
   "What's that?" Shaw asked.
   "It happened again. The thing in London that I got in the way of, it resulted from very good intelligence information. This did, too, didn't it? They were moving Miller secretly, but the bad guys penetrated Brit security, didn't they?"
   "I honestly don't know the specifics, but I'd say you probably had that one figured out pretty well," Shaw conceded.
   Jack picked up a pencil in his left hand and started twirling it. "Do we know anything about what we're up against here?"
   "They're professionals. That's bad news for the Brits and the RUC, of course, but it's good news for you."
   "How's that?" Robby asked.
   "Their disagreement with Doctor Ryan here is more or less a 'personal' matter. To take action against him would be unprofessional."
   "In other words," the pilot said, "when you tell Jack that there's nothing for him to really worry about, you're betting on the 'professional' conduct of terrorists."
   "That's one way to put it, Commander. Another way is to say that we have long experience dealing with this type of person."
   "Uh-huh." Robby stabbed out his cigar. "In mathematics that's called inductive reasoning. It's a conclusion inferred, rather than deduced from specific evidence. In engineering we call it a WAG."
   "Wag?" Shaw shook his head.
   "A Wild-Ass Guess." Jackson turned to stare into the FBI man's eyes. "Like most operational intelligence reports – you can't tell the good ones from the bad ones until it's too damned late. Excuse me, Mr. Shaw, I'm afraid that we operators aren't always impressed with the stuff we get from the intelligence community."
   "I knew it was a mistake to come here," Shaw observed. "Look, Dan told me over the phone that he doesn't have a single piece of evidence to suggest that there is any chance something unusual will happen. I've spent the last couple of days going over what we have on this outfit, and there just isn't any real evidence. He's responding to instinct. When you're a cop, you learn to do that."
   Robby nodded at that one. Pilots trust their instinct, too. Now, his were telling him something.
   "So," Jack leaned back. "What should I do?"
   "The best defense against terrorists – what the security schools teach business executives, for example – is to avoid patterns. Take a slightly different route to work every day. Alter your time of departure somewhat. When you drive in, keep an eye on the mirror. If you see the same vehicle three or more days in a row, take the tag number and call me. I'll be glad to have it run through the computer – no big deal. It's probably nothing to be worried about, just be a little bit more alert. With luck, in a few days or weeks we'll be able to call you and tell you to forget the whole thing. What I am almost certainly doing is alarming you unnecessarily, but you know the rule about how it's better to be safe than sorry, right?"
   "And if you get any information the other way?" Jack asked.
   "I'll be on the phone to you five minutes later. The Bureau doesn't like the idea of having terrorists operate here. We work damned hard to keep it from happening, and we've been very effective so far."
   "How much of that is luck?" Robby asked.
   "Not as much as you think," Shaw replied. "Well, Doctor Ryan, I'm really sorry to have worried you about what is probably nothing at all. Here's my card. If there is anything we can do for you, don't hesitate to call me."
   "Thank you, Mr. Shaw." Jack took the card and watched the man leave. He was silent for a few seconds. Then he flipped open his phone list and dialed 011-44-1-499-9000. It took a few seconds for the overseas call to get through.
   "American Embassy," the switchboard operator answered after the first ring.
   "Legal Attache, please."
   "Thank you. Wait, please." Jack waited. The operator was back in fifteen seconds. "No answer. Mr. Murray has gone home for the day – no, excuse me, he's out of town for the remainder of the week. Can I take a message?"
   Jack frowned for a moment. "No, thank you. I'll call back next week."
   Robby watched his friend hang up. Jack drummed his fingers on the phone and again remembered what Scan Miller's face had looked like. He's three thousand miles away. Jack, Ryan told himself. "Maybe," he breathed aloud.
   "Huh?"
   "I never told you about the one I . . . captured, I guess."

   "The one they sprung? The one we saw on TV?"
   "Rob, you ever seen – how do I say it? You ever see somebody that you're just automatically afraid of?"
   "I think I know what you mean," Robby said to avoid the question. Jackson didn't know how to answer that. As a pilot, he'd known fear often enough, but always there was training and experience to deal with it. There was no man in the world he'd ever been afraid of.
   "At the trial, I looked at him, and I just knew that –"
   "He's a terrorist, and he kills people. That would bother me, too." Jackson stood up and looked out the window. "Jesus, and they call 'em professionals! I'm a professional. I have a code of conduct, I train, I practice, I adhere to standards and rules."
   "They're real good at what they do," Jack said quietly. "That's what makes them dangerous. And this ULA outfit is unpredictable. That's what Dan Murray told me." Jackson turned away from the window.
   "Let's go see somebody."
   "Who?"
   "Just come along, boy." Jackson's voice had the ring of command when he wanted it to. He set his white officer's cap on his head just so.
   They took the stairs down and walked east, past the chapel and Bancroft Hall's massive, prison-like bulk. Ryan liked the Academy campus except for that. He supposed it was necessary for all the mids to experience the corporate identity of military life, but Jack would not have cared to live that way as a college student. The odd mid snapped a salute at Robby, who returned each with panache as he proceeded in total silence with Jack trying to keep up. Ryan could almost hear the thoughts whirring through the aviator's head. It took five minutes to reach the new LeJeune Annex across from the Halsey field house.
   The large glass and marble edifice contrasted with Bancroft's stolid gray stone. The United States Naval Academy was a government complex, and hence exempt from the normal standards of architectural good taste. They entered the ground floor past a gaggle of midshipmen in jogging suits, and Robby led him down a staircase into the basement. Jack had never been here before. They ended up in a dimly lit corridor whose block walls led to a dead end. Ryan imagined he heard the crack of small-bore pistol fire, and it was confirmed when Jackson opened a heavy steel door to the Academy's new pistol range. They saw a lone figure standing in the center lane, a .22 automatic steady in his extended right hand.
   Sergeant Major Noah Breckenridge was the image of the Marine noncommissioned officer. Six-three, the only fat on his two-hundred-pound frame was in the hot dogs he'd had for lunch in the adjacent Dalgren Hall. He was wearing a short-sleeved khaki shirt. Ryan had seen but never met him, though Breckenridge's reputation was well known. In twenty-eight years as a Marine, he had been everywhere a Marine can go, done everything a Marine can do. His "salad bar" of decorations covered five even rows, topmost among them the Navy Cross, which he'd won while a sniper in Vietnam, part of 1st Force Recon. Beneath the ribbons were his marksmanship medals – "shooting iron" – the least of which was a "Master" rating. Breckenridge was known for his weapons proficiency. Every year he went to the national championships at Camp Perry, Ohio, and in two of the past five years he had won the President's Cup for his mastery of the .45 Colt automatic. His shoes were so shiny that one could determine only with difficulty that the underlying leather was actually black. His brass shone like stainless steel, and his hair was cut so close that if any gray were in there, the casual observer could never have seen it. He had begun his career as an ordinary rifleman, been an Embassy Marine and a Sea Marine. He had taught marksmanship at the sniper school, been a drill instructor at Parris Island and an. officer instructor at Quantico.
   When the Marine detail at the Academy had been augmented, Breckenridge had been the divisional Sergeant Major at Camp LeJeune, and it was said that when he left Annapolis, he would complete his thirty-year tour of duty as Sergeant Major of the Corps, with an office adjoining that of the Commandant. His presence at Annapolis was no accident. As he walked about the campus, Breckenridge was himself an eloquent and unspoken challenge to whichever midshipman might still be undecided on his career goals: Don't even think about being a Marine officer unless you are fit to command a man like this. It was the sort of challenge that few mids could walk away from. The Marine force that backed up the civilian guards was technically under the command of a captain. In fact, as was so often the case with the Corps, the Captain had the good sense to let Breckenridge run things. The traditions of the Corps were not passed on by officers, but rather by the professional NCOs who were the conservators of it all.
   As Ryan and Jackson watched, the Sergeant Major took a fresh pistol from a cardboard box and slipped a clip into it. He fired two rounds, then checked his target through a spotting scope. Frowning, he pulled a tiny screwdriver from his shirt pocket and made an adjustment to the sights. Two more rounds, check, another adjustment. Two more shots. The pistol was now perfectly sighted, and went back into the manufacturer's box.
   "How's it going, Gunny?" Robby asked.
   "Good afternoon, Commander," Breckenridge said agreeably. His southern Mississippi accent spilled across the naked concrete floor. "And how are you today, sir?"
   "No complaints. I got somebody I want you to meet. This here's Jack Ryan."
   They shook hands. Unlike Skip Tyler, Breckenridge was a man who understood and disciplined his strength.
   "Howdy. You're the guy was in the papers." Breckenridge examined Ryan like a fresh boot.
   "That's right."
   "Pleased to meet you, sir. I know the guy who ran you through Quantico."
   Ryan laughed. "And how is Son of Kong?"
   "Willie's retired now. He runs a sporting goods store down in Roanoke. He remembers you. Says you were pretty sharp for a college boy, and I imagine you remember mosta what he taught you." Breckenridge gazed down at Jack with a look of benign satisfaction, as though Ryan's action in London was renewed proof that everything the Marine Corps said and did, everything to which he had dedicated his life, really meant something. He would not have believed otherwise in any case, but incidents like this further enhanced his belief in the image of the Corps. "If the papers got things straight, you did right well. Lieutenant."
   "Not all that well. Sergeant Major –"
   "Gunny," Breckenridge corrected. "Everybody calls me Gunny."
   "After it was all over," Ryan went on, "I shook like a baby's rattle."
   Breckenridge was amused by this. "Hell, sir, we all do that. What counts is gettin' the job done. What comes after don't matter a damn. So, what can I do for you gentlemen? You want a few rounds of small-bore practice?"
   Jackson explained what the FBI agent had said. The Sergeant Major's face darkened, the jaw set. After a moment he shook his head.
   "You're sweatin' this, eh? Can't say that I blame you, Lieutenant. 'Terrorists!' " he snorted. "A 'terrorist' is a punk with a machine gun. That's all, just a well-armed punk. It doesn't take much to shoot somebody in the back or hose down an airport waiting room. So. Lieutenant, you'll be thinkin' about carrying some protection, right? And maybe something at home."
   "I don't know . . . but I guess you're the man to see." Ryan hadn't thought about it yet, but it was clear that Robby had.
   "How'd you do at Quantico?"

   "I qualified with the .45 automatic and the M-16. Nothing spectacular, but I qualified."
   "Do you do any shootin' now, sir?" Breckenridge asked with a frown. Just qualifying wasn't a very hopeful sign to a serious marksman.
   "I usually get my quota of ducks and geese. I missed out this season, though," Jack admitted.
   "Uplands game?"
   "I had two good afternoons after dove in September. I'm a pretty fair wing-shot, Gunny. I use a Remington 1100 automatic, 12-gauge."
   Breckenridge nodded. "Good for a start. That's your at-home gun. Nothing beats a shotgun at close range – short of a flamethrower, that is." The Sergeant Major smiled. "You have a deer/slug barrel? No? Well, you're gonna get one of those. It's twenty inches or so, with a cylinder bore and rifle-type sights. You pull the magazine plug, and you got five-round capacity. Now most people'll tell you to use double-ought buck, but I like number four better. More pellets, and you're not giving any range away. You can still hit out to eighty, ninety yards, and that's all you'll ever need. The important thing is, anything you hit with buckshot's goin' down – period." He paused. "As a matter of fact, I might be able to get you some flechette rounds."
   "What's that?" Ryan asked.
   "It's an experimental thing they foolin' with down at Quantico for military police use, and maybe at the embassies. Instead of lead pellets, you shoot sixty or so darts, about three-caliber diameter, like little arrows. You gotta see what those little buggers do to believe it. Nasty. So that'll take care of home. Now, you gonna want to carry a handgun with you?"
   Ryan thought about that. It would mean getting a permit. He thought he could apply to the state police for one . . . or maybe to a certain federal agency. Already his mind was mulling over that question.
   "Maybe," he said finally.
   "Okay. Let's do a little experiment." Breckenridge walked into his office. He returned a minute later with a cardboard box.
   "Lieutenant, this here's a High-Standard target pistol, a .22 built on a .45 frame." The Sergeant Major handed it over. Ryan took it, ejected the magazine, and pulled the slide back to make sure the pistol was unloaded. Breckenridge watched and nodded approvingly. Jack had been taught range safety by his father twenty years before. After that he fitted the weapon in his hand, then sighted down the range to get used to the feel. Every gun is a little different. This was a target pistol, with nice balance and pretty good sights.
   "Feels okay," Ryan said. "Little lighter than a Colt, though."
   "This'll make it heavier." Breckenridge handed over a loaded clip. "That's five rounds. Insert the clip in the weapon, but do not chamber a round until I tell you, sir." The Sergeant Major was accustomed to giving orders to officers, and knew how to do so politely. "Step to lane four. Relax. It's a nice day in the park, okay?"
   "Yeah. That's how this whole mess started," Ryan observed wryly.
   The Gunny walked over to the switch panel and extinguished most of the lights in the room.
   "Okay, Lieutenant, let's keep the weapon pointed downrange and at the floor, if you please, sir. Chamber your first round, and relax."
   Jack pulled the slide back with his left hand, then let it snap forward. He didn't turn around. He told himself to relax and play the game. He heard a cigarette lighter snap shut. Maybe Robby was lighting up one of his cigars.
   "I saw a picture of your little girl in the papers, Lieutenant. She's a pretty little thing."
   "Thank you, Gunny. I've seen one of yours on campus, too. Cute, but not very little. I heard she's engaged to a mid."
   "Yes, sir. That's my little baby," Breckenridge said, like a father rather than a Marine. "The last of my three. She'll be married –"
   Ryan nearly jumped out of his skin as a string of firecrackers began exploding at his feet. He started to turn when Breckenridge screamed at him:
   "There, there, there's your target!"
   A light snapped on to illuminate a silhouette target fifty feet away. One small part of Ryan's mind knew this was a test – but most of him didn't care. The .22 came up and seemed to aim itself at the paper target. He loosed all five rounds in under three seconds. The noise was still echoing when his trembling hands set the automatic down on the table.
   "Jesus Christ, Sar-major!" Ryan nearly screamed.
   The rest of the lights came back on. The room stank of gunpowder, and paper fragments from the firecrackers littered the floor. Robby, Jack saw, was standing safely at the entrance to the Gunny's office, while Breckenridge was right behind him, ready to grab Ryan's gun hand if he did anything foolish.
   "One of the other things I do is moonlight as an instructor for the Annapolis City Police. You know, it's a real pain in the ass trying to figure a way to simulate the stress of combat conditions. This here's what I came up with. Okay, let's get a look at the target." Breckenridge punched a button, and a hidden electric motor turned the pulley for lane four.
   "Damn!" Ryan growled, looking at the target.
   "Not so bad," Breckenridge judged. "We got four rounds on the paper. Two snowbirds. Two in the black, both in the chest. Your target is on the ground. Lieutenant, and he's hurt pretty bad."
   "Two rounds out of five – must be the last two. I settled down on them and took some more time."
   "I noticed that." Breckenridge nodded. "Your first round was high and to the left, missed the card. Your next two came in here and here. The last two were on the money fairly well. That's not too bad, Lieutenant."
   "I did a hell of a lot better in London." Ryan was not convinced. The two holes outside the black target silhouette mocked at him, and one round hadn't even found the target at all . . .

   "In London, if the TV got it right, you had a second or two to figure out what you were gonna do," the Gunny said.
   "That's pretty much the way it was," Ryan admitted.
   "You see, Lieutenant, that's the real important part. That one or two seconds makes all the difference, because you have a little time to think things over. The reason so many cops get killed is because they don't have that little bit of time to think it out – but the crooks have done that already. That one second lets you figure what's happening, select your target, and decide what you're gonna do about it. Now, what I just made you do was go through all three steps, all at once. Your first round went wild. The second and third were better, and your last two were good enough to put the target on the ground. That's not bad, son. That's about as well as a trained cop does – but you gotta do better than that."
   "What do you mean?"
   "A cop's job is to keep the peace. Your job is just staying alive, and that's a little easier. That's the good news. The bad news is, those bad guys ain't gonna give you two seconds to think unless you make them, or you're real lucky." Breckenridge waved for the men to follow him into his office. The Sergeant Major plopped down in his cheap swivel chair. Like Jackson, he was a cigar smoker. He lit up something better than what Robby smoked, but it still stank up the room.
   "Two things you gotta do. One, I want to see you here every day for a box of .22; that's every day for a month, Lieutenant. You have to learn to shoot better. Shootin' is just like golf. You want to be good at it, you gotta do it every day. You have to work at it, and you need somebody to teach you right." The Gunny smiled. "That's no problem; I'll teach you right. The second thing, you have to buy time for yourself if the bad guys come lookin' for you."
   "The FBI told him to drive like the embassy guys do," Jackson offered.
   "Yeah, that's good for starters. Same as in Nam – you don't settle into patterns. What if they try to hit you at home?"
   "Pretty isolated, Gunny," Robby said.
   "You got an alarm?" Breckenridge asked Ryan.
   "No, but I can fix that pretty easy," Ryan said.
   "It's a good idea. I don't know the layout of your place, but if you can buy yourself a few seconds, and you got that shotgun, Lieutenant, you can make 'em wish they never came calling – at least you can hold them off till the police come. Like I said, the name of the game's just staying alive. Now, what about your family?"
   "My wife's a doc, and she's pregnant. My little girl – well, you saw her on TV, I guess."
   "Does your wife know how to shoot?"
   "I don't think she's ever touched a gun in her life."
   "I teach a class in firearms safety for women – part of the work I do with the local police."
   Ryan wondered how Cathy would react to all this. He put that one off. "What sort of handgun you think I oughta get?"
   "If you come by tomorrow, I'll try you out on a couple of 'em. Mainly you want something you're comfortable with. Don't go out and get a .44 Magnum, okay? I like automatics, myself. The springs eat up a lot of the recoil, so they're easier to get comfortable with. You want to buy something that's fun to shoot, not something that beats up on your hand and wrist. Me, I like the .45 Colt, but I been shooting that little baby for twenty-some years." Breckenridge grabbed Ryan's right hand and flexed it around roughly. "I think I'll start you off on a 9-millimeter Browning. Your hand looks big enough to hold it right – the Browning's got a thirteen-shot clip, you need a fair-sized hand to control it proper. Got a nice safety, too. If you have a kid in the house, Lieutenant, you'd better think about safety, okay?"
   "No problem," Ryan said. "I can keep it where she can't reach it – we got a big closet, and I can keep them there, seven feet off the floor. Can I practice with a big-bore handgun in here?"
   The Sergeant Major laughed. "That backstop we got used to be the armor plate on a heavy cruiser. Mainly we use .22's in here, but my guards practice with .45's all the time. Sounds to me like you know shotgunnin' pretty good. Once you have that skill with pistol too, you'll be able to do it with any gun you pick up. Trust me, sir, this is what I do for a living."
   "When do you want me here?"
   "Say about four, every afternoon?"
   Ryan nodded. "Okay."
   "About your wife – look, just bring her over some Saturday maybe. I'll sit her down and talk to her about guns. Lots of women, they're just afraid of the noise – and there's all that crap on TV. If nothing else, we'll get her used to shotgunning. You say she's a doc, so she's gotta be pretty smart. Hell, maybe she'll like it. You'd be surprised how many of the gals I teach really get into it."
   Ryan shook his head. Cathy had never once touched his shotgun, and whenever he cleaned it, kept Sally out of the room. Jack hadn't thought much about it, and hadn't minded having Sally out of the way. Little kids and firearms were not a happy mixture. At home he usually had the Remington disassembled and the ammunition locked away in the basement. How would Cathy react to having a loaded gun in the house?
   What if you start carrying a gun around? How will she react to that? What if the bad guys are interested in going after them, too . . .?
   "I know what you're thinkin', Lieutenant," Breckenridge said. "Hey, the Commander said the FBI didn't think any of this crap was gonna happen, right?"
   "Yeah."
   "So what you're doin' is buyin' insurance, okay?"
   "He said that, too," Ryan replied.
   "Look – we get intel reports here, sir. Yeah, that's right. Ever since those bike bums broke in, we get stuff from the cops and the FBI, and from some other places – even the Coast Guard. Some of their guys come here for firearms training, 'cause of the drug stuff they got 'em doing now. I'll keep an ear out, too," Breckenridge assured him.
   Information – it's all a battle for information. You have to know what's happening if you're going to do anything about it. Jack turned back to look at Jackson while he made a decision that he'd been trying to avoid ever since he got back from England. He still had the number in his office.
   "And if they tell you those bike bums are coming back?" Ryan asked with a smile.
   "They'll wish they didn't," the Sergeant Major said seriously. "This is a U.S. Navy reservation, guarded by the United States Marine Corps."
   And that's the name of that tune, Ryan thought. "Well, thanks, Gunny. I'll get out of your way."
   Breckenridge saw them to the door. "Sixteen hundred tomorrow, Lieutenant. How about you, Commander Jackson?"
   "I'll stick to missiles and cannons, Gunny. Safer that way. G'night."
   "Good night, sir."

   Robby walked Jack back to his office. They had to pass on the daily drinks. Jackson had to do some shopping on the way home. After his friend left. Jack stared at his telephone for several minutes. Somehow he'd managed to avoid doing this for several weeks despite his wish to track down information on the ULA. But it wasn't just curiosity anymore. Ryan flipped open his telephone book and turned to the "G" page. He was able to call the D.C. area direct, though his finger hesitated before it jabbed down on each button.
   "This is Mrs. Cummings," a voice answered after the first ring. Jack took a deep breath.
   "Hello, Nancy, this is Doctor Ryan. Is the boss in?"
   "Let me check. Can you hold for a second?"
   "Yes."
   They didn't have one of the new musical hold buttons there, Ryan noted. There was just the muted chirp of electronic noise for him to listen to. Am I doing the right thing? he wondered. He admitted to himself that he didn't know.
   "Jack?" a familiar voice said.
   "Hello, Admiral."
   "How's the family?"
   "Fine, thank you, sir."
   "They came through all the excitement all right?"
   "Yes, sir."
   "And I understand that your wife's expecting another baby. Congratulations."
   And how did you know that, Admiral? Ryan did not ask. He didn't have to. The DDI was supposed to know everything, and there were at least a million ways he might have found out.
   "Thank you, sir."
   "So, what can I do for you?"
   "Admiral, I . . ." Jack hesitated. "I want to look into this ULA bunch."
   "Yeah, I thought you might. I have here on my desk a report from the FBI's terrorism unit about them, and we've been coordinating lately with the SIS. I'd like to see you back here. Jack. Maybe even on a more permanent basis. Have you thought our offer over any more since we last spoke?" Greer inquired innocently.
   "Yes, sir, I have, but . . . well, I am committed to the end of the school year." Jack temporized. He didn't want to have to face that particular question. If forced, he'd just say no, and that would kill his chance to get into Langley.
   "I understand. Take your time. When do you want to come over?"
   Why are you making it so easy? "Could I come over tomorrow morning? My first class isn't until two in the afternoon."
   "No problem. Be at the main gate at eight in the morning. They'll be waiting for you. See ya."
   "Goodbye, sir." Jack hung up.
   Well, that was easy. Too easy, Jack thought. What's he up to? Ryan dismissed the thought. He wanted to look at what CIA had. They might have stuff the FBI didn't; at the least he'd get a look at more data than he had now, and Jack wanted to do that.
   Nevertheless the drive home was a troubled one. Jack watched his rearview mirror after remembering that he'd left the Academy the same way he always did. The hell of it was, he did see familiar cars. That was a problem with making your commute about the same time every day. There were at least twenty cars that he had learned to recognize. There was someone's secretary driving her Camaro Z-28. She had to be a secretary. She was dressed too well to be anything else. Then there was the young lawyer in his BMW – the car made him a lawyer, Ryan thought, wondering how he had ever assigned tags to his fellow commuters. What if a new one shows up? he wondered. Will you be able to tell which one is a terrorist? Fat chance, he knew. Miller, for all the danger that lay on his face, would look ordinary enough with a jacket and tie, just another state employee fighting his way up Route 2 into Annapolis . . .
   "Paranoid, all this is paranoid," Ryan murmured to himself. Pretty soon he'd check the rear seat in his car before he got in, to see if someone might be lurking back there like on TV, with a pistol or garrote! He wondered if the whole thing might be a stupid, paranoid waste of time. What if Dan Murray just had a bug up his ass or was simply being cautious? The Bureau probably taught its men to be cautious on these things, he was sure. Do I scare Cathy over this? What if that's all there is to it?
   What if it's not?
   That's why I'm going to go to Langley tomorrow, Ryan answered himself.

   They sent Sally to bed at 8:30, dressed in her bunny-rabbit sleeper, the flannel pajamas with feet that keep kids warm through the night. She was getting a little old for that, Jack thought, but his wife insisted on them, since their daughter had a habit of kicking the blankets en the floor in the middle of the night.
   "How was work today?" his wife asked.
   "The mids gave me a medal," he said, and explained on for a few minutes. Finally he pulled the Order of the Purple Target out of his briefcase. Cathy found it amusing. The smiling stopped when he related the visit from Mr. Shaw of the FBI. Jack ran through the information, careful to include everything the agent had said.
   "So, he doesn't really think it'll be a problem?" she asked hopefully.
   "We can't ignore it."
   Cathy turned away for a moment. She didn't know what to make of this new information. Of course, her husband thought. Neither do I.
   "So what are you going to do?" she asked finally.
   "For one thing I'm going to call an alarm company and have the house wired. Next, I've already put my shotgun back together, and it's loaded –"
   "No, Jack, not in this house, not with Sally around," Cathy said at once.
   "It's on the top shelf in my closet. It's loaded, but it doesn't have a round chambered. She can't possibly get to it, not even with a stool to stand on. It stays loaded, Cathy. I'm also going to start practicing some with it, and maybe get a pistol, too. And" – he hesitated – "I want you to start shooting, too."

  "No! I'm a doctor, Jack. I don't use guns."
   "They don't bite," Jack said patiently. "I just want you to meet a guy I know who teaches women to shoot. Just meet the guy."
   "No." Cathy was adamant. Jack took a deep breath. It would take an hour to persuade her, that was the usual time required for her common sense to overcome her prejudices. The problem was, he didn't want to spend an hour on the subject right now.
   "So you're going to call the alarm company tomorrow morning?" she asked.
   "I have to go somewhere."
   "Where? You don't have any classes until after lunch."
   Ryan took a deep breath. "I'm going over to Langley."
   "What's at Langley?"
   "The CIA," Jack answered simply.
   "What?"
   "Remember last summer? I got that consulting money from Mitre Corporation?"
   "Yeah."
   "All the work was at CIA headquarters."
   "But – you said over in England that you never –"
   "That's where the checks came from. That's who I was working for. But CIA was where I was working at."
   "You lied?" Cathy was astounded. "You lied in a courtroom?"
   "No. I said that I was never employed by CIA, and I wasn't."
   "But you never told me."
   "You didn't need to know," Jack replied. I knew this wasn't a good idea . . .
   "I'm your wife, dammit! What were you doing there?"
   "I was part of a team of academics. Every few years they bring in outsiders to look at some of their data, just as sort of a check on the regular people who work there. I'm not a spy or anything. I did all the work sitting at a little desk in a little room on the third floor. I wrote a report, and that was that." There was no sense in explaining the rest to her.
   "What was the report about?"
   "I can't say."
   "Jack!" She was really mad now.
   "Look, babe, I signed an agreement that I would never discuss the work with anybody who wasn't cleared – I gave my word, Cathy." That calmed her down a bit. She knew that her husband was a real stickler for keeping his word. It was actually one of the things she loved about him. It annoyed her that he used this as a defense, but she knew that it was a wall she couldn't breach. She tried another tack.
   "So why are you going back?"
   "I want to see some information they have. You ought to be able to figure out what that information is."
   "About these ULA people, then."
   "Well, let's just say that I'm not worried about the Chinese right now."
   "You really are worried about them, aren't you?" She was starting to worry, finally.
   "Yeah, I guess I am."
   "But why? You said the FBI said they weren't –"
   "I don't know – hell, yes, I do know. It's that Miller bastard, the one at the trial. He wants to kill me." Ryan looked down at the floor. It was the first time he'd said it aloud.
   "How do you know that?"
   "Because I saw his face, Cathy. I saw it, and I'm scared – not just for me."
   "But Sally and I –"
   "Do you really think he cares about that?" Ryan snapped angrily. "These bastards kill people they don't even know. They almost do it for fun. They want to change the world into something they like, and they don't give a damn who's in the way. They just don't care."
   "So why go to the CIA? Can they protect you – us – I mean . . . "
   "I want a better feel for what these guys are all about."
   "But the FBI knows that, don't they?"
   "I want to see the information for myself. I did pretty good when I worked there," Jack explained. "They even asked me to, well, to take a permanent position there. I turned them down."
   "You never told me any of this," Cathy grumped.
   "You know now." Jack went on for a few minutes, explaining what Shaw had told him. Cathy would have to be careful driving to and from work. She finally started smiling again. She drove a six-cylinder bomb of a Porsche 911. Why she never got a speeding ticket was always a source of wonderment to her husband. Probably her looks didn't hurt, and maybe she flashed her Hopkins ID card, with a story that she was heading to emergency surgery. However she did it, she was in a car with a top speed of over a hundred twenty miles per hour and the maneuverability of a jackrabbit. She'd been driving Porsches since her sixteenth birthday, and Jack admitted to himself that she knew how to make the little green sports car streak down a country road – enough to make him hold on pretty tight. This, Ryan told himself, was probably a better defense than carrying a gun.
   "So, you think you can remember to do that?"
   "Do I really have to?"
   "I'm sorry I got us into this. I never – I never knew that anything like this would happen. Maybe I just should have stayed put."
   Cathy ran her hand across his neck. "You can't change it now. Maybe they're wrong. Like you said, probably they're just acting paranoid."
   "Yeah."