"No, no." The Russian shook his head. "I recognize you from the photograph on your book jacket. You see, I purchased ten copies of it last summer."
   "Indeed." Jack was surprised again and unable to conceal it. "My publisher and I thank you, sir."
   "Our Naval Attache was much taken by it. Doctor Ryan. He felt that it should be brought to the attention of the Frunze Academy, and, I think, the Grechko Naval Academy in Leningrad." Platonov applied his considerable charm. Ryan knew it for what it was, but . . . "To be honest, I merely skimmed the book myself. It seemed quite well organized, and the Attache said that your analysis of the way decisions are made in the heat of battle was highly accurate."
   "Well." Jack tried not to be overly flattered, but it was hard. Frunze was the Soviet staff academy, the finishing school for young field-grade officers who were tagged for stardom. The Grechko Academy was only slightly less prestigious.
   "Sergey Nikolay'ch," boomed a familiar voice, "it is not kulturny to prey upon the vanity of helpless young authors." Father Timothy Riley joined them. A short, plump Jesuit priest, Riley had headed the history department at Georgetown while Ryan had gotten his doctorate. He was a brilliant intellect with a series of books to his credit, including two penetrating works on the history of Marxism – neither of which, Ryan was certain, had found their way into the library at Frunze. "How's the family, Jack?"
   "Cathy's back to work, Father. They moved Sally over to Hopkins. With luck we'll have her home early next week."
   "She will recover fully, your little daughter?" Platonov asked. "I read about the attack on your family in the newspaper."
   "We think so. Except for losing her spleen, there seems to be no permanent damage. The docs say she's recovering nicely, and with her at Hopkins, Cathy's able to see her every day," Ryan said more positively than he felt. Sally was a different child. Her legs weren't fully healed yet, but worst of all, his bouncing little girl was a sad thing now. She'd learned a lesson that Ryan had hoped to hold off for at least ten more years – that the world is a dangerous place even when you have a mother and a father to take care of you. A hard lesson for a child, it was harder still for a parent. But she's alive, Jack told himself, unaware of the expression on his face. With time and love, you can recover from anything, except death. The doctors and nurses at Hopkins were taking care of her like one of their own. That was a tangible advantage of having a doctor in the family.
   "A terrible thing." Platonov shook his head in what seemed to be genuine disgust. "A terrible thing to attack innocent people for no reason."
   "Indeed, Sergey," Riley said in the astringent voice that Ryan had known so well. When he wanted, "Father Tim" had a tongue that could saw through wood. "I seem to recall that V. I. Lenin said the purpose of terrorism is to terrorize, and that sympathy in a revolutionary is as reprehensible as cowardice on the field of battle."
   "Those were hard times, good Father," Platonov said smoothly. "My country has no business with those IRA madmen. They are not revolutionaries, however much they pretend to be. They have no revolutionary ethic. It is madness, what they do. The working classes should be allies, contesting together against the common enemy that exploits them both, instead of killing one another. Both sides of the conflict are victimized by bosses who play them off against each other, but instead of recognizing this they kill one another like mad dogs, and with as little point. They are bandits, not revolutionaries," he concluded with a distinction lost on the other two.
   "Maybe so, but if I ever get my hands on them, I'll give them a lesson in revolutionary justice." It was good to let his hatred out in the open for once.
   "You have no sympathy for them, either of you?" Platonov bailed them. "After all, you are both related to the victims of British imperialism. Did not both your families flee to America to escape it?"
   Ryan was caught very short by that remark. It seemed an incredible thing to say until he saw that the Russian was watching for his reaction.
   "Or perhaps the direct victim of Soviet imperialism," Jack responded with his own look. "Those two guys in London had Kalashnikov rifles. So did the ones who attacked my wife," he lied. "You don't buy one of those at the local hardware store. Whether you choose to admit it or not, most of the terrorists over there profess to be Marxists. That makes them your allies, not mine, and it makes it appear more than a coincidence that they use Soviet arms."
   "Do you know how many countries manufacture weapons of Soviet design? It is sadly inevitable that some will fall into the wrong hands."
   "In any case, my sympathy for their aim is, shall we say, limited by their choice of technique. You can't build a civilized country on a foundation of murder," Ryan concluded. "Much as some people have tried."
   "It would be well if the world worked in more peaceful ways." Platonov ignored the implicit comment on the Soviet Union. "But it is an historical fact that nations are born in blood, even yours. As countries grow, they mature beyond such conduct. It is not easy, but I think we can all see the value of peaceful coexistence. For myself, Doctor Ryan, I can sympathize with your feelings. I have two fine sons. We once had a daughter also, Nadia. She died long ago, at age seven, from leukemia. I know it is a hard thing to see your child in pain, but you are more fortunate than I. Your daughter will live." He allowed his voice to soften. "We disagree on many things, but no man can fail to love his children.
   "So." Platonov changed gears smoothly. "What did you really think of Professor Hunter's little speech? Should America seek to foment counterrevolution in the socialist states of Europe?"
   "Why don't you ask the State Department? That's not my part of the world, remember? I teach naval history. But if you want a personal opinion, I don't see how we can encourage people to rebel if we have no prospect of helping them directly when your country reacts."
   "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."

Chapter 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 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!"
   "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 schoolboys 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.
   "We have a surprise waiting for you," he said.
   "What?" Sally asked.
   "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise," her father pointed out.
   "Daddy!" For a moment his little girl was back.
   "Wait and see."
   "What's that?" Cathy asked on getting in the car.
   "The surprise."
   "What surprise?"
   "See," Jack told his daughter. "Mommy doesn't know either."
   "Jack, what's going on?"
   "Doctor Schenk and I had a little talk last week," was all Ryan would say. He released the parking brake and headed off onto Broadway.
   "I want my bear," Sally said.
   "He's too big to sit there, honey," Cathy responded.
   "But you can wear his Smokey hat. He said it was okay." Jack handed it back. The wide-brimmed campaign hat dropped over her head.
   "Did you thank the people for the bear?" Cathy asked.

   "You bet." Ryan smiled for a moment. "Nobody flunks this term. But don't tell anybody that." Jack had a reputation as a tough marker. That might not survive this semester. Principles be damned, he told himself. The mids in his classes had sent Sally a steady stream of flowers, toys, puzzles, and cards that had entertained his little girl, then circulated around the pediatric floor and brightened the days of fifty more sick kids. Smokey Bear was the crowning achievement. The nurses had told Cathy that it had made a difference. The monster toy had often sat at the top of Sally's bed, with the little girl clinging to it. It would be a tough act to follow, but Jack had that one figured out. Skip Tyler was making the final arrangements now.
   Jack took his time, driving as though he were carrying a cargo of cracked eggs. His recent habits at CIA made him yearn for a cigarette, but he knew that he'd have to stop that now, with Cathy home all the time. He was careful to avoid the route Cathy had taken the day that – His hands tightened on the wheel as they had for weeks now. He knew he had to stop thinking about it so much. It had become an obsession, and that wasn't going to help anything.
   The scenery had changed since the . . . accident. What had been bare trees now had the green edges of buds and leaves with the beginning of spring. Horses and cows were out on the farms. Some calves and colts were visible, and Sally's nose pressed against the car window as she looked at them. As it did every year, life was renewing itself, Ryan told himself. His family was whole again, and he'd keep it that way. The last turn onto Falcon's Nest Road finally came. Jack noted that the utility trucks were still around, and he wondered briefly what they had been up to as he turned left into his driveway.
   "Skip's here?" Cathy asked.
   "Looks like it," Jack replied with a suppressed grin.

   "They're home," Alex said.
   "Yeah," Louis noted. Both men were perched at the top of the utility pole, ostensibly stringing new power lines to accommodate the experimental transformer. "You know, the day after the job," the lineman said, "there was a picture of the lady in the papers. Some kid went through a window and got his face all cut up. It was a little brother, Alex. The lady saved his eyes, man."
   "I remember, Louis." Alex raised his camera and snapped off a string of shots.
   "An' I don't like fucking with kids, man," Louis said. "A cop's a different thing," he added defensively. He didn't have to say that so was the kid's father. That was business. Like Alex, he had a few remaining scruples, and hurting children was not something he could do without some internal turmoil.
   "Maybe we were all lucky." Alex knew objectively that this was a stupid way for a revolutionary to think. Sentimentality had no place in his mission; it got in the way of what he had to do, prolonging the task and causing more deaths in the process. He also knew that the taboos against injuring children were part of the genetic programming of any human being. Mankind had progressed in its knowledge since Marx and Lenin. So whenever possible he'd avoid injuring kids. He rationalized that this would enhance his sympathy in the community he was seeking to liberate.
   "Yeah."
   "So what have you seen?"
   "They got a maid – black o'course. Fine-lookin' woman, drives a Chevy. There's somebody else in there now. He's a white dude, big guy, an' he walks funny."
   "Right." Alex made note of the former and dismissed the latter. The man was probably a family friend.
   "The cops – state cops – are back here every two hours minimum. One of them asked me what we were doing yesterday afternoon. They're keeping an eye on this place. There's an extra phone line into the house – gotta be for an alarm company. So they got a house alarm and the cops are always close."
   "Okay. Keep your eyes open but don't be too obvious."
   "You got it."

   "Home," Ryan breathed. He stopped the car and got out, walking around to Sally's door. He saw that the little girl wasn't playing with the seat-belt buckle. He took care of it himself, then lifted his daughter out of the car. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and for a moment life was perfect again. He carried Sally to the front door, both arms clasping her to his chest.
   "Welcome back." Skip had the door open already.
   "Where's my surprise?" Sally demanded.
   "Surprise?" Tyler was taken aback. "I don't know about any surprise."
   "Daddy!" Her father got an accusing look.
   "Come on in," Tyler said. Mrs. Hackett was there, too. She'd gotten lunch ready for everyone. A single mother of two sons, she worked hard to support them. Ryan set his girl down, and she walked to the kitchen. Skip Tyler and her father watched her stiff legs negotiate the distance.
   "God, it's amazing how kids heal," Tyler observed.
   "What?" Jack was surprised.
   "I broke a leg playing ball once – damned if I bounced back that fast. Come on," Tyler beckoned Jack out the door. First he checked out the stuffed animal in the car. "I heard it was some kind of bear. That one must have played in Chicago!"
   Then they went into the trees north of Ryan's house. Here they found the surprise, tied to a tree. Jack loosed the chain and picked him up.
   "Thanks for bringing him over."
   "Hey, no big deal. It's good to see her home, pal."
   The two men walked back into the house. Jack peeked around the corner and saw that Sally was already demolishing a peanut-butter sandwich.
   "Sally . . ." he said. His wife was already looking at him with an open mouth. His daughter's head came around just as Jack set the puppy on the floor.
   It was a black Labrador, just old enough to be separated from his mother. The puppy needed a single look to know to whom he belonged. He scampered across the floor, mostly sideways, with his tail gyrating wildly. Sally was on the floor, and grabbed him. A moment later, the dog was cleaning her face.
   "She's too little for a puppy," Cathy said.
   "Okay, you can take him back this afternoon," Jack replied quietly. The remark got him an angry look. His daughter squealed when the dog started chewing on the heel of one shoe. "She's not big enough for a pony yet, but I think this is just the right thing."
   "You train it!"

   "That'll be easy. He comes from good stock. Champion Chesapeake's Victor Hugo Black for a father, would you believe? The Lab's got a soft mouth, and they like kids," Jack went on. "I've already scheduled him for classes."
   "Classes in what?" Cathy was really befuddled now.
   "The breed is called the Labrador Retriever," Jack noted.
   "How big does it get?"
   "Oh, maybe seventy pounds."
   "That's bigger than she is!"
   "Yeah, they love to swim, too. He can look after her in the pool."
   "We don't have a pool."
   "They start in three weeks." Jack smiled again. "Doctor Schenk also said that swimming is good therapy for this kind of injury."
   "You've been busy," his wife observed. She was smiling now.
   "I was going to get a Newfoundland, but they're just too big – one-fifty." Jack didn't say that his first wish had been to get a dog big and tough enough to tear the head off anyone who came close to his daughter, but that his common sense had prevented it.
   "Well, there's your first job," Cathy pointed. Jack got a paper towel to clean up the puddle on the tile. Before he could do it, his daughter nearly strangled him with a ferocious hug. It was all he could do to control himself, but he had to. Sally would not have understood why her daddy was crying. The world was back in its proper shape. Now if we can just keep it that way.

   "I'll have the pictures tomorrow. I wanted to get them done before the trees fill in. When they do, you won't be able to see the house from the road very well." Alex summarized the results of his reconnaissance.
   "What about the alarm?"
   Alex read off the data from his notes.
   "How the bloody hell did you get that?"
   Dobbens chuckled as he popped open the beer. "It's easy. If you want the data for any kind of burglar alarm, you call the company that did it and say you work for an insurance company. You give them a policy number – you make that up, of course – and they give you all the information you want. Ryan has a perimeter system, and a backup intruder system 'with keys,' which means that the alarm company has keys to the house. Somewhere on the property they have infrared beams. Probably on the driveway in the trees. This guy isn't dumb, Sean."
   "It doesn't matter."
   "Okay, I'm just telling you. One more thing."
   "Yes?"
   "The kid doesn't get hurt this time, not the wife either if we can help it."
   "That is not part of the plan," Miller assured him. You bloody wimp. Sean had learned a new word in America. What sort of revolutionary do you think you are? he didn't say.
   "That's from my people," Alex continued, telling only part of the truth. "You gotta understand, Sean, child abuse looks bad over here. It's not the kind of image we want to have, you dig?"
   "And you want to come out with us?"
   Dobbens nodded. "It might be necessary."
   "I think we can avoid that. It just means eliminating all the people who see your faces."
   You're a cold little cocksucker, Dobbens thought, though his words made perfect sense. Dead men told no tales.
   "Very well. All we have to do now is find a way to make the security people relax a bit," the Irishman said. "I'd prefer to avoid brute force."
   "I've been thinking about that." Alex took a moment before going on. "How do armies succeed?"
   "What do you mean?" Miller asked.
   "I mean, the great plans, the ones that really work. They all work because you show the other guy something he expects to see, right? You make him go for the fake, but it's gotta be a really good fake. We have to make them look for the wrong thing in the wrong place, and they have to put the word out."
   "And how do we do that?" After two minutes: "Ah."
   Alex retired to his bedroom a few minutes later, leaving Miller in front of the television to go over his material. On the whole, it had been a very useful trip. The plan was already beginning to take shape. It would require a lot of people, but that came as no surprise.
   Curiously, his respect for Alex was now diminished. The man was competent, certainly, even brilliant in his plan for a diversion – but that absurd sentimentality! It was not that Miller reveled in the idea of hurting children, but if that was what the revolution took, then it was a necessary price to pay. Besides, it got people's attention. It told them that he and his organization were serious. Until Alex got over that, he'd never be successful. But that wasn't Miller's problem. Part One of the operation was now outlined in his mind. Part Two was already drawn up, already had been aborted once. But not this time. Miller promised himself.
   By noon the following day, Alex had handed him the photos and driven him to an outlying station of the D.C. Metro. Miller took the subway train to National Airport to catch the first of four flights that would take him home.

   Jack walked into Sally's bedroom just before eleven. The dog – his daughter had named him Ernie – was an invisible shape in the corner. This was one of the smartest things he had ever done. Sally was too much in love with Ernie to dwell on her injuries, and she chased after him as fast as her weakened legs would allow. That was enough to make her father overlook the chewed shoes and occasional mistakes with which the dog was littering the house. In a few weeks she'd be back to normal. Jack adjusted the covers slightly before leaving. Cathy was already in bed when he got there.
   "Is she okay?"
   "Sleeping like an angel," Jack replied as he slid in beside her.
   "And Ernie?"
   "He's in there somewhere. I could hear his tail hitting the wall." He wrapped his arms around her. It was hard getting close to her now. He ran one hand down to her abdomen, feeling the shape of his unborn child. "How's the next one?"
   "Quiet, finally. God, he's an active one. Don't wake him up."
   It struck Jack as an absurd idea that babies were awake before they were born, but you couldn't argue with a doctor. "He?"
   "That's what Madge says."
   "What's she say about you?" He felt her ribs next. They were too prominent. His wife had always been slender, but this was too much.
   "I'm gaining the weight back," Cathy answered. "You don't have to worry. Everything's fine."
   "Good." He kissed her.
   "Is that all I get?" he heard from the darkness.
   "You think you can handle more?"
   "Jack, I don't have to go to work tomorrow," she pointed out.
   "But some of us do," he protested, but soon found that his heart wasn't in it.

Chapter 21
Plans

   "He is thorough," O'Donnell observed. Miller had returned with the aerial photographs that Dobbens had copied, topographic maps, and photos of Ryan's home from the land and water sides. Added to these were typed notes of the observations made by his people and other data thought to be of interest.
   "Unfortunately he allows his personal feelings to interfere with his activities," Miller observed coolly.
   "And you don't, Sean?" O'Donnell chided gently.
   "It won't happen again," his operations officer promised.
   "That's good. The important thing about mistakes is that we learn from them. So let's go over your proposed operation."
   Sean took out two other maps and spent twenty minutes running through his ideas. He concluded with Dobbens' suggestion for a diversion.
   "I like it." He turned to his intelligence chief. "Michael?"
   "The opposition will be formidable, of course, but the plan allows for that. The only thing that worries me is that it will take nearly all of our people to do it."
   "Nothing else looks feasible," Miller replied. "It's not so much a question of getting close enough, but of leaving the area after the mission is accomplished. Timing is crucial –"
   "And when timing is crucial, simplicity is a must." O'Donnell nodded. "Is there anything else that the opposition might try?"
   "I think not," McKenney said. "This is the worst-case expectation."
   "Helicopters," Miller said. "They nearly did for us the last time. No real problem if we're prepared for it, but we must be prepared."
   "Very well," O'Donnell said. "And the second part of the operation?"
   "Obviously we need to know where all the targets will be," McKenney said. "When do you want me to activate our people?" On orders, the intelligence chief's penetration agents had been quiescent for some weeks.
   "Not just yet," the Commander replied thoughtfully. "Again a question of timing. Sean?"
   "I think we should wait until the mission is fully accomplished before moving."
   "Yes, it proved to be a good idea the last time," the Commander agreed. "How many people are needed for your operation?"
   "No less than fifteen. I think we can depend on Alex for three trained men, himself included. More than that – no, we should limit his participation as much as possible."
   "Agreed," McKenney said.
   "And training?" O'Donnell asked.
   "The most we've ever done."
   "To start when?"
   "A month beforehand," Miller answered. "Any more time would be a waste of resources. For the moment I have quite a lot of work to do."

   "So here are the plans," Murray said. "You can either let them stay at your embassy or we'll put them in Blair House, right across the street from the President."
   "With all due respect to your Secret Service chaps –" The head of the Diplomatic Protection Group didn't have to go on. Their safety was his responsibility and he wouldn't trust it to foreigners any more than he had to.
   "Yeah, I understand. They'll get a full security detail from the Secret Service plus a couple of FBI liaison people and the usual assistance from the local police. Finally we'll have two HRT groups on alert the whole time they're over, one in D.C., and a backup team at Quantico."
   "How many people know?" Ashley asked.
   "The Secret Service and Bureau people are already fully briefed. When your advance men go over, they ought to have most of the events scouted for you already. The local cops will not be notified until they have to know."
   "You said most of the locations have been scouted, but not all?" Owens asked.
   "Do you want us to check out the unannounced points this early, too?"
   "No." The man from DPG shook his head. "It's bad enough that the public functions have to be exposed this early. It's still not official that they're going, you know. The element of surprise is our best defense."
   Owens looked at his colleague, but didn't react. The head of the DPG was on his suspects list, and his orders were not to allow anyone to know the details of his investigation. Owens thought him to be in the clear, but his detectives had discovered a few irregularities in the man's personal life that had somehow gotten past all the previous security screenings. Until it was certain that he was not a possible blackmail risk, he would not be allowed to know that some possible suspects had already seen the itinerary. The Commander of C-13 gave Murray an ironic look.
   "I think you're overdoing this, gentlemen, but that's your business," the FBI man said as he stood. "Your people are flying over tomorrow?"
   "That's right."
   "Okay, Chuck Avery of the Secret Service will meet your people at Dulles. Tell them not to be bashful about asking for things. You will have our total cooperation." He watched them leave. Five minutes later Owens was back.
   "What gives, Jimmy?" Murray wasn't surprised.
   "What further progress have you made on the chaps who attacked Ryan?"
   "Not a thing for the past two weeks," Murray admitted. "You?"
   "We have a possible link – let me be precise, we suspect that there might be a possible link."
   The FBI man grinned. "Yeah, I know what that's like. Who is it?"
   "Geoffrey Watkins." That got a reaction.
   "The foreign-service guy? Damn! Anybody else on the list that I know?"
   "The chap you were just talking to. Ashley's people discovered that he's not entirely faithful to his wife."
   "Boys or girls?" Murray took a cue from the way Owens had said that. "You mean that he doesn't know, Jimmy?"
   "He doesn't know that the itinerary has been leaked, possibly to the wrong people. Watkins is among them, but so is our DPG friend."
   "Oh, that's real good! The plans may be leaked, and you can't tell the head of the security detail because he may be the one –"
   "It's most unlikely, but we must allow for the possibility."
   "Call the trip off, Jimmy. If you have to break his leg, call it the hell off."
   "We can't. He won't. I spoke with His Highness day before yesterday and told him the problem. He refuses to allow his life to be managed that way."
   "Why are you telling me this?" Murray rolled his eyes.
   "I must tell someone, Dan. If I can't tell my chaps, then . . . " Owens waved his hands.
   "You want us to call the trip off for you, is that it?" Murray demanded. He knew that Owens couldn't answer that one. "Let's spell this one out nice and clear. You want our people to be alert to the chance that an attack is a serious possibility, and that one of the good guys might be a bad guy."
   "Correct."
   "This isn't going to make our folks real happy."
   "I'm not terribly keen on it myself, Dan," Owens replied.
   "Well, it gives Bill Shaw something else to think about." Another thought struck him. "Jimmy, that's one expensive piece of live bait you have dangling on the hook."

   "He knows that. It's our job to keep the sharks away, isn't it?"
   Murray shook his head. The ideal solution would be to find a way to cancel the trip, thereby handing the problem back to Owens and Ashley. That meant involving the State Department. The boys at Foggy Bottom would spike that idea, Murray knew. You couldn't un-invite a future chief of state because the FBI and Secret Service didn't think they could guarantee his safety – the reputation of American law-enforcement would be laid open to ridicule, they'd say, knowing that his protection wasn't the responsibility of the people at State.
   "What do you have on Watkins?" he asked after a moment. Owens outlined his "evidence."
   "That's all?"
   "We're still digging, but so far there is nothing more substantive. It could all be coincidence, of course . . . "
   "No, it sounds to me like you're right." Murray didn't believe in coincidences either. "But there's nothing that I could take to a grand jury at home. Have you thought about flushing the game?"
   "You mean running through a change in the schedule? Yes, we have. But then what? We could do that, see if Watkins goes to the shop, and arrest both men there – if we can confirm that what is happening is what we think it to be. Unfortunately, that means throwing away the only link we've ever had with the ULA, Dan. At the moment, we're watching Cooley as closely as we dare. He is still traveling. If we can find out whom he is contacting, then perhaps we can wrap up the entire operation. What you suggest is an option, but not the best one. We do have time, you know. We have several months before we need to do something so drastic as that."
   Murray nodded, not so much in agreement as in understanding. The possibility of finding and destroying O'Donnell's bunch had to be tantalizing to Scotland Yard. Bagging Cooley now would quash that. It wasn't something that they'd simply toss off. He knew that the Bureau would think much the same way.

   "Jack, I want you to come along with me," Marty Cantor said. "No questions."
   "What?" Ryan asked, and got an accusing look. "All right, all right." He took the files he was working on and locked them in his file cabinet, then grabbed his jacket. Cantor led him around the corner to the elevator. After arriving on the first floor, he walked rapidly west into the annex behind the headquarters building. Once in the new structure, they passed through five security checkpoints. This was an all-time record for Ryan, and he wondered if Cantor had had to reprogram the pass-control computer to get him into this building. After ten minutes he was on the fourth floor in a room identified only by its number.
   "Jack, this is Jean-Claude. He's one of our French colleagues."
   Ryan shook hands with a man twenty years older than himself, whose face was the embodiment of civilized irony. "What gives, Marty?"
   "Professor Ryan," Jean-Claude said. "I am informed that you are the man we must thank."
   "What for –" Ryan stopped. Uh-oh. The Frenchman led him to a TV monitor.
   "Jack, you never saw this," Cantor said as a picture formed on the screen. It had to be satellite photography. Ryan knew it at once from the viewing angle, which changed very slowly.
   "When?" he asked.
   "Last night, our time, about three A.M. local."
   "Correct." Jean-Claude nodded, his eyes locked on the screen.
   It was Camp -20, Ryan thought. The one that belonged to Action-Directe. The spacing of the huts was familiar. The infrared picture showed that three of the huts had their heaters on. The brightness of the heat signals told him that ground temperature must have been about freezing. South of the camp, behind a dune, two vehicles were parked. Jack couldn't tell if they were jeeps or small trucks. On closer inspection, faint figures were moving on the cold background: men. From the way they moved: soldiers. He counted eight of them split into two equal groups. Near one of the huts was a brighter light. There appeared to be a man standing there. Three in the morning, when one's body functions are at the lowest ebb. One of the camp guards was smoking on duty, doubtlessly trying to stay awake. That was a mistake, Ryan knew. The flare of the match would have destroyed his night vision. Oh, well . . .
   "Now," Jean-Claude said