Camp 11-5-20, he saw, showed a girl in one photo. At least there was someone there wearing a two-piece bathing suit. Jack stared at the image for a few seconds, then turned away in disgust. He was playing voyeur, trying to discern the figure of someone who was probably a terrorist. There were no such attractions at camps -04 and -18, and he wondered at the significance of this until he remembered that only one satellite was giving daylight photos with people in them. Ryan made a note to himself to check at the Academy’s library for a book on orbital mechanics. He decided that he needed to know how often a single satellite passed over a given spot in a day.
“You’re not getting anywhere,” he told himself aloud.
“Neither is anybody else,” Marty Cantor said. Ryan spun around.
“How did you get in here?” Jack demanded.
“I’ll say one thing for you, Jack, when you concentrate you really concentrate. I’ve been standing here for five minutes.” Cantor grinned. “I like your intensity, but if you want an opinion, you’re pushing a little hard, fella.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You say so,” Cantor said dubiously. “How do you like our photo album?”
“The people who do this full-time must go nuts.”
“Some do,” Cantor agreed.
“I might have something worth checking out,” Jack said, explaining his suspicions on Camp -18.
“Not bad. By the way, number -20 may be Action-Directe, the French group that’s picked up lately. DGSE — the French foreign intelligence service — thinks they have a line on it.”
“Oh. That may explain one of the photos.” Ryan flipped to the proper page.
“Thank God Ivan doesn’t know what that bird does,” Cantor nodded. “Hmm. We may be able to ID from this.”
“How?” Jack asked. “You can’t make out her face.”
“You can tell her hair length, roughly. You can also tell the size of her tits.” Cantor grinned ear to ear.
“What?”
“The guys in photointerpretation are — well, they’re very technical. For cleavage to show up in these photos, a girl has to have C-cup breasts — at least that’s what they told me once. I’m not kidding, Jack. Somebody actually worked the math out, because you can identify people from a combination of factors like hair color, length, and bust size. Action-Directe has lots of female operatives. Our French colleagues might find this interesting.” If they’re willing to deal, he didn’t say.
“What about -18?”
“I don’t know. We’ve never really tried to identify that one. The thing about the car may count against it, though.”
“Remember that our ULA friends have the Proves infiltrated,” Jack said.
“You’re still on that, eh? Okay, it’s something to be considered,” Cantor conceded. “What about this pattern thing you talked about?”
“I haven’t got anything to point to yet,” Jack admitted.
“Let’s see the graph.”
Jack unfolded it from the back of the binder. “Every three months, mostly, the occupancy rate picks up.”
Cantor frowned at the graph for a moment. Then he flipped through the photographs. On only one of the dates did they have a daylight photo that showed anything. Each of the camps had what looked like a shooting range. In the photo Cantor selected, there were three men standing near it.
“You might have something, Jack.”
“What?” Ryan had looked at the photo and made nothing of it.
“What’s the distinguishing feature of the ULA?”
“Their professionalism,” Ryan answered.
“Your last paper on them said they were more militarily organized than some of the others, remember? Every one of them, as far as we can tell, is skilled with weapons.”
“So?”
“Think!” Cantor snapped. Ryan gave him a blank look. “Periodic weapons-refresher training, maybe?”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. How come nobody ever –”
“Do you know how many satellite photos come through here? I can’t say exactly, but you may safely assume that it’s a fairly large number, thousands per month. Figure it takes a minimum of five minutes to examine each one. Mostly we’re interested in the Russians — missile silos, factories, troop movements, tank parks, you name it. That’s where most of the analytical talent goes, and they can’t keep up with what comes in. The guys we have on this stuff here are technicians, not analysts.” Cantor paused. “Camp -18 looks interesting enough that we might try to figure a way to check it out, see who really lives there. Not bad.”
“He’s violated security,” Kevin O’Donnell said by way of greeting. He was quiet enough that no one in the noisy pub would have heard him.
“Perhaps this is worth it,” Cooley replied. “Instructions?”
“When are you going back?”
“Tomorrow morning, the early flight.”
O’Donnell nodded, finishing off his drink. He left the pub and walked directly to his car. Twenty minutes later he was home. Ten minutes after that, his operations and intelligence chiefs were in his study.
“Sean, how did you like working with Alex’s organization?”
“They’re like us, small but professional. Alex is a very thorough technician, but an arrogant one. He hasn’t had a great deal of formal training. He’s clever, very clever. And he’s hungry, as they say over there. He wants to make his mark.”
“Well, he may just have his chance next summer.” O’Donnell paused, holding up the letter Cooley had delivered. “It would seem that His Royal Highness will be visiting America next summer. The Treasure Houses exhibit was such a success that they are going to stage another one. Nearly ninety percent of the works of Leonardo Da Vinci belong to the Royal Family, and they’ll be sending them over to raise money for some favored charities. The show opens in Washington on August the first, and the Prince of Wales will be going over to start things off. This will not be announced until July, but here is his itinerary, including the proposed security arrangements. It is as yet undecided whether or not his lovely bride will accompany His Highness, but we will proceed on the assumption that she will.”
“The child?” Miller asked.
“I rather suspect not, but we will allow for that possibility also.” He handed the letter to Michael McKenney. The intelligence officer for the ULA skimmed over the data.
“The security at the official functions will be airtight. The Americans have had a number of incidents, and they’ve learned from each of them,” McKenney said. Like all intelligence officers, he saw his potential opponents as overwhelmingly powerful. “But if they go forward with this one . . .”
“Yes,” O’Donnell said. “I want you two to work together on this. We have plenty of time and we’ll use all of it.” He took the letter back and reread it before giving it to Miller. After they left, he wrote his instructions for their agent in London.
At the airport the next morning Cooley saw his contact and walked into the coffee shop. He was early for his flight, seasoned traveler that he was, and had a cup while he waited for it to be announced. Finished, he walked outside. His contact was just walking in. The two men brushed by each other, and the message was passed, just as was taught in every spy school in the world.
“He does travel about a good deal,” Ashley observed. It had taken Owens’ detectives less than an hour to find Cooley’s travel agent and to get a record of his trips for the past three years. Another pair was assembling a biographical file on the man. It was strictly routine work. Owens and his men knew better than to get excited about a new lead. Enthusiasm all too easily got in the way of objectivity. His car — parked at Gatwick Airport — had considerable mileage on the clock for its age, and that was explained by his motoring about buying books. This was the extent of the data assembled in eighteen hours. They would patiently wait for more.
“How often does he travel to Ireland?”
“Quite frequently, but he does business in English-language books, and we are the only two countries in Europe that speak English, aren’t we?” Ashley, too, was able to control himself.
“America?” Owens asked.
“Once a year, looks like. I rather suspect it’s to an annual trade show. I can check that myself.”
“They speak English, too.”
Ashley grinned. “Shakespeare didn’t live or print books there. There aren’t many examples of American publishing old enough to excite a person like Cooley. What he might do is buy up books of ours that have found their way across the water, but more likely he’s looking for buyers. No, Ireland fits beautifully with his cover — excuse me, if it is that. My own dealer, Samuel Pickett and Sons, travel there often also . . . but not as much, I should think,” he added.
“Perhaps his biography will tell us something,” Owens noted.
“One can hope.” Ashley was looking for a light at the end of this tunnel, but saw only more tunnel.