“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 . . .