Patriot Games by Tom Clancy

“All I did was show it to you, Marty,” Ryan protested. “You’re the one who really made the connection.”

“You did exactly the right thing, exactly what an analyst is supposed to do. There was more brains in that than you know. You have a gift for this sort of work. If you can’t see it, I can.” Cantor examined the lasagna and winced. How could anybody eat that greasy poison? “Two years from now you’ll be ready for my job.”

“One bridge at a time, Marty.” They let it go at that.

An hour later Ryan was back in his office. Cantor came in.

“Another pep talk?” Jack smiled. Full-court press time . . .

“We have a picture of a suspected ULA member and it’s only a week old. We got it in from London a couple of hours ago.”

“Dennis Cooley.” Ryan examined it and laughed. “He looks like a real wimp. What’s the story?”

Cantor explained. “Bad luck for the Brits, but maybe good luck for us. Look at the picture again and tell me something important.”

“You mean . . . he’s lost most of his hair. Oh! We can ID the guy if he turns up at one of the camps. None of the other people are bald.”

“You got it. And the boss just cleared you for something. There’s an op laid on for Camp -18.”

“What kind?”

“The kind you watched before. Is that still bothering you?”

“No, not really.” What bothers me is that it doesn’t bother me, Ryan thought. Maybe it should . . . “Not with these guys, I don’t. When?”

“I can’t tell you, but soon.”

“So why did you let me know — nice one, Marty. Not very subtle, though. Does the Admiral want me to stay that bad?”

“Draw your own conclusions.” An hour after that the photo expert was back. Another satellite had passed over the camp at 2208 local time. The infrared image showed eight people standing at line on the firing range. Bright tongues of flame marked two of the shapes. They were firing their weapons at night, and there were now at least eight of them there.

“What happened?” O’Donnell asked. He’d met Cooley at the airport. A cutout had gotten word out that Cooley was on the run, but the reason for it had had to wait until now.

“There was a bug in my shop.”

“You’re sure?” O’Donnell asked.

Cooley handed it over. The wire had been in his pocket for thirty hours. O’Donnell pulled the Toyota Land Cruiser over to examine it.

“Marconi make these for intelligence use. Quite sensitive. How long might it have been there?”

Cooley could not remember having anyone go into his back room unsupervised. “I’ve no idea.”

O’Donnell put the vehicle back into gear, heading out into the desert. He pondered the question for over a mile. Something had gone wrong, but what . . .?

“Did you ever think you were being followed?”

“Never.”

“How closely did you check, Dennis?” Cooley hesitated, and O’Donnell took this for an answer. “Dennis, did you ever break tradecraft — ever?”

“No, Kevin, of course not. It isn’t possible that — for God’s sake, Kevin, it’s been weeks since I’ve been in contact with Watkins.”

“Since your last trip to Cork.” O’Donnell squinted in the bright sun.

“Yes, that’s right. You had a security man watching me then — was there anyone following me?”

“If there were, he must have been a damnably clever one, and he could not have been too close . . . ” The other possibility that O’Donnell was, considering, of course, was that Cooley had turned traitor. But if he’d done that, he wouldn’t have come here, would he? the chief of the ULA thought. He knows me, knows where I live, knows McKenney, knows Sean Miller, knows about the fishing fleet at Dundalk. O’Donnell realized that Cooley knew quite a lot. No, if he’d gone tout, he wouldn’t be here. Cooley was sweating despite the air conditioning in the car. Dennis didn’t have the belly to risk his life that way. He could see that.

“So, Dennis, what are we to do with you?”

Cooley’s heart was momentarily irregular, but he spoke with determination. “I want to be part of the next op.”

“Excuse me?” O’Donnell’s head came around in surprise.

“The fucking Brits — Kevin, they came after me!”

“That is something of an occupational hazard, you know.”

“I’m quite serious,” Cooley insisted.

It wouldn’t hurt to have another man . . . “Are you in shape for it?”

“I will be.”

The chief made his decision. “Then you can start this afternoon.”

“What is it, then?”

O’Donnell explained.

“It would seem that your hunch was correct. Doctor Ryan,” the man with the rimless glasses said the next afternoon. “Maybe I will take you to the track.”

He was standing outside one of the huts, a dumpy little man with a head that shone from the sunlight reflecting off his sweaty, hairless dome. Camp -18 was the one.

“Excellent,” Cantor observed. “Our English friends have really scored on this one. Thanks,” he said to the photo expert.

“When’s the op?” Ryan asked after he left.

“Early morning, day after tomorrow. Our time . . . eight in the evening, I think.”

“Can I watch in real time?”

“Maybe.”

“This is a secret that’s hard to keep,” he said.

“Most of the good ones are,” Cantor agreed. “But –”

“Yeah, I know.” Jack put his coat on and locked up his files. “Tell the Admiral that I owe him one.”

Driving home, Ryan thought about what might be happening. He realized that his anticipation was not very different from . . . Christmas? No, that was not the right way to think about this. He wondered how his father had felt right before a big arrest after a lengthy investigation. It was something he’d never asked. He did the next best thing. He forgot about it, as he was supposed to do with everything that he saw at Langley.

There was a strange car parked in front of the house when he got there, just beyond the nearly completed swimming pool. On inspection he saw that it had diplomatic tags. He went inside to find three men talking to his wife. He recognized one but couldn’t put a name on him.

“Hello, Doctor Ryan, I’m Geoffrey Bennett from the British Embassy. We met before at –”

“Yeah, I remember now. What can we do for you?”

“Their Royal Highnesses will be visiting the States in a few weeks. I understand that you offered an invitation when you met, and they wish to see if it remains open.”

“Are you kidding?”

“They’re not kidding. Jack, and I already said yes,” his wife informed him. Even Ernie was wagging his tail in anticipation.

“Of course. Please tell them that we’d be honored to have them down. Will they be staying the night?”

“Probably not. It was hoped that they could come in the evening.”

“For dinner? Fine. What day?”

“Friday, 30th July.”

“Done.”

“Excellent. I hope you won’t mind if our security people — plus your Secret Service chaps — conduct a security sweep in the coming week.”

“Do I have to be home for that?”

“I can do it, Jack. I’m off work now, remember?”

“Oh, of course,” Bennett said. “When is the baby due?”

“First week of August — that might be a problem for this,” Cathy realized belatedly.

“If something unexpected happens, you may be sure that Their Highnesses will understand. One more thing. This is a private matter, not one of the public events for the trip. We must ask that you keep this entirely confidential.”

“Sure, I understand,” Ryan said.

“If they’re going to be here for dinner, is there anything we shouldn’t serve?” Cathy asked.

“What do you mean?” Bennett responded.

“Well, some people are allergic to fish, for example.”

“Oh, I see. No, I know of nothing along those lines.”

“Okay, the basic Ryan dinner,” Jack said. “I — uh-oh.”

“What’s the matter?” Bennett asked.

“We’re having company that night.”

“Oh,” Cathy nodded. “Robby and Sissy.”

“Can’t you cancel?”

“It’s a going-away party. Robby — he’s a Navy fighter pilot, we both teach at the Academy — is transferring back to the fleet. Would they mind?”

“Doctor Ryan, His Highness –”

“His Highness is a good guy. So’s Robby. He was there that night we met. I can’t cancel him out, Mr. Bennett. He’s a friend. The good news is. His Highness will like him. He used to fly fighter planes, too, right?”

“Well, yes, but –”

“Do you remember the night we met? Without Robby I might not have gotten through it. Look, this guy’s a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy who happens to fly a forty-million-dollar fighter airplane. He probably is not a security risk. His wife plays one hell of a piano.” Ryan saw that he hadn’t quite gotten through yet. “Mr. Bennett, check Rob out through your attache and ask His Highness if it’s all right.”