by Tom Clancy
But this was different. This was treason—it was worse than treason—a concept that Owens hadn’t even thought possible until the last week. Whoever had leaked this had also to have been involved in the attack on the Royal Family. To betray national security secrets to a foreign power was sufficiently heinous to make the Commander think in unprofessional terms. But deliberately to endanger the Royal Family itself was so incomprehensible a crime that Owens had scarcely been able to believe it possible. This wasn’t someone of dubious mental state. This was a person with intelligence and considerable skill at dissimulation, someone who had betrayed a trust both personal and national. There had been a time in his country when such people died by torture. It was not a fact that Owens was proud of, but now he understood why it had happened, how easily one might countenance such punishment. The Royal Family served so many functions for the United Kingdom, was so greatly loved by the people. And someone, probably someone very close to them, was quite willing to betray them to a small band of terrorists. Owens wanted that person. Wanted to see him dead, wanted to watch him die. There could be no other punishment for this kind of crime.
His professionalism returned after the few seconds of grim revelry. We won’t find the bastard by wishing him dead. Finding him means police work—careful, painstaking, thorough investigation. Owens knew how to do that. Neither he nor the elite team of men on the investigation would rest until they succeeded. But none of them doubted that they would ultimately succeed.
“That’s two breaks you have, Jimmy,” Murray said after reading his friend’s mind. It wasn’t hard to do. Both men had handled hard cases, and police differ little over the world.
“Indeed,” Owens said, almost smiling. “They ought not to have tipped their hand. They should have bent every effort to protect their source. We can compare the lists of who knew that His Highness was coming in that afternoon, and who knew that young Mr. Miller was going to Lymington.”
“And the telephone operators who put the calls through,” Murray reminded him. “And the secretaries and co-workers who might have overheard, and the girlfriends, or boyfriends, who might have heard during some horizontal conversation.”
“Thank you ever so much for that, Dan. One needs encouragement at a time like this.” The Englishman walked over to Murray’s cabinet and found a bottle of whiskey—a Christmas present, still unopened on New Year’s Eve.
“You’re right that they should have protected their intel source. I know you’ll get him, Jimmy. I will put some money down on that. ”
Owens poured the drinks. It was gratifying to see that the American had finally learned to drink his whiskey decently. In the past year Owens had broken Murray of the need to put ice in everything. It was shameful to contaminate single-malt Scotch whiskey. He frowned at another recurring thought. “What does that tell us about Sean Miller?”
Murray stretched his arms out. “More important than you thought, maybe? Maybe they were afraid you’d break information out of him. Maybe they just wanted to keep their perfect record. Maybe something else?”
Owens nodded. In addition to the close working relationship Scotland Yard had with the FBI, Owens valued the opinions of his colleague. Though both were experienced cops, Murray could always be trusted to have a slightly different slant on things. Two years before Owens had been surprised to learn how valuable this might be. Though he never had thought about it, Murray had used his colleague’s brain the same way on several occasions.
“So what might that make Miller?” Owens wondered aloud.
“Who can say? Chief of operations?” Murray waved his glass.
“Awfully young for that.”
“Jimmy, the guy who dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima was a full colonel in the Air Force, and twenty-nine years old. Hell, how old is this O’Donnell character?”
“That’s what Bob Highland thinks.” Owens stared into his glass for a moment, frowning again.
“Bob’s a smart kid, too. God, I hope you can put him back on the street.”
“If not, we can still use him in the office,” Commander Owens said positively. “He does have a fine brain for the business of investigations—too good to be lost now. Well, must be off. New Year’s Eve, Dan. What do we drink to?”
“That’s obvious. A successful investigation. You’re going to get that source, Jimmy, and he’s going to give you the information you need.” Murray held his glass up. “To a closed case.”
“Yes.” Both men emptied their glasses.
“Jimmy, do yourself a favor and give it a night off. Clear the old head out and start fresh in the morning.”
Owens smiled. “I’ll try.” He picked up his overcoat and walked toward the door. “One last thing. It hit me on the drive over. These chaps, the ULA, have broken all the rules, haven’t they?”
“That’s true enough,” Murray replied as he locked up his files.
“There’s only one rule they haven’t broken.”
Murray turned. “Oh? What’s that?”
“They’ve never done anything in America.”
“None of them do that.” Murray dismissed the idea.
“None have had much of a reason before.”
“So?”
“Dan, the ULA might have a reason now—and they’ve never been reticent about breaking the rules. It’s just a feeling, no more than that.” Owens shrugged. “Well. Good night, and a happy new year to you, Special Agent Murray.”
They shook hands ceremonially. “And to you, Commander Owens. Give my love to Emily.”
Dan saw him to the door, locked it, and returned to his office to make sure all his secure files were locked up properly. It was pitch dark outside at—he checked his watch—quarter to six.
“Jimmy, why did you say that?” Murray asked the darkness. He sat back down in his swivel chair.
No Irish terrorist group had ever operated in the United States. Sure, they raised money there, in the Irish neighborhoods and saloons of Boston and New York, made the odd speech about their vision for the future of a free, united Ireland—never bothering to say that as committed Marxist-Leninists, their vision of Ireland was of another Cuba. They had always been shrewd enough to know that Irish-Americans might not feel comfortable with that little detail. And there was the gun-running. That was largely something in the past. The PIRA and INLA currently got most of their weapons on the open world market. There were also reports that some of their people had gotten training in Soviet military camps—you couldn’t tell a man’s nationality from a satellite photograph, nor could you recognize a specific face. These reports had never been confirmed sufficiently to be released to the press. The same was true of the camps in Libya, and Syria, and Lebanon. Some people, fair-skinned people, were being trained there—but who? The intelligence got a little confused on this point. It was different with the European terrorists. The Arabs who got caught often sang like canaries, but the captured members of the PIRA and INLA, and the Red Army Faction, and Action-Directe of France, and all the other shadowy groups gave up their information far more grudgingly. A cultural thing, or maybe they could simply be more certain that their captors would not—could not—use interrogation measures still common in the Middle East. They’d all been raised under democratic rules, and knew precisely the weaknesses of the societies they sought to topple. Murray thought of them as strengths, but recognized the inconveniences that they imposed on law-enforcement professionals....
The bottom line was still that PIRA and INLA had never committed a violent crime in America. Never. Not once.
But Jimmy’s right. The ULA has never hesitated to break a rule. The Royal Family was off-limits to everyone else, but not the ULA. The PIRA and INLA never hesitated to advertise its operations —every terrorist group advertises its operations. But not the ULA. He shook his head. There wasn’t any evidence to suggest that they’d break this rule. It was simply the one thing that they hadn’t done ... yet. Not the sort of thing to start an investigation with.
> “But what are they up to?” he said aloud. Nobody knew that. Even their name was an anomaly. Why did they call themselves the Ulster Liberation Army? The nationalist movement always focused on its Irishness, it was an Irish nationalist movement, but the ULA’s very name was a regional expression. “Ulster” was invariably the prefix of the reactionary Protestant groups. Terrorists didn’t have to make all that much sense in what they did, but they did have to make some sense. Everything about the ULA was an anomaly. They did the things no one else would do, called themselves something no else would.
They did the things no one else would. That’s what was chewing on Jimmy, Murray knew. Why did they operate that way? There had to be a reason. For all the madness of their actions, terrorists were rational by their own standards. However twisted their reasoning appeared to an outsider, it did have its own internal logic. The PIRA and INLA had such logic. They had even announced their rationales, and their actions could be seen to fit with what they said: To make Northern Ireland ungovernable. If they succeeded, the British would finally have enough of it and leave. Their objective, therefore, was to sustain a low-level conflict indefinitely and wait for the other side to walk away. It did make conceptual sense.
But the ULA has never said what it’s up to. Why not? Why should their objective be a secret? Hell, why should the existence of a terrorist group be a secret—if they’re running operations, how can it be a secret; then why have they never even announced their existence, except within the PIRA/INLA community itself? This can’t be completely unreasoned action, he reminded himself. They can’t be acting completely without reason and still be as effective as they’ve been.
“Damn!” The answer was there. Murray could feel it floating at the edge of his consciousness, but his mind couldn’t quite reach that far. The agent left his office. Two Marines were already patrolling the corridors, checking that the doors were locked. Dan waved to them on the way to the elevator, his mind still trying to assemble the pieces into a unified picture. He wished that Owens hadn’t left so soon. He wanted to talk this one over with Jimmy. Maybe the two of them could make sense of it all. No, he told himself, not “maybe.” They’d find it. It was there, waiting to be found.
I bet Miller knew, Murray thought.
“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 #1 was a schedule provided by other fair-skinned friends that gave the passover 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 mañana—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.
