Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [153]
“So what’re you saying? I should stick to my keyboard and computer monitor?”
“That’s your choice. I just want to make sure you’re straight in your head about it. If not, you’re a danger to yourself and to everyone else.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing: I want you to think about telling your dad.”
“Jesus, are you kidding—”
“No, I’m not. I’ll keep the secret, Jack, because you’re an adult and the choice is yours, but it might be time to step out on your own, and you can’t do that while you’re still afraid to stand in front of him. Until then, you’re not your own man.”
“You don’t pull any punches, do you?”
Clark smiled at this. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.” He checked his watch. “Almost time to get back. Give it another day’s thought—both things. If you still want to go out, I’ll teach you what I can.”
Mary Pat’s contact at Legoland—Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service headquarters at Vauxhall Cross on the River Thames was colloquially known as either Legoland or Babylon because of its chunky, ziggurat-like architecture—had offered only one name in response to her query. Nigel Embling, she was told, was a retired old hand in the Stans and had forgotten more than most people knew about the region. Mary Pat assumed the Brits had active assets there, but whether or not Embling was one of these, she couldn’t be sure. Probably not. Her back-channel inquiry had likely made clear to her contact that she was slightly off the reservation, in which case the Brahmins at SIS wouldn’t look kindly at him handing over a genuine agent.
Of course, being armed with a contact was only half the battle. Embling was an older man and well past his fieldwork days, which meant they’d need to put someone else on the ground to do the legwork. Mary Pat didn’t have to think very hard about that one. Two names immediately came to mind, and if the scuttlebutt was true, these particular individuals might be interested in a little contract work. The NCTC had some discretionary funds, and both she and Ben Margolin agreed this might be a worthy expenditure.
It took only two phone calls to confirm the rumors, and another two to nail down a current phone number.
Clark’s cell phone, tucked into the top drawer of his desk, trilled once, then again. He grabbed it on the third ring. “Hello.”
“John, Mary Pat Foley here.”
“Hey, Mary Pat, you were on my to-do list.”
“That so?”
“Me and Ding just rotated out of Rainbow. Wanted to touch base and say hi.”
“How about we do that in person? I’ve got something I want to run by you.”
Clark’s internal radar chirped. “Sure. When and where?”
“As soon as possible.”
Clark checked his watch. “I can shake loose for lunch right now.”
“Good. You know Huck’s in Gainesville?”
“Yeah, just off Linton Hall Road.”
“Yep. Meet you there.”
Clark shut down his computer, then headed up to Sam Granger’s office. He recounted the phone call for The Campus’s ops chief. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social lunch,” Granger said.
“Doubt it. She had her game voice on.”
“She know you’re cycling out of the Agency?”
“Not much escapes Mary Pat.”
Granger considered this. “Okay, check in when you get back.”
Clark had passed by Huck’s but had never gone inside. Best pies in Virginia, he’d been told. Not that you could tell from the outside, he thought, as he pulled into the diagonal parking space in front. Two large glass windows flanked a single door shaded by a faded red-and-white canvas awning. A neon light in the window advertised “ucks.” Bad omen? Clark wondered. Probably not.
Truth was, he had nothing but good memories of Gainesville, having spent many hours walking its streets, teaching CIA case officers surveillance/countersurveillance techniques. There was only so much you could learn in the classrooms of Camp Perry. Unbeknownst to the fine citizens of Gainesville and a dozen other cities in Maryland and Virginia, at any given time their streets were being strolled by spooks playing at staying alive before they had to do it in the real world.
He pushed through the door and found Mary Pat sitting on a