Patriot games - Tom Clancy [119]
"How did you know-"
"It's my job to know, sonny." The old man grinned at him. Ryan didn't think this situation was the least bit funny, but he granted the Admiral his points.
"When can I start?"
"How does your schedule look?"
"I can work on that," Jack said cautiously. "I can be here Tuesday morning, and maybe work one full day per week, plus two half-days. In the mornings. Most of my classes are in the afternoon. Semester break is coming up, and then I can give you a full week."
"Very well. You can work out the details with Marty. Go take care of the paperwork. Nice to see you again, Jack."
Jack shook his hand once more. "Thank you, sir."
Greer watched the door close before he went back to the desk. He waited a few seconds for Ryan and Cantor to clear the corridor, then walked out to the corner office that belonged to the Director of Central Intelligence.
"Well?" Judge Arthur Moore asked.
"We got him," Greer reported.
"How's the clearance procedure going?"
"Clean. He was a little too sharp doing his stock deals a few years back, but, hell, he was supposed to be sharp."
"Nothing illegal?" Judge Moore asked. The Agency didn't need someone who might be investigated by the SEC. Greer shook his head.
"Nah, just very smart."
"Fine. But he doesn't see anything but this terrorist stuff until the clearance procedures are complete."
"Okay, Arthur!"
"And I don't have Deputy Directors to do our recruiting," the DCI pointed out.
"You're taking this awfully hard. Does a bottle of bourbon put that much of a dent in your bank account?"
The Judge laughed. The day after Miller had been sprung from British custody, Greer had made the gentlemanly wager. Moore didn't like losing at anything-he'd been a trial lawyer before becoming a jurist-but it was nice to know that his DDI had a head for prognostication.
"I'm having Cantor get him a gun permit, too," Greer added.
"You sure that's a good idea?"
"I think so."
* * *
"So it's decided, then?" Miller asked quietly.
O'Donnell looked over at the younger man, knowing why the plan had been formulated. It was a good plan, he admitted to himself, an effective plan. It had elements of brilliance in its daring. But Sean had allowed personal feelings to influence his judgment. That wasn't so good.
He turned toward the window. The French countryside was dark, thirty thousand feet below the airliner. All those peaceful people, sleeping in their homes, safe and secure. They were on a red-eye flight, and the plane was nearly empty. The stewardess dozed a few rows aft, and there was no one about to hear what they were saying. The whine of the jet engines would keep any electronic listening device from working, and they'd been very careful to cover their tracks. First the flight to Bucharest, then to Prague, then to Paris, and now the flight home to Ireland, with only French entry stamps on their passports. O'Donnell was a careful man, to the point of carrying notes on his fictitious business meetings in France. They'd get through customs easily enough, O'Donnell was sure. It was late, and the clerks at passport control were scheduled to go home right after this flight arrived.
Sean had a completely new passport, with the proper stamps, of course. His eyes were now brown, courtesy of some contact lenses, his hair changed in color and style, a neatly trimmed beard changing the shape of his face. Sean hated the beard for its itching. O'Donnell smiled at the darkness. Well, he'd have to get used to that.
Sean didn't say anything else. He sat back and pretended to read through the magazine he'd found in the seat pocket. The pretended patience was gratifying to his chief. The young man had gone through his refresher training (O'Donnell thought in military terms for this sort of thing) with a passion, trimming off the excess weight, reacquainting himself with his weapons, conferring with the intelligence officers from other fair-skinned