Patriot games - Tom Clancy [162]
The Patriots Club was a bar across the street from Broadway Station in one of South Boston 's Irish enclaves. Its name harkened not back to the revolutionaries of the 1770s, but rather to the owner's image of himself. John Donoho had served in the First Marine Division on the bitter retreat from the Chosin Reservoir. Wounded twice, he'd never left his squad on the long, cold march to the port of Hungnam. He still walked with a slight limp from the four toes that frostbite had taken from his right foot. He was prouder of this than of his several decorations, framed under a Marine Corps standard behind the bar. Anyone who entered the bar in a Marine uniform always got his first drink free, along with a story or two about the Old Corps, which Corporal John Donoho, USMC (ret.), had served at the ripe age of eighteen.
He was also a professional Irishman. Every year he took an Aer Lingus flight from Boston 's Logan International Airport to the old sod, to brush up on his roots and his accent, and sample the better varieties of whiskey that somehow were never exported to America in quantity. Donoho also tried to keep current on the happenings in the North, "the Six Counties," as he called them, to maintain his spiritual connection with the rebels who labored courageously to free their people from the British yoke. Many a dollar had been raised in his bar, to aid those in the North, many a glass raised to their health and to the Cause.
"Hello, Johnny!" Paddy O'Neil called from the door.
"And good evening to you, Paddy!" Donoho was already drawing a beer when he saw his nephew follow O'Neil through the door. Eddie was his dead brother's only son, a good boy, educated at Notre Dame, where he'd played second string on the football team before joining up with the FBI. It wasn't quite as good as being a Marine, but Uncle John knew that it paid a lot better. He'd heard that Eddie was following O'Neil around, but was vaguely sad to see that it was true. Perhaps it was to protect Paddy from a Brit assassin, the owner rationalized.
John and Paddy had a beer together before the latter joined a small group waiting for him in the back room. His nephew stayed alone at the end of the bar, where he drank a cup of coffee and kept an eye on things. After ten minutes O'Neil went back to give his talk. Donoho went to say hello to his nephew.
"Hi, Uncle John," Eddie greeted him.
"Have you set the date yet, now?" John asked, affecting an Irish accent, as he usually did when O'Neil was around.
"Maybe next September," the younger man allowed.
"And what would your father say, you living with the girl for almost a year? And the good fathers at Notre Dame?"
"Probably the same thing they'd say to you for raising money for terrorists," the young agent replied. Eddie was sick and tired of being told how to live his life.
"I don't want to hear any of that in my place." He'd heard that line before, too.
"That's what O'Neil does, Uncle John."
"They're freedom fighters. I know they bend some of our laws from time to time, but the English laws they break are no concern of mine-or yours," John Donoho said firmly.
"You watch TV?" The agent didn't need an answer to that. A wide-screen TV in the opposite corner was used for baseball and football games. The bar's name had also made it an occasional watering hole for the New England Patriots football players. Uncle John's interest in TV was limited to the Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins. His interest in politics was virtually nil. He voted for Teddy Kennedy every six years and considered himself a staunch proponent of national defense. "I want to show you a couple of pictures."
He set the first one on the bar. "This is a little girl named Sally Ryan. She lives in Annapolis."
His uncle picked it up and smiled. "I remember when my Kathleen looked like that."
"Her father is a