Patriot games - Tom Clancy [192]
"We're good security risks. Jack," Riley said benignly. "Can you imagine one of us being a Communist agent? So, are you interested in the job?"
"I don't know." Ryan looked at his reflection in a window. "It would mean more time away from the family. We're expecting another one this summer, you know."
"Congratulations, that's good news. I know you're a family man, Jack. The job would mean some sacrifices, but you're a good man for it."
"Think so?" I haven't exactly set the world on fire yet.
"I'd rather see people like you over there than some others I know. Jack, you're plenty smart enough. You know how to make decisions, but more importantly, you're a pretty good fellow. I know you're ambitious, but you've got ethics, values. I'm one of those people who thinks that still matters for something in the world, regardless of how nasty things get."
"They get pretty nasty. Father," Ryan said after a moment.
"How close are you to finding them?"
"Not very close at-" Jack stopped himself too late. "You did that one pretty well."
"I didn't mean it that way," Father Tim said very sincerely. "It would be a better world if they were off the street. There must be something wrong with the way they think. It's hard to understand how anyone could deliberately hurt a child."
"Father, you really don't have to understand them. You just have to know where to find them."
"That's work for the police, and the courts, and a jury. That's why we have laws. Jack," Riley said gently.
Ryan turned to the window again. He examined his own image and wondered what it was that he saw. "Father, you're a good man, but you've never had kids of your own. I can forgive somebody who comes after me, maybe, but not anyone who tries to hurt my little girl. If I find him-hell, I won't. But I sure would like to," Jack told the image of himself. Yes, it agreed.
"It's not a good thing, hate. It might do things to you that you'll regret, things that can change you from the person you are."
Ryan turned back, thinking about the person he'd just looked at. "Maybe it already has."
* * *
20
Data
t was a singularly boring tape. Owens was used to reading police reports, transcripts of interrogations, and, worst of all, intelligence documents, but the tape was even more boring than that. The microphone which the Security Service had hidden in Cooley's shop was sound-activated and sensitive enough to pick up any noise. The fact that Cooley hummed a lot made Owens regret this feature. The detective whose job it was to listen to the unedited tape had included several minutes of the awful, atonal noise to let his commander know what he had to suffer through. The bell finally rang.
Owens heard the clatter, made metallic by the recording system, of the door opening and closing, then the sound of Cooley's swivel chair scraping across the floor. It must have had a bad wheel, Owens noted.
"Good morning, sir!" It was Cooley's voice.
"And to you," said the second. "Well, have you finished the Marlowe?"
"Yes, I have."
"So what's the price?"
Cooley didn't say it aloud, but Ashley had told Owens that the shop owner never spoke a price. He handed it to his customers on a file card. That, Owens thought, was one way to keep from haggling.
"That is quite steep, you know," Watkins' voice observed.
"I could get more, but you are one of our better clients," Cooley replied.
The