The Teeth of the Tiger - Tom Clancy [182]
The weinerschnitzel was excellent, as were the local wines. "Whoever does this needs to talk to Granddad," Dominic said, after the last bite. "He may know something that Pop-Pop can learn from."
"He's probably Italian, bro, or at least somewhere along the line." Brian finished off his glass of the excellent local white the waiter had recommended. About fifteen seconds later, the waiter took note of it and refilled the glass before vanishing again. "Damn, a man could get used to this eatery. Beats the hell out of MREs."
"With luck, you may never have to eat that crap again."
"Sure, if we just continue this line of work," Aldo responded dubiously. They were essentially alone in a corner booth. "So, what do we know about the new subject?"
"Courier, supposedly. He carries messages in his head-the ones they don't send via the 'Net. Would have been useful to pick his brain some, but that's not the mission. We have a physical description, but no photo this time. That's a little worrisome. He doesn't sound all that important. That's worrisome, too."
"Yeah, I hear you. He must have pissed the wrong people off. Tough luck." His pangs of conscience were a thing of the past, but he really wanted to bag one closer to the top of the food chain. The absence of a photo for ID was indeed worrisome. They'd have to be careful. You didn't want to hit the wrong guy.
"Well, he didn't get on the list by singing too loud at church, y'know?"
"And he ain't the Pope's nephew." Brian completed the litany. "I hear you, man." He checked his watch. "Time to hit the rack, bro. We have to see who's coming tomorrow. How are we supposed to meet him?"
"Message said he'd come to us. Hell, maybe he's going to stay here, too."
"The Campus has funny ideas about security, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, it's not like the movies." Dominic had himself a quiet laugh.
He waved for the check. They'd pass on dessert. In a place like this, it could be lethal. Five more minutes and they were in their beds.
"Think you're clever, eh?" Hendley asked Granger over the secure phones in both their homes.
"Gerry, you told me to send an intel weenie, right? Who else can we spare out of Rick's shop? Everybody's been telling me how sharp the kid is. Okay, let him prove it at the sharp end."
"But he's a rookie," Hendley protested.
"And the twins aren't?" Granger asked in reply. Gotcha. From now on, you'll let me run my shop my way, he thought just as loudly as he could. "Gerry, he's not going to get his hands wet, and this will probably make him a better analyst. He's related to them. They know him. He knows them. They will trust and believe what he has to say, and Tony Wills says he's the brightest young analyst he's seen since he left Langley. So, he's perfect for the assignment, isn't he?"
"He's too junior." But Hendley knew he was losing this one.
"Who isn't, Gerry? If we had any guys available with experience in this line of work, we would have put 'em on the payroll."
"If this blows up-"
"Then I go up in smoke. I know that. Can I watch some TV now?"
"See you tomorrow," Hendley said.
" 'Night, buddy."
Honeybear was surfing the 'Net, chatting with somebody named Elsa K 69, who said she was twenty-three years old, 160 centimeters in height, and fifty-four kilograms in weight, with decent but not exceptional measurements, brown hair, blue eyes, and a nasty, inventive mind. She also had good typing skills. In fact, though Fa'ad had no way of knowing it, it was a man, fifty years old, half drunk and rather lonely. They chatted in English. The "girl" on the other end said "she" was a secretary in London. It was a city