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noon。 Semester break is ing 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 plete。〃
〃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 being 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 pletely 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 nations； and living through their critique of the failed operation in London。 These 〃friends〃 had not acknowledged the luck factor； and pointed out that another car of men had been needed to ensure success。 Through all of it； Sean had kept his peace and listened politely。 And now he waited patiently for the decision on his proposed operation。 Perhaps the young man had learned something in that English Jail。
〃Yes。〃
Ryan signed the form； acknowledging receipt of the cartful of information。 He was back in the same cubbyhole office he'd had the previous summer； a windowless； closet…sized room on the third floor of CIA's main building。 His desk was about the smallest size made in federal prison workshops for office use； and the swivel chair was a cheap one。 CIA chic。
The messenger stacked the documents on the corner of Ryan's desk and wheeled the cart back out of the room。 Jack went to work。 He took the top off a Styrofoam cup of coffee bought at the kiosk around the corner； dumped in the whole container of creamer and two envelopes of sugar； and stirred it with a pencil as he often did。 It was a habit his wife loathed。
The pile was about nine inches high。 The files were in oversized envelopes； each of which had an alphanumeric code stamped on in block figures。 The file folders he removed from the top envelope were trimmed with red tape so as to look important the visual cues were designed to be noticed； to stand out visually。 Such files had to be locked up in secure cabinets every night； never left on a desk where someone might take an unauthorized look at them。 The papers inside each were held in place with Acco fasteners； and all had numbers。 The cover of the first file had its codeword neatly typed on a paper label： FIDELITY。 Ryan knew that the code names were assigned at random by a puter； and he wondered how many such files and names there were； if the dictionary of the English language that resided in the puter's memory had been seriously depleted by the elimination of words for the thousands of secret files that sat in cabinets throughout the building。 He hesitated for a moment before opening it； as though doing so would irrevocably mit him to employment at CIA； as though the first step on that path had not already been taken 。 。 。
Enough of that； he told himself； and opened the file。 It was the first official CIA report on the ULA； barely a year old。
〃Ulster Liberation Army；〃 the title of the report read。 〃Genesis of an Anomaly。〃
〃Anomaly。〃 That was the word Murray had used； Ryan remembered。 The first paragraph of the report stated with disarming honesty that the information contained in the following thirty single…spaced pages was more speculation than fact； based principally on data gotten from convicted PIRA members specifically on denials they'd made。 That wasn't our operation； some of them had said after being caught for another。 Ryan frowned。 Not exactly the most reliable of evidence。 The two men who'd done the report； however； had done a superb job of cross…referencing。 The most unlikely story； heard from four separate sources； changed to something else。 It was particularly true since the PIRA was； technically speaking； a professional outfit。 Jack knew from his own research the previous year that the Provisional Wing of the Irish Republican Army was superbly organized； along the classic cellular lines。 It was just like any intelligence agency。 With the exception of a handful of top people； the specifics of any particular operation were partmentalized： known only to those who really needed to know。 〃Need…to…know〃 was the catch phrase in any intelligence agency。
Therefore； if the details of an operation are widely known； the report argued； it can only be because it was not a PIRA op。 Otherwise they would not have known or talked about the details； even among themselves。 This was twisted logic。 Jack thought； but fairly convincing nonetheless。 The theory held insofar as the PIRA's main rival； the less well organized Irish National Liberation Army； the gang that had killed Lord Louis Mountbatten； had often had its operations identified in the same way。 The rivalry between PIRA and INLA had turned vicious often enough； though the latter； with its lack of internal unity and generally amateurish organization； was not nearly as effective。
It was barely a year since the ULA had emerged from the shadows to take some kind of shape。 For the first year they'd operated； it was thought by the British that they were a PIRA Special Action Group； a Provo hit squad； a theory broken when a captured PIRA member had indignantly denied plicity in what had tu