tc.patriotgames-第83章

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ne　flight　ops。　It　was　hoped　that　the　same　team　of　French　mandos　that　had　raided　Camp　…20　would　also　be　able　to　slip　into　Camp　…18。　Marty　couldn't　tell　Ryan　any　of　this；　but　it　was　a　measure　of　how　well　Action…Directe　had　been　damaged　that　the　French　were　willing　to　give　the　Americans　such　cooperation。　While　it　hadn't　exactly　been　the　first　example　of　international　cooperation；　it　was　one　of　three　such　operations　that　had　actually　been　successful。　The　CIA　had　helped　to　avenge　the　murder　of　a　friend　of　the　French　President。　Whatever　the　differences　between　the　two　countries；　debts　of　honor　were　still　paid　in　full。　It　appealed　to　Cantor's　sense　of　propriety；　but　was　something　known　to　only　twenty　people　within　the　Agency。　The　op　was　scheduled　to　run　in　four　days。　A　senior　case　officer　from　the　Operations　Directorate　was　even　now　working　with　the　French　paratroopers　who；　he　reported；　were　eager　to　demonstrate　their　prowess　yet　again。　With　luck；　the　terrorist　group　that　had　had　the　temerity　to　mit　murder　within　the　United　States　and　the　United　Kingdom　would　be　hurt　by　the　troops　of　yet　another　nation。　If　successful；　the　precedent　would　signal　a　new　and　valuable　development　in　the　struggle　against　terrorism。

　　　　Dennis　Cooley　was　working　on　his　ledger　book。　It　was　early。　The　shop　wasn't　open　for　business　yet；　and　this　was　the　time　of　day　for　him　to　set　his　accounts　straight。　It　wasn't　very　hard。　His　shop　didn't　have　all　that　many　transactions。　He　hummed　away　to　himself；　not　knowing　what　annoyance　this　habit　caused　for　the　man　listening　to　the　microphone　planted　behind　one　of　his　bookshelves。　Abruptly　his　humming　stopped　and　his　head　came　up。　What　was　wrong　。　。　。？
　　　　The　little　man　nearly　leaped　from　his　chair　when　he　smelled　the　acrid　smoke。　He　scanned　the　room　for　several　seconds　before　looking　up。　The　smoke　was　ing　from　the　ceiling　light　fixture。　He　darted　to　the　wall　switch　and　slapped　his　hand　on　it。　A　blue　flash　erupted　from　the　wall；　giving　him　a　powerful　electric　shock　that　numbed　his　arm　to　the　elbow。　He　stared　at　his　arm　in　surprise；　flexing　his　fingers　and　looking　at　the　smoke　that　seemed　to　be　trailing　off。　He　didn't　wait　to　see　it　stop。　Cooley　had　a　fire　extinguisher　in　the　back　room。　He　got　it　and　came　back；　pulled　the　safety　pin；　and　aimed　the　device　at　the　switch。　No　smoke　there　anymore。　Next　he　stood　on　his　chair　to　get　close　to　the　ceiling　fixture；　but　already　the　smoke　was　nearly　gone。　The　smell　remained。　Cooley　stood　on　the　chair　for　over　a　minute；　his　knees　shaking　as　the　chair　moved　slightly　under　him；　holding　the　extinguisher　and　trying　to　decide　what　to　do。　Call　the　fire　brigade？　But　there　wasn't　any　fire　　was　there？　All　his　valuable　books　。　。　。　He'd　been　trained　in　many　things；　but　fighting　fires　was　not　one　of　them。　He　was　breathing　heavily　now；　nearly　panicked　until　he　finally　decided　that　there　wasn't　anything　to　be　panicked　about。　He　turned　to　see　three　people　staring　at　him　through　the　glass　with　curious　expressions。
　　　　He　lowered　the　extinguisher　with　a　shamefaced　grin　and　gestured　ically　to　the　spectators。　The　light　was　off。　The　switch　was　off。　The　fire；　if　it　had　been　a　fire；　was　gone。　He'd　call　the　building's　electrician。　Cooley　opened　the　door　to　explain　what　was　wrong　to　his　fellow　shop　owners。　One　remarked　that　the　wiring　in　the　arcade　was　horribly　out　of　date。　It　was　something　Cooley　hadn't　ever　thought　about。　Electricity　was　electricity。　You　flipped　the　switch　and　the　light　went　on；　and　that　was　that。　It　annoyed　him　that　something　so　reliable；　wasn't。　A　minute　later　he　called　the　building　manager；　who　promised　that　an　electrician　would　be　there　in　half　an　hour。
　　　　The　man　arrived　forty　minutes　later；　apologizing　for　being　held　up　in　traffic。　He　stood　for　a　moment；　admiring　the　bookshelves。
　　　　〃Smells　like　a　wire　burned　out；〃　he　judged　next。　〃You're　lucky；　sir。　That　frequently　causes　a　fire。〃　
　　　　〃How　difficult　will　it　be　to　fix？〃
　　　　〃I　expect　that　I'll　have　to　replace　the　wiring。　Ought　to　have　been　done　years　ago。　This　old　place　　well；　the　electric　service　is　older　than　I　am；　and　that's　too　old　by　half。〃　He　smiled。
　　　　Cooley　showed　him　to　the　fuse　box　in　the　back　room；　and　the　man　went　to　work。　Dennis　was　unwilling　to　use　his　table　lamp；　and　sat　in　the　semidarkness　while　the　tradesman　went　to　work。
　　　　The　electrician　flipped　off　the　outside　master　switch　and　examined　the　fuse　box。　It　still　had　the　original　inspection　tag；　and　when　he　rubbed　off　the　dust；　he　read　off　the　date：　1919。　The　man　shook　his　head　in　amazement。　Almost　seventy　bloody　years！　He　had　to　remove　some　items　to　get　at　the　wall；　and　was　surprised　to　see　that　there　was　some　recent　plasterwork。　It　was　as　good　a　place　to　start　as　any。　He　didn't　want　to　damage　the　wall　any　more　than　he　had　to。　With　hammer　and　chisel　he　broke　into　the　new　plaster；　and　there　was　the　wire　。　。　。　
　　　　But　it　wasn't　the　right　one；　he　thought。　It　had　plastic　insulation；　not　the　gutta…percha　used　in　his　grandfather's　time。　It　wasn't　in　quite　the　right　place；　either。　Strange；　he　thought。　He　pulled　on　the　wire。　It　came　out　easily。
　　　　〃Mr。　Cooley；　sir？〃　he　called。　The　shop　owner　appeared　a　moment　later。　〃Do　you　know　what　this　is？〃

　　　　〃Bloody　hell！〃　the　detective　said　in　the　room　upstairs。　〃Bloody　fucking　hell！〃　He　turned　to　his　panion；　a　look　of　utter　shock　on　his　face。　〃Call　mander　Owens！〃

　　　　〃I've　never　seen　anything　like　this。〃　He　cut　off　the　end　and　handed　it　over。　The　electrician　did　not　understand　why　Cooley　was　so　pale。
　　　　Neither　had　Cooley；　but　he　knew　what　it　was。　The　end　of　the　wire　showed　nothing；　just　a　place　where　the　polyvinyl　insulation　stopped；　without　the　copper　core　that　one　expects　to　see　in　electrical　circuitry。　Hidden　in　the　end　was　a　highly　sensitive　microphone。　The　shop　owner　posed　himself　after　a　moment；　though　his　voice　was　somewhat　raspy。　
　　　　〃I　have　no　idea。　Carry　on。〃
　　　　〃Yes；　sir。〃　The　electrician　resumed　his　search　for　the　power　line。
　　　　Cooley　had　already　lifted　his　telephone　and　dialed　a　number。　
　　　　〃Hello？〃　
　　　　〃Beatrix？〃　
　　　　〃Good　morning；　Mr。　Dennis。　How　are　you　today？〃　
　　　　〃Can　you　e　into　the　shop　this　morning？　I　have　a　small　emergency。〃
　　　　〃Certainly。〃　She　lived　only　a　block　from　the　Holloway　Road　tube　station。　The　Piccadilly　Line　ran　almost　directly　to　the　shop。　〃I　can　be　there　in　fifteen　minutes。〃
　　　　〃Thank　you；　Beatrix。　You're　a　love；〃　he　added　before　he　hung　up。　By　this　time　Cooley's　mind　was　racing　at　mach…1。　There　was　nothing　in　the　shop　or　his　home　that　could　incriminate　him。　He　lifted　the　phone　again　and　hesitated。　His　instructions　under　these　circumstances　were　to　call　a　number　he　had　memorized　　but　if　there　were　a　microphone　in　his　office；　his　phone　。　。　。　and　his　home　phone　。　。　。　Cooley　was　sweating　now　despite　the　cool　temperature。　He　manded　himself　to　relax。　He'd　never　said　anything　promising　on　either　phone　　had　he？　For　all　his　expertise　and　discipline；　Cooley　had　never　faced　danger；　and　he　was　beginning　to　panic。　It　took　all　of　his　concentration　to　focus　on　his　operational　procedures；　the　things　he　had　learned　and　practiced　for　years。　Cooley　told　himself　that　he　had　never　deviated　from　them。　Not　once。　He　was　sure　of　that。　By　the　time　he　stopped　shaking；　the　bell　rang。
　　　　It　was　Beatrix；　he　saw。　Cooley　grabbed　his　coat。　
　　　　〃Will　you　be　back　later？〃
　　　　〃I'm　not　sure。　I'll　call　you。〃　He　went　right　out　the　door；　leaving　his　clerk　with　a　very　curious　look。

　　　　It　had　taken　ten　minutes　to　locate　James　Owens；　who　was　in　his　car　south　of　London。　The　mander　gave　immediate　orders　to　shadow　Cooley　and　to　arrest　him　if　it　appeared　that　he　was　attempting　to　leave　the　country。　Two　men　were　already　watching　the　man's　car　and　were　ready　to　trail　him。　Two　more　were　sent　to　the　arcade；　but　the　detectives　arrived　just　as　he　walked　out；　and　were　on　the　wrong　side　of　the　street。　One　hopped　out　of　the　car　and　followed；　expecting　him　to　turn　onto　Berkeley　Street　toward　his　travel　agent。　Instead；　Cooley　ducked　into　the　tube　station。　The　detective　was　caught　off　guard　and　raced　down　the　entrance　on　his　side　of　the　street。　The　crowd　of　morning　muters　made　spotting　his　short　target　virtually　impossible。　In　under　a　minute；　the　officer　was　sure　that　his　quarry　had　caught　a　train　that　he　had　been　unable　to　get　close　to。　Cooley　had　escaped。
　　　　The　detective　ran　back　to　the　street　and　put　out　a　radio　call　to　alert　the　police　at　Heathrow　airport；　where　this　underground　line　ended　　Cooley　always　flew；　unless　he　drove　his　own　car　　and　to　get　cars　to　all　the　underground　stations　on　the　Piccadilly　Line。　There　simply　wasn't　enough　time。
　　　　Cooley　got　off　at　the　next　station；　as　his　training　had　taught　him；　and　took　a　cab　to　Waterloo　Station。　There　he　made　a　telephone　call。
　　　　〃Five…five…two…nine；〃　the　voice　answered。
　　　　〃Oh；　excuse　me；　I　was　trying　to　get　six…six…three…zero。　Sorry。〃　There　followed　two　seconds　of　hesitation　on　the　other　side　of　the　connection。
　　　　〃Oh　。　。　。　That's　quite　all　right；〃　the　voice　assured　him　in　a　tone　that　was　anything　but　all　right。
　　　　Cooley　replaced　the　phone　and　walked　to　a　train。　It　was　everything　he　could　do　not　to　look　over　his　shoulder。

　　　　〃This　is　Geoffrey　Watkins；〃　he　said　as　he　lifted　the　phone。
　　　　〃Oh；　I　beg　your　pardon；〃　the　voice　said。　〃I　was　trying　to　get　Mr。　Titus。　Is　this　six…two…nine…one？〃　All　contacts　are　broken　until　further　notice；　the　number　told　him。　Not　known　if　you　are　in　danger。　Will　advise　if　possible。
　　　　〃No；　this　is　six…two…one…nine；〃　he　answered。　Understood。　Watkins　hung　the　phone　up　and　booked　out　his　window。　His　stomach　felt　as　though　a　ball　of　refrigerated　lead　had　materialized　there。　He　swallowed　twice；　then　reached　for　his　tea。　For　the　rest　of　the　morning；　it　was　hard　to　concentrate　on　the　Foreign　Office　white　paper　he　was　reading。　He　needed　two　stiff　drinks　with　lunch　to　settle　himself　down。

　　　　By　noon；　Cooley　was　in　Dover；　aboard　a　cross…channel　ferry。　He　was　fully　alert　now；　and　sat　in　a　corner　seat　on　the　upper　deck；　looking　over　the　newspaper　in　his　hands　to　see　if　anyone　was　watching　him。　He'd　almost　bearded　the　hovercraft　to　Calais；　but　decided　against　it　at　the　last　moment。　He　had　enough　cash　for　the　Dover…Dunkerque　ferry；　but　not　the　more　expensive　hovercraft；　and　he　didn't　want　to　leave　a　paper　trail　behind。　It　was　only　two　and　a　quarter　hours　in　any　case。　Once　in　France；　he　could　catch　a　train　to　Paris；　then　start　flying。　He　started　to　feel　secure　for　the　first　time　in　hours；　but　was　able　to　suppress　it　easily　enough。　Cooley　had　never　known　this　sort　of　fear　before；　and　it　left　a　considerable　aftertaste。　The　quiet　hatred　that　had　festered　for　years　now　ate　at　him　like　an　acid。　They　had　made　him　run。　They　had　spied　on　him！　Because　of　all　his　training；　all　the　precautions　that　he'd　followed　assiduously；　and　all　the　professional　skill　that　he'd　employed；　Cooley　had　never　seriously　considered　the　possibility　that　he　would　be　turned。　He　had　thought　himself　too　skillful　for　that。　That　he　was　wrong　enraged　him；　and　for　the　first　time　in　his　life；　he　wanted　to　lash　out　himself。　He'd　lost　his　bookshop　and　with　it　all　the　books　he　loved；　and　this；　too；　had　been　taken　from　him　by　the　bloody　Brits！　He　folded　the　paper　neatly　and　set　it　down　in　his　lap　while　the　ferry　pulled　into　the　English　Channel；　placid　with　the　summer　sun