Cyber Knights 1.1

1

With a touch of dry humor, when pressed for an explanation he could not provide, Andy Webb attributed quirks — behavior of a system that mysteriously occurred then disappeared or odd results that programs sometimes coughed up — to some offense he’d committed against the Greek god Hermes, who, among other things, was the patron of machines and inventions.

Tommy, ever the determined tinker, pinned such flukes and failures squarely on malfunctioning hardware, the sort of thing to be expected from machines assembled by less-than-perfect human beings or equipment that was well past its prime. From time to time, when he was in a mood to do so, he even made a great show of acting as if he was spooked by something a computer did by attributing its unpredictable behavior to a ghost in the machine.

Karen Spencer rejected both theories put forth by her coworkers. In her world there were no such things as problems that could not be analyzed and explained, or chance occurrences caused by ethereal phenomena. There were patterns, routines, and from time to time, random bifurcations caused when a system’s ability to keep track of numbers to the right of a decimal point had reached its limits, leaving the system no other choice than to decide pretty much on its own whether the offending number needed to be added or dropped. So when she suddenly realized the manner in which the miscreant she and Pamela Dutton had dubbed Liberty Valance had gone about selecting his screen names using anagrams of the word ninja, she came to a full dead stop right in the middle of typing a detailed account of his activities and how she and Pamela had ended his cyberstalking.

After easing back in her seat, Spence carefully studied the list of screen names she’d just typed, wondering where she’d seen mention of that sort of behavior before. In the off chance it had been written about in a piece in British Computer Society’s quarterly magazine, Spence made her way past Andy’s desk to a bookshelf where he kept old copies of the magazine, numerous manuals, and reference books on various computer software packages and operating systems side by side with a copy of Lewis and Short’s Latin dictionary and Legionary: The Roman Soldier’s (Unofficial) Manual.

Peeking up from the motherboard he’d scavenged from an old system, Tommy watched as Spence flipped through a copy of one of the magazines. “You’ll not find anything of use in any of those. Experience and poking about these things is the only way you figure them out,” he admonished as he was tapping the edge of the board he was working on with the tip of his tweezers.

“Unfortunately, not everyone is blessed with the memory, not to mention the constitution, of an elephant,” Spence muttered without looking up from the magazine she was leafing through.

Taken aback by her quick response, Tommy glanced over at Andy, who was doing his best to ignore the two. “I think I’ve just been insulted,” Tommy quipped.

“Not an insult,” Spence muttered as she carefully replaced one magazine exactly where she’d found it before taking another off the shelf. “Just a statement of fact.”

Before Tommy could retort, Andy looked over his shoulder at Spence, then at Tommy. “Now, now children. Do try to behave.”

“She started it.”

Andy didn’t repeat his warning to Tommy. He had no need to. The same cold, hard look he’d had come to appreciate was far more effective than words, a look he’d perfected when he’d been a young officer serving in Ireland, was all it took to rein Tommy in.

Unable to help herself, Spence looked up from the magazine she’d been flipping through. When she saw Tommy turn his attention back to what he had been doing, she grinned.

Once more glancing over his shoulder and seeing the triumphant expression on Spence’s face, Andy fixed her in a stare that wasn’t quite as severe, but was no less menacing. “Just what is it you’re looking for?”

“I read an article some time ago about a hacker who used various permutations of a single word to come up with the screen names he operated under,” she explained. “The way Liberty Valance went about generating his screen names caused me to wonder if that was a technique that was more common than I’d initially thought.”

Even as he was deciding if Spence’s curiosity was genuine, a niggling little thought began to bubble up in the deep recesses of Andy’s mind, a memory stirred by what she’d said.

Andy’s thoughtful expression caused Spence to stop what she’d been doing as she waited for him to mull it over. She wanted him to either tell her he knew where she’d find what she was looking for or suggest someplace else to look. She had no idea Andy’s thoughts had already drifted off in another direction, far removed from the matter she was interested in.

As was so often the case when Andy was unable to put to rest a concern he’d been dwelling on before retiring for the evening, sleep did not come easily that night. Even when it did, brief flashes of things he longed to forget passed through his restless mind.

Then, like a thunder clap, the answer to the question Spence had been searching for earlier in the day leapt to the fore, causing Andy to sit bolt upright in his bed. He had seen the same method used to select various screen names Spence had encountered. But it hadn’t been the subject of a magazine article. Rather, it had been in the real world, the one where he had learned his stock and trade the hard way, through trial and error just as Tommy had. Only Andy’s education had cost him far more than bits and pieces of computer hardware that had been tinkered with so much that they were of no use to anyone. The price of Andy’s indoctrination into the vicious world of cyberwarfare had been paid for with blood.

2

Having finished reading an old copy of An Phoblacht, Andy Webb set the paper aside before taking up the pint he’d been nursing for close to an hour. Ever so slowly he scanned the room, his eyes darting from one patron to another. Only when he was satisfied none of the regulars were paying him any mind did he fix his gaze on the door leading out onto the back alley, the one Collin Cassidy always used whenever he wished to avoid being spotted by a section of Brit soldiers who made a terrible hash of keeping an eye on the place.

In the wake of the corporals’ killings, Andy’s commanding officer had been more than reluctant to allow him to venture forth into Ardoyne, a working-class neighborhood that had been declared a “no-go” area by the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Andy had prevailed however, insisting that Collin Cassidy, a tout who’d been working for the army for a dozen years, wouldn’t have insisted on meeting him if it weren’t important. “The man’s got more to lose than I have if we’re had,” Andy pointed out to his colonel. “I’m only putting my life on the line. He’s risking his entire family.”

In response, the colonel grunted. “You bloody riflemen are all alike. Never happy unless you’re sticking your nose where it damned well shouldn’t be.”

With the brashness of a young subaltern who’d yet to feel the sting of war, and immensely proud of being a member of the Royal Green Jackets, Andy grinned. “Though I expect it’ll be more than my nose that’ll be out there tonight, it’s where I need to be, front and center where the action’s sharp.”

At the moment the cheek he’d used to win over specialist unit’s commanding officer was no longer evident. Even if the time on the old key-wound wall clock over the bar was right, which it seldom was, Cassidy was late, Andy concluded glumly. He once again looked about the crowded pub to see if his presence was causing any of the other patrons to give him more than a passing look. Though not known for being punctual, the man he relied upon to provide him with information no one else was able to come by was usually able to hit close to the mark he set himself. “Ten minutes, no more,” Andy muttered to himself under his breath. If the jolly old codger who made quite a show of playing the part of an affable fool didn’t show in ten minutes, he’d have little choice but to chalk this up to another rabbit hole he’d been led down by the bastard.

With a fanfare that brought an abrupt halt to every conversation in the place and caused heads to snap around, Collin Cassidy finally made his grand entrance. “Good evening, gents,” he declared as if all had been waiting for him to appear. “I hope you’re all in good health and enjoying this grand evening.”

Not even the most hard-bitten Provo was impervious to the antics of Collin Cassidy, a man whose mere presence had the ability to bring a smile to a corpse at its own wake. After sharing greetings with Cassidy and satisfied all was as it should be, everyone save Andy turned their attention back to what they’d been doing as Cassidy paused to look about the room. Only when he’d spotted Andy seated in the same corner booth he always occupied did Cassidy step aside and, with a quick nod of his head, signal someone who had been waiting in the alley to enter the pub.

The man stepped forward like a new boy being brought before the headmaster for the first time. It wasn’t his hesitancy that caused Andy to sit up and frown. Rather, it was an appreciation that even attired in Belfast mufti, the newcomer was a Brit soldier.

When he saw Andy’s expression, Cassidy’s ever-present grin broadened. It wasn’t often he managed to rattle the man who served as his contact with the Crown forces, so when he did he found himself utterly incapable or keeping it to himself. “And what news do you and the lads have to share with me tonight?” Cassidy asked as he strolled up to the booth, stood aside, and motioned to the Brit to slide into the bench seat across from Andy.

Making no effort to hold back, Andy leaned over the table as far as he could once Cassidy had joined the Brit. “What the fuckin’ hell do you mean by bringing him here like this?” he growled using his best Belfast brogue in order to keep the newcomer across from him from catching on they were both soldiers of the Queen.

“The lad refused to give up what he’s brought you, not to me at least, not until he saw the color of your money,” Cassidy explained as if the Brit wasn’t there listening to his every word. “Seems he don’t trust me.”

“Can you blame ’im?” Andy growled as his eyes slewed from Cassidy to the rather overweight and visibly nervous soldier. “Anyone who’d be fool enough to bring a Brit in here has got to be more than a bit daft.”

“That’s me,” Cassidy chirped as he caught the attention of the pub’s owner and held two fingers up by way of ordering a couple of beers. Being something of a regular, that was all Cassidy had to do here, and in just about any establishment in a part of Belfast all but governed by the RA.

Deciding it would be best if he concluded his business as quickly as possible and beat as hasty a retreat as was practicable, Andy turned his attention back to the Brit soldier. “What is it you’ve got to offer that’s valuable enough to come waltzing in here at a time like this?”

“Before I show you, I want to see your money,” the Brit replied with an impertinence that struck Andy as being beyond foolish.

Easing back in his seat, Andy smirked as he began to sip his beer, never once taking his eyes off the Brit. When he was finished, he made a great show of looking about the room as he spoke. “I do hope you appreciate you’re in no position to make demands. If I had a mind to, all I’d need to do was snap my fuckin’ fingers and you’d be joining that pair of corporals.”

Realizing he’d overstepped his bounds, the Brit relented, placing a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string on the table. Ever so slowly he slid it toward Andy.

“And what the bloody hell is that?”

“It’s the hard drive from a computer.”

Like many of his peers, Andy knew what computers were and what they did. But that was about the extent of his knowledge. When the Brit saw the quizzical expression on Andy’s face, he hastened to explain. “It’s the part of a computer where information is stored. It remembers everything that’s been run through the computer, even if the operator tries to erase it.”

“What’s so important about this one?”

Cassidy answered for the soldier. “Our friend here is a storesman at HQ Northern Ireland in Lisburn. They’re getting rid of the computers they’ve been using, replacing them with new systems. The computer the lad here got this thing out of was one that he was ordered to dispose of.” Cassidy’s grin was near to splitting his face. “It was used by a major who oversees counterterrorist operations.”

As hard as he tried, Andy found he could not help but react to Cassidy’s revelation. He only hoped the man didn’t see it for what it was: shock.

Pausing to collect his wits, Andy drained the last of his beer. Only when he was ready did he once more lean over the table and address the Brit. “If this is what you say it is, you can be sure you’ll get your just reward,” he muttered in a low voice even as he was reaching out, placing his hand over the wrapped piece of computer hardware. He slid it toward himself, glaring menacingly into the eyes of a fellow British soldier as he did so. “I expect this doddering old fool knows how to contact you.”

Realizing he’d sadly misplayed his hand and having no choice but to play along, the Brit held his tongue. Instead, he nodded. “Aye, he knows.”

Satisfied, Cassidy came to his feet, allowed the Brit soldier to slide out of the booth, and watched him leave the same way he’d entered the place, never once suspecting the reward Andy would arrange for him was far different than the one he had in mind.

After he’d gone, Cassidy beamed as he was resuming his seat. “Well now, does that patch things up between us sufficiently to buy a round for a poor soul who’s been down on his luck of late?”

Despite wishing to leave as soon as possible and pass the odd package on to people who would know what to do with it, Andy had little choice but to honor Cassidy’s less than subtle request. Lifting his empty glass, he managed to catch the pub owner’s attention, tipping the glass toward Cassidy and then himself by way of letting the man know he needed to serve them another round even though the one Cassidy had ordered had yet to arrive.

Edward Telford and the section from the Coldstream Guards close observation platoon, or COP, who were Andy’s backup, would just have to cool their heels a little longer, Andy told himself. Like all guards officers he’d come across, Telford impressed Andy as being entirely unsuited for the sort of cat-and-mouse game Andy found to be strangely exhilarating. Keeping his fellow captain and friend on edge, waiting like he was crammed in the rear of a pig together with a bunch of squaddies who were eager to extract some righteous vengeance on the Provos who’d killed corporals David Howes and Derek Wood, could be the only bright spot he would be able to salvage from what could very well turn out to be a waste of his time, especially if the package he’d slipped inside an oversized pocket hidden in his coat wasn’t worth the price of scrap metal it would fetch.

It was the rare day that Andy beat Spence into the office. While no one would ever be able to accuse him of being a slouch when it came to work, Spence’s childhood habit of slipping out of bed before her father in order to spend time with him before he headed off to the base had left its mark, leaving her unable to sleep past oh-six-hundred. Now, with no one to chat with at home over a bowl of cereal before embarking on a new day, Spence headed out the door long before the likes of Tommy even thought of tumbling out of bed.

Besides the computer he was using — an ancient Compaq Portable II that was, in her opinion, about as portable as a cinder block — what struck her as odd on this day was Andy’s attire. Rather than apparel that allowed him to blend in with London bankers and the countless bureaucrats who carried out the orders of HMG, Andy was wearing a gray hoodie and matching trackie bottoms. If this wasn’t enough to cause Spence to balk, even from across the room it was evident he hadn’t even taken the time to shave before leaving his flat.

Without taking her eyes off of him, Spence set aside the groceries she’d picked up on her way to the office and waited for him to acknowledge her presence. When he didn’t, she ever so slowly crossed the room. The idea of trying to be cute by sneaking up and surprising him never entered her mind. She was well aware one didn’t do that to a person who’d spent more than his fair share of time tempting the Fates in places like Northern Ireland, Bosnia, and Kosovo.

Coming around his desk and stopping before it, she chose instead to make her presence known by clearing her throat. “Would you care for coffee or tea?” she asked quietly.

“Coffee,” he muttered without bothering to look up from the tiny monochrome screen he was staring at with an intensity that cut deep furrows into his brow. “Please.”

“Would you like a croissant as well? I picked them up fresh this morning.”

“Hmm, yeah, sure,” he added as he took to madly tapping the keyboard’s down arrow key as his eyes hurriedly scanned each line as it appeared.

Realizing Andy wouldn’t tell her what was so hellfire important until he was ready, provided, of course that he felt she had a need to know, Spence made her way back to the counter in the corner of the office where the coffeemaker, kettle, and other such things were kept. There she busied herself making coffee and cutting a croissant before smothering both halves with a thick layer of butter and jam. When the coffee was ready, she poured a cup for herself as well as Andy. With the paper plate on which the croissant was set perched upon Andy’s cup, she returned to his desk, set it down, and stepped back.

His response to her kindness came as no great surprise. Without looking away from the computer’s screen, he slowly reached out until his fingertips lit upon the croissant. Mechanically he took it up, raised it to his mouth, and took a bite, ignoring the glop of jam that oozed out and fell into his lap. Finished, he returned the croissant to the plate and moved his hand about until it brushed the coffee cup. In the same unthinking manner, he brought it to his lips and took a sip. Only then, as he held the cup aloft and off to one side, did he remember to thank Spence in a most perfunctory and distracted manner.

Realizing Andy was lost to the world, at least until he’d completed the quest he was on, Spence retreated to prepare her own croissant while sipping her coffee.

When he finally made his appearance, Tommy recognized Andy’s behavior straight off for what it was, an obsession, the kind that would not be quelled until it had been mastered. So rather than declare his arrival as he often did by greeting Spence with a glib remark meant to rile her, he made his way over to the snack counter, poured himself a cup of coffee, took up a croissant, and made his way over to his desk with all the care and cunning of a poacher who was stalking game on a royal preserve.

It was close to an hour after Tommy had settled into tinkering with a new computer he’d procured, if for no other reason than to take it apart and see if there was anything new in how it functioned, and Spence was squarely focused on her own tasks that Andy finally emerged from the obsession that had taken hold of him. But rather than greeting them as he so often had done in the past whenever he’d tuned out people who’d come to be more family than employees, he began to spit out orders in a manner that startled Spence and catapulted Tommy back to the days when he and his mates were being addressed by their ever-friendly sergeant major.

“Tommy, shelve whatever it is you’re working on and head up to Morpeth. Once there, you’re to find out all you can about the people who picked up the shipment of computers that were in the container Charlie Mills’ driver picked up in Antwerp.”

“Is there anything in particular I’m looking for, boss?”

Before he answered, Andy hesitated. Averting his eyes, he thought on the matter before meeting Tommy’s steady gaze. “Maybe nothing. But if I’m correct, you’ll know right off.”

Then, without waiting for a response or expanding upon his reply, he turned to Spence. “Pull up that program of yours that analyzes word use and writing styles on your secure computer and then run this through,” he ordered, even as he was tossing a flash drive across the room to her.

Suspecting Andy’s answer to her question as to what she was looking for would be no different than the one he’d given Tommy, Spence didn’t bother asking even as she reached up and caught the flash drive with an adroitness that impressed Tommy. She then set aside the project she’d been working on and spun about in her chair to access a computer that was not only isolated from the Internet but was shielded by a cabinet of Tommy’s own design intended to keep whatever was typed on it from being detected by another system. While it was not entirely bomb proof, anyone wishing to hack into it would, Tommy claimed, have to be damned determined, cleverer than him, and incredibly well equipped.

Having given both Spence and Tommy their marching orders, Andy glanced up at the wall clock across the room from his desk. After doing a quick time zone conversion, he wondered if it would be worth the effort to call New York now, before he had answers to the questions he had assigned the others to look into. Deciding it might be best if he waited at least until Spence had run a comparison of the files he’d passed over to her to see if there really was a match, he put off calling Susan G. It wouldn’t do to bother her until he had something more substantial than a hunch to discuss with her, he concluded. Having managed to make something of a fool of himself the last time he’d seen her, he had no intention of doing so again or, even worse, giving her the impression he was using a theory he was toying with as an excuse to contact her. As it was, things were already becoming far more complicated in his life, Andy reminded himself as he glanced over to where Karen Spencer was busily carrying out his orders.

3

Rather than wander about like a brash young Guards officer too proud to ask for directions, Andy stopped the first NCO he came across who looked as if he was switched on and asked where he could find Major Barrett Sanderson’s office. Much to his surprise, the staff corporal grinned. “Oh, I expect you’ll find the Sandman locked away in his dungeon.” When he saw the odd look on Andy’s face, the corporal stepped back, turned, and pointed back in the direction from which he’d come. “At the end of the corridor make a left, sir, go down two flights of stairs, and then follow the signs pointing to the R Signals computer lab.” With that, the corporal hurriedly saluted and headed off without feeling the need to waste any more time on a scruffy captain who’d somehow managed to escape being censured by his regimental sergeant major for stepping out looking more like a busker fresh from a night spent in a London station than an officer holding the Queen’s commission.

When he finally came upon a door marked with Major Sanderson’s name, Andy knocked. After waiting a minute without a reply, he knocked again with a bit more zeal. His second effort was rewarded with an answer. “It’s unlocked.”

Assuming this was an invitation to enter, Andy opened the door and did just that. Having taken the precaution of finding out exactly who Major Barrett Sanderson, Royal Signals, was, Andy was not at all surprised to see his office resembled a secondhand electronics shop. At the moment the only person in the room, whom Andy assumed was the major, sat with his back to the door at a table pushed up against the wall on the far side of the room. The balding officer appeared to be bent over a keyboard whilst staring intently at a computer screen.

Closing the door behind him, Andy stood just inside the room, patiently waiting for the major to finish up whatever he was working on and address him. When he didn’t, Andy cleared his throat. “You sent for me, sir?”

“If your name is Webb, yes, I did.”

Andy was left standing there, watching as Sanderson’s fingers flew across the keyboard of a computer nestled between a pair of other machines. In time the major stopped and leaned back in his armless swivel chair as he took to studying what he’d just typed. Only when he appeared to be satisfied with his labors and had hit a few more keys did he spin his chair about, wheel himself over to his desk, and pick up the computer component Andy recognized as the one he’d been given by the rogue storeman.

Resting his elbows on the desk before him, Sanderson held the device aloft in both hands as he stared at Andy with an intensity that was unnerving. “Do you know what this is, Captain?” Sanderson asked with a measured deliberation that reminded Andy of his former headmaster.

Not sure if he’d been had by the storeman and was about to receive a right proper bollocking for wasting a staff officer’s precious time, Andy paused uncertainly. “I was told it was the hard drive from a computer.”

“Oh, it’s much more than that,” Sanderson murmured. “So much more.” He waited a moment, allowing his cryptic comment to hang there between them. “Without bothering to hook it up to a compatible system and finding out for sure, I could pass it off as the complete works of William Shakespeare. Or it could hold the entire order of battle for the British Army of the Rhine and its subordinate commands’ assigned sectors along the Inner German Border.”

Not knowing what to say, Andy simply stood there, waiting for the major to continue.

Having concluded this odd little introduction to the strange world of computers where he appeared to be the undisputed lord and master, Sanderson set the hard drive down, eased back in his seat, and waved a hand at the only other chair in the room. “Have a seat, Captain. Would you care for some tea?”

With his curiosity piqued, Andy nodded his assent as he settled down, his innate caution causing him to shift the chair slightly so he could see both the major and the door he had entered by.

Coming to his feet, Sanderson walked over to a bench that stretched along the length of one wall. Plugging in the ubiquitous electric kettle nestled alongside half a dozen further computers, no two of which were alike, Sanderson returned to his desk where he once again took up the hard drive Andy had recovered from the storeman, made his way back to the table he’d been seated at when Andy had entered the room, and proceeded to attach it to a computer that had had its protective case removed. “Do you know what a hard drive is?” he asked as he was fiddling about.

“Other than being a major component in a computer, I haven’t the foggiest.”

Once he’d finished connecting the hard drive and had booted up the computer, Sanderson stood and returned to the kettle that by this time was whistling like an old steam locomotive pulling out of the station. “Milk? Sugar?”

“A touch, if you please, and no, thank you sir.”

Having finished his chores as a host by handing Andy his mug, Sanderson returned to where the computer he’d been fiddling with was now up and running. “While the logic board, better known as the motherboard, can be considered the heart of the system, the hard drive is the brain where data is stored, sorted, and retrieved from.”

Unable to resist, Andy rose from his chair, stepped around behind the major’s desk, and came up behind the man to watch what he was doing. “How does it work?” Andy asked quietly.

Pausing, Sanderson glanced over his shoulder. “Are you aware they call me the Sandman?” he asked with something of a grin on his face.

“The corporal I asked directions from did mention it,” Andy admitted sheepishly.

Sanderson returned to studying the small monitor where a directory of the hard drive’s content was now displayed. “I’m called the Sandman because I have a knack for putting very senior officers to sleep whenever I’m called on to brief them on computer security, which isn’t done near enough, I’m sorry to say.”

“I’ve often been accused of the same thing, though I expect the reasons are a tad different,” Andy admitted. “I’ve been told my voice takes on something of a monotone quality when I am presenting.”

“Hmm, it seems it’s a curse I share with you that only serves to compound a near utter lack of interest whenever I try to impress upon our betters they need to pay more attention to computer security.” Sanderson sighed. “Well, be that as it may,” he continued in a more upbeat tone after a brief pause. “If you were to fieldstrip a hard drive, you’d find it bears an uncanny resemblance to an old gramophone. Inside the metal casing of the modern hard drives manufactured these days you’d find one or more small platters made out of an aluminum alloy, glass, or a ceramic material, which are covered with a magnetic material. Information input into the computer is recorded on each platter and then read by magnetic heads mounted on the end of a moving actuator arm. The big difference between the actuator arm on a hard drive and a gramophone is the hard drive’s can wander across the surface of the platter and retrieve information in any block, or track if you like, that is on the platter.”

Pausing, Sanderson peeked over his shoulder again and cocked his brow. “Still awake?”

Unable to help himself, Andy chuckled. “Yes, very.”

“Hmm, I must be losing my touch,” Sanderson muttered as he turned his attention back to the screen. “In this case I just ordered the hard drive to fetch a file entitled liaison officers, the name the officer who used this particular hard drive attributed to a list of serving officers who dealt directly with the sources we rely on to keep us abreast of what PIRA and all their little friends are up to.”

In an instant the levity that had been creeping into their conversation evaporated as Andy recognized a number of names on the list the major was slowly scrolling down, names that included his own.

“As you can see, the seemingly innocuous electronic component you brought me could, in the hands of the wrong people, not only undo years of effort to infiltrate the RA, but could very well result in the wholesale slaughter of some of our best and brightest young officers.”

Suspecting he’d made his point, Sanderson spun about in his seat, came to his feet, and stared into Andy’s eyes. “I’m always on the hunt for talent, officers who know what they’re about and have a quick mind. After you brought this in I had a chat with your colonel. He’s rather fond of you.”

This caused Andy to blink as his mind raced to catch up to where the major was now taking their exchange. “I must say, that’s the first time I ever heard someone attribute Colonel Lockhart with being fond of anyone, save that pair of hounds of his,” he replied in a feeble attempt to regain his footing by injecting a spot of humor into a conversation that had taken an unexpected and very grim turn.

“He told me you not only know how to keep your wits about you, but that you’re the kind of officer who never misses a chance to take advantage of an opportunity in the field when it comes your way, no matter how seemingly dodgy it at first appears.”

To this, Andy, a man who his friends considered far too modest to be an infantry officer, had no answer.

Pleased by his silence, Sanderson resumed his seat and wheeled it away from the side table and back to his desk, indicating Andy was to take his seat as well. When they were both settled, Sanderson immediately cut to the chase. “I need someone like you to do something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time and, thanks to that hard drive you brought me, I can finally attempt.”

Now on his guard, Andy sat up, cocking his head to one side as he took to warily regarding the Royal Signals officer.

“I’m told you’ve managed to become something of a known quantity to some of our sources in PIRA,” Sanderson stated in a manner that alerted Andy that the major knew far more about him than he had originally thought. “It seems they even trust you enough to run errands for them from time to time, much to the vexation of your colonel.”

Unable to help himself, Andy nodded. “Well, as you yourself said, if the opportunity to learn more about the RA comes my way, I’d be a fool not to take advantage of it.”

“Hmm, yes. Be that as it may, what I have in mind is something a bit more involved than simply running an errand.”

Like any good Rifleman, Andy realized he was being led into an ambush. Still, the lure of learning more about the Sandman’s strange world, one that impressed Andy as being something well worth looking into, was simply too much to resist. “I’m listening.”

The idea of spending even more time north of the River Tyne was one Tommy did not relish, for he considered the Geordies and their fellow North Countrymen to be little better than Scots. His attitude went through something of a transformation not long after arriving in Morpeth when he came to discover the shipment of laptop computers he’d been sent to check on had been ordered and picked up by a company that didn’t exist. “The address the cheeky bastards listed on all the shipping documents that Northumberland Haulage had on file belongs to the rectory of the Roman Catholic Church here in town,” Tommy informed Andy over the phone.

While he could easily dismiss the notion there wasn’t any possible link between his own religion and the choice of addresses the people associated with the fictitious company had chosen, Andy could not escape the very real possibility the reason behind the subterfuge was more than a simple case of smuggling. “Once you’ve acquired copies of everything you can from Charlie Mills concerning that particular order, and the people who picked it up from him, you’re to head straight for the local police,” Andy ordered. “Inform them if they’ve not yet heard from someone belonging to the Security Service concerning this matter before you arrived, they will be shortly.”

“What do I tell them is so bloody important about the computers we’re interested in?”

“To start with, tell them they’re not to think of them as computers.”

Tommy, who’d dealt with every sort of miscreant who used computers and the Web for every imaginable crime, didn’t need to ask Andy to explain any further. He knew better than most that a single laptop of the type that had been in the missing shipment could contain all the instructions needed to construct a dirty bomb using material obtained within the territorial boundaries of the United Kingdom, formulas that would allow a first-year university student to mix up a drum of sarin and easy-to-follow instructions on how to weaponize anthrax using the facilities and material found at any number of universities engaged in agricultural research. “I’ll get right on it.”

“If there’s even a hint of trouble, you’re to inform them they’re to contact Ed Telford at No. 10 Downing Street. He’ll sort them out.”

To this, Tommy chuckled. “Oh, there’ll be no need to bother him. I know how to make my point with the muppets up here.”

Rather than warn Tommy not to ruffle too many feathers as he tended to do with officials who were proving to be difficult, Andy ended the conversation with a quick admonishment he was to get right on it. Having finished with Tommy, he turned to Spence, who had been listening to his side of the conversation. Reading her expression for what it was, he explained without her needing to ask. “The drugs the police recovered from the container Charlie Mills’ driver picked up in Antwerp were a red herring, a diversion intended to keep the authorities from looking at anything else in the container.”

“The computers, the one’s you’re worried about, what do you think they contain?” Spence asked in a voice that told Andy she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to hear the answer.

Andy didn’t bother to venture a guess. Instead, he merely grunted. “Something valuable enough to lead the people sent to pick up the container to fight for it.”

After staring into each other’s eyes for a long moment without either saying a word, Spence returned to running the old files Andy had transferred from ancient five-and-a-quarter-inch floppy disks onto the flash drive he’d given her that morning and comparing them to more recent files using the pattern recognition program Tommy had picked up from Vegas and Jenny Garver. In the meantime, Andy turned his attention back to his phone, dialing a private number Ed Telford gave to a select number of people. When he answered, Andy didn’t bother with any of the lighthearted banter the two were fond of. Instead, he struck right to the heart of the matter. “Listen and listen good, mate. We’ve got a problem that can’t wait.”

4

“Well, like my colonel always used to say,” a voice behind Andy called out above the din of the arrival terminal. “You can always tell a Brit officer. You just can’t tell him much.”

Stopping, Andy turned around to find himself facing a bright-eyed ginger who was as near a match in height as he was. That was where all the similarities ended, for while Andy possessed a build that was well proportioned and sinewy with chiseled facial features habitually set in an expression that betrayed nothing, the person greeting him was anything but imposing. Despite being just a tad taller than Andy, now that he’d had a chance to study the person more closely, he imagined he couldn’t have weighed much more than eleven stone, if that. But it was the American’s expression, a lopsided smile, slate-gray almond-shaped eyes, and high, rosy cheeks that were at odds with what Andy had expected to see in an NYPD officer assigned to work undercover amongst the sort of criminals Andy dealt with.

“The name’s O’Conner,” the American declared cheerfully while offering Andy his hand. “Steven G. O’Conner.”

“Webb,” Andy managed to say as he set aside his surprise and reached out to accept the American’s hand. “Andy Webb.”

“Any problems getting that through customs?” O’Conner asked as his eyes darted down at the computer case leaning up against Andy’s leg.

“Not a bit. They did have me turn it on, but that’s all.”

“Bombs and drugs are all they’re interested in,” O’Conner explained. “You’ll find American customs officials are a wee bit leery of scruffy-looking characters coming from the UK who have authentic Irish accents, and not the god-awful attempts some Americans insist on trying out every St. Patrick’s Day, whether they’re Irish or not.”

“Um, yes,” Andy replied warily, well aware of the sadly misplaced sympathies so many Americans had for a land their ancestors had turned their backs on and compassion for a cause few understood. It was a cause that far too many supported financially, and in some cases, with some of the very weapons he and every member of the security forces potentially faced each time they ventured beyond the wire.

“If you’re finished here, I’m parked right out front,” O’Conner announced as he reached out to grab Andy’s suitcase.

Snatching it up before the American was able to get ahold of it, Andy forced a smile when O’Conner’s eyes flicked from the suitcase to his. “I’ve got it.”

“Suit yourself, old boy,” O’Conner murmured evenly. “This way.”

Much to Andy’s surprise, the car O’Conner led him to was right outside the terminal’s exit, parked in a zone that was clearly marked No Parking. When O’Conner saw the way the Brit was eyeing his ten-year-old Ford Pinto, he grinned. “She may not be much, but she’s all mine, fender to fender.”

“I remember reading somewhere that these things are fire hazards,” Andy muttered as he waited for the American to pop the car’s boot, trunk, he reminded himself with a smile. This is America.

“Don’t worry, they only blow up if they’re hit.”

The primer gray paint, covering what Andy guessed to be several pounds of auto body filler used to flesh out a massive dent in the passenger’s door, did little to allay Andy’s concerns that quickly grew by leaps and bounds the moment O’Conner pulled away from the curb and aggressively merged into traffic.

During a wild ride from the airport to the city that left Andy wondering if Steven G. O’Conner was as barking mad as he and his peers assumed all Americans were, or was simply trying to get a rise out of him, the two men peppered each other with probing questions in an effort to find out if the briefs they’d received concerning the other were complete, or if there was some sort of hidden agenda neither was at liberty to share. Andy, who assumed he had the upper hand in this tête-à-tête due to his duties in Belfast, found O’Conner surprisingly forthcoming when he asked why he, an NYPD patrolman, had been picked for this particular assignment. Much to Andy’s surprise, the red-haired New Yorker didn’t hold back, not one bit.

The reason the Irish side of his family had come to the United States was not due to the Great Famine, a calamity O’Conner was quick to point out, his father and grandfather had always blamed squarely on the bloody English. “We’re O’Conners,” he declared proudly as he sped around the right side of a Mercedes that was going too slow for his liking before cutting it off. “It took more than a simple famine to run us out of Ireland.” He then went on to explain that his great-great-grandfather had fought with Thomas Meagher during the Young Irish Rebellion of 1848. “Rather than going into hiding, Patrick O’Conner boarded a famine ship and set out for New York where he, and some of the other lads he fell in with, joined the 69th New York.”

By the time they reached Andy’s hotel, O’Conner had gone through the long and glorious history of the American branch of the O’Conner clan, including a listing of every organization his father belonged to, including the Ancient Order of Hibernians, the Knights of Columbus, and the Veterans of Foreign Wars. “As you can see, when it comes to being trusted by your lot who have taken refuge in the Irish American Community, even though I’m a cop, I’m all but bulletproof with the local branch of the RA, which is why the FBI special agent in charge, who can be very Polish when he wants to be, decided it would be best if I served as your handler.”

“It’s not the PIRA I’m interested in,” Andy pointed out as they sat in the car that was now double-parked in front of the hotel, much to the irritation of the concierge.

“I know,” O’Conner shot back. “Which is where my mom and her relatives come into play. You see, she’s second-generation Italian American. The G in my middle name stands for Giovanni.” When he didn’t expand upon this point, Andy couldn’t help but return the redhead’s steady gaze with a questioning look, which caused O’Conner to grin. “Let’s just say my Uncle Paul is extremely well connected. If anyone can arrange a meeting between you and the people you’re interested in, he can.”

Realizing he’d gotten just about everything out of O’Conner that the man was willing to divulge, and eager to make good his escape before the American had an opportunity to begin delving into what was so important about the Russian expat Andy had been dispatched to meet, he threw open his door and began to exit O’Conner’s small, beat-up old car. In doing so, the car door he was holding was nearly ripped off its hinges by a cabbie who, after swerving in order to miss it and him, stuck his arm out of the window of his cab and gave Andy the finger.

O’Connor just grinned as the Brit was given a down-home New York welcome. “We’re scheduled to meet the Sealion at his shop in Little Odessa tomorrow at ten o’clock sharp,” he called out to Andy as he was making his way to the curb.

Pausing after he’d reached the relative safety of the pavement, damn, no, sidewalk, Andy turned back; quizzically regarding the American. “The Sealion?”

Rather than answering, O’Conner flashed Andy another lopsided smile. “The second you lay eyes on him, you’ll know how he got that name.” With that, O’Conner once more popped the trunk and watched as Andy retrieved his suitcase and the computer Major Sanderson had given him. After agreeing on a time to meet the next day, he slipped back into his Pinto and drove off, whilst Andy found himself wondering as he watched him go just how much he dare share with an American whose sympathies for his distant Irish cousins could very well trump his sense of duty.

“How did you know?” Spence asked when she saw Andy had finished going over her findings.

“The anagrams,” he replied as he eased back in his seat and looked up from the screen of his monitor. “The Sealion advertises using his handle but never uses that name when communicating with his clients. He used a_lesion as a screen name during the Kirkland Affair, on_a_isle when he did that job in Devon, and, to cover whatever he’s up to with the people up in Northumberland, he’s been signing himself off as is_on_ale. That, coupled with a grudge he seems to have with anything or anyone who’s English, should have tipped me off a hell of a lot sooner than this.”

Pausing, Andy averted his gaze a moment before giving his head a quick shake and grunting. “I’m slipping,” he muttered. “If I’d missed something this bloody obvious back in Belfast I’d be nothing more than a name on a weathered plaque. I must be getting old,” he concluded somberly.

“Not old,” Spence chirped brightly as she came to her feet and graced Andy with a smile. “Distinguished.” With that, she pivoted about and headed back to her own desk, making something of a show of allowing Andy to watch her as she went and leaving him to wonder if it was smart to allow his mind to wander off into territory that had until recently been unthinkable.

Little Odessa actually turned out to be Brighton Beach, a section of Brooklyn that earned its name from the large number of Russian-speaking Jews who had been drawn there in the 1970s, joining a well-established Jewish community centered on the Holocaust survivors who had preceded them.

The shop O’Conner parked in front of, like so many others along the main drag, could just as easily have been in the Ukrainian city of Odessa, the area it was named after, for the signs and advertisements covering just about every square inch of the windows were almost all in Cyrillic text.

“Don’t let the Sealion fool you,” O’Conner warned as they were preparing to get out of the beat-up Pinto he’d parked once again at an awkward angle. “Once he’s sure about the people he’s dealing with, he’ll do his best to put you at ease by acting as if you’re a long-lost relative. The truth is, if my Uncle Paul is right, and he usually is when it comes to matters like this, the Sealion does some contract work on the side for the Russian mafia.”

Andy didn’t need the NYPD officer to elaborate as to the nature of that work. He was able to figure that out all on his own.

Upon entering the shop, the two men were greeted by a woman wearing a babushka who broke out into a warm, inviting grin as soon as she saw O’Conner. “It has been too long, Stefan. I was beginning to think you had forgotten us.”

Without pausing, O’Conner made his way around the counter and accepted a hearty hug from the woman. “How could I forget you, my little kitten?”

Stepping back, the woman waved him off. “You are all alike, you Irish, full of manure.”

“It’s blarney we’re full of,” O’Conner countered.

“You, you are different. It is the manure you heap upon my son.”

After sharing a good laugh over this, the woman tilted her head toward a doorway behind her. “As always, he’s in the back tinkering with his precious machines.”

Without another word, O’Conner glanced over to where Andy had been watching. With nothing more than a quick flick of his eyes, the American indicated he was to follow.

With the exception that it wasn’t nearly as clean or orderly, the room Andy entered bore an eerie resemblance to Sanderson’s lair back in Northern Ireland. Even its sole occupant, a stocky man with a peasant’s build and short dark hair, was seated at a bench twiddling with a computer in much the same way Sanderson had been when Andy had walked in on the Royal Signals major. But that was where all similarities ended, for when the man spun about in his seat, the expression he greeted Andy with was anything but friendly.

“Why wasn’t I told about this?” the Sealion spat out with a brusqueness meant to be intimidating. “The one who calls himself The Mick always notifies me whenever there’s something you Irish want me to look at for them, and buy if it’s of value.”

Andy wasn’t in the least bit thrown by the Russian’s challenge. With a well-practiced ease that now came as natural to him as breathing, he started to grin. “I expect this Mick you’re talking about didn’t call you because I don’t work for him or his lot.”

Now it was the Sealion’s turn to draw back ever so slightly as he stared at Andy quizzically. “You are IRA, no?”

“No.”

Despite his best effort, the Sealion couldn’t help but flinch as he shot a quick, quizzical glance over at O’Conner as if trying to determine if he had been had.

Sensing things were on the verge of going south, O’Conner stepped in. “He’s not with the Provisional wing of the IRA. My friend here is with Arm Saoirse Náisiúnta na hÉireann, the Irish National Liberation Army.”

The Russian’s frown upended. “Ah, I have heard of them,” he beamed as he stood, crossed the room, and reached out to shake the hand of a man he assumed was a fellow Marxist. “It is a pleasure to meet someone with the balls to give the English what they deserve.”

Just as O’Conner had predicted, Andy knew straight off why the Russian was called Sealion, for the thick, droopy mustache that dwarfed his face was more befitting a Cossack and reminded Andy of a sea lion’s long whiskers.

“So, what have you brought me?” he asked even before he’d released his grip on Andy’s hand.

“If what I’ve been led to believe is true, it’s something that our respective friends will find quite interesting,” Andy replied smoothly.

“And what do you know of my friends?” the Sealion asked warily.

“I expect as much as you know about mine, maybe even more.”

When he saw the twinkle in Andy’s eye, the Sealion’s smile returned. “Well, let us not waste any time then. Show me what you’ve brought me.”

As if leery of being overheard, even after they’d returned to the car and driven off, O’Conner waited until they were well out of Little Odessa before speaking. “Now what?”

“I wait,” Andy replied enigmatically.

“For what?”

“For someone to call and tell me to come home or…”

“Or?”

Realizing he’d spoken before fully engaging his brain, Andy did his best to snicker. “Or until I get tired of this god-awful heat. I don’t think the temperature has dropped below thirty since I’ve arrived.”

“Welcome to summer in New York, and it’s ninety, not thirty!” O’Conner snickered. Then, after a moment’s silence, a thought occurred to him. “Instead of cooling your heels here in the Big Apple, if that’s at all possible, doing whatever it is you do when not prodding hapless Paddies with a bayonet, how’d you like to join me for a little trip to central Pennsylvania this weekend?”

Having managed to get a measure of what the American took to be an irreverent and off-color sense of humor, Andy didn’t take offense at his comment concerning his work. Instead, he asked what was worth his while in central Pennsylvania.

“Gettysburg,” O’Conner beamed. “I’m a member of the 69th New York Volunteer Infantry, a living history group. This upcoming weekend just happens to be a reenactment marking that battle’s 125th anniversary.”

Never having made the time to attend a historical reenactment, despite his love of history, Andy was intrigued, but demurred. “I don’t know. Standing around, watching a bunch of guys chasing each other and firing black powder blanks doesn’t impress me as being a particularly pleasant way of spending a weekend.”

“Who said anything about standing around?” O’Conner countered.

“I hardly think I’d fit in, mate. Besides being British, a fact you seem to take great delight in reminding me of, I’ve not the kit.”

“Didn’t you say you were half Irish and a mackerel snapper to boot?” O’Conner said.

“My father’s side, though unlike yours, me old man did his damnedest to keep that a family secret,” Andy replied.

“Well, I guess it’s true when they say nobody’s perfect.” O’Conner sighed before going on. “As to fitting in, well, you’ve no need to worry about that. The Fighting 69th was made up of Irishmen fresh off the boat, lads eager to prove their mettle. And when it comes to a kit, you’re not to worry. We always have more than enough for walk-ons like you.”

After giving it some thought, Andy nodded. “What the hell. I don’t expect it would hurt to give it a try. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“You’ll like it,” O’Conner replied.

5

When he entered the room, Tommy made straight for Andy’s desk. Pausing in front of it, he planted his fists on his hips and leaned forward. “Did I hear right?” he spat as Andy hit the alt-S key to save what he’d been working on before looking up at Tommy.

“You heard right,” he finally informed Tommy in a calm, no-nonsense tone of voice. “From now on it’s strictly hands off the Morpeth case. Ed Telford called me last night and told me Ian McDonnell and his people will take it from here.”

“If they don’t fuck it up, the Romanians will,” Tommy spat. “You know that and I know that.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I hope they don’t. I hope they manage to run that bastard to ground and finally put him out of business. God knows it’s long overdue,” Andy added as his voice began to trail away. Then he heaved a great sigh. “But, if they don’t.”

“If they don’t, the little shit will just go somewhere else, set up shop, and keep raising hell.”

Having no wish to argue with Tommy, Andy shrugged as he threw his hands out to his sides, palms up. “Insha’Allah.”

“Insha’Allah my arse,” Tommy spat as he took one more hard look into Andy’s dispassionate eyes before turning about and storming over to his desk, where he plopped down in his seat. “Insha’ bloody Allah,” he muttered bitterly.

Deciding he wasn’t going to get anything done for a while, not with his very own Welshman in residence sitting in the corner grumbling to himself under his breath, Andy checked his watch before standing up. “I’m going to head out and take a run through the park.”

Out of simple curiosity, Spence had followed Andy one day just to see if he really did jog about Battersea Park. What she learned during that secretive sortie proved to be far more enlightening than she’d hoped, for it had proved beyond a shadow of a doubt her boss really did have a thing for redheads. It also put to rest a nasty rumor Tommy had shared with her once quite by accident.

That Spence knew about the little game he and the red-haired female jogger engaged in had become obvious one day when she asked him who the girl was. Never having been one who wore his heart on his sleeve, Andy’s reply was as enigmatic as the expression he wore. “The one who got away.” Since that day, whenever he announced he was headed out for a run, Spence would always regard him with a knowing smile and wish him luck, an exchange that never failed to cause Tommy’s ears to perk up.

On this day, when Spence did so, Tommy stopped his muttering as he watched the pair for a moment out of the corner of his eye. Only after Andy had left did he spin about in his seat and openly address Spence. “That’s it?” he spat.

Lost in a faraway thought, Spence needed to give her head a quick shake to clear away a most untimely thought before turning to face Tommy. “That’s what?”

Tommy pinned her with a scathing glare. “You’re not going to say a word, not one peep, are you?”

Realizing what he was driving at, Spence drew herself up. “I happen to agree with Andy.”

“Aye, I expect you would, Little Miss Muffet,” Tommy snapped.

Feigning indignation, Spence rolled her office chair away from her desk, spun around, and planted her fists on her hips. “And what exactly do you mean by that comment?” she snipped.

Realizing his days of getting the better of the feisty American girl were a thing of the past, Tommy reined in his ire. “I can’t believe the two of you are going to do nothing but sit about while that bastard is out there, raising hell.”

“And what, may I ask, would you have us do, Mr. Tyler? As much as I hate to admit it, there are some things that are beyond our capabilities. Were we to set off on an ill-advised crusade against the Sealion, odds are we’d only alert him we, the good guys, were on to him.”

“And you think those half-wits who work for McDonnell won’t?”

Despite knowing full well Tommy had a point, Spence refused to yield to him on that or any other point, choosing instead to change tack. “Dealing with the likes of the Sealion is beyond our purview,” she announced haughtily. “Were we to even try and then mucked things up, it would be us, and not the Sealion, who McDonnell and his lads came after.”

Well aware she was right, but unwilling to let her have the last word in this exchange, Tommy drew back. “Will you listen to her? Purview! And just who the bloody hell do you think you are now, Jane fawkin’ Austen?”

Pleased Tommy was ready to drop the matter, Spence flashed him a mischievous little smile, one she’d seen Pamela use whenever she wished to annoy someone who was trying to get her goat. “No,” Spence quipped. “Just someone who knows how to use a dictionary.” With that, she spun her seat around again and returned to what she’d been doing, leaving Tommy to go back to muttering under his breath as he tried to occupy himself by tinkering with the computer he’d been messing with before Andy had sent him north.

Had someone told Andy that donning the apparel of another era and stepping back in time could be as much fun as it proved during his weekend foray to Gettysburg, he would have informed them they were barking mad. It was more than the sense of relief he derived when he stuffed all his troubles and concerns into the trunk of O’Conner’s car along with his twentieth-century attire. Nor could he attribute his exhilaration to the thrill he had felt run through him when the massed fife and drum band struck up a stirring marching tune as he and the men of the 69th NYVI stepped off as part of a grand review.

The true source of his enjoyment had been the camaraderie he had discovered, as he came to know men he’d thought he would despise, for the Irish Americans he fell in with that weekend were nothing like the sullen buggers he’d left behind in Belfast, and who would have just as soon have kneecapped him as say hello. Steven O’Conner and his mates celebrated an Ireland that no longer existed. At night, when the tourists left the camps, the songs sung by men and women, whose ancestors had left Ireland to make America their home, ranged from cheerful to melancholy, unlike tunes such as “My Little Armalite” the brats in Belfast bleated out at the top of their little lungs in order to taunt British soldiers. “I told you you’d love it,” O’Conner beamed as they drove back on Sunday evening smelling of wood fires and three days of marching about wearing wool uniforms in the late June heat without the benefit of a shower or modern deodorant.

It was only in the days following this foray, when he found himself back in his New York hotel room alone with nothing to occupy his time other than wait for word on what he was to do next, that Andy appreciated that it was the laid-back, easygoing nature of the irreverent and unassuming red-haired American that had made the experience as enjoyable as it had proved to be. There was a total lack of the subtle, yet always present need Andy felt to watch what he said or did whenever he was in the company of his peers back home. Like his modern-day responsibilities, it wasn’t long before Andy found he was able to set aside the well-honed façade his rank demanded he assume. So, rather than viewing his assignment in America as a duty, thanks to the way O’Conner and he got along, Andy had come to look upon this as a holiday, one he was free to enjoy with a newfound friend, the likes of which he had never had before.

A trio of events put a quick and resounding end to this idyllic viewpoint. The first was a late-night call from O’Conner, who informed Andy that the Sealion wished to meet with him again. Whether it was the tone of his voice or the speed with which he turned down the NYPD officer’s offer to accompany him this time that put O’Conner on guard didn’t matter. As keen as Andy was at adding two and two together and coming up with so much more, Steven G. was better.

The next came when he checked the post office box he’d rented the day he’d arrived in New York, Andy found both instructions from his British contact in America as well as the wherewithal to carry them out. Before leaving Belfast, Major Sanderson had taken Andy into his confidence despite orders from MoD not to. “The hard drive you’re carrying has information concerning British forces deployed throughout Europe that is more beneficial to the Soviets than to the IRA. Most of the items are bits and pieces we already know the GRU is already aware of, thanks to a double agent we have tucked away somewhere in Stavka. Mixed in with that is information that is pure, unadulterated manure.”

At this point in their exchange Sanderson had paused, informing Andy he needed to refill his brew and asking him if he also wished for another. As well practiced in the ways of staff officers who dealt in the murky world of intelligence as any man, Andy knew the major was providing him with an opportunity to sort things out for himself before proceeding. After settling back in, Sanderson took a moment to enjoy a sip of tea before continuing. “Should it come to pass that our man in Moscow alerts us the red herrings we packed that hard drive with have come to the attention of the Sovs, we’ll know the RA’s point of contact in New York is more than a freelancer.”

“And if that does prove to be the case?” Andy asked as he peered into Sanderson’s eyes over the lip of his mug.

“It’s a hole in our bucket that will need to be plugged. The sooner, the better.”

“By whom?” Andy asked, doing his best to be as nonchalant as possible while doing so.

Sanderson didn’t answer, at least not verbally. The major’s expression and the way he peered into Andy’s eyes, a look he had come to recognize whenever his colonel was preparing to send him out on an assignment for which detailed written orders would never be issued, told him all he needed to know.

With the same care Andy relied upon to carry out his duties in Belfast, once the Sealion told him when and where they were to meet, he immediately conducted a thorough close target reconnaissance of the area. Only after he’d picked his ground and scoped out the infiltration and exfiltration routes he would use, that would, if he was lucky, see him to the airport and away from New York long before anyone was even aware that the man known as the Sealion was missing, did Andy take a moment to prepare himself.

That things could go wrong and he could very easily find his stay in the United States proving to be far longer and more uncomfortable than he hoped was a given. Andy had been involved in far too many operations in Belfast in which well-laid plans had gone badly awry to know there was no such thing as a foolproof scheme. Yet he felt no trepidation as he waited in the alley not far from the Sealion’s shop. Like so much else in his life, he approached this mission with the same calm, resolute attitude with which he conducted all his affairs, safe in the knowledge he was doing his best in a manner that was expected of a professional soldier.

“You don’t want to do this,” a quiet voice called out from behind through the early evening darkness.

Without giving what he was doing a whit of thought, Andy pulled free the small 9mm Walther P5K he’d been holding tucked inside his scruffy jacket, even as he was pivoting about to face the person who’d managed to come up behind him without making a sound. For the longest time he stared into O’Conner’s calm brown eyes, eyes that Andy at first thought betrayed nothing. Only after he’d managed to catch himself and finally draw a breath did Andy lower his pistol.

He didn’t waste any time asking the NYPD officer how, or why. That was obvious. Instead, Andy drew himself up as he told O’Conner that there was nothing he or anyone else could say that would keep him from carrying out his orders. “It’s more than what this bastard has done to help the murderous scum we have to live with back in the UK. The Sealion might have left Russia, but he’s never turned his back on his motherland, not by a long shot.”

“I know,” O’Conner replied as that foolish, lopsided grin lit up his face. When he saw the astonished look on Andy’s face, he chuckled. “You do recall my telling you I’m a reserve officer with 2nd of the 25th Marines. When I’m not prowling the streets of New York, tromping about cow pastures with Civil War wannabes or trying to be the sort of man everyone at home expects me to be, I do the same thing you do. I just don’t do it for Queen and country.”

“You’ll not talk me out of this, mate,” Andy replied, doing his best to come across as resolute and unshakable.

What O’Conner did next was something that caught Andy by surprise, something he or anyone he knew who didn’t have a death wish would never have attempted back in Belfast. Stepping forward until he was all but in Andy’s face, O’Conner reached up, gently placed his hand on Andy’s gun, and ever so slowly turned it aside. Never once did either man avert his gaze, not even when Andy recognized the look in the American’s eye for what it was. “We have plans for dealing with the Sealion. He’s ours. You’ve done your duty, Andy.”

“I told you fucking Legoland would fuck it up,” Tommy growled after Andy had hung up the phone and informed him and Spence that Ed Telford had been apologetically advised by his contacts within the SIS that the Sealion had managed to elude the trap they’d set for him. “McDonnell and that sorry lot he’s got working for him would fuck up a wet dream. And don’t waste my time giving me that Insha’Allah bullshit.”

Leaning back in his office chair as far as he dared, Andy knitted his fingers together as he rested his hands on his stomach. “We did everything expected of us,” he replied calmly. “To have done anything more would have been…” Pausing, a memory suddenly flashed before his eyes, the memory of another time and place when he’d found himself face to face with someone who had, in their own way, become just as dear and important to Andy as the two people who were so much more to him than just employees.

Realizing he was wasting his time, and far too enraged to do anything but get himself into trouble but arguing a lost point if he stayed there, Tommy grabbed his ancient tweed jacket and stormed out of the office. Spence, who’d been watching this scene play out, waited several minutes before speaking. “I know you were right to take a hands-off approach to this whole affair,” she murmured reassuringly. “And it didn’t turn out near as bad as Tommy seems to think. They did, after all, track down and seize all the computers the Sealion had managed to slip into the country, didn’t they?”

“So I’ve been told,” Andy replied as he sat regarding Spence from across the room as his thoughts drifted from one forbidden topic to another. “Still, Tommy does have a point.”

“You did everything you could,” Spence countered.

To this, Andy did not reply. Instead, he came to his feet. “I think I’m going to call it a day,” he declared without ever taking his eyes off Spence. “Why don’t you wrap up what you’re doing.”

“I’d love to, but you know how it is. I hate walking away from something I’ve started without finishing.”

Again, Andy didn’t answer as his thoughts once more reflected upon a single moment when he’d found himself confronted with something he had, until that day, done everything in his power to forget.

Ever so slowly a small voice managed to work its way past the mental fog that had filled his head. “Are you feeling okay?” Spence asked.

After giving his head a quick shake, Andy forced a smile. “Never been better. Now,” he announced as firmly as he could, “you are to save whatever that is you’re working on, shut down your computer, and call it a day, young lady.”

“And if I don’t?” Spence asked coyly.

“I won’t be able to take you to dinner.”

Since her caper in Milan, it had been near impossible to get a rise out of the fetching young woman seated across the office from where he was standing. When he saw the way Spence responded to his last comment, Andy found he could not help but smile, for Karen Spencer was fast becoming something that he hoped would fill a need he had once come close to filling.

Stopping just before he entered the gate bridge and boarding his flight, Andy glanced over his shoulder. The red-haired American was gone, but not forgotten.