5

General Shane Kilmara, commander of the Irish Rangers – Ireland's elite counterterrorist and special-operations force – sipped at his brandy and smiled.

"One of Washington's finer French restaurants and a private room. And this from a man who normally forgets to offer me a hot dog, and always forgets the mustard. What is on your mind, William?"

The man with the thinning hair and high domed forehead sitting on the other side of the table blew a smoke ring into the air. Neither man normally smoked, but good cigars were an occasional exception. Both had a weakness for Cuban, and Kilmara had brought a box when he had flown in from Ireland. Since he was received personally by Deputy Director for Operations of the CIA, clearing customs with such embargoed goods was not a problem.

They had known each other since both the Irish and the CIA had been knee-deep in the Congo in the 1960s. The Congo operation was long in the past – the country had even changed its name to Zaire – but the relationship had endured. Each man considered it more an alliance than a friendship, but mutual regard had sneaked in nonetheless. You tended to learn the true worth of someone over a quarter of a century.

In Kilmara's opinion, the CIA was much maligned. They were very far from perfect and they had their fair share of self-serving bureaucrats, but they had some very good people. Even more to the point, imperfect or not, they were necessary.

William Martin was not quite ready yet to get to the point. "What is the U.S. doing wrong on counterterrorism, Shane?" he said. "You've got more experience than most. I'd value your opinion."

"You already know my opinions," said Kilmara. "Too many cooks and not enough terrorists. Closing down an airport when there is a bomb scare is not counterterrorism. Crucially, your political direction is weak and you don't approach the whole thing at the right cerebral level. You've got to know your enemy, really understand the fuckers!

Fundamentally, you don't think there is a real threat. The U.S. is too big and too strong. Even if there are hordes of bad guys running around doing their worst, you don't think they can do more than inflict the occasional pinprick.

"And you're wrong. There is all kinds of lethal junk floating around in the world these days, and it is only a matter of time before some of it falls into the wrong hands. Nuclear, chemical, biological. It is all available at the right price. That's the downside of the collapse of communism and the introduction of market economies. Everything has a price and the people I am worried about have money. Shit, they have even got credit cards."

He smiled a little grimly. "And they surely do have motivation." He sipped some more brandy. "The trick is to demotivate them – in advance. Carrot and stick, both applied with vigor and subtlety. You people don't do that. You wait until something happens and then pursue the perps to the ends of the earth – subject to the political exigencies. A big qualification. That just won't cut it. Someday they will do something and there won't be any earth left to pursue them around."

He looked directly at the DDO. "As I keep telling you, William, counterterrorism is a serious business. It isn't just jobs for the boys or for a bunch of jocks with guns. Every so often you have got to deploy those little gray cells and then do something! Capisce?"

William Martin nodded his head in acknowledgment. He knew Kilmara was right, but the reality of being ‘ The Superpower’ was that you moved with the subtlety and coordination of a herd of elephants.

Hell, the Pentagon actually had press quarters inside it and the CIA was knee-deep in congressional oversight committees. That did not make for preemptive surgical strikes. It did make for an undue focus on ass-covering and gave new meaning to the word leak. It also had a disturbing effect on priorities. In practical day-to-day terms, a genocidal war in Africa was of scant consequence. A negative article in the Washington Post was serious. And congressional hearings were a crisis.

Given the mandate of the CIA, that was almost exactly the reverse of the way things should be.

It was one hell of a bloody world. But you dealt with the world the way it was. Idealists had notions. Practical people just dealt with things the way they were. Which was just as well, because nothing ever really changed.

It was time to focus.

"Hugo Fitzduane," said Martin. "How exactly does he fit into your operation these days?"

"Hugo is his own man," said Kilmara. "But we work together very closely. He has a part-time commission in the Rangers and we train on his island. But mostly he does his own thing. His latest baby is this counterterrorist think tank. They're doing some very good analytical work. Governments don't have a monopoly on talent. Hell, you should know. The agency subscribes."

Martin nodded. "We're concerned about the company he's keeping and what it could lead to. We have enough internal political problems without you people being caught in the middle. A little friendly advice might be in order. Tell Hugo to go and play elsewhere."

Kilmara laughed. "William, you know Hugo. Say something like that and he'll get curious and then you'll never get rid of him. Appeal to his reason, on the other hand, and you are in with a chance. So tell me the problem and I'll see what I can do. Let's start with the Congressional Task Force on Terrorism."

Martin snorted and then spoke with some anger. "A bunch of congressional staffers have no business at all in getting involved with counterterrorism. That's the job of the CIA and other agencies. Congress should have nothing to do with it. These people even go out into the field, for Christ's sake. They have no right. They should stick on the Hill and do what they are paid to do."

"As I understand it," said Kilmara, "the Congressional Task Force came into being because they identified some serious gaps in counterterrorism work and they consider their oversight role on seeing how a modest twenty-eight billion is spent on intelligence work justifies some examination. Further, they travel because how else are they going to now what is really going on?"

"All of that is true, but it's not the fucking point," said Martin. "The underlying fact is that counterterrorism belongs to the CIA abroad and the FBI here and we can't have a bunch of loose cannons screwing up what we're doing."

"Even if they are right?" said Kilmara.

" Especially if they are right," said Martin. "And frequently they are. But the end result of showing up the Agency is that we get out credibility damaged and maybe our budget cut, and that does not help the security of the United States of America. And it certainly does not help the work that people like myself are trying to do on the inside. You have got to look at the bigger picture."

Kilmara eyed his cigar, which had chosen to die when he was not paying attention. Cuban cigars did that. He applied a match to the tip and blew smoke while he thought.

Counterterrorism was very necessary, but the effectiveness of the designated agencies was not in proportion to the resources spent. An underlying problem was the counterterrorism had become an industry in its own right, and that meant jobs, money, power and influence, and not a few thriving little empires that had little to do with the ultimate objective.

The Congressional Task Force's problem was that with minimal resources they were showing what could be done. They were succeeding because they were dedicated and focused and the few people they had were of the highest caliber. And their very success was in danger of giving Congress as a whole some radical ideas about what could be done with less money and more of a sense of purpose.

No wonder the CIA, rocked with scandal recently and therefore particularly vulnerable, was upset.

Fitzduane, on a routine getting-to-know-you trip, had stepped right into a turf fight. And Martin had a point. There was a bigger picture. And almost certainly there was a trigger issue lurking around. He thought back over his recent discussions with Hugo. It was fairly clear what it must be.

Mexico.

"Let me float a thought," said Kilmara. "Tecuno. Governor Diego Quintana is your man."

The Deputy Director of Operations, CIA, was refilling both of their glasses when Shane Kilmara spoke. Mentally he screamed a loud "Holy shit!" but was pleased that otherwise he had not reacted. His hand was still rock steady.

He looked at Kilmara with his best WASP career CIA man's look. In control; urbane; confident; all-knowing. We talk to satellites. The NSA can break all codes. We know things that you don't.

"You are pouring our brandy on the floor," said Kilmara kindly.

Martin looked down at his faithless hand. It was still rock steady. And it was.


*****

The DDO looked at his cigar, but there was not enough left to use as a smoke screen. Besides, he had to share this can of worms with someone, and Kilmara was nothing if not trustworthy. And he just might have an idea. And the DDO had drunk just enough to be indiscreet.

"The Agency has been bankrolling the PRI, Mexico's ruling party, for years to keep them strong against communism. To repay the favor, we turn a blind eye at drugs and similar scams, and if some Mexican mover and shaker like Quintana wants to set himself up as a local warlord, that is fine by us. Just as long as he is against communism."

"So Governor Quintana is your man," said Kilmara.

"Well, he was," said Martin. "Now he is so fucking rich he does not need us anymore. But he remains on the books as an asset. He is a psychopath. He makes Saddam Hussein look like a choirboy – but he is our psychopath. And experience shows that the Agency needs psychopaths. There are things that need to be done that only people like that will do."

"William, how do you sleep at night?" said Kilmara.

"I look at the bigger picture and count the pixels," said Martin, "until the whiskey cuts in."

He stood up and stretched, then walked to the window and looked down at the street below. "So what about Fitzduane, then?" he said. "Is he getting involved or reverting to tourist?"

Kilmara chuckled. "He's becoming a father in six months, so he isn't planning anything foolish. He was asked, but he turned them down. So relax. And that's hot news from the horse's mouth."

Martin left the window and stood with his hands in his pockets looking down at Kilmara, who was still sitting back comfortably. "You know, Shane, just between us, this whole damn thing makes me very uneasy. I'm following policy, but I think those congressional troublemakers are right. Maurice Isser is the smartest damn analyst I have ever come across, and Cochrane, Maury, and Warner make one hell of a team. If they smell something rotten, then they're right."

"But you're not going to do anything," said Kilmara.

"Not a damn thing," said Martin. "And by the way, when is your boy leaving town?"

"You sound like the sheriff," said Kilmara, amused. "Tomorrow all three of us are off to Fayetteville to do a little homework. I am somewhat surprised that Kathleen is coming, but I guess she will tour the area while we go to the exhibition."

"Which Fayetteville?" said Martin. "There is a whole raft of them in this country, all called after Lafayette, I guess. We used to like the French in those days."

"Fayetteville, North Carolina," said Kilmara.

"Uh-huh!" said Martin. "Fayetteville is right next to FortBragg, home of the 82 ^ nd Airborne, Delta Force, and other peaceful people."

"The very place," said Kilmara. "Not a high-crime environment like Washington. Peaceful. Lots of young men and women doing healthy things like jumping out of airplanes and learning how to survive on snakes and weevils. And we might do a little touring."

"What's this exhibition?" said Martin.

"A sort of Ideal Homes exhibition, except the booths don't show microwaves and Japanese bread cookers. This one is focused more on my kind of work."

"Which is what these days?" said Martin. He smiled. "Given your advancing years and all." He knew perfectly well what Kilmara did, but was not quite clear what he was leading up to.

"Special operations," said General Kilmara guilelessly.


*****

"Maury, I have never seen anything like it in my life," said Fitzduane quite truthfully. "That isn't a mobile home. It's a whole way of life. If it was any bigger, it could apply for statehood."

Maury beamed. He loved to travel, and no more so that around the United States. But meeting strangers day after day was a strain. He had designed his own solution and built it himself.

"Power steering; air conditioning; quad sound; satellite dish; multichannel TV; microwave; dishwasher; three bedrooms; two showers; and four networked computers. All the comforts of a luxury condo, and it travels," said Maury proudly.

"And you can train for the Boston Marathon while running up and down the aisle," said Fitzduane dryly. "Maury, this thing is HUGE! Is it legal? What does it eat? Aah!"

Kathleen retrieved her elbow from her husband's ribs. True, it was the weirdest mobile home she had ever seen, but she and Romeo y Julietta were not averse to some modest adventuring. And if two-thirds of the present family felt like that, well – Hugo could come too. It was democracy. He was outvoted.

Fitzduane had planned to fly to Fayetteville via Raleigh. Maury had pointed out that by the time they had changed planes and hung around the airport for the connection, they might as well drive. Further, he would drive them. He had met Kathleen and it had been devotion at first sight. He was, he had announced, instantly enslaved.

Neither Fitzduane nor Kathleen found any reason to disbelieve him. Maury, once he had broken through the initial contact barrier, was proving to be no fan of moderation. On the other hand, he was a marvelous companion and had snippets of information about practically everywhere and everything.

General Shane Kilmara was more dubious. He had reached the stage in life where he had a sense of order. But he was prevailed upon. America, he had found, had that kind of effect on him. The impossible suddenly seemed possible.

They set out for North Carolina with Maury acting as a human guidebook. As they passed one Civil War site after another, Kathleen was strangely moved.

"It's all so much and it's all so close," she said quietly. "It has an effect. You can see – feel – why they fought. I'll never feel quite the same about the South again." She wanted to cry. There were reasons why people fought and died, and some of them were good reasons. She reached out for her husband's hand and grasped it, and he put his arm around her and hugged her to him.

General Shane Kilmara, who had seen more of war than most, felt exactly the same way as he looked out through tinted picture windows.

He had been there before, and he always did. He was reminded of a visit to ArlingtonNationalCemetery just south of the Pentagon and within no distance at all of Washington, D.C. The graveyard had originally been Robert E. Lee's home until a Northerner, disgusted by the bloodshed, had made sure Lee would never return again by using the immediate surrounds of the house in which to bury the dead. The cherry orchards were cut down and it became the NationalCemetery.

Not far from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Kilmara had found an impressive monument erected to the memory of the Southern dead and had expressed some surprise. This had started, after all, as a Northern graveyard, and the South were the vanquished. Yet their dead, the enemy, were honored and within living memory of the war itself.

"Don't be surprised, General," his guide, a young lieutenant from the Old Guard, had said. "It's appropriate, sir. You're standing in Virginia."

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