"Same story at Yellowstone, John, and, yeah, that'll change, too. Someday," Bill Henriksen concluded.
They seemed pretty positive about the things that would change. But the American state parks were run by the federal government for all citizens, weren't they? They had to be, because they were tax-supported. No limited access for the elite here. Equality for all-something he'd been taught in Soviet schools, except here they actually lived it. One more reason, Dmitriy thought, why one country had fallen, and the other had grown stronger. "What do you mean `that'll change'?" Popov asked.
"Oh, the idea is to lessen the impact of people on the areas. It's a good idea, but some other things have to happen first," Brightling replied.
"Yeah, John, just one or two," Henriksen agreed, with a chuckle. Then he decided that this feeling-out process had gone far enough. "Anyway, Dmitriy, how will we know when Grady wants to go forward?"
"I will call him. He left me a mobile-phone number which I can use at certain times of the day."
"Trustful soul."
"For me, yes. We have been friends since the 1980s, back when he was in the Bekaa Valley. And besides, the phone is mobile, probably bought with a false credit card by someone else entirely. These things are very useful to intelligence officers. They are difficult to track unless you have very sophisticated equipment. America has them, and so does England, but other nations, no, not very many of them."
"Well, call him as soon as you think proper. We want this one to run, don't we, John?"
"Yes," Dr. Brightling said definitively. Bill, set up the money for the transfer tomorrow. Dmitriy, go ahead and set up the bank account."
"Yes, John," Popov replied, as the dessert cart approached the table.
Grady, they saw, was excited about this mission. It was approaching two in the Dublin morning. The photos had been developed by a friend of the movement, and six of them blown up. The large ones were pinned to the wall. The small ones lay in appropriate places on a map unfolded on the worktable.
"They will approach from here, right up this road. Only one place for them to park their vehicles, isn't there?"
"Agreed," Rodney Sands said, checking angles.
"Okay, Roddy, then we do this…" Grady outlined the plan.
"How do we communicate?"
"Cellular phones. Every group will have one, and we'll select speed-dial settings so that we can trade information rapidly and efficiently."
"Weapons?" Danny McCorley asked.
"We have plenty of those, lad. They will respond with five men, perhaps as many as ten, but no more than that. They've never deployed more than ten or eleven men to a mission, even in Spain. We've counted them on the TV tapes, haven't we? Fifteen of us, ten of them, and surprise works for us in both phases."
The Barry twins, Peter and Sam, looked skeptical at first, but if the mission was run quickly… if it ran according to the schedule… yes, it was possible.
"What about the women?" Timothy O'Neil asked.
"What about them?" Grady asked. "They are our primary targets."
"A pregnant woman, Sean… it will not look good politically."
"They are Americans, and their husbands are our enemies, and they are bait for getting them close. We will not kill them at once, and if circumstances permit, they might well be left alive to mourn their loss, lad," Grady added, just to assuage the conscience of the younger man. Timmy wasn't a coward, but he did have some lingering bourgeois sentimentality.
O'Neil nodded submission. Grady wasn't a man to cross, and was in any case their leader. "I lead the group into the hospital, then?" Grady nodded. "Yes. Roddy and I will remain outside with the covering group."
"Very well, Sean," Timmy agreed, committing himself to the mission now and forever.
One problem with an investigation like this was that you risked alerting the subject, but that couldn't always be helped. Agents Sullivan and Chatham circulated around the bar until nearly midnight, finding two women who knew Mary Bannister, and one who knew Anne Pretloe. In the case of the former, they got the name of a man with whom Bannister had been seen dancing-a bar regular who hadn't shown up that night, but whose address they'd get rapidly enough from his telephone number, which was known, it seemed, to quite a few of the women here. By midnight they were ready to leave, somewhat annoyed to have spent so much time in a lively bar drinking nothing more potent than Coca-Cola, but with a few new leads to run down. It was so far a typical case. Special Agent Sullivan thought of it like walking through a supermarket looking for dinner, picking over the shelves randomly, selecting things to eat, never knowing how the selections would turn out in the kitchen.
"'Morning, baby," Ding said, before he rolled out of bed, as always starting his day off with a kiss.
