tc.patriotgames-第18部分

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sort　of　job　demanded　an　elite　few。　O'Donnell　had　that；　all　right。　And　you　need　to　have　the　right　plan；　he　told　himself　with　a　wispy　smile。　O'Donnell　had　his　plan。　This　Ryan　fellow　hadn't　changed　that；　he　reminded　himself。
　　　　〃Bastard's　bloody　pleased　with　himself；　isn't　he？〃　
　　　　O'Donnell　turned　to　see　a　fresh　bottle　of　Guinness　offered。　He　took　it　and　refilled　his　glass。　〃Sean　should　have　watched　his　back。　Then　this　bloody　hero　would　be　a　corpse。〃　And　the　mission　would　have　been　successful。　Damn！
　　　　〃We　can　still　do　something　about　that；　sir。〃
　　　　O'Donnell　shook　his　head。　〃We　do　not　waste　our　energy　on　the　insignificant。　The　Proves　have　been　doing　that　for　ten　years　and　look　where　it　hap　gotten　them。〃
　　　　〃What　if　he　is　CIA？　What　if　we've　been　infiltrated　and　he　was　there　〃
　　　　〃Don't　be　a　bloody　fool；〃　O'Donnell　snapped。　〃If　they'd　been　tipped；　every　peeler　in　London　would　have　been　there　in　plain　clothes　waiting　for　us。〃　And　I　would　have　known　beforehand；　he　didn't　say。　Only　one　other　member　of　the　Organization　knew　of　his　source；　and　he　was　in　London。　〃It　was　luck；　good　for　them；　bad　for　us。　Just　luck。　We　were　lucky　in　your　case；　weren't　we；　Michael？〃　Like　any　Irishman　he　still　believed　in　luck。　Ideology　would　never　change　that。
　　　　The　younger　man　thought　of　his　eighteen　months　in　the　H…Blocks　at　Long　Kesh　prison；　and　was　silent。　O'Donnell　shrugged　at　the　television　as　the　news　program　changed　to　another　story。　Luck。　That　was　all。　Some　monied　Yank　with　too　long　a　nose　who'd　gotten　very　lucky。　Any　random　event；　like　a　punctured　tire；　a　defective　radio　battery；　or　a　sudden　rainstorm；　could　have　made　the　operation　fail；　too。　And　his　advantage　over　the　other　side　was　that　they　had　to　be　lucky　all　the　time。　O'Donnell　only　had　to　be　lucky　once。　He　considered　what　he　had　just　seen　on　the　television　and　decided　that　Ryan　wasn't　worth　the　effort。
　　　　Mustn't　offend　the　Americans；　he　thought　to　himself　again；　this　time　with　surprise。　Why？　Aren't　they　the　enemy；　too？　Patrick；　me　boy；　now　you're　thinking　like　those　idiots　in　the　PIRA。　Patience　is　the　most　important　quality　in　the　true　revolutionary。　One　must　wait　for　the　proper　moment　　and　then　strike　decisively。　
　　　　He　waited　for　his　next　intelligence　report。

　　　　The　rare　book　shop　was　in　the　Burlington　Arcade；　a　century…old　promenade　of　shops　off　the　most　fashionable　part　of　Piccadilly。　It　was　sandwiched　between　one　of　London's　custom　tailors　　this　one　catered　mainly　to　the　tourists　who　used　the　arcade　to　shelter　from　the　elements　　and　a　jeweler。　It　had　the　sort　of　smell　that　draws　bibliophiles　as　surely　as　the　scent　of　nectar　draws　a　bee；　the　musty；　dusty　odor　of　dried…out　paper　and　leather　binding。　The　shop's　owner…operator　was　contrastingly　young；　dressed　in　a　suit　whose　shoulders　were　sprinkled　with　dust。　He　started　every　day　by　running　a　feather　duster　over　the　shelves；　and　the　books　were　ever　exuding　new　quantities　of　it。　He　had　grown　to　like　it。　The　store　had　an　ambience　that　he　dearly　loved。　The　store　did　a　small　but　lucrative　volume　of　business；　depending　less　on　tourists　than　on　a　discreet　number　of　regular　customers　from　the　upper　reaches　of　London　society。　The　owner；　a　Mr。　Dennis　Cooley；　traveled　a　great　deal；　often　flying　out　on　short　notice　to　participate　in　an　auction　of　some　deceased　gentleman's　library；　leaving　the　shop　to　the　custody　of　a　young　lady　who　would　have　been　quite　pretty　if　she'd　worked　at　it　a　little　harder。　Beatrix　was　off　today。
　　　　Mr。　Cooley　had　an　ancient　teak　desk　in　keeping　with　the　rest　of　the　shop's　motif；　and　even　a　cushionless　swivel　chair　to　prove　to　the　customers　that　nothing　in　the　shop　was　modern。　Even　the　bookkeeping　was　done　by　hand。　No　electronic　calculators　here；　A　battered　ledger　book　dating　back　to　the　1930s　listed　thousands　of　sales；　and　the　shop's　book　catalog　was　made　of　simple　filing　cards　in　small　wooden　boxes；　one　set　listing　books　by　title；　and　another　by　author。　All　writing　was　done　with　a　gold…nibbed　fountain　pen。　A　no…smoking　sign　was　the　only　modern　touch。　The　smell　of　tobacco　might　have　ruined　the　shop's　unique　aroma。　The　store's　stationery　bore　the　〃by　appointment　to〃　crests　of　four　Royal　Family　members。　The　arcade　was　but　a　ten…minute　uphill　walk　from　Buckingham　Palace。　The　glass　door　had　a　hundred…year…old　silver　bell　hanging　on　the　top　of　the　frame。　It　rang。　
　　　　〃Good　morning；　Mr。　Cooley。〃
　　　　〃And　to　you；　sir；〃　Dennis　answered　one　of　his　regulars　as　he　stood。　He　had　an　accent　so　neutral　that　his　customers　had　him　pegged　as　a　native　of　three　different　regions。　〃I　have　the　first…edition　Defoe。　The　one　you　called　about　earlier　this　week。　Just　came　in　yesterday。〃　
　　　　〃Is　this　the　one　from　that　collection　in　Cork　you　spoke　about？〃　
　　　　〃No；　sir。　I　believe　it's　originally　from　the　estate　of　Sir　John　Claggett；　near　Swaffham　Prior。　I　found　it　at　Hawstead's　in　Cambridge。〃　
　　　　〃A　first　edition？〃
　　　　〃Most　certainly；　sir。〃　The　book　dealer　did　not　react　noticeably。　The　code　phrase　was　both　constant　and　changing。　Cooley　made　frequent　trips　to　Ireland；　both　north　and　south；　to　purchase　books　from　the　estates　of　deceased　collectors　or　from　dealers　in　the　country。　When　the　customer　mentioned　any　county　in　the　Irish　Republic；　he　indicated　the　destination　for　his　information。　When　he　questioned　the　edition　of　the　book；　he　also　indicated　its　importance。　Cooley　pulled　the　book　off　the　shelf　and　set　it　on　his　desk。　The　customer　opened　it　with　care；　running　his　finger　down　the　title　page。
　　　　〃In　an　age　of　paperbacks　and　half…bound　books　。　。　。　〃　
　　　　〃Indeed。〃　Cooley　nodded。　Both　men's　love　for　the　art　of　bookbinding　was　genuine。　Any　good　cover　bees　more　real　than　its　builders　expect。　〃The　leather　is　in　remarkable　shape。〃　His　visitor　grunted　agreement。
　　　　〃I　must　have　it。　How　much？〃
　　　　The　dealer　didn't　answer。　Instead　Cooley　removed　the　card　from　the　box　and　handed　it　to　his　customer。　He　gave　the　card　only　a　cursory　look。
　　　　〃Done。〃　The　customer　sat　down　in　the　store's　only　other　chair　and　opened　his　briefcase。　〃I　have　another　job　for　you。　This　is　an　early　copy　of　'The　Vicar　of　Wakefield。'　I　found　it　last　month　at　a　little　shop　in　Cornwall。〃　He　handed　the　book　over。　Cooley　needed　only　a　single　look　at　its　condition。
　　　　〃Scandalous。〃
　　　　〃Can　your　chap　restore　it？〃
　　　　〃I　don't　know　。　。　。〃　The　leather　was　cracked；　some　of　the　pages　had　been　dog…eared；　and　the　binding　was　frayed　almost　to　nonexistence。
　　　　〃I'm　afraid　the　attic　in　which　they　found　it　had　a　leaky　roof；〃　the　customer　said　casually。
　　　　〃Oh？〃　Is　the　information　that　important？　Cooley　looked　up。　〃A　tragic　waste。〃　
　　　　〃How　else　can　you　explain　it？〃　The　man　shrugged。
　　　　〃I'll　see　what　I　can　do。　He's　not　a　miracle　worker；　you　know。〃　Is　it　that　important？
　　　　〃I　understand。　Still；　the　best　you　can　arrange。〃　Yes；　it's　that　important。
　　　　〃Of　course；　sir。〃　Cooley　opened　his　desk　drawer　and　withdrew　the　cashbox。
　　　　This　customer　always　paid　cash。　Of　course。　He　removed　the　wallet　from　his　suitcoat　and　counted　out　the　fifty…pound　notes。　Cooley　checked　the　amount；　then　placed　the　book　in　a　stout　cardboard　box；　which　he　tied　with　string。　No　plastic　bags　for　this　shop。　Seller　and　buyer　shook　hands。　The　transfer　was　plete。　The　customer　walked　south　toward　Piccadilly；　then　turned　right；　heading　west　toward　Green　Park　and　downhill　to　the　Palace。
　　　　Cooley　took　the　envelope　that　had　been　hidden　in　the　book　and　tucked　it　away　in　a　drawer。　He　finished　making　his　ledger　entry；　then　called　his　travel　agent　to　book　a　flight　to　Cork；　where　he　would　meet　a　fellow　dealer　in　rare　books　and　have　lunch　at　the　Old　Bridge　restaurant　before　catching　a　flight　home。　Beatrix　would　have　to　manage　the　shop　tomorrow。　It　did　not　occur　to　him　to　open　the　envelope。　That　was　not　his　job。　The　less　he　knew；　the　less　was　vulnerable　if　he　were　caught。　Cooley　had　been　trained　by　professionals；　and　the　first　rule　pounded　into　his　head　had　been　need…to…know。　He　ran　the　intelligence　operation；　and　he　needed　to　know　how　to　do　that。　He　didn't　always　need　to　know　what　specific　information　he　gathered。

　　　　〃Hello；　Doctor　Ryan。〃　It　was　an　American　voice；　with　a　South　Bay　Boston　accent　that　Jack　remembered　from　his　college　days。　It　sounded　good。　The　man　was　in　his　forties；　a　wiry；　athletic　frame；　with　thinning　black　hair。　He　had　a　flower　box　tucked　under　his　arm。　Whoever　he　was；　the　cop　outside　had　opened　the　door　for　him。
　　　　〃Howdy。　Who　might　you　be？〃　
　　　　〃Dan　Murray。　I'm　the　Legal　Attache　at　the　embassy。　FBI；〃　he　explained。　〃Sorry　I　couldn't　get　down　sooner；　but　things　have　been　a　little　busy。〃　Murray　showed　his　ID　to　the　cop　sitting　in　with　Ryan　　Tony　Wilson　was　off　duty。　The　cop　excused　himself。　Murray　took　his　seat。　
　　　　〃Lookin'　good；　ace。〃
　　　　〃You　could　have　left　the　flowers　at　the　main　desk。〃　Ryan　gestured　around　the　room。　Despite　all　his　efforts　to　spread　the　flowers　about；　he　could　barely　see　the　walls　for　all　the　roses。　
　　　　〃Yeah；　I　figured　that。　How's　the　grub？〃　
　　　　〃Hospital　food　is　hospital　food。〃
　　　　〃Figured　that；　too。〃　Murray　removed　the　red　ribbon　and　opened　the　box。　〃How　does　a　Whopper　and　fries　grab　you？　You　have　a　choice　of　vanilla　or　chocolate　shakes。〃　
　　　　Jack　laughed　　and　grabbed。
　　　　〃I've　been　over　here　three　years；〃　Murray　said。　〃Every　so　often