the bombardment had ended. Fort Meade wouldn’t clear it either.” Kelly swallowed. “Compromise of NSA sources and methods was more important than the purposes to be served by such a compromise. Permission refused.” The civilian slammed his right fist into the table. “I never did learn how many people got killed by that bullshit. They weren’t any of them in NSA headquarters, though, and that was all that mattered to the top brass. But it wasn’t all that mattered to me.”
“Umm, well,” said Major Nassif, as if he had understood the point of the story. They hadn’t warned him that he would be briefing a psycho. . . . “Well, to continue,” the major said.
“Sorry, Major, just one more thing,” Kelly said tiredly. “I said I had a suggestion. I’m going back over to my room in the ETAP—” he thumbed toward the blank north wall of the office. “I suggest you check with whoever it takes, General Pedler, I suppose, and then drop the file off with me there.”
Nassif started to rise in protest. “I said check, didn’t I?” Kelly overrode him. “And the whole file, too—the file and every other scrap of data there is in this embassy, anything that might have something to do with it.” The civilian opened the door and stepped out into the hall. Turning, he added, “If the ETAP isn’t secure, you’re really up a creek.”
Major Nassif plucked at his moustache. Suddenly he glanced from the open door to the open file in his hand. He slapped the file shut, but it was another minute before he actually stood up.
IV
Tom Kelly heard the knock the second time and padded to the door. The fisheye lens in the panel distorted the figures of two men in shirt sleeves. Each wore his hair shorter than civilian standard. “A moment,” Kelly called. He set down the short, double-edged knife and pulled on his slacks. When he opened the door, his right hand again held the knife out of sight along his thigh. Hadn’t even started, Kelly thought, might not start, and already he was getting paranoid again. Bad as he’d been five years before in Venice, when he went to work wearing a uniform. . . .
“Mr. Kelly,” said the visitor carrying the briefcase, “General Pedler directed us to bring some material to you. I’m Sergeant Wooley; this is Sergeant Coleman.” His black companion, apparently bemused by Kelly’s state of undress, blinked and nodded.
“Sure, come on in,” the civilian said, stepping back out of the way. Already embarrassed, he slipped the knife hilt down into his side pocket as unobtrusively as possible. “Expected Major Nassif, you know,” he said. He looked carefully at the two sergeants. “You fellows wouldn’t have Crypto clearances, would you?” he asked.
Sergeant Wooley closed the hall door. Coleman had moved over to the writing desk on which the radio sat, crackling with the odd inflections of an Albanian news-reader. The younger men looked at each other. “Yes, sir,” the first said slowly, “we’re Communicators, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m sorry, sit down,” Kelly said, waving toward the upholstered chairs as he seated himself on the bed again. He flicked a hand across his own bare chest. “Just sitting here thinking,” he said in what was meant for explanation. “When it wasn’t that jackass Nassif, I figured they’d sent couriers. But I guess somebody over there”—he waved toward the embassy, beyond the heavy drapes and the other buildings —“got the notion that I might be prejudiced against officers.” He smiled. “Might just be right, too. Want a drink? The refrigerator’s stocked with one of everything, and I brought a bottle of my—”
“I think we’d better just turn these over, sir,” Wooley said. He opened the case. It contained the briefing file which Kelly had already seen in Nassif’s hands, plus two other, slimmer, folders and a clipboard with a receipt. The sergeant held out the clipboard and a pen to Kelly. “If you’ll
“Umm, well,” said Major Nassif, as if he had understood the point of the story. They hadn’t warned him that he would be briefing a psycho. . . . “Well, to continue,” the major said.
“Sorry, Major, just one more thing,” Kelly said tiredly. “I said I had a suggestion. I’m going back over to my room in the ETAP—” he thumbed toward the blank north wall of the office. “I suggest you check with whoever it takes, General Pedler, I suppose, and then drop the file off with me there.”
Nassif started to rise in protest. “I said check, didn’t I?” Kelly overrode him. “And the whole file, too—the file and every other scrap of data there is in this embassy, anything that might have something to do with it.” The civilian opened the door and stepped out into the hall. Turning, he added, “If the ETAP isn’t secure, you’re really up a creek.”
Major Nassif plucked at his moustache. Suddenly he glanced from the open door to the open file in his hand. He slapped the file shut, but it was another minute before he actually stood up.
IV
Tom Kelly heard the knock the second time and padded to the door. The fisheye lens in the panel distorted the figures of two men in shirt sleeves. Each wore his hair shorter than civilian standard. “A moment,” Kelly called. He set down the short, double-edged knife and pulled on his slacks. When he opened the door, his right hand again held the knife out of sight along his thigh. Hadn’t even started, Kelly thought, might not start, and already he was getting paranoid again. Bad as he’d been five years before in Venice, when he went to work wearing a uniform. . . .
“Mr. Kelly,” said the visitor carrying the briefcase, “General Pedler directed us to bring some material to you. I’m Sergeant Wooley; this is Sergeant Coleman.” His black companion, apparently bemused by Kelly’s state of undress, blinked and nodded.
“Sure, come on in,” the civilian said, stepping back out of the way. Already embarrassed, he slipped the knife hilt down into his side pocket as unobtrusively as possible. “Expected Major Nassif, you know,” he said. He looked carefully at the two sergeants. “You fellows wouldn’t have Crypto clearances, would you?” he asked.
Sergeant Wooley closed the hall door. Coleman had moved over to the writing desk on which the radio sat, crackling with the odd inflections of an Albanian news-reader. The younger men looked at each other. “Yes, sir,” the first said slowly, “we’re Communicators, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m sorry, sit down,” Kelly said, waving toward the upholstered chairs as he seated himself on the bed again. He flicked a hand across his own bare chest. “Just sitting here thinking,” he said in what was meant for explanation. “When it wasn’t that jackass Nassif, I figured they’d sent couriers. But I guess somebody over there”—he waved toward the embassy, beyond the heavy drapes and the other buildings —“got the notion that I might be prejudiced against officers.” He smiled. “Might just be right, too. Want a drink? The refrigerator’s stocked with one of everything, and I brought a bottle of my—”
“I think we’d better just turn these over, sir,” Wooley said. He opened the case. It contained the briefing file which Kelly had already seen in Nassif’s hands, plus two other, slimmer, folders and a clipboard with a receipt. The sergeant held out the clipboard and a pen to Kelly. “If you’ll
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