LITMIR.BIZ

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do that ninety-nine percent of this country’s truck drivers are red, white and blue Americans. Whatever it takes to combat terrorism, they’ll do, and to hell with the do-gooders who moan about the rights of criminals.”

      Her smile was hard. “Without asking any leading questions about just what exactly you do … How many truckers do you believe are aware of you?”

      “Quite a few. But I’m not discussed on the CBs.”

      She nodded her head. Barry knew there would be no more questions about his life.

      His life. His past life. Kate.

      They had not been married long. Heading back to his offices outside Washington. Barry, Kate, Dog. Traveling in Barry’s pickup with the camper top.

      They had enjoyed a late breakfast and then packed up. Kate got behind the wheel.

      Dog barked.

      “Maybe he wants to go for a walk,” Kate said, smiling at him, blue eyes shining. “You take him. I’ll warm up the truck.”

      “Come on, Dog,” Barry said. “Time for you to do your business.”

      Barry and Dog walked across the concrete to the grassy area. While Dog ran and sniffed, looking for a good spot to mark, Barry heard the pickup’s engine crack. White-hot heat struck him hard, just as a tremendous sound wave knocked him sprawling to the ground. Out of his blurring and shocked eyes, he could see Dog rolling end over end on the ground. He could hear the sounds of falling debris: chunks of metal and glass and plastic hitting the earth.

      Barry could feel a warm stickiness running down his face.

      Blood.

      He was burning; his shirt was on fire.

      But where was the pain?

      He tried to roll over. He could not. None of his extremities would obey commands from his brain. Red tinged with a strange darkness began enveloping him as the pain reached him.

      Dog was barking, an angry note to the sound.

      “Kate!” Barry yelled, but her name was only a whisper coming out of his mouth.

      And then Barry knew nothing as a cold hand touched him lightly with bony fingers.

      “You went away,” Cutter said.

      “I do that every now and then. But never on the job,” Barry assured her.

      “I’d like to talk more, but I’m afraid of stepping over into sensitive areas.”

      “I’ll let you know if that happens.”

      “How’d you get into the business you’re in?”

      “You just stepped over. How did you get into this business?”

      “He said, shifting smoothly.” She laughed. “ROTC in college. Before I even got through my second year, they discovered I had a flair for the clandestine. They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so to speak. OCS. A lot of school. Worked for a time with the AF Office of Special Investigations. That was mostly analysis of field intelligence and weaponry training. Went through some CIA training and learned to blow things up and also to think and act like terrorists. That’s very important when dealing with those kinds of nitwits. I’ve been overseas, working with foreign governments in tracking down threats to U.S. facilities and aiding in the interrogations.”

      “Your life has been interesting, to say the least.”

      “Somehow,” she said drily, “I have this feeling my life has not been nearly as interesting as yours.”

      “Don’t give up hoping.”

      “Well, the sad thing about all this terrorism business, is that while we can train personnel from CIA, DOE, ATF, State Department and the various services—and we do—we are forbidden to teach civilian police. And that’s sad. Because it’s the local cops who are going to have to bear the brunt of dealing with terrorism when it hits our shores. And it’s coming. Very soon.”

      Ready and Frenchy and Smooth and Mustard had stepped out of the building, standing behind Barry and Cutter, quietly listening.

      “You boys join us,” Barry motioned for them to gather around on the steps. “We’re going back to school.” When they had made themselves as comfortable as possible, Barry asked Cutter, “Bring us up to date, please.”

      “That would take weeks. I’ll give you a thumbnail report. Let’s start with the IRA. The Irish Republican Army. Some of them are freedom fighters, but not this bunch. They’re extremists—a splinter group known as I-7 just as bad as any terrorist group working anywhere around the globe. They torture, they rape, they maim, they kill, they destroy. They’re terrorists, any way one wants to look at it logically.

      “The Irish-Americans don’t want to be told and don’t believe it when we try to tell them that certain elements within the IRA—breakaway groups such as I-7—have direct links with the Palestinian terrorists, the E.T.A.—that’s the Basque Separatist Movement—the Bader-Meinhof gang and the Red Brigades. And that’s just naming a few.

      “It may be difficult for you men to believe, but we know that for the past two decades, terrorist groups have been co-operating closely, even when they have no philosophical or political grounds to share. They train together. They oftentimes share the same instructors. They provide safe houses for each other. They also collaborate in the buying and the smuggling of weapons. Damn it!” She spat out the word. “When someone helps one terrorist group they’re helping them all.”

      The door had opened and closed.

      “How are they working the money end of it?” Barry asked.

      “What do you mean?” She looked up as Smooth handed her a can of beer. “Thanks.”

      He passed the beer around. Compliments of the United States Air Force.

      “More specifically, the buying of arms.”

      “Well, say a bank or an armored car is knocked over in … well, wherever … London. That money is very unlikely to be used to buy guns for the I-7 directly. For obvious reasons.”

      She waited for Barry to pick it up. He did.

      “The connection would be too easy to trace.”

      “Right. So instead, a dummy company will have been set up in, say, Italy or Greece or Switzerland and that money will be used to buy guns and bombs for the ETA. Then the Spanish Separatists may well use monies collected for the IRA in America to buy guns from Lebanon. A combined smuggling operation is then set up—part to go to the Basque, part to go to the I-7.”

      “Slick,” Mustard muttered. “These guys we’re dealing with ain’t idiots.”

      “Far from it. Many are highly educated. At some of the finest schools in the world. Some are just streetwise, educated by the best terrorist trainers to be found.”

      “I’m curious about something,” Barry said, after a swig of beer. “Why doesn’t the Department of Justice move in on groups like this NORAID and put them out of business?”

      “They tried. They’re still trying. Under the terms of the Foreign Agents Registration Act, NORAID has had an office in Belfast since the early 1970s. Many NORAID associates have been arrested and convicted; but still the group claims they are a charity working to provide aid for the victims of British terrorism in Northern Ireland. And of course, any thinking person knows that is nothing more than pure bullshit.”

      “How many Americans contribute to the I-7?” Frenchy asked.

      “We don’t know, although it’s believed that some Americans do make substantial contributions, and they know perfectly well their money is going to kill people. But they have been brainwashed into believing their money is going to a fine and noble cause. Fighting for freedom.”

      “Well, I’m dumb,” Smooth said,

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