The Negotiator

He had been told that Dublin had the worst teenage drug problem in Europe but knew it was just London ’s propaganda. He had heard Irish Prime Ministers on American soil pleading for no more money to be sent to the I.R.A. Well, people were entitled to their views. And he had his. Being a crime-buster did not require him to like the people he saw as the timeless persecutors of the land of his forefathers. Across the desk, Kelly came to a decision.

“ Seymour is close to Buck Revell, but Revell’s away sick. The Director has put me in charge of this from the Bureau’s point of view. And I don’t want this Qui

Brown rose, pleased.

“One more thing, Kevin. I want one special agent in close on Qui

“I know just the one,” said Brown grimly. “A good operative, tenacious and clever. Also personable. Agent Sam Somerville. I’ll do the briefing myself. Now.”

Out at Langley, David Weintraub was wondering when he would ever sleep again. During his absence the work had piled up in a mountain. Much of it had to do with the files on all the known terrorist groups in Europe-latest updates, penetration agents inside the groups, known locations of the leading members, possible incursions into Britain over the previous forty days… the list of headings alone was almost endless. So it was the Chief of the European Section who briefed Duncan McCrea.

“You’ll meet Lou Collins from our embassy,” he said, “but he’ll be keeping us posted from outside the i

Operative McCrea was awestruck. A GS-12 with ten years in the Agency since recruitment abroad-his father had been a businessman in Central America-he had had two foreign postings but never London. The responsibility was enormous, but matched by the opportunity.

“You can rely on m-m-me, sir.”

Qui

At Dulles, Qui

“My friend here will pay by credit card,” he said.

The limpet detached himself at the door of the Concorde. The British stewardess showed Qui

The Concorde swung into line, paused, trembled, and then hurled herself down the runway. The bird-of-prey nose lifted, the claws of the rear wheels lost contact, the ground below tilted forty-five degrees, and Washington dropped quickly away.

There was something else. Two tiny holes in her lapel, the sort of holes that might be made by a safety pin. The sort of safety pin that might hold an ID card. He leaned across.

“Which department are you from?”

She looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Bureau. Which department in the Bureau are you from?”

She had the grace to blush. She bit her lip and thought it over. Well, it had to come sooner or later.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Qui

“It’s all right, Miss Sam Somerville. I know what you’ve been told.”

The no-smoking lights flicked off. The addicts in the rear lit up. A stewardess approached, dispensing glasses of champagne. The businessman in the window seat to Qui

“When the seat-belt lights go off, you’d better tell that young sprig from Langley in Row Twenty-one to get his butt up here,” he said to Agent Somerville. Five minutes later she returned with the young man from the rear. He was flushed and apologetic, pushing back his floppy blond hair and managing a boy-next-door grin.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Qui

“Yes, I know. Take a seat.” Qui

“Oh.” The young man was subdued, did as he was told.

Qui

Chapter 6

Simon Cormack spent the first twenty-four hours of his captivity in total isolation. Experts would know this was part of the softening-up process, a long opportunity for the hostage to dwell upon his isolation and his helplessness. Also a chance for hunger and tiredness to set in. A hostage full of pep, prepared to argue and complain, or even plan some kind of escape, simply makes problems for his abductors. A victim reduced to hopelessness and pathetic gratitude for small mercies is much easier to handle.

At 10:00 A.M. of the second day, about the time Qui

After several seconds he heard the rasp of two bolts being drawn back. The door opened three inches and a black-gloved hand came around the edge. It gripped a white card with a message written with a marker pen in block capitals:

YOU HEAR THREE KNOCKS YOU PUT ON THE HOOD.

UNDERSTAND? ACKNOWLEDGE.

He waited for several seconds, unsure what to do. The card waggled impatiently.

“Yes,” he said, “I understand. Three knocks on that door and I put on the hood.”

The card was withdrawn and replaced by another. The second card said: