Pleased Tommy was ready to drop the matter, Spence flashed him a mischievous little smile, one she’d seen Pamela use whenever she wished to annoy someone who was trying to get her goat. “No,” Spence quipped. “Just someone who knows how to use a dictionary.” With that, she spun her seat around again and returned to what she’d been doing, leaving Tommy to go back to muttering under his breath as he tried to occupy himself by tinkering with the computer he’d been messing with before Andy had sent him north.
Had someone told Andy that donning the apparel of another era and stepping back in time could be as much fun as it proved during his weekend foray to Gettysburg, he would have informed them they were barking mad. It was more than the sense of relief he derived when he stuffed all his troubles and concerns into the trunk of O’Conner’s car along with his twentieth-century attire. Nor could he attribute his exhilaration to the thrill he had felt run through him when the massed fife and drum band struck up a stirring marching tune as he and the men of the 69th NYVI stepped off as part of a grand review.
The true source of his enjoyment had been the camaraderie he had discovered, as he came to know men he’d thought he would despise, for the Irish Americans he fell in with that weekend were nothing like the sullen buggers he’d left behind in Belfast, and who would have just as soon have kneecapped him as say hello. Steven O’Conner and his mates celebrated an Ireland that no longer existed. At night, when the tourists left the camps, the songs sung by men and women, whose ancestors had left Ireland to make America their home, ranged from cheerful to melancholy, unlike tunes such as “My Little Armalite” the brats in Belfast bleated out at the top of their little lungs in order to taunt British soldiers. “I told you you’d love it,” O’Conner beamed as they drove back on Sunday evening smelling of wood fires and three days of marching about wearing wool uniforms in the late June heat without the benefit of a shower or modern deodorant.
It was only in the days following this foray, when he found himself back in his New York hotel room alone with nothing to occupy his time other than wait for word on what he was to do next, that Andy appreciated that it was the laid-back, easygoing nature of the irreverent and unassuming red-haired American that had made the experience as enjoyable as it had proved to be. There was a total lack of the subtle, yet always present need Andy felt to watch what he said or did whenever he was in the company of his peers back home. Like his modern-day responsibilities, it wasn’t long before Andy found he was able to set aside the well-honed façade his rank demanded he assume. So, rather than viewing his assignment in America as a duty, thanks to the way O’Conner and he got along, Andy had come to look upon this as a holiday, one he was free to enjoy with a newfound friend, the likes of which he had never had before.
A trio of events put a quick and resounding end to this idyllic viewpoint. The first was a late-night call from O’Conner, who informed Andy that the Sealion wished to meet with him again. Whether it was the tone of his voice or the speed with which he turned down the NYPD officer’s offer to accompany him this time that put O’Conner on guard didn’t matter. As keen as Andy was at adding two and two together and coming up with so much more, Steven G. was better.
The next came when he checked the post office box he’d rented the day he’d arrived in New York, Andy found both instructions from his British contact in America as well as the wherewithal to carry them out. Before leaving Belfast, Major Sanderson had taken Andy into his confidence despite orders from MoD not to. “The hard drive you’re carrying has information concerning British forces deployed throughout Europe that is more beneficial to the Soviets than to the IRA. Most of the items are bits and pieces we already know the GRU is already aware of, thanks to a double agent we have tucked away somewhere in Stavka. Mixed in with that is information that is pure, unadulterated manure.”
At this point in their exchange Sanderson had paused, informing Andy he needed to refill his brew and asking him if he also wished for another. As well practiced in the ways of staff officers who dealt in the murky world of intelligence as any man, Andy knew the major was providing him with an opportunity to sort things out for himself before proceeding. After settling back in, Sanderson took a moment to enjoy a sip of tea before continuing. “Should it come to pass that our man in Moscow alerts us the red herrings we packed that hard drive with have come to the attention of the Sovs, we’ll know the RA’s point of contact in New York is more than a freelancer.”
“And if that does prove to be the case?” Andy asked as he peered into Sanderson’s eyes over the lip of his mug.
“It’s a hole in our bucket that will need to be plugged. The sooner, the better.”
“By whom?” Andy asked, doing his best to be as nonchalant as possible while doing so.
Sanderson didn’t answer, at least not verbally. The major’s expression and the way he peered into Andy’s eyes, a look he had come to recognize whenever his colonel was preparing to send him out on an assignment for which detailed written orders would never be issued, told him all he needed to know.
With the same care Andy relied upon to carry out his duties in Belfast, once the Sealion told him when and where they were to meet, he immediately conducted a thorough close target reconnaissance of the area. Only after he’d picked his ground and scoped out the infiltration and exfiltration routes he would use, that would, if he was lucky, see him to the airport and away from New York long before anyone was even aware that the man known as the Sealion was missing, did Andy take a moment to prepare himself.
That things could go wrong and he could very easily find his stay in the United States proving to be far longer and more uncomfortable than he hoped was a given. Andy had been involved in far too many operations in Belfast in which well-laid plans had gone badly awry to know there was no such thing as a foolproof scheme. Yet he felt no trepidation as he waited in the alley not far from the Sealion’s shop. Like so much else in his life, he approached this mission with the same calm, resolute attitude with which he conducted all his affairs, safe in the knowledge he was doing his best in a manner that was expected of a professional soldier.
“You don’t want to do this,” a quiet voice called out from behind through the early evening darkness.
Without giving what he was doing a whit of thought, Andy pulled free the small 9mm Walther P5K he’d been holding tucked inside his scruffy jacket, even as he was pivoting about to face the person who’d managed to come up behind him without making a sound. For the longest time he stared into O’Conner’s calm brown eyes, eyes that Andy at first thought betrayed nothing. Only after he’d managed to catch himself and finally draw a breath did Andy lower his pistol.
He didn’t waste any time asking the NYPD officer how, or why. That was obvious. Instead, Andy drew himself up as he told O’Conner that there was nothing he or anyone else could say that would keep him from carrying out his orders. “It’s more than what this bastard has done to help the murderous scum we have to live with back in the UK. The Sealion might have left Russia, but he’s never turned his back on his motherland, not by a long shot.”
“I know,” O’Conner replied as that foolish, lopsided grin lit up his face. When he saw the astonished look on Andy’s face, he chuckled. “You do recall my telling you I’m a reserve officer with 2nd of the 25th Marines. When I’m not prowling the streets of New York, tromping about cow pastures with Civil War wannabes or trying to be the sort of man everyone at home expects me to be, I do the same thing you do. I just don’t do it for Queen and country.”