trained its SEAL candidates, there to tell such stories as the rules allowed over beers to a very few trusted fellow instructors. Every so often they’d come through Hereford in Wales, to drink pints of John Courage at the Green Dragon’s comfortable bar and trade war stories rather more freely with fellow graduates of the Men of Black. The locals knew who they were, but they were as security-conscious as the Security Service agents—called “Five” men in a nod to the former British MI-5—who hung out there, too.
Nothing was permanent in the service, regardless of the country. This was healthy for the organizations, always bringing in fresh people, some of them with fresh ideas, and it made for warm reunions in the most unlikely of places—a lot of them airport terminals, all over the freaking world—and a lot of beers to be drunk and handshakes to be exchanged before the departing flights were called. But the impermanence and uncertainty wore at you over time. You started wondering when a close friend and colleague would be called away, to disappear into some other compartment of the “black” world, often remembered but rarely seen again. Clark had seen a lot of friends die on “training missions”—which usually meant catching a bullet in a denied area. But such things were the cost of belonging to this exclusive fraternity, and there was no changing it. As the SEALs were fond of saying, “You don’t have to like it; you just have to do it.”
Eddie Price, for example, had taken retirement as Regimental Sergeant Major of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment, and was now the Yeoman Gaoler at Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, the Tower of London. John and Ding had both wondered if the UK’s Chief of State understood how much more secure her Palace and Fortress was today, and if Price’s ceremonial ax (the Yeoman Gaoler is the official executioner there) had a proper edge to it. For damned sure he still did his morning run and PT, and woe betide any member of the regular-Army security force quartered there who didn’t have his boots spit-shined, his gig-lines in order, and his rifle cleaner than when it had left the factory.
It was a damned shame that you had to get old, John Clark told himself, close enough to sixty to see the shadow of it, and the worst part of getting old was that you could remember being young, even the things best forgotten, in his case. Memories were a double-edged sword.
“Hey, Mr. C.,” said a familiar voice at the front door. “Hell of a day out, isn’t it?”
“Ding, we talked about this,” John said without turning.
“Sorry . . . John.”
It had taken John Clark years to get Chavez, colleague and son-in-law, to call him by his first name, and even now Ding was having trouble with it.
“Ready if somebody tries to hijack the flight?”
“Mr. Beretta is in his usual place,” Ding responded. They were among the handful of people in Britain who got to carry firearms, and such privileges were not lightly set aside.
“How are Johnny and Patsy?”
“The little guy is pretty excited about going home. We have a plan after we get there?”
“Not really. Tomorrow morning we make a courtesy call at Langley. I might want to drive over and see Jack in a day or two.”
“See if he’s leaving footprints on the ceiling?” Ding asked with a chuckle.
“More likely claw marks, if I know Jack.”
“Retirement ain’t fun, I suppose.” Chavez didn’t push it further. That was a touchy subject for his father-in law. Time passed, no matter how much you wished it wouldn’t.
“How’s Price handling it?”
“Eddie? He takes an even strain with life—that’s how you sailors say it, right?”
“Close enough for a doggie.”
“Hey, man, I said ‘sailor,’ not ‘squid.’”
“Duly noted, Domingo. I beg your pardon, Colonel.”
Chavez enjoyed the next laugh. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss that.”
“How’s Patsy?”
“Better than the last pregnancy. Looks great. Feels great—least she says she does. Not a big complainer, Patsy. She’s a good girl, John—but then again, I ain’t telling you anything you didn’t already know, am I?”
“Nope, but it’s always nice to hear it.”
“Well, I have no complaints.” And if he did, he’d have to approach the subject with great diplomacy. But he didn’t. “The chopper is waiting, boss,” he added.
“Damn.” A sad whisper.
Sergeant Ivor Rogers had the luggage well in hand, loaded in a green British Army truck for the drive to the helipad, and he was waiting outside for his personal Brigadier,