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reliable. A backup car, too, with a driver and a shooter." |
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"Aren't you being rather melodramatic, Colonel? It's only one woman, after all, not the nuclear codes." |
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"I gave you an order, Hardy. Carry it out." Morgan was feeling an attack of hate-the-civilian coming on. It was wrong, of course. Hardy Miller couldn't help being a State Department ninny. He had spent his entire professional life learning his trade, which was obfuscation. Morgan said, "I want these arrangements as secure as you can make them." |
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"You know that it's really Camilla's job, dealing with you NSC specials, but I'll do the best I can." |
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"Don't log this call. Enter it as class two. That's all that's necessary." |
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"Colonel, don't you people ever get tired of playing at cloak-and-dagger?" |
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"No," Morgan said, and broke the connection. A class two entry in the day book would alert either Vincent Kellner or Camilla when they checked in. They could then retrieve the tape of the conversation from the White House mainframe. Hardy Miller had no need to know, and so was unaware of this kind of message triage, practiced daily by the NSC's black operations staff. |
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Morgan stared, unseeing, at the telephone under his hand. For the time being, he had done what was possible to assure Anna Neville's safety. But he was dogged by the suspicion that it was not enough. |
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"Calling your masters, Colonel?" Anna stood in the doorway, pushing a wavy lock of hair out of her eyes, a weary smile on her face. |
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Morgan jumped at the sound of her voice and turned to face her. He had no idea what to say to her. Her clothes were rumpled and untidy. He realized that whatever luggage she had was still at the Stanford Court Hotel, unless, of course, the FBI or SFPD had obtained a court order to go and collect it. |
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Anna tugged at her skirt. There was a run in her stockings. |
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