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Page 54
Morgan had made arrangements with the operations officer at Anacostia to catch a ride west with a ferry pilot delivering an F/A-18 to the USS Nimitz at Alameda Naval Air Station. Navy transport would get him to San Francisco long before any civilian airline.
He opened the kitchen window and put a dish with three cut-up slices of boiled ham on the sill. Then he put what remained of the ham between two slices of not-so-fresh rye, poured himself a beer, and returned to his thoughtful study of the Xerox copies the Canadians had given him.
In the other room the television set flickered, the sound turned down. Morgan read and ate standing at the counter, considering what the RCMP Intelligence people had to say for American consumption, about Anna Neville. Like most intelligence evaluations, the report was full of opinions; some were favorable to the Nevilles, but most were not. Though Jake and Anna had really belonged to different generations, they had apparently shared the same leftist politics so popular in the sixties and seventies. The same organizations, the same causes. Morgan paused thoughtfully. Jake Neville was of an age to have been of the Woodstock generation. But Anna must have been a child then. Yet she had followed the same path, or as near to it as she could manage, a decade later. Her father's influence? Very probably. She had practically been a reddiaper baby.
More recently she and Jake had veered off into the Green movement, where their talents were most useful. They had slipped easily into the role of environmental activists. And from there it was no leap at all into the camp of the CCND. Morgan wondered if her CCND connections had been made before or after the crash into Hudson Bay. Difficult to know, if she chose to conceal it.
Bumper-sticker politics, Morgan thought. Hardly sinister. Except that Jake had seemed to hate his country and had used his considerable talent to show it in the worst possible light. But again, nothing sinister. Just the outraged cries of an Amer-

 
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