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"Not nothing," she said, and caressed his flaccid penis with her free hand. "Tell me, little one." |
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Ryerson's anger returned. What the hell. Why not? "That fucking Marine," he said. |
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"Morgan. Works for Kellner." |
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"Ah. The National Security Adviser." |
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He pressed his advantage, implying that he knew Kellner far better than he did. "I've told Vincent many times that Morgan is going to get him in trouble. Last night I had to calm him down." |
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"And is the Adviser in trouble?" |
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"He may be," Ryerson said. "I'm going to San Francisco |
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to check it out. I'll be goneI don't knowa few days." |
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"A story for your newspaper?" |
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"What does that mean, 'pry'?" |
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Ryerson sat up in bed. Marina stayed as she was, her breasts spread of their own weight, white skinned, traced with tiny blue veins. They would sag one day, Ryerson thought, but right now they were primo. |
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"It means to ask too many questions." |
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"I see." Her voice turned cold. She could do that. Drop the temperature suddenly. It shook Ryerson. The thought of not having Marina available for sex disturbed him almost as much as the idea of losing her as a source of information. One of her duties was to keep all the snooping equipment overlooking Washington in working condition. She had told him that on their first or second time together. One day he might find the information useful, but not yet. |
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He said, "Kellner is sending Morgan to San Francisco to meddle with Anna Neville and her lawyer. Damned risky business." |
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"Neville? The Canadian woman who was in the newspaper last week?" |
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