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little common ground. Except for here, and now, in this time of great turmoil. I'm not good at chasing off after dreams, he thought a little sadly, especially not dreams that could never come true. Still, for the next four days he might have reason to be grateful for a lack of imagination. |
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The cellular telephone next to the driver buzzed for attention. The airman answered, listened, and said, "It's for you, Colonel. The White House duty officer." |
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Morgan took the handset from him. "Morgan." |
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"Duty Officer here, Colonel. You just had a telephone call from Bethesda, sir. Odd call. It was one of the senior nurses, named Harrelson. She said to tell you that a woman who identified herself as Camilla Varig, who works at the NSC for Dr. Kellner, was at the administration desk with a request to see the Russian about twenty minutes ago. When they told her you checked him out last night, she left. The nurse gave a pretty good description of the woman: Any instructions?" |
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"Yes. Locate the Adviser and give him this information. Then call the Shore Patrol and have them try to find her. If they locate Varig, she is to be held until she's cleared by Dr. Kellner." |
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Morgan looked over at Karmann. The man had fallen asleep. The sleep of exhaustion. The sleep of the dead. Tell him about his putative visitor, Camilla Varig? Never, he thought. Never in a thousand years. |
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It was after 1800 hours when the van deposited Morgan and Karmann on the apron at Andrews. Two of the hangars across the field were brilliantly lit, the planes inside swarming with mechanics. Trying to get Looking Glass, or a reasonable facsimile, back up in the air, Morgan thought. More likely the facsimile. Cole Caidin was getting quite a lesson in the false economics of sudden disarmament. |
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One of the hardened airplanes assigned to Air Force Special Operations Command waited on the apron, a black-painted |
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