For King & Country by Robert Asprin, Linda Evans, James Baen Read Free Book Online Page A

comprised the largest group in the pub, occupying one whole corner, tables scooted together to accommodate a clutter of empty dinner plates and an impressive collection of glasses.
    It looked to Trevor Stirling like a major celebration was under way.
    "Ah, there they are." Blundell spotted them at least sixty seconds after Stirling did.
    Stirling navigated the crowded pub with care, not wanting to trip himself up with the crutch-cane, which would leave a fine first impression. They'd nearly reached the table when one of the women, a graduate student, Stirling realized, placing her from her dossier photo, spotted them. Young and pretty, her whole face lit up. "Blundy! You're back!"
    Marc Blundell turned red to the roots of his hair.
    The curious stares leveled his way led Stirling to a singularly unpalatable conclusion: nobody had told the research staff they were to be saddled with SAS security.
Lovely.
    "Where've you been, old bean?" one of the men asked in a teasing tone. Cedrick Banning, Stirling nodded to himself, the Australian—decked out in the polo-snobbery variety of high style, with a paisley silk scarf tucked into his shirt collar and some fraternal pin Stirling didn't recognize decorating his lapel. Christ, another bloody colonial from the outback, trying to prove how very English he was.
    Banning grinned in a friendly fashion. "You've ruddy well missed all the fun!"
    "Fun?" Blundell blinked uncertainly.
    "Beckett's Breakthrough," the Aussie chuckled, capitalizing both words. "Couldn't tear the old bastard away from the lab tonight with an atom bomb. We," he swept a gesture at the gathered team, "decided to celebrate in style, since he won't." Banning's friendly gaze landed on Stirling, and the Aussie greeted him with a cheery grin and an outstretched hand. "I say, old man, frightfully good to see you. SAS, isn't it? Jolly good, a captain, no less. Bit of a cock-up with that leg, eh?"
    Christ, the man sounded more like Oxford than Outback. Must have an inferiority complex a kilometer long. Stirling shook his hand, anyway. "You could say that," he allowed tightly. "Belfast."
    Banning's eyes widened and several of the women emitted sharp little gasps and cooing sounds of sympathy. Stirling's gaze, however, was riveted on Brenna McEgan, whose admittedly lovely mouth had tightened at mention of Belfast. One of the dark-haired brand of Irish women, with a complexion like cream-colored silk, sparks of suppressed anger jumped in her eyes—and she wasn't at all shy about returning his narrow gaze. Her own was as cold as glittering sapphires. "I see you ran afoul of our Orange brethren," she said coolly. "At least, they're claiming the victory from the fighting, aren't they?"
    Dismay ran like lightning round the conjoined pub tables, as party mood abruptly gave way to realization that the unpleasantness occurring across the Irish Sea might well overtake
them.
    "In my experience," Stirling said quietly, holding those chilly eyes in a steady gaze, "Belfast has no winners."
    A vertical line twitched into existence between her brows. "How very odd. An SAS captain who actually understands Northern Ireland?"
    Blundell cleared his throat nervously. "Captain Stirling will be joining us for a bit. He wanted to meet everyone, this evening. I'd love to hear about the breakthrough, Ceddie. I'll, ah, just go and arrange the captain's lodgings, then rejoin you."
    Blundell fled, leaving Stirling to cope with social niceties on his own. He shook hands all round as introductions were made. Brenna McEgan watched him narrowly as he greeted each team member in turn. It took a concentrated effort to study the others, distracted as he was by her disturbing attractiveness, combined with her equally disturbing connections to Belfast. Stirling scolded himself for attempting security work while short of sleep and concentrated on the half-dozen senior staff, promising to sort out everyone else later.
Might at least have kept their bloody staff to a