Liberty by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online Page B

it didn’t. The waiting—that was the life of a spy. Waiting, always tense, always pretending, always trying to project a calm one didn’t feel.
    When she finally left the office that evening, she didn’t look back.
    In the days that followed Jake’s interview with Coke Twilley and Sonny Tran he heard no more about Ilin’s missing weapons, nor did anyone whisper Richard Doyle’s name.
Jake’s job as military liaison to the antiterrorism task force consisted mostly of coordinating the use of the military in roles that couldn’t be performed by civil agencies of the government. He spent long hours on the telephone talking to various commands throughout the country and to the civilians, to whom he had to explain precisely what the military could and couldn’t do.
    Commander Toad Tarkington was also there, of course, working the phones alongside his boss. Jake was too busy to worry about the bombs, so Toad worried for both of them. “Do you think maybe you should have another talk with Coke?” he asked hopefully. “Maybe find out what’s going on?”
    Jake shook his head and pushed a button on his phone to answer a waiting call. An hour later, during a momentary lull, Toad suggested, “Wha’daya think about arranging another meet with Ilin, see if he’s heard anything else?”
    â€œThere’s nothing we can do, Toad.”
    â€œGoddamn, Admiral, the world is on the brink of the abyss. You and I are the only two sane people on the planet who know about it, and I’ve got my doubts about you.”
    Grafton chuckled and started to reply to that bon mot, but the telephone rang, so he answered it. Whatever he was going to say to Toad was never said, because when he finally hung up the phone he was thinking about something else, then finally he forgot it altogether.
    On Thursday evening the telephone rang at Jake’s apartment. The voice on the other end of the line was that of the deputy chief of naval operations. After a muttered greeting, the admiral said, “An hour from now, at nine, be waiting downstairs in front of your building. You jog, don’t you?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWear jogging shorts, tennis shoes. Do you have a distinctive sweatshirt with a college logo or something?”
    Jake had to think for a moment. “Slick Willie’s.”

    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œA whorehouse in Nevada, sir.”
    The admiral chuckled dryly. “Wear that. Nine o’clock, down front.”
    â€œWant to tell me what this is about, Admiral?”
    â€œSomebody wants to meet you.”
    So Jake dressed in his jogging duds, stood in front of the building feeling like an idiot as light traffic rolled through the Roslyn neighborhood and a light Thursday evening crowd strolled by, heading to or from the Metro or to get a coffee drink.
    A large black sedan with dark windows pulled up to the curb about a minute before nine. A sedan stopped in the street in front of it, and another sedan pulled in behind. A fit man in his early thirties wearing a sports coat got out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear door. Then he motioned to Jake.
    Jake walked over and climbed in—the man shut the door firmly and got back into the car.
    â€œRear Admiral Grafton,” the man sitting beside Jake said as the car pulled away from the curb. “It’s a pleasure.” He held out his hand.
    â€œPleased to meet you, sir,” Jake Grafton said, and shook hands with the president of the United States.
    â€œCool shirt,” the president said, and nodded to the Secret Service agent behind the wheel, who put the car in motion.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure meeting you, Admiral,” the president continued. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
    Jake tried to think of an appropriate response. This was the first and only president he had ever met. He seemed like an okay guy, but after all …