Free Cathedral by Nelson DeMille Page B

strategic locations. Martin moved swiftly to the rear of the lobby, behind a stone fagade that camouflaged the building's elevators. The elevator doors opened, and both men moved inside. Burke reached out and pushed floor nine.
    Martin smiled. "Thank you."
    Burke looked at the man standing in a classical elevator pose, feet separated, hands behind his back, head tilted upward, engrossed in the progression of illuminated numbers. Despite his rank there was nothing military about Bartholomew Martin, thought Burke. If anything he looked like an actor who was trying to get into character for a difficult role.
    He hadn't mastered control of the mouth, however, which was hard and unyielding, despite the smile. A glimpse of the real man, perhaps.
    The elevator stopped, and Burke followed the major into the corridor.
    Martin nodded to a man who stood to the left, dressed in a blue blazer with polished brass buttons.
    On the wall of the corridor, opposite Burke, was the royal coat of arms and a highly polished bronze plaque at read: BRITISH INFORMATION
    SERVICES. There tas no sign to indicate that this was where the spies usually hung out, but as far as Burke knew, nobody's consulate or embassy information office made that too clear.
    Burke followed Martin through a door into a large room. A blond receptionist, dressed in a blue tweed suit that matched the Concorde poster above her desk, stood as they approached and said in a crisp British accent, "Good morning, Major."
    Martin led Burke through a door just beyond the desk, through a microfilm reading room, and into a small sitting room furnished in a more traditional style than the rest of the place. The only detail that suggested a government office was a large travel poster that showed a black and

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    white cow standing in a sunny meadow, captioned: "Find peace and tranquility in an English village."
    Martin drew the door shut, locked it, and hung his topcoat on a clothes tree. "Have a seat, Lieutenant."
    Burke left his coat on, walked to the sideboard and took the stopper out of a decanter, smelled it, then poured a drink. He looked around the well-furnished room. The last time he'd been in the consulate was a week before last St. Patrick's Day. A Colonel Hayes that time. Burke leaned back against the sideboard. "Well, what can you do for me?"
    Major Martin smiled. "A great deal, I think."
    "Good."
    "I've already given Inspector Langley a report on a group of Irish terrorists called the Fenians, led by a Finn MacCumail. You've seen the report?"
    "I've been apprised of the details."
    "Fine. Then you know something may happen here today." Major Martin leaned forward. "I'm working closely with the FBI and CIA, but I'd like to work more closely with your people-pool our information. The FBI and CIA tell us things they don't tell you, but I'd keep you informed of their progress as well as ours. I've already helped your military intelligence branches set up files on the IRA, and I've briefed your State Department intelligence service on the problem."
    "You've been busy."
    "Yes. You see, I'm a sort of clearinghouse in this affair. British Intelligence knows more about the Irish revolutionaries than anyone, of course, and now you seem to need that information, and we have a chance to do you a good turn."
    "What's the price?"
    Major Martin played with a lighter on the coffee table. "Yes, price.
    Well, better information from you in future on the transatlantic IRA types in New York. Gunrunning. Fund raising. IRA people here on R and R.
    That sort of thing."

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    "Sounds fair."
    "It is fair."
    "So what do you want of me particularly?"
    Major Martin looked at Burke. "Just wanted to tell you directly about all of this. To meet you." Martin stood. "Look here, if you want to get a bit of information to me directly, call here and ask for Mr. James. Someone will take the message and pass it on to me. And I'll leave messages for you here as well. Perhaps a little