Night Moves Read Free Page A

people who knew about the shipment and the route.
The crates were unmarked, and the workmen and train personnel who loaded and were delivering the materials didn't know what they were carrying." "Coincidence, maybe? They attacked a train at random?" "Nineteen trains passed that point in the twenty-four hours prior to the one that was destroyed. Only one carried anything of strategic importance." "Then somebody told."

"The Pakistanis say not. Nobody had a chance to tell.
Once the operation began, three of the four who knew were together, and the other one--who happens to be the head of their secret police--didn't get around to decoding the computer message telling him about the shipment until an hour before the attack. Some kind of computer failure on his end had his system down. Even if he had wanted to tell, there wasn't enough time." "Somebody intercepted the message and broke the code, then," Michaels said. "Which is why it concerns us," she said. "The problem there is, the security encryption was supposedly bulletproof, a factored number hundreds of digits long.
According to the CIA, it would take a Super Cray running full time, day and night, about a million years to break the code."
Great, Michaels thought. He said, "I'll have my people look into it." "Good. Keep me informed."
Her picture disappeared as she broke the connection. Toni, who had been listening, shook her head. "Not possible," she said.
"Right. The difficult we do immediately. The impossible takes a little longer. Come on, let's go see the maze."
"You going to call Jay?"
"It can wait a few more minutes."
Friday, April 1stLondon,EnglandThe waiter arrived with aBombay gin and tonic and set it on the table next to the overstaffed leather chair where Lord Geoffrey Goswell sat reading the Times. The Japanese markets were going to hell in a handbasket, the American stock market was holding steady, and gold futures were up.
The weather forecast forLondon called for rain on the morrow. Nothing about which to be concerned.
Goswell glanced up. He watched the servant bide a moment to see if there was anything else required, and gave the waiter a military nod.
"Thank you, Paddington."
"Milord."
The waiter glided noiselessly away. Here was a good man, old Paddington.

He'd had been delivering the paper and drinks here at the club for what? Thirty, thirty-five years? He
was polite, efficient, knew his place, and never intruded. Would that all servants were half as well-mannered. A man to be remembered with a nice tip at Christmas, was Paddington. Across the short stretch of dark and worn oval Oriental rug, reading a trash paper like the Sun or the New York Times or some such. Sir Harold Bellworth harrumphed and blew out a fragrant cloud of Cuban cigar smoke. He lowered his paper a bit and looked at Goswell. "Can't believe what the American President said today. I don't understand why they put up with that kind of-bloody nonsense over there. If the PM did that, he would be tossed out on his ear, and rightly so."
Bellworth, eighty-two, was class of '47, thus eight years older than Goswell. Goswell smiled politely at the older man. "Well, they're Americans now, aren't they?" "Mmm, yes, of course." Here was a standard reply that answered neatly so many questions. There was the British way, and then there were all the ... other ways. Well, they are Americans, aren't they? Or French, or German, or for God's sake, Spanish. What else could one expect from foreigners, save the wrong way of doing things? "Mmph." Harry lifted the paper and went back to his reading. Goswell glanced at the big, round clock over the bookcase. Half-past five already. He should have Paddington call Stephens, he supposed. It would be a slow drive to The Yews, especially on a Friday evening, with all the rabble streaming out of the city for their weekly two-day holiday, but there was no help for it. Normally, he would just stay at Portman House in the city until Saturday, then enjoy the leisurely drive to