The gentleman’s name was Ron Marinaro and while Frank didn’t know him personally, he came highly-recommended by some people who did. Those people were in a position to know and were relatively trustworthy. As far as such things went. With both men able to see each other on the big screen in excellent resolution, it was like they were in the same room together. Marinaro was a tall, spare man in his late forties. He was thoroughly conversant with EMERALD. He wasn’t nearly so paranoid about leaks and moles and Philbies when dealing with the Brits. The Yanks tried not let on, and the relationship was better these days, but they had a lot to lose as well. It was just the way things were. The great thing was that EMERALD had fallen in Canada’s wide-open spaces, which was better than central Asia or almost anywhere in Africa. This would have imposed real headaches. As such things went, their little operation appeared to be going well. “So. You’ve had some action. Good.” Frank’s brown eyes were enlarged by his glasses, rimmed in thick black plastic.
