M.P. Woodward

“the time-honored formula of rate times time equals distance. “Gav, based on those signal strength indicators, it means the guy is moving at a steady rate of about ten miles per hour. The interval between decibel changes is steady.” “Yeah. I see that, too.” “What goes at a steady rate of ten miles per hour?” “Beltway traffic. On a good night.” “You know what else?” “No,” he said. “Enlighten me.” “A boat.” She heard a knock at the door, its rhythm following the code she’d established with the master chief. “Gav, I have to run,” she said. “Please keep me updated on anything new from ECHELON.” She stuck the Post-it note next to the most prominent river within the radius of the cell site. Then she hurried to the door and unchained it. Moore’s big face stood blinking at her, a huge black bag slung over his shoulder. Jad and Cary were to either side of him, also carrying black duffels the size of golf bags. She stood aside to let them enter. “The downside to being the one with the suite,” said the master chief, grunting with his load, “is that you get to store all the kit. Sorry, Lisanne.” He shouldered past her, nearly knocking her over the sitting room’s small coffee table. The three of them put their burdens on the floor, then maneuvered chairs close to the cases, unzipping them and inspecting their new gear. They were in civilian clothes. Moore had sweated through his short-sleeve Madras shirt. “Jesus,” said Lisanne. “You guys get enough stuff? Clark said you could spend liberally…But I’m the one who always ends up defending the budget.” Cary unzipped one of the long canvas bags. “You, of all people, should be able to appreciate quality in this”
― M.P. Woodward, Tom Clancy Shadow State

“terms with the British bankers”
― M.P. Woodward, Tom Clancy Shadow State