Rainbow Six

by Tom Clancy

  They watched Maclean close his eyes, then look off to the window for a few seconds. “From the Turtle Inn, maybe?”

  “Is that where you met them?”

  “Hey, guys, I meet a lot of girls, y’know? That’s a good place for it, with the music and all. Got pictures?”

  “Here.” Chatham handed them across.

  “Okay, yeah, I remember Annie—never learned her last name,” he explained. “Legal secretary, isn’t she?”

  “That’s correct,” Sullivan confirmed. “How well did you know her?”

  “We danced some, talked some, had a few drinks, but I never dated her.”

  “Ever leave the bar with her, take a walk, anything like that?”

  “I think I walked her home once. Her apartment was just a few blocks away, right? . . . Yeah,” he remembered after a few seconds. “Half a block off Columbus Avenue. I walked her home—but, hey, I didn’t go inside—I mean we never—I mean, I didn’t, well—you know, I never did have sex with her.” He appeared embarrassed.

  “Do you know if she had any other friends?” Chatham asked, taking interview notes.

  “Yeah, there was a guy she was tight with, Jim something. Accountant, I think. I don’t know how tight they were, but when the two of them were at the bar, they’d usually have drinks together. The other one, I remember the face, but not the name. Maybe we talked some, but I don’t remember much. Hey, you know, it’s a singles bar, and you meet lotsa people, and sometimes you connect, but mainly you don’t.”

  “Phone numbers?”

  “Not from these two. I have two from other gals I met there. Want ’em?” Maclean asked.

  “Did they know Mary Bannister or Anne Pretloe?” Sullivan asked.

  “Maybe. The women connect better than the men do, y’know, little cliques, like, checking us out—like the guys do, but they’re better organized, like, y’know?”

  There were more questions, about half an hour’s worth, some repeated a few times, which Maclean didn’t seem to mind, as some did. Finally they asked if they could look around the apartment. They had no legal right to do this, but oddly, even criminals often allowed it, and more than one of them had been caught because they’d had evidence out in plain view. In this case the agents would be looking for periodicals with photographs of deviant sex practices or even personal photographs of such behavior. But when Maclean led them about, the only photos they saw were of animals and periodicals about nature and conservation—some of them from groups the FBI deemed to be extremist—and all manner of outdoors gear.

  “Hiker?” Chatham asked.

  “Love it in the backcountry,” Maclean confirmed. “What I need is a gal who likes it, too, but you don’t find many of those in this town.”

  “Guess not.” Sullivan handed over his card. “If you think of anything, please call me right away. My home number’s on the back. Thanks for your help.”

  “Not sure I helped very much,” the man observed.

  “Every little bit, as they say. See you,” Sullivan said, shaking his hand.

  Maclean closed the door behind them and let out a long breath. How the fuck had they gotten his name and address? The questions were everything he would have expected, and he’d thought about the answers often enough—but a long time ago, he told himself. Why now? Were the cops dumb, or slow, or what?

  “Whole lot of nothing,” Chatham said, as they got to their car.

  “Well, maybe the women he gave us can tell us something.”

  “I doubt it. I talked to the second one last night at the bar.”

  “Go back to her. Ask her what she thinks of Maclean,” Sullivan suggested.

  “Okay, Tom. That I can do. You get any vibes off the guy? I didn’t,” Chatham said.

  Sullivan shook his head. “No, but I haven’t learned to read minds yet.”

  Chatham nodded. “Right.”

  It was time, and there was no point in delaying it. Barbara Archer unlocked the medication cabinet with her keys and took out ten ampoules of potassium-saline solution. These went into her pockets. Outside F4’s treatment room, she filled a 50cc syringe, then opened the door.

  “Hello.” Mainly a groan from the patient, who was lying in bed and watching the wall-mounted TV listlessly.

  “Hello, Mary. How are we feeling?” Archer suddenly wondered why it was that physicians asked how we were feeling. An odd linguistic nuance, she told herself, learned in medical school, probably, maybe to establish solidarity with the patient—which hardly existed in this case. One of her first summer jobs in college had been working at a dog pound. The animals had been given seven days, and if nobody claimed them, they were euthanized—murdered, as she thought of it, mainly with heavy doses of phenobarbital. The injection always went into the left foreleg, she remembered, and the dogs just went to sleep in five seconds or so. She’d always cried afterward—it had always been done on Tuesday, right before lunch, she recalled, and she’d never eaten lunch afterward, sometimes not even supper if she’d been forced to terminate a particularly cute dog. They’d lined them up on stainless-steel treatment tables, and another employee had held them still to make the murders easier. She’d always talk soothingly to the dogs, to lessen their fear and so give them an easier death. Archer bit her lip, feeling rather like Adolf Eichmann must have—well, should have, anyway.

  “Pretty rotten,” Mary Bannister replied finally.

  “Well, this will help,” Archer promised, pulling the syringe out and thumbing off the plastic safety cover from the needle. She took the three steps to the left side of the bed, reached for F4’s arm, and held it still, then pushed the needle into the vein inside the elbow. Then she looked into F4’s eyes and slid the plunger in.

  Mary’s eyes went wide. The potassium solution seared the veins as it moved through them. Her right hand flew to the upper left arm, and then, a second later, to her upper chest, as the burning sensation moved rapidly to her heart. The potassium stopped the heart at once. The EKG machine next to the bed had shown fairly normal sinus rhythm, but now the moving line jumped once and went totally flat, setting off the alarm beeper. Somehow Mary’s eyes remained open, for the brain has enough oxygen for up to a minute’s activity even after the heart stops delivering blood. There was shock there. F4 couldn’t speak, couldn’t object, because her breathing had stopped along with her heart, but she looked straight into Archer’s eyes . . . rather as the dog had done, the doctor thought, though the dog’s eyes had never seemed to accuse her as these two did. Archer returned the look, no emotion at all in her face, unlike her time at the pound. Then, in less than a minute, F4’s eyes closed, and then she was dead. One down. Nine more to go, before Dr. Archer could go to her car and drive home. She hoped her VCR had worked properly. She’d wanted to tape the Discovery Channel’s show on the wolves in Yellowstone, but figuring the damned machine out sometimes drove her crazy.

  Thirty minutes later, the bodies were wrapped in plastic and wheeled to the incinerator. It was a special model designed for medical applications, the destruction of disposable biological material such as fetuses or amputated limbs. Fueled by natural gas, it reached an extremely high temperature, even destroying tooth fillings, and converted all to an ash so fine that prevailing winds lifted it into the stratosphere, and then carried it out to sea. The treatment rooms would be scrubbed down so that there would be no lingering Shiva presence, and for the first time in months the facility would have no virus strands actively looking for hosts to feed upon and kill. The Project members would be pleased by that, Archer thought on her drive home. Shiva was a useful tool for their objective, but sufficiently creepy that they’d all be glad when it was gone.

  Popov managed five hours of sleep on the trip across and was awakened when the flight attendant shook his shoulder twenty minutes out of Shannon. The former seaplane facility where Pan American’s Boeing-made clippers had landed before flying on to Southampton—and where the airline had invented Irish coffee to help the passengers wake up—
was on the West Coast of Ireland, surrounded by farms and green wetlands that seemed to glisten in the light of dawn. Popov washed up in the lavatory, and retook his seat for the arrival. The touchdown was smooth, and the roll-out brief as the aircraft approached the general aviation terminal, where a few other business jets sat, similar to the G-V that Horizon Corporation had chartered for him. Barely had it stopped when a dingy official car approached the aircraft, and a man in uniform got out to jump up the stairs. The pilot waved the man to the back.

  “Welcome to Shannon, sir,” the immigration official said. “May I see your passport, please?”

  “Here.” Popov handed it across.

  The bureaucrat thumbed through it. “Ah, you’ve been here recently. The purpose of your trip, sir?”

  “Business. Pharmaceuticals,” the Russian added, in case the immigration official wanted to open his bags.

  “Mm-hmm,” the man responded, without a shred of interest. He stamped the passport and handed it back. “Anything to declare?”

  “Not really.”

  “Very well. Have a pleasant time, sir.” The smile was as mechanical as his movement forward, then he left to go down the steps to his car.

  Popov didn’t so much sigh in relief as grumble at his tension, which had clearly been wasted. Who would charter such an aircraft for $100,000 to smuggle drugs, after all? Something else to learn about capitalism, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich told himself. If you had enough money to travel like a prince, then you couldn’t be outside the law. Amazing, he thought. He put on his overcoat and walked out of the aircraft, where a black Jaguar was waiting, his bags already loaded into the boot.

  “Mr. Serov?” the driver asked, holding the door open. There was enough noise out here that he didn’t have to worry about being overheard.

  “That’s right. Off to see Sean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Popov nodded and got into the back. A minute later, they were heading off the airport grounds. The country roads were like those in England, narrower than those in America—and he was still driving on the wrong side of the road. How strange, Popov thought. If the Irish didn’t like the English, then why did they emulate their driving patterns?

  The ride took half an hour, and ended in a farmhouse well off the main roads. Two cars were there and a van, with one man standing outside to keep watch. Popov recognized him. It was Roddy Sands, the cautious one of this unit.

  Dmitriy got out and looked at him, without shaking hands. He took the black drug-filled suitcase from the boot and walked in.

  “Good morning, Iosef,” Grady said in greeting. “How was your flight?”

  “Comfortable.” Popov handed the bag over. “This is what you requested, Sean.”

  The tone of voice was clear in its meaning. Grady looked his guest in the eye, a little embarrassment on his face. “I don’t like it, either, but one must have money to support operations, and this is a means of getting it.” The ten pounds of cocaine had a variable value. It had cost Horizon Corporation a mere $25,000, having bought it on the market that was open to drug companies. Diluted, on the street, it would be worth five hundred times that. Such was another aspect of capitalism, Popov thought, dismissing it now that the transfer had been made. Then he handed over a slip of paper.

  “That is the account number and activation code for the secure account in Switzerland. You can only make withdrawals on Monday and Wednesday as an added security measure. The account has in it six million dollars of United States currency. The amount in the account can be checked at any time,” Popov told him.

  “A pleasure to do business with you, as always, Joe,” Sean said, allowing himself a rare smile. He’d never had so much as a tenth of that much money under his control, for all his twenty-plus years as a professional revolutionary. Well, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich thought, they weren’t businessmen, were they?

  “When will you move?”

  “Very soon. We’ve checked out the objective, and our plan is a thing of beauty, my friend. We will sting them, Iosef Andreyevich,” Grady promised. “We will hurt them badly.”

  “I will need to know when, exactly. There are things I must do as well,” Popov told him.

  That stopped him, Dmitriy saw. The issue here was operational security. An outsider wanted to know things that only insiders should have knowledge of. Two sets of eyes stared at each other for a few seconds. But the Irishman relented. Once he verified that the money was in place, then his trust in the Russian was confirmed—and delivery of the ten pounds of white powder was proof of the fact in and of itself—assuming that he wasn’t arrested by the Garda later this day. But Popov wasn’t that sort, was he?

  “The day after tomorrow. The operation will commence at one in the afternoon, exactly.”

  “So soon?”

  Grady was pleased that the Russian had underestimated him. “Why delay? We have everything we need, now that the money is in place.”

  “As you say, Sean. Do you require anything else of me?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will be off, with your permission.”

  This time they shook hands. “Daniel will drive you—to Dublin?”

  “Correct, the airport there.”

  “Tell him, and he will take you.”

  “Thank you, Sean—and good luck. Perhaps we will meet afterwards,” Dmitriy added.

  “I would like that.”

  Popov gave him a last look—sure that it would be the last, despite what he’d just said. Grady’s eyes were animated now, thinking about a revolutionary demonstration that would be the capstone of his career. There was a cruelty there that Popov had not noted before. Like Fürchtner and Dortmund, this was a predatory animal rather than a human being, and, as much experience as he’d had with such people, Popov found himself troubled by it. He was supposed to be skilled at reading minds, but in this one he saw only emptiness, only the absence of human feelings, replaced by ideology that led him—where? Did Grady know? Probably not. He thought himself on the path to some Radiant Future—the term most favored by the Communist Party of the Soviet Union—but the light that beckoned him was far more distant than he realized, and its bright glow hid the holes in the road immediately before him. And truly, Popov thought on, were he ever to achieve that which he wanted, then he’d be a disaster as a ruler of men, like those he resembled—Stalin, Mao, and the rest—so divorced from the common man’s outlook as to be an alien, for whom life and death were mere tools to achieve his vision, not something of humanity at all. Of all the things Karl Marx had given the world, surely that outlook was the worst. Sean Grady had replaced his humanity and emotions with a geometrically precise model of what the world should be—and he was too wedded to that vision to take note of the fact that it had failed wherever it had been tried. His pursuit was one after a chimera, a creature not real, never quite within reach, but drawing him onward to his own destruction—and as many others as he might kill first. And his eyes sparkled now in his enthusiasm for the chase. His ideological soundness denied him the ability to see the world as it really was—as even the Russians had come to see, finally, after seventy years of following the same chimera. Sparkling eyes serving a blind master, how strange, the Russian thought, turning to leave.

  “Okay, Peter, you have the duty,” Chavez told his Team- 1 counterpart. As of now Team-1 was the go-team, and Team-2 was on standby/standdown, and back into the more intensive training regimen.

  “As you say, Ding,” Covington replied. “But nothing seems to be happening anywhere.”

  The intelligence that had been passed on to them from the various national agencies was actually rather encouraging. Informants who’d chatted with known or suspected terrorists—mostly the latter, since the more active ones would have been arrested—reported back that the Worldpark incident had chilled the atmosphere considerably, especially since the French had finally published the names and photos of the known terrorists who’d been killed in Spain, and one of them, it had turned out, had been a r
evered and respected former member of Action Directe, with six known murders to his credit and something of a reputation as an expert operator. His public destruction had rumbled through the community, along with greatly increased respect for the Spanish police, which was basking institutionally in the glow of Rainbow’s deeds, to the great discomfort of Basque terrorists, who, Spanish sources reported, were also somewhat chastened by the loss of some of their most respected members.

  If this was true, Bill Tawney’s summary document suggested, then Rainbow was indeed having the effect that had been hoped for when it had been formed. Maybe this meant that they wouldn’t have to move into the field and kill people as frequently to prove their mettle.

  But there was still nothing to suggest why there had been three such incidents so close in time, or who, if anyone, might have instigated them. The British Secret Intelligence Service’s analysis section called it random, pointing out that Switzerland, Germany, and Spain were different countries, and that it was unlikely that anyone had contacts in the underground groups in all three of them. Two of them, perhaps, but not all three. It also suggested that contacts be made with former East Bloc intelligence services, to check out what was happening with certain retired members. It might even be worth buying their information for the going price, which was rather high now that the former intelligence officers had to make a real living in the real world—but not as high as the cost of an incident in which people got hurt. Tawney had highlighted that when he passed it on to John Clark, and the latter had discussed it with Langley again, only to be rebuffed again, which had Rainbow Six grumbling all week about the REMFs at CIA headquarters. Tawney thought about suggesting it to the London headquarters of “Six” on his own hook, but without the positive endorsement of CIA, it would have been wasted effort.

  On the other hand, Rainbow did seem to be working. Even Clark admitted that, unhappy though he continued to be, he was a “suit” working behind a desk and sending younger men off to do the exciting stuff. For much of his career as an intelligence officer, John had grumbled at oversight from above. Now that he was doing it, he thought that maybe he understood it a little better. Being in command might be rewarding, but it could never be much fun for someone who’d been out in the weeds, dodging the fire and involved in the things that happened out at the sharp end. The idea that he knew how it was done and could therefore tell people how to do it was as unpopular a stance for him to take as it had been . . . for him to accept, as recently as five years earlier. Life was a trap, Clark told himself, and the only way out of the trap wasn’t much fun either. So, he donned his suitcoat every morning and grumbled at the effect age had on his life, just like every other man of his age did across the planet. Where had his youth gone? How had he lost it?