by Tom Clancy
No, Popov told himself. His employer was not mentally unbalanced. He was thoughtful in his every action, and though his perspective, especially on the issue of money, was very different from his own-well, he had so much that such a difference in outlook was understandable; it was just a matter of perspective, and to him a million dollars was like pocket change to Dmitriy Arkadeyevich. Could he then be some sort of madman who… like a chief of state, a new Saddam Hussein or Adolf Hitler or Josef Vissarionovich Stalin-but, no, he was not a chief of state, had no aspirations for such a thing, and only those men could entertain that form of madness.
In his career in the KGB, Popov had dealt with all manner of curiosities. He'd played the game against world-class adversaries and never once been caught, never once failed in an assignment. As a result, he considered himself a clever sort. That made the current impasse all the more frustrating. He had over a million dollars in a Bern bank. He had the prospect of more in due course. He'd set up two terrorist missions that had accomplished their goal-had they? His employer evidently thought so, despite the abject tactical failure of both. But he knew even less now, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich told himself. The more he delved into it, the less he knew. And the less he knew, the unhappier he became. He'd asked his employer more than once the reason for his activities, but Brightling wasn't telling. It had to be something vast… but what the devil was it?
They practiced the breathing exercises. Ding found it amusing, but he was also persuaded that it was necessary. Tall and rangy though Patsy was, she was not the athlete he'd become to lead Team-2, and so she had to practice how to breathe to make the baby come more easily, and practice did make perfect. And so they sat on the floor of their house, both with their legs spread, huffing and puffing as though to destroy the home of a mythical pig, and it was all he could do not to laugh.
"Deep, cleansing breath," Domingo said, after timing the notional contraction. Then he reached for her hand and bent forward to kiss it. "How we doing, Pats?"
"I'm ready, Ding. I just want it to happen and be over."
"Worried?"
"Well," Patsy Clark Chavez, M.D., replied, "I know it's going to hurt some, and I'd just as soon have it behind me, y'know?"
"Yeah." Ding nodded. The anticipation of unpleasant things was usually worse than their realization, at least on the physical side. He knew that from experience, but she didn't yet. Maybe that was why second deliveries were almost always easier than the first. You knew what to expect, knew that though it was uncomfortable you'd make it through, and have a baby at the end of it. That was the key to the whole thing for Domingo. To be a father! To have a child, to begin the greatest of all adventures, raising a new life, doing the best you could, making some mistakes, but learning from all of them, and ultimately presenting to society a new, responsible citizen to carry on. That, he was sure, was what it meant to be a man. Oh, sure, carrying a gun and doing his job was important, too, since he was now a guardian of society, a righter of wrongs, a protector of the innocent, one of the forces of order from which came civilization itself, but this was his chance to be personally involved in what civilization really was, the raising of kids in the right way, educating and guiding them to do the Right Thing, even at three in the morning and half asleep. Maybe the kid would be a spook/soldier like him, or maybe even better, a physician like Pats, an important and good part of society, serving others. Those things could only happen if he and Pats did the job right, and that responsibility was the greatest that any person could undertake. Domingo looked forward to it, lusted to hold his child in his arms, to kiss and cuddle, to change diapers and clean bottoms. He'd already assembled the crib, decorated the walls of the nursery with pink and blue bunnies, and bought toys to distract the little beast, and though all of these things seemed incongruous with his regular life, both he and the men of Rainbow knew different, for all of them had children as well, and for them the covenant was exactly the same. Eddie Price had a boy of fourteen years, somewhat rebellious and decidedly headstrong probably just as his father had once been-but also bright enough to question everything to seek his own answers, which he would find in due course, just as his father had done. The kid had "soldier" written all over him, Ding thought… but with luck he'd go to school first and become an officer, as Price should have done, and would have done in America. Here the system was different, though, and so he'd become a superb command sergeant major, Ding's most trusted subordinate, always ready to offer his thoughts, and then execute his orders perfectly. Yes, there was much to look forward to, Ding told himself, still holding Patsy's hand in his own.
"Scared?"
"Not scared, a little nervous," Patsy admitted.
"Honey, if it were all that hard, how come there's so many people in the world?"
"Spoken like a man," Dr. Patricia Chavez noted. "It's easy for you to say. You don't have to do it."
"I'll be there to help." her husband promised.
"You better be!"
CHAPTER 23
OVERWATCH
Henriksen arrived at JFK International with his body feeling as though it had been shredded, spindled, and mutilated before being tossed into a wastepaper basket, but that was to be expected. He'd flown literally halfway around the globe in about a day, and his internal body clock was confused and angry and punishing. For the next week or so, he'd find himself awake and asleep at random times, but that was all right. The right pills and a few drinks would help him rest when rest was needed. An employee was waiting for him at the end of the jetway, took his carry-on without a word, and led off to the baggage-claim area, where, blessedly, his twosuiter was the fifth bag on the carousel, which allowed them to scoot out of the terminal and onto the highway to New York City.
"How was the trip?"
"We got the contract," Henriksen told his man, who was not part of the Project.
"Good," the man said, not knowing how good it was, and how bad it would be for himself. Henriksen buckled his seat belt and leaned back to catch a few winks on the way in, ending further conversation.
"So, what do we got?" the FBI agent asked.
"Nothing so far," d'Allessandro replied. "I have one other possible missing girl, same area for her apartment, similar looks, age, and so forth, disappeared around the same time as your Miss Bannister. Name is Anne Pretloe, legal secretary, just vanished off the face of the earth."
"Jane Does?" the other federal officer asked.
"Nothing that matches. Guys, we have to face the possibility that we have a serial killer loose in the area-"
"But why did this e-mail message come out?"
"How does it match with other e-mails Miss Bannister sent to her dad?" the NYPD detective asked.
"Not very well," the senior FBI agent admitted. "The one he initially brought into the Gary office looks as though-well, it smells to me like drugs, y'know?"
"Agreed," d'Allessandro said. "You have others?"
"Here." The agent handed over six printouts faxed to the New York office. The detective scanned them. They were all perfectly grammatical, and organized, with no misspelling on any of them.
"What if she didn't send it? What if somebody else did?"
"The serial killer?" the junior FBI agent asked. Then he thought about it, and his face mirrored what he thought. "He'd have to be a real sick one, Mario."
"Yeah, well, serial killers aren't Eagle Scouts, are they?"
"Tormenting the families? Have we ever had one like that?" the senior man wondered.
"Not that I know of, Tom, but, like the man said…"
"Shit," observed the senior agent, Tom Sullivan.
"Call Behavioral Sciences in on this one?" the junior agent, Frank Chatham, asked.
Sullivan nodded. "Yeah, let's do that. I'll call Pat O'Connor about it. Next step here, I think we get some flyers printed up with the photo of Mary Bannister and start passing them out on the West Side. Mario, can you get us some cooperation from your people?"
"No problem," d'Allessandro
replied. "If this is what it looks like, I want the fuck before he starts going for some sort of record. Not in my town, guys," the detective concluded.
"Going to try the Interleukin again?" Barbara Archer asked.
"Yeah." Killgore nodded. "-3a is supposed to enhance the immune system, but they're not sure how. I'm not either, but if it has any effect, we need to know about it."
"What about lung complications?" One of the problems with Interleukin was that it attacked lung tissue, also for unknown reasons, and could be dangerous to smokers and others with respiratory problems.
Another nod. "Yeah, I know, just like -2, but F4 isn't a smoker, and I want to make sure that -3a doesn't do anything to compromise Shiva. We can't take that chance. Barb."
"Agreed," Dr. Archer observed. Like Killgore, she didn't think that this new version of Interleukin was the least bit helpful, but that had to be confirmed. "What about Interferon?"
"The French have been trying that on hemorrhagic fever for the last five years, but no results at all. We can hang that, too, but it's going to be a dry hole, Barb."
"Let's try it on F4 anyway," she suggested.
"Fair enough." Killgore made a notation on the chart and left the room. A minute later he appeared on the TV monitor.
"Hi, Mary, how are we feeling this morning? Any better?"
"No." She shook her head. "Stomach still hurts pretty bad."
"Oh, really? Let's see what we can do about that." This case was proceeding rapidly. Killgore wondered if she had a genetic abnormality in her upper GI maybe some vulnerability to peptic ulcer disease?… If so, then the Shiva was going to rip her apart in a hurry. He increased the morphine dosage rate on the machine next to her bed. "-Okay, now we're going to give you a couple of new medications. These ought to fix you up in two or three days, Okay?"
"Are these the ones I signed up for?" F4 asked weakly.
"Yes, that's right," Killgore replied, hanging the Interleukon and Interleukin-3a on the medication tree. "These ought to make you feel a lot better," he promised with a smile. It was so odd, talking to his lab rats. Well, as he'd told himself many times, a rat was a pig was a dog was a… girl, in this case. There wasn't really all that much of difference, was there? No, he told himself this afternoon. Her body relaxed with the increased morphine dose, and her eyes became unfocused. Well, that was one difference. wasn't it? They didn't give rats sedatives or narcotics to ease their pain. It wasn't that they didn't want to, just that there was no practical way to ease their discomfort. It had never pleased him to see those cute pink eyes change from bright to dull, reflecting the pain. Well, in this case, at least, the dullness mirrored a respite from the pain.
The information was very interesting, Henriksen thought, and this Russian was pretty good at developing it. He would have made a good agent for the Foreign Counterintelligence Division… but then, that's just what he had been, in a way, only working for the other side, of course. And with the information, he recalled his idea, from the Qantas flight.
"Dmitriy," Bill asked, "do you have contacts in Ireland?"
Popov nodded. "Yes, several of them."
Henriksen looked over at Dr. Brightling for approval and got a nod. "How would they like to get even with the SAS?"
"That has been discussed many times, but it is not practical. It is like sending a bank robber into a guarded bank - no, that is not right. It is like sending a robber into the government agency which prints the money. There are too many defensive assets to make the mission practical."
"But they actually wouldn't be going to Hereford, would they? What if we could draw them out into the open, and then stage our own little surprise for them?…" Henriksen explained on.
It was a very interesting idea, Popov thought. But: "It is still a very dangerous mission."
"Very well. What is the current condition of the IRA?"
Popov leaned back in his chair. "They are badly split. There are now several factions. Some want peace. Some want the disorders to continue. The reasons are both ideological and personal to the faction members. Ideological insofar as they truly believe in their political objective of overturning both the British rule in Northern Ireland and the Republican government in Dublin, and establishing a `progressive socialist' government. As an objective, it's far too ambitious for a practical world, yet they believe in it and hold to it. They are committed Marxists-actually more Maoist than Marxist, but that is not important to us at the moment."
"And the personal side?" Brightling asked.
"When one is a revolutionary, it is not merely a matter of belief, but also a matter of perception by the public. To many people a revolutionary is a romantic character, ii person who believes in a vision of the future and is willing to risk his life for it. From that comes his social status. Those who know such people often respect them. Therefore, to lose that status injures the former revolutionary. He must now work for a living, drive a truck or whatever he is capable of-"
"Like what happened to you when the KGB RIF'd you, in other words," Henriksen offered. Popov had to nod at that. "In a way, yes. As a field officer of State Security, I had status and importance enjoyed by few others in the Soviet Union, and losing that was more significant to me than the loss of my modest salary. It will be the same for these Irish Marxists. And so they have two reasons for wanting the disorders to continue: their political ideological beliefs, and their need for personal recognition as something more than ordinary worker-citizens."
"Do you know such people?" Henriksen asked pointedly.
"Yes, I can probably identify some. I met many in the Bekaa Valley in Lebanon, where they trained with other 'progressive elements.' And I have traveled to Ireland on occasion to deliver messages and money to support their activities. Those operations tied up large segments of the British Army, you see, and were, therefore, worthy of Soviet support as a distraction to a large NATO enemy." Popov ended his discourse, looking at the other two men in the room. "What would you have them do?"
"It's not so much a question of what as of how," Bill told the Russian. "You know, when I was in the Bureau, we used to say that the IRA was composed of the best terrorists in the world, dedicated, smart, and utterly vicious."
"I would agree with that assessment. They were superbly organized, ideologically sound, and willing to undertake nearly anything if it had a real political impact."
"How would they view this mission?"
"What mission is that?" Dmitriy asked, and then Bill explained his basic mission concept. The Russian listened politely and thoughtfully before responding: "That would appeal to them, but the scope and the dangers are very large."
"What would they require to cooperate?"
"Money and other support, weapons, explosives, the things they need to carry on their operations. The current faction-fighting has probably had the effect of disrupting their logistical organization. That's doubtless how the peace faction is trying to control the continued-violence faction, simply by restricting their access to weapons. Without that, they cannot take physical action, and cannot therefore enhance their own prestige. So, if you offer them the wherewithal to conduct operations, they will listen seriously to your plan."
"Money?"
"Money allows one to purchase things. The factions with which we would deal have probably been cut off from regular funding sources."
"Which are?" Brightling asked.
"Drinking clubs, and what you call the 'protection racket,' yes?"
"That's right," Henriksen confirmed with a nod. "That's how they get their money, and that source is probably well controlled by the peace factions."
"So, then, how much do you think, Dmitriy?" John Brightling asked.
"Several million dollars, I should say, at the least, that is."
"You'll have to be very careful laundering it," Bill warned their boss. "I can help."
"Call it five million?…"
"That should be enough," Popov said, after a moment's reflection, "plus the psycho
logical attraction of bearding the lion so close to his own den. But I can offer no promises. These people make their own decisions, for their own reasons."
"How quickly could you arrange the meeting
"Two days, perhaps three, after I arrive in Ireland," Popov answered. "Get your tickets," Brightling told him decisively.
"One of them did some talking before he deployed," Tawney said. "His name was Rene. Before he set off to Spain, he chatted with a girlfriend. She had an attack of conscience and came in on her own. The French interviewed her yesterday."
"And?" Clark asked.
"And the purpose of the mission was to free Carlos, but he said nothing to her about their being assigned the mission by anyone. In fact he said little, though the interview did develop the name of another participant in the mission, or so our French colleagues think. They're running that name down now. The woman in question-well, he and she had been friends, lovers, for some time, and evidently he confided in her. She came to the police on her own because of the dead Dutch child. The Paris papers have made a big show of that, and it evidently troubled her conscience. She told the police that she tried to talk him out of the job-not sure that I believe that-and that he told her that he'd think about it. Evidently he didn't follow through on that, but the French are now wondering if someone might have opted out. They're sweeping up the usual suspects for a chat. Perhaps they'll turn up something," Tawney concluded hopefully.
"That's all?" Clark asked.
"It's quite a lot, really," Peter Covington observed. "It's rather more than we had yesterday, and it allows our French friends to pursue additional leads."
"Maybe," Chavez allowed. "But why did they go out? Who's turning these bastards loose?"
"Anything from the other two incidents?" Clark asked.
"Not a bloody peep," Tawney replied. "The Germans have rattled every bush. Cars were seen going in and out of the Furchtner/Dortmund house, but she was an artist, and they might well have been buyers of her paintings. In any case, no vehicle descriptions, much less license-plate numbers. That is dead, unless someone else walks into a police station and makes a statement."