by Tom Clancy
The same was true, rather more distantly, of Dmitriy Popov, who stayed in his room to watch the Olympics on TV. He found the games a distraction from the questions that were running their own laps inside his brain. The Russian national team, naturally enough his favorite, was doing well, though the Australians were making a fine showing as hosts, especially in swimming, which seemed to be their national passion. The problem was in the vastly different time zones. When Popov was watching events live, it was necessarily an ungodly hour in Kansas, which made him somewhat bleary-eyed for his morning horseback rides with Maclean and Killgore—those had become a very pleasant morning diversion.
This morning was like the previous ten, with a cool westerly breeze, the rising orange sun casting strange but lovely light on the waving fields of grass and wheat. Buttermilk now recognized him, and awarded the Russian with oddly endearing signs of affection, which he in turn rewarded with sugar cubes or, as today, an apple taken from the morning breakfast buffet, which the mare crunched down rapidly from his hand. He had learned to saddle his own horse, which he now did quickly, leading Buttermilk outside to join the others and mounting up in the corral.
“Morning, Dmitriy,” Maclean said.
“Good morning, Kirk,” Popov replied pleasantly. In another few minutes, they were riding off, to the south this time, toward one of the wheat fields, at a rather more rapid pace than his first such ride.
“So, what’s it like to be an intelligence agent?” Killgore asked, half a mile from the barn.
“We are called intelligence officers, actually,” Popov said to correct the first Hollywood-generated misimpression. “Truthfully, it is mainly boring work. You spend much of your time waiting for a meeting, or filling out forms for submission to your headquarters, or the rezidentura. There is some danger—but only of being arrested, not shot. It has become a civilized business. Captured intelligence officers are exchanged, usually after a brief period of imprisonment. That never happened to me, of course. I was well trained.” And lucky, he didn’t add.
“So, no James Bond stuff, you never killed anybody, nothing like that?” Kirk Maclean asked.
“Good heavens, no,” Popov replied, with a laugh. “You have others do that sort of thing for you, surrogates, when you need it done. And that is quite rare.”
“How rare?”
“Today? Almost never I should think. At KGB, our job was to get information and pass it upwards to our government—more like reporters, like your Associated Press, than anything else. And much of the information we gathered was from open sources, newspapers, magazines, television. Your CNN is perhaps the best, most used source of information in the world.”
“But what sort of information did you gather?”
“Mainly diplomatic or political intelligence, trying to discern intentions. Others went after technical intelligence—how fast an airplane flies or how far a cannon shoots—but that was never my specialty area, you see. I was what you call here a people person. I met with various people and delivered messages and such, then brought the answers back to my station.”
“What kind of people?”
Popov wondered about how he should answer, and decided on the truth: “Terrorists, that was what you would call them.”
“Oh? Like which ones?”
“Mainly European, but some in the Middle East as well. I have language skills, and I can speak easily with people from various lands.”
“Was it hard?” Dr. Killgore asked.
“Not really. We had similar political beliefs, and my country provided them with weapons, training, access to some facilities in the Eastern Bloc. I was as much a travel agent as anything else, and occasionally I would suggest targets for them to attack—as payment for our assistance, you see.”
“Did you give them money?” Maclean this time.
“Yes, but not much money. The Soviet Union had only limited hard-currency reserves, and we never paid our agents very much. At least I did not,” Popov said.
“So, you sent terrorists out on missions to kill people?” This was from Killgore.
Popov nodded. “Yes. That was often my job. That was,” he added, “why Dr. Brightling hired me.”
“Oh?” Maclean asked.
Dmitriy wondered how far he could take this one. “Yes, he asked me to do similar things for Horizon Corporation.”
“You’re the guy who ramrodded the stuff in Europe?”
“I contacted various people and made suggestions which they carried out, yes, and so, yes, I do have some blood on my second hands, I suppose, but one cannot take such matters too seriously, can one? It is business, and it has been my business for some time.”
“Well, that’s a good thing for you, Dmitriy. That’s why you’re here,” Maclean told him. “John is pretty loyal to his people. You must have done okay.”
Popov shrugged. “Perhaps so. He never told me why he wanted these things done, but I gather it was to help his friend Henriksen get the consulting contract for the Sydney Olympics that I’ve been watching on TV.”
“That’s right,” Killgore confirmed. “That was very important to us.” Might as well watch, the epidemiologist thought, they’ll be the last ones.
“But why?”
They hesitated at the direct question. The physician and the engineer looked at each other. Then Killgore spoke.
“Dmitriy, what do you think of the environment?”
“What do you mean? Out here? It is beautiful. You’ve taught me much with these morning rides, my friends,” the Russian answered, choosing his words carefully. “The sky and the air, and the beautiful fields of grass and wheat. I have never appreciated how beautiful the world can be. I suppose that’s because I grew up in Moscow.” Which had been a hideously filthy city, but they didn’t know that.
“Yeah, well, it’s not all this way.”
“I know that, John. In Russia—well, the State didn’t care as you Americans do. They nearly killed all life in the Caspian Sea—where caviar comes from—from chemical poisoning. And there is a place just east of the Urals where our original atomic-bomb research created a wasteland. I haven’t seen it, but I have heard of it. The highway signs there tell you to drive very fast to be through the zone of dangerous radiation as quickly as possible.”
“Yeah, well, if we’re not careful, we might just kill the whole planet,” Maclean observed next.
“That would be a crime, like the Hitlerites,” Popov said next. “It is nekulturny, the work of uncivilized barbarians. In my room, the tapes and the magazines make this clear.”
“What do you think of killing people, Dmitriy?” Killgore asked then.
“That depends on who they are. There are many people who deserve to die for one reason or another. But Western culture has this strange notion that taking life is almost always wrong—you Americans cannot even kill your criminals, murderers and such, without jumping through hoops, as you say here. I find that very curious.”
“What about crimes against Nature?” Killgore said, staring off into the distance.
“I do not understand.”
“Well, things that hurt the whole planet, killing off whole living species, polluting the land and the sea. What about that?”
“Kirk, that is also a barbaric act, and it should be punished severely. But how do you identify the criminals? Is it the industrialist who gives the order and makes the profit from it? Or is it the worker who takes his wages and does what he is told?”
“What did they say at Nuremberg?” Killgore said next.
“The war-crimes trial, you mean? It was decided that following orders is not a defense.” Not a concept he’d been taught to consider in the KGB Academy, where he’d learned that the State Was Always Right.
“Right,” the epidemiologist agreed. “But you know, nobody ever went after Harry Truman for bombing Hiroshima.”
Because he won, you fool, Popov didn’t reply. “Do you ask if this was a crime? No, it was not, because he ended a greater evil, an
d the sacrifice of those people was necessary to restore the peace.”
“What about saving the planet?”
“I do not understand.”
“If the planet was dying, what would one have to do—what would be right to do, to save it?”
This discussion had all the ideological and philosophical purity of a classroom discussion of the Marxist dialectic at Moscow State University—and about as much relevance to the real world. Kill the whole planet? That was not possible. A full-blown nuclear war, yes, maybe that could have such an effect, but that was no longer possible. The world had changed, and America was the nation that had made it happen. Didn’t these two druids see the wonder of that? More than once, the world had been close to loosing nuclear weapons, but today that was a thing of the past.
“I have never considered that question, my friends.”
“We have,” Maclean responded. “Dmitriy, there are people and forces at work today that could easily kill off everything here. Somebody has to stop that from happening, but how do you do it?”
“You do not mean simply political action, do you?” the former KGB spook observed.
“No, it’s too late for that, and not enough people would listen anyway.” Killgore turned his horse to the right and the others followed. “I’m afraid you have to take more drastic measures.”
“What’s that? Kill the whole world population?” Dmitriy Arkadeyevich asked, with hidden humor. But the reply to the rhetorical question was the same look in two sets of eyes. The look didn’t make his blood go cold, but it did get his brain moving off in a new and unexpected direction. These were fascisti. Worse than that, fascisti with an ethos in which they believed. But were they willing to take action on their beliefs? Could anyone take action like that? Even the worst of the Stalinists—no, they’d never been madmen, just political romantics.
Just then an aircraft’s noise disturbed the morning. It was one of Horizon’s fleet of G’s, lifting off from the complex’s runway, climbing up and turning right, looping around to the east—for New York, probably, to bring more of the “project” people in? Probably. The complex was about 80 percent full now, Popov reflected. The rate of arrivals had slowed, but people were still coming, most by private car. The cafeteria was almost full at lunch- and dinnertime, and the lights burned late in the laboratory and other work buildings. But what were those people doing?
Horizon Corporation, Popov reminded himself, was a biotech company, specializing in medicines and medical treatments, Killgore was a physician, and Maclean an engineer specializing in environmental matters. Both were druids, both nature-worshipers, the new kind of paganism spawned in the West. John Brightling seemed to be one as well, judging by that conversation they’d had in New York. That, then, was the ethos of these people and their company. Dmitriy thought about the printed matter in his room. Humans were a parasitic species doing more harm than good to the earth, and these two had just talked about sentencing the harmful people to death—then made it clear that they thought of everyone as harmful. What were they going to do, kill everyone? What rubbish. The door leading to the answer had opened further. His brain was moving far more quickly than Buttermilk was, but still not fast enough.
They rode in silence for a few minutes. Then a shadow crossed the ground, and Popov looked up.
“What is that?”
“Red-tail hawk,” Maclean answered, after a look. “Cruising for some breakfast.”
As they watched, the raptor climbed to five hundred feet or so, then spread his wings to ride the thermal air currents, his head down, examining the surface of the land for an unwary rodent through his impossibly sharp eyes. By unspoken consent the three men stopped their horses to watch. It took several minutes and then it was both beautiful and terrible to behold. The hawk folded its wings back and dropped rapidly, then flapped to accelerate like a feathered bullet, then spread its wings wide, nosing up, its yellow talons leading the descent now—
“Yes!” Maclean hooted.
Like a child stomping on an anthill, the hawk used its talons to kill its prey, twisting and crushing, then, holding the limp tubular body in them, flapped laboriously into the sky, heading off to the north to its nest or home, or whatever you called it, Popov thought. The prairie dog it killed had enjoyed no chance, Dmitriy thought, but nature was like that, as were people. No soldier willingly gave his foe a fair chance on any battlefield. It was neither safe nor intelligent to do so. You struck with total fury and as little warning as possible, the better to take his life quickly and easily—and safely—and if he lacked the wit to protect himself properly, well, that was his problem, not yours. In the case of the hawk, it had swooped down from above and down-sun, not even its shadow warning the prairie dog sitting at the entrance to its home, and killed without pity. The hawk had to eat, he supposed. Perhaps it had young to feed, or maybe it was just hunting for its own needs. In either case, the prairie dog hung limp in its claws, like an empty brown sock, soon to be ripped apart and eaten by its killer.
“Damn, I love watching that,” Maclean said.
“It is cruel, but beautiful,” Popov said.
“Mother Nature is like that, pal. Cruel but beautiful.” Killgore watched the hawk vanish in the distance. “That was something to see.”
“I have to capture one and train it,” Maclean announced. “Train it to kill off my fist.”
“Are the prairie dogs endangered?”
“No, no way,” Killgore answered. “Predators can control their numbers, but never entirely eliminate them. Nature maintains a balance.”
“How do men fit into that balance?” Popov asked.
“They don’t,” Kirk Maclean answered. “People just screw it up, ’cuz they’re too dumb to see what works and what doesn’t. And they don’t care about the harm they do. That’s the problem.”
“And what is the solution?” Dmitriy asked. Killgore turned to look him right in the eyes.
“Why, we are.”
“Ed, the cover name must be one he’s used for a long time,” Clark argued. “The IRA guys hadn’t seen him in years, but that’s the name they knew him by.”
“Makes sense,” Ed Foley had to admit over the phone. “So, you really want to talk to him, eh?”
“Well, it’s no big thing, Ed. He just turned people loose to kill my wife, daughter, and grandson, you know? And they did kill two of my men. Now, do I have permission to contact him or not?” Rainbow Six demanded from his desk.
In his seventh-floor office atop CIA Headquarters, Director of Central Intelligence Edward Foley uncharacteristically wavered. If he let Clark do it, and Clark got what he wanted, reciprocity rules would then apply. Sergey Nikolay’ch would someday call CIA and request information of a delicate nature, and he, Foley, would have to provide it, else the veneer of amity within the international intelligence community would crumble away. But Foley could not predict what the Russians would ask about, and both sides were still spying on each other, and so the friendly rules of modern life in the spook business both did and did not apply. You pretended that they did, but you remembered and acted as though they did not. Such contacts were rare, and Golovko had been very helpful twice in real-world operations. And he’d never requested a return favor, perhaps because the operations had been of direct or indirect benefit to his own country. But Sergey wasn’t one to forget a debt and—
“I know what you’re thinking, Ed, but I’ve lost people because of this guy, and I want his ass, and Sergey can help us identify the fuck.”
“What if he’s still inside?” Foley temporized.
“Do you believe that?” Clark snorted.
“Well, no, I think we’re past that.”
“So do I, Ed. So, if he’s a friend, let’s ask him a friendly question. Maybe we’ll get a friendly answer. The quid pro quo on this could be to let Russian special-operations people train a few weeks with us. That’s a price I’m willing to pay.”
It was ultimately a futile exercise to argue
with John, who’d been the training officer to him and his wife, Mary Pat, now Deputy Director (Operations). “Okay, John, it’s approved. Who handles the contact?”
“I have his number,” Clark assured the DCI.
“Then call it, John. Approved,” the DCI concluded, not without reluctance. “Anything else?”
“No, sir, and thank you. How are Mary Pat and the kids?”
“They’re fine. How’s your grandson?”
“Not too bad at all. Patsy is doing fine, and Sandy’s taken over the job with JC.”
“JC?”
“John Conor Chavez,” Clark clarified.
That was a complex name, Foley thought, without saying so. “Well, okay. Go ahead, John. See ya.”
“Thanks, Ed. Bye.” Clark switched buttons on his phone. “Bill, we got approval.”
“Excellent,” Tawney replied. “When will you call?”
“How’s right now grab you?”
“Set things up properly,” Tawney warned.
“Fear not.” Clark killed that line and punched another button. That one activated a cassette-tape recorder before he punched yet another and dialed Moscow.
“Six-Six-Zero,” a female voice answered in Russian.
“I need to speak personally with Sergey Nikolayevich. Please tell him that this is Ivan Timofeyevich calling,” Clark said in his most literate Russian.