“Deal,” Hunnicutt confirmed.
Popov stood. “With your permission, the Olympic equestrian events start in ten minutes.”
“Dmitriy, don’t start thinking about jumping fences. You’re not that good yet!” Maclean told him.
“I can watch it done, can I not?” the Russian said, walking away.
“So, what’s he do here?” Hunnicutt asked, when Popov was gone.
“Like he said, nothing here, exactly, but he helped get the Project going in one important way.”
“Oh?” the hunter asked. “How’s that?”
“All those terrorist incidents in Europe, remember them?”
“Yeah, the counterterror groups really worked good to shut those bastards down. Damned nice shooting, some of it. Dmitriy was part of that?”
“He got the missions started, all of ’em,” Maclean said.
“Damn,” Mark Waterhouse observed. “So, he helped Bill get the contract for the Olympics?”
“Yep, and without that, how the hell would we get the Shiva delivered?”
“Good man,” Waterhouse decided, sipping his California Chardonnay. He’d miss it, he thought, after the Project activated. Well, there were plenty of liquor warehouses around the country. He would not outlive their stocks, he was sure.
CHAPTER 35
MARATHON
It had become so enjoyable that Popov was waking up early, in order to relish it more. This day he woke up just after first light, and admired the orange-rose glow on the eastern horizon that presaged the actual dawn. He’d never ridden a horse before coming to the Kansas facility, and he’d found that there was something fundamentally pleasing and manly about it, to have a large, powerful animal between one’s legs, and to command it with nothing more than a gentle tug on the leather reins, or even the clucking sound one made with one’s tongue. It offered a much better perspective than walking, and was just . . . pleasing to him at a sub-intellectual level.
And so he was in the cafeteria early, picking his breakfast food—plus a fresh red apple for Buttermilk—just as the kitchen staff set it out. The day promised to be fine and clear again. The wheat farmers were probably as pleased as he was with the weather, the intelligence officer thought. There had been enough rain to water the crops, and plenty of sun to ripen them. The American wheat farmers had to be the most productive in all the world, Popov reflected. With this fine land and their incredible mobile equipment, that was little surprise, he thought, lifting his tray and walking to the accustomed table. He was halfway through his scrambled eggs when Killgore and the new one, Hunnicutt, approached.
“Morning, Dmitriy,” the tall hunter said in greeting.
Popov had to swallow before replying. “Good morning, Foster.”
“What did you think of the riding last night?”
“The Englishman who won the gold medal was marvelous, but so was his horse.”
“They pick good ones,” Hunnicutt observed, heading off to get his breakfast and returning in a few minutes. “So, you were a spy, eh?”
“Intelligence officer. Yes, that was my job for the Soviet Union.”
“Working with terrorists, John tells me.”
“That is also true. I had my assignments, and of course I had to carry them out.”
“No problem with me on that, Dmitriy. Ain’t none of those folks ever bothered me or anybody I know. Hell, I worked in Libya once for Royal Dutch Shell. Found ’em a nice little field, too, and the Libyans I worked with were okay people.” Like Popov, Hunnicutt had piled up eggs and bacon. He needed a lot of food to support his frame, Dmitriy imagined. “So what do you think of Kansas?”
“Like Russia in many ways, the broad horizons, and vast farms—though yours are far more efficient. So few people growing so much grain.”
“Yeah, we’re counting on that to keep us in bread,” Hunnicutt agreed, stuffing his face. “We have enough land here to grow plenty, and all the equipment we need. I may be into that myself.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, well, everybody’s going to be assigned Project work to do. Makes sense, we all gotta pull together in the beginning anyway, but I’m really looking forward to getting me some buffalo. I even bought myself a real buffalo gun.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a company in Montana, Shiloh Arms, that makes replicas of the real buffalo rifles. Bought me one a month ago—Sharps .40-90—and it shoots like a son of a bitch,” the hunter reported.
“Some of the people here will not approve,” Popov said, thinking of the vegans, clearly the most extreme of the druidic elements.
“Yeah, well, those people, if they think they can live in harmony with nature without guns, they better read up on Lewis and Clark. A grizzly bear don’t know about this friend-of-nature stuff. He just knows what he can kill and eat, and what he can’t. Sometimes you just gotta remind him what he can’t. Same thing with wolves.”
“Oh, come on, Foster,” Killgore said, sitting to join his friends. “There has never been a confirmed case of wolves killing people in America.”
Hunnicutt thought that was especially dumb. “Oh? Well, it’s kinda hard to bitch about something if a wolf shits you out his ass. Dead men tell no tales, Doc. What about Russia, Dmitriy? What about wolves there?”
“The farmers hate them, have always hated them, but the state hunters pursue them with helicopters and machine guns. That is not sporting, as you say, is it?”
“Not hardly,” Hunnicutt agreed. “You treat game with respect. It’s their land, not yours, and you have to play by the rules. That’s how you learn about them, how they live, how they think. That’s why we have the Boone and Crockett rules for big-game hunting. That’s why I go in on horseback, and I pack ’em out on horseback. You have to play fair with game. But not with people, of course,” he added with a wink.
“Our vegan friends don’t understand about hunting,” Killgore told them sadly. “I suppose they think they can eat grass and just take pictures of the life-forms.”
“That’s bullshit,” Hunnicutt told them. “Death is part of the process of life, and we’re the top predator, and the critters out there know it. Besides, ain’t nothing tastes better than elk over an open fire, guys. That’s one taste I’ll never lose, and be damned if I’ll ever give it up. If those extremists want to eat rabbit food, fine, but anybody tells me I can’t eat meat, well, there used to be a fish-and-game cop who tried to tell me when I could hunt and when I couldn’t.” Hunnicutt smiled cruelly. “Well, he don’t bother anybody no more. Goddamnit, I know the way the world’s supposed to work.”
You killed a policeman over this business? Popov couldn’t ask. Nekulturny barbarian. He could just as easily have bought his meat in a supermarket. A druid with a gun, surely that was an unusually dangerous sort. He finished his breakfast and walked outside. Soon the others followed, and Hunnicutt pulled a cigar from the saddle-bags he was carrying and lit it as they walked to Killgore’s Hummer.
“You have to smoke in the car?” the doctor complained, as soon as he saw the thing.
“I’ll hold it out the fuckin’ window, John. Christ, you a secondhand-smoke Nazi, too?” the hunter demanded. Then he bent to the logic of the moment and lowered the window, holding the cigar outside for the ride to the horse barn. It didn’t take long. Popov saddled the affable Buttermilk, fed her the apple from the cafeteria food line and took her outside, mounted the mare and looked around the green-amber sea that surrounded the facility. Hunnicutt came out on a horse Dmitriy had never seen, a blanket Appaloosa stallion that he took to be the hunter’s own. On a closer look—
“Is that a pistol?” Popov asked.
“It’s an M-1873 Colt’s Single-Action Army Revolver,” Foster replied, lifting it from the equally authentic Threepersons holster. “The gun that won the West. Dmitriy, I never go riding without a friend,” he said with a self-satisfied smile.
“Forty-five?” the Russian asked. He’d seen them in movies, but never in
real life.
“No, it’s a .44-40. Caliber forty-four, with forty grains of black powder. Back a hundred years ago, you used the same cartridge in your handgun and your rifle. Cheaper that way,” he explained. “And the bullet’ll kill just about anything you want. Maybe not a buffalo,” he allowed, “but damned sure a deer—”
“Or a man?”
“You bet. This is just about the deadliest cartridge ever made, Dmitriy.” Hunnicutt replaced the revolver in the leather holster. “Now, this holster isn’t authentic, really. It’s called a Threepersons, named for Billy Threepersons, I think. He was a U.S. Marshal back in the old days—he was a Native American, too, and quite a lawman, so the story goes. Anyway, he invented the holster late in the nineteenth century. Easier to quick-draw out of this one, see?” Foster demonstrated. It impressed Popov to see it in real life after so many movies. The American hunter even wore a wide-brim Western hat. Popov found himself liking the man despite his bombast.
“Come on, Jeremiah,” Hunnicutt said, as the other two entered the corral, and with that he led them off.
“Your horse?” Popov asked.
“Oh, yeah, bought him off a Nez Percé Indian pal. Eight years old, just about right for me.” Foster smiled as they walked out the gate, a man fully in his element, Popov thought.
The rides had become somewhat repetitive. Even here there was only so much land to walk and examine, but the simple pleasure of it hadn’t changed. The four men went north this morning, slowly through the prairie-dog town, then close to the interstate highway with its heavy truck traffic.
“Where is the nearest town?” Popov asked.
“That way”—Killgore pointed—“about five miles. Not much of a town.”
“Does it have an airport?”
“Little one for private planes only,” the doctor replied. “You go east about twenty miles, there’s another town with a regional airport for puddle-jumpers, so you can get to Kansas City, from there you can fly anywhere.”
“But we’ll be using our own runways for the Gs, right?”
“Yep,” Killgore confirmed. “The new ones can hop all the way to Johannesburg from right here.”
“No shit?” Hunnicutt asked. “You mean, like, we could go hunting in Africa if we want?”
“Yeah, Foster, but packing back the elephant on a horse might be a little tough.” The epidemiologist laughed.
“Well, maybe just the ivory,” the hunter replied, doing the same. “I was thinking lion and leopard, John.”
“Africans like to eat the lion’s gonads. You see, the lion is the most virile of all the animals,” Killgore told them.
“How’s that?”
“Once upon a time, a nature-film crew watched two males servicing a female who was in season. They averaged once every ten minutes for a day and a half between ’em. So, the individual males were going three times an hour for thirty-six hours. Better than I ever did.” There was another laugh that the men all shared. “Anyway, some African tribes still believe that when you eat a body part off something you killed, you inherit the attribute of that part. So, they like to eat lion balls.”
“Does it work?” Maclean asked.
Killgore liked that. “If it did, wouldn’t be many male lions left in the world, Kirk.”
“You got that one right, John!” And there was more general laughter that dawn.
Popov wasn’t as amused by this discussion as his companions. He looked off at the highway, and saw a Greyhound bus pass by at about seventy miles per hour—but then it slowed and stopped at an odd little square building. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Bus stop for the intercity buses,” Mark Waterhouse replied. “They have them out here in the boonies. You sit there and wait, then you wave for the bus to stop, like the old flag stops for trains.”
“Ah.” Dmitriy filed that one away as he turned his horse to the east. The hawk, he saw, the one that lived around here, was up and flying again, looking down for one of those tubular rodents to eat for its own breakfast. He watched, but evidently the hawk didn’t see one. They rode for another hour, then headed back. Popov ended up next to Hunnicutt.
“You been riding how long?”
“Hardly more than a week,” Dmitriy Arkadeyevich answered.
“You’re doing okay for a tenderfoot,” Foster told him in a friendly voice.
“I want to do it more, so that I can ride better at a faster pace.”
“Well, how about tonight, just ’fore sundown, say?”
“Thank you, Foster, yes, I would like that. Just after dinner, shall we say?”
“Sure. Meet me around six-thirty at the corral.”
“Thank you. I will do that,” Popov promised. A night ride, under the stars, yes, that should be very pleasant.
“I got an idea,” Chatham said when he got to work in the Javits Building.
“What’s that?”
“This Russian guy, Serov. We got a passport photo, right?”
“Yeah,” Sullivan agreed.
“Let’s try the flyers again. His bank, it’s probably within walking distance of his apartment, right?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I like it,” Special Agent Tom Sullivan said with some enthusiasm. “Let’s see how fast we can get that done.”
“Hey, Chuck,” the voice said over the phone.
“Good morning—afternoon for you, I suppose, John.”
“Yeah, just finished lunch,” Clark said. “Any luck with this Serov investigation?”
“Nothing yet,” the assistant director for the criminal division answered. “These things don’t happen overnight, but they do happen. I have the New York field division looking for this mutt. If he’s in town, we’ll find him,” Baker promised. “It might take a while, but we will.”
“Sooner is better than later,” Rainbow Six pointed out.
“I know. It always is, but stuff like this doesn’t happen overnight.” Baker knew that he was being kicked in the ass, lest he allow this hunt to become a low-priority item. That would not happen, but this Clark guy was CIA, and he didn’t know what it was like to be a cop. “We’ll find the guy for you, John. If he’s over here, that is. You have the British cops looking, too?”
“Oh, yeah. Thing is, we don’t know how many identities he might have.”
“In his place, how many would you have?”
“Three or four, probably, and they’d be similar so they’re easy for me to remember. This guy’s a trained spook. So, he probably has a number of ‘legends’ that he can change into about as easy as he changes shirts.”
“I know, John. I’ve worked Foreign Counterintelligence before. They are elusive game, but we know how to hunt ’em. Are you sweating any more stuff out of your terrorists?”
“They don’t talk all that much,” the voice replied. “The cops here can’t interrogate very effectively.”
So, are we supposed to roast them over a slow fire? Baker didn’t ask. The FBI operated under the rules established by the U.S. Constitution. He figured that CIA most often did not, and like most FBI types he found that somewhat distasteful. He’d never met Clark, and knew him only by reputation. Director Murray respected him, but had his reservations. Clark had once tortured subjects, Murray had hinted once, and that, for the FBI, was beyond the pale, however effective it might be. The Constitution said “no” on that issue, and that was that, even for kidnappers, even though that was one class of criminal that deserved it in the eyes of every special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Trust the Brit cops. They’re damned good, John, and they have a lot of experience with IRA types. They know how to talk to them.”
“You say so, Chuck,” the voice responded somewhat dubiously. “Okay, anything else we get comes right to your desk.”
“Good. Talk to you later if we get anything here, John.”
“Right, see ya.”
Baker wondered if he should visit the bathroom to wash his hands after that conversat
ion. He’d been briefed into Rainbow and its recent activities, and while he admired the military way of doing things—like many FBI agents, he’d been a Marine officer, recruited right out of the Quantico Marine Base into the Bureau—it differed in several important areas from the Bureau’s way of doing things . . . like not violating the law. This John Clark was a hardcase son of a bitch, a former Agency guy who’d done some spooky things, Dan Murray had told him, with a mixture of admiration and disapproval. But, what the hell, they were on the same side, sort of, and this Russian subject had probably initiated an operation that had gone after Clark’s own family. That added a personal element to the case, and Baker had to respect that.
Chavez turned in after another long day of watching athletes run and sweat. It had been an interesting couple of weeks, and though he sorely missed Patsy and JC, whom he’d hardly had a chance to meet, he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying himself. But soon it would be over. Sports reporters were tallying up the medals—America had done quite well, and the Aussies had done spectacularly well, especially in swimming events—in anticipation of announcing which nation had “won” the games. Three more days and they’d run the Marathon, traditionally the last Olympic event, followed soon thereafter by the closing ceremonies and the dousing of the flame. Already the runners were walking and/or driving along the course, to learn the hills and turns. They didn’t want to get lost, though that would hardly be possible, as the route would be lined with screaming fans every step of the way. And they were working out, running in the training/practice area of the Olympic Village, not so much so as to tire themselves out, but just enough to keep their muscles and lungs ready for the murderous exertion of this longest of footraces. Chavez considered himself to be in shape, but he’d never run a twenty-plus-mile course. Soldiers had to know how to run, but not that far, and running that distance on paved roads had to be pure murder on the feet and ankles, despite the cushioned soles of modern running shoes. Yeah, those bastards had to be in real shape, Ding thought, lying down in his bed.
Rainbow Six (1997) Page 84