Rainbow Six (1997) (109 page)

“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 conversation. 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.

From the opening-day ceremonies, when the Olympic flame had been lit, through today, the games had been wonderfully managed and run, as if the entire national soul and strength of Australia had been devoted to one task—as America had once decided to go to the moon. Everything was superbly organized, and that was further proof that his presence here was a total waste of time. Security hadn’t had even a hint of a problem. The Aussie cops were friendly, competent, and numerous, and the Australian SAS backing them up were nearly as good as his own troopers, well supported and advised by the Global Security people who’d gotten them the same tactical radios that Rainbow used. That company looked like a good vendor to use, and he thought he might recommend that John talk to them along those lines. It never hurt to have an outside opinion.

About the only bad news was the weather, which had been sultry-hot for the entire Olympiad. That had kept the medics busy at their heatstroke kiosks. Nobody had died yet, but about a hundred people had been hospitalized, and thirty times that many treated and released by the firemen paramedics and Australian army medical orderlies. That didn’t count the people who just sat down on the curb and tried to cool off without getting any proper medical assistance. He didn’t mind the heat all that much—Chavez had never been afraid of sweat—but he also paced himself, and, like everyone else in the Olympic stadium, was grateful for that fogging system. The TV guys had even done a story about it, which was good news for the American company that had designed and installed it. They were even talking about a version for golf courses in Texas and elsewhere, where it got about this hot. Traveling from ninety-five degrees to an apparent temperature of eighty or so was a pleasant sensation indeed, not unlike a shower, and the concourses were often crowded with people in the afternoons, escaping from the blazing sunshine.

Chavez’s last thought of the night was that he would not have minded having the sunblock concession. There were signs everywhere telling people to be mindful of the hole in the ozone layer, and he knew that sun-caused skin cancer wasn’t a pleasant death. So, Chavez and his men liberally slathered the stuff on every morning just like everyone else. Well, a few more days and they’d go back to Britain, where their tans would be noted by the pasty-pale Englishmen, and the weather would be a good twenty degrees cooler on what the Brits called a “hot” day. Anything over seventy-five over there and people started dropping dead in the street—which made Ding wonder about the old song that claimed only “mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.” They must have been a lot tougher back then, Chavez thought, falling off to sleep.

 

 

Popov saddled Buttermilk at about six that evening. The sun wasn’t setting yet, but that was less than an hour away, and his horse, having rested and eaten all day, was not the least bit averse to his attention—besides, he’d given Buttermilk another apple, and the mare seemed to relish them as a man might enjoy his first glass of beer after a long working day.

Jeremiah, Hunnicutt’s horse, was smaller than Buttermilk, but appeared more powerful. An odd-looking animal, his light gray coat was covered from hindquarters to neck with an almost perfectly square matlike mark of deep charcoal, hence the name “blanket Appaloosa,” the Russian imagined. Foster Hunnicutt showed up, hoisting his large Western-style saddle on his shoulder, and tossing it atop the blanket, then reaching under to cinch the straps in. His last act, Popov saw, was to strap on his Colt pistol. Then he slid his left foot into the left-side stirrup and climbed aboard. Jeremiah, the stallion, must have liked to be ridden. It was as though the animal transformed himself with this new weight on his back. The head came up proudly, and the ears swiveled around, waiting for the command of its rider. That was a clucking sound, and the stallion moved out into the corral alongside Popov and Buttermilk.

“He is a fine horse, Foster.”

“Best I’ve ever had,” the hunter agreed. “The App’s a great all-around critter. They come from the Nez Percé Indian tribe. The Nez Percé captured the original Western horses—they were the ones who escaped from the Spanish conquistadors, and bred out in the wild. Well, the Nez Percé learned how to breed them back to the Arabian roots of the Spanish breed, and came out with these.” Hunnicutt reached down to pat his horse’s neck with rough affection, which the animal seemed to like. “The Appaloosa’s the best horse there is, if you ask me. Smart, steady, healthy breed, not dizzy like the Arabians are, and damned pretty, I think. They aren’t the best at any one thing, but they’re damned good in all things. Great all-around mount. Jeremiah here’s a great hunting and tracking horse. We’ve spent a lot of time in the high country after elk. He even found my gold for me.”

“Excuse me? Gold?”

Hunnicutt laughed. “My spread up in Montana. It used to be part of a cattle ranch, but the mountains are too steep for the cows. Anyway, there’s a stream coming down from the mountain. I was letting Jeremiah drink one afternoon, and I saw something shiny, okay?” Hunnicutt stretched. “It was gold, a big hunk of gold and quartz—that’s the best geological formation for gold, Dmitriy. Anyway, I figure I got a fair-sized deposit on my land. How big? There’s no tellin’, and it doesn’t matter much anyway.”

“Not matter?” Popov turned in the saddle to look at his companion. “Foster, for the last ten thousand years men have killed one another over gold.”

“Not anymore, Dmitriy. That’s going to end—forever, probably.”

“But how? Why?” Popov demanded.

“Don’t you know about the Project?”

“A little, but not enough to understand what you just said.”

What the hell,
the hunter thought. “Dmitriy, human life on the planet is going to come to a screeching halt, boy.”

“But—”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“No, Foster, not that part. Can you tell me?”

What the hell, Hunnicutt thought again. The Olympics were almost over. Why not? This Russkie understood about Nature, knew about riding, and he damned sure worked for John Brightling in a very sensitive capacity.

“It’s called Shiva,” he began, and went on for several minutes.

For Popov it was a time to put his professional face back on. His emotions were neutralized while he listened. He even managed a smile which masked his inner horror.

“But how do you distribute it?”

“Well, you see, John has a company that also works for him. Global Security—the boss man’s a guy named Henriksen.”

“Ah, yes, I know him. He was in your FBI.”

“Oh? I knew he was a cop, but not a fed. Anyway, they got the consulting contract with the Aussies for the Olympics, and one of Bill’s people will be spreading the Shiva. Something to do with the air-conditioning system at the stadium, they tell me. They’re going to spread it on the last day, see, and the closing ceremonies. The next day everyone flies home, and then, like, thousands of people all take the bug home with them.”

“But what protects us?”

“You got a shot when you came here, right?”

“Yes, Killgore said it was a booster for something.”

“Oh, it was, Dmitriy. It’s a booster, all right. It’s the vaccine that protects you against Shiva. I got it, too. That’s the ‘B’ vaccine, pal. There’s another one, they tell me, the ‘A’ vaccine, but that one’s not the one you want to get.” Hunnicutt explained on.

“How do you know all this?” Popov asked.

“Well, you see, in case people figure this out, I’m one of the guys who helped set up the perimeter security system here. So, they told me why the Project
needs
perimeter security. It’s pretty serious shit, man. If anyone were to find out about what was done, hell, they might even nuke us, y’know?” Foster pointed out with a grin. “Not many people really understand about saving the planet. I mean, we do this now, or in about twenty years, hell,
everything
and
everybody
dies. Not just the people. The animals, too. We can’t let that happen, can we?”

“I see your point. Yes, that does make sense,” Dmitriy Arkadeyevich agreed, without choking on his words.

Hunnicutt nodded with some satisfaction. “I figured you’d get it, man. So, those terrorist things you got started, well, they were very pretty important. Without getting everybody all hot and bothered about international terrorism, Bill Hendriksen might not have got his people in place to do their little job. So,” Hunnicutt said as he fished a cigar out of his pocket, “thanks, Dmitriy. You were really an important part for this here Project.”

“Thank you, Foster,” Popov responded.
Is this possible?
he wondered. “How certain are you that this will work?”

“It oughta work. I asked that question, too. They let me in on some of the planning, ’cuz I’m a scientist—I was a pretty good geologist once, trust me. I know a lot of stuff. The disease is a real mother. The real key to that was the genetic engineering done on the original Ebola. Hell, you remember how scary that was a year and a half ago, right?”

Popov nodded. “Oh, yes. I was in Russia then, and it was very frightening indeed.” Even more frightening had been the response of the American president, he reminded himself.

“Well, they—the real Project scientists—learned a lot from that. The key to this is the ‘A’ vaccine. The original outbreak may kill a few million people, but that’s mainly psychological. The vaccine that Horizon’s going to market is a live-virus vaccine, like the Sabin polio vaccine. But they’ve tuned it, like. It doesn’t stop Shiva, man. It
spreads
Shiva. Takes a month to six weeks for the symptoms to show. They proved that in the lab.”