Rainbow Six (1997) (17 page)

“I’ll have ten complete physicals between now and then, and I will adjust my lifestyle according to how those work out,” Domingo Chavez, Master of Science (International Relations), answered, buttering his toast. The bread in this country, he’d learned over the past six weeks, was just fabulous. Why did people knock English food? “Hell, Patsy, look at your dad. That old bastard is still in great shape.” Though he hadn’t run this morning—and at his best was hard-pressed to finish the five miles at the pace Team-2 set. Well, he was well over fifty. His shooting, however, hadn’t suffered very much at all. John had worked to make that clear to the go-team members. One of the best pistoleros Chavez had ever seen, and better still with a sniper rifle. He was dead-level with Weber and Johnston out to 400 meters. Despite the suit he wore to work, Rainbow Six was on everyone’s don’t-fuck-with list.

The front page had a story on the previous day’s events in Bern. Ding raced through it and found most of the details right. Remarkable. The
Telegraph
’s correspondent must have had good contacts with the cops . . . whom he gave credit for the takedown. Well, that was okay. Rainbow was supposed to remain black. No comment from the Ministry of Defense on whether the SAS had provided support to the Swiss police. That was a little weak. A flat “no” would have been better . . . but were that to be said, then a “no comment” spoken at some other time would be taken as a “yes.” So, yeah, that probably made sense. Politics was not a skill he’d acquired yet, at least not on the instinctive level. Dealing with the media frightened him more than facing loaded weapons—he had training for the latter but not for the former. His next grimace came when he realized that while CIA had an office of public affairs, Rainbow sure as hell didn’t. Well, in this business it probably didn’t pay to advertise. About that time, Patsy put on her jacket and headed for the door. Ding hurried after her to deliver the goodbye kiss, watched his wife walk to the family car, and hoped she did better driving on the left side of the road than he did. It made him slightly nuts and required steady concentration. The really crazy part was that the gearshift was on the wrong side of the car, but the pedals were the same as in American autos. It made Chavez a little schizophrenic, driving left-handed and right-footed. The worst part was the traffic circles the Brits seemed to like better than real interchanges. Ding kept wanting to turn right instead of left. It would be a hell of a stupid way to get killed. Ten minutes later, dressed in his day uniform, Chavez walked over to the Team-2 building for the second AAR.

 

 

Popov tucked his passbook in his coat pocket. The Swiss banker hadn’t even blinked at seeing the suitcase full of cash. A remarkable machine had counted the bills, like mechanical fingers riffling through a deck of playing cards, even checking the denominations as it did the counting. It had taken a total of forty-five minutes to get things fully arranged. The number on the account was his old KGB service number, and tucked in the passbook was the banker’s business card, complete with his Internet address for making wire transfers—the proper code-phrase had been agreed upon and written into his bank file. The topic of Model’s failed adventure of the previous day hadn’t come up. Popov figured he’d read the press reports in the
International Herald Tribune,
which he’d get at the airport.

His passport was American. The company had arranged to get him resident-alien status, and he was on his way to citizenship, which he found amusing, as he still had his Russian Federation passport, and two others from his previous career—with different names but the same photo—which he could still use if needed. Those were stashed in his travel briefcase, in a small compartment that only a very careful customs examiner would ever find, and then only if told ahead of time that there was something strange about the incoming traveler.

Two hours before his flight was scheduled to depart, he turned in his rental car, rode the bus to the international terminal, went through the usual rigmarole of checking in, and headed off to the first-class lounge for coffee and a croissant.

 

 

Bill Henriksen was a news junkie of the first order. On waking up, early as always, he immediately flipped his TV to CNN, often flipping to Fox News with his remote while he did his morning treadmill routine, frequently with a paper on the reading board as well. The front page of the
New York Times
covered the event in Bern, as did Fox News—oddly, CNN talked about it but didn’t show much. Fox did, using the feed from Swiss television, which allowed him to watch what could be seen of the takedown. Pure vanilla, Henriksen thought. Flash-bangs on the front doors—made the cameraman jump and go slightly off-target, as usual when they were that close—shooters in right behind them. No sounds of gunfire—they used suppressed weapons. In five seconds, it was all over. So, the Swiss had a properly trained SWAT team. No real surprise there, though he hadn’t really known about it. A few minutes later, one guy came out and lit a pipe. Whoever that was, probably the team commander, he had a little style, Henriksen thought, checking the mileage on the treadmill. The team dressed as such people usually did, in coal-gray fatigues, with Kevlar body armor. Uniformed cops went in to get the hostages out after about the right amount of time. Yeah, nicely and smoothly done—another way of saying that the criminals/terrorists—the news wasn’t clear on whether they were just robbers or political types—weren’t real smart. Well, whoever said they were? They’d have to choose better ones the next time if this thing were going to work. The phone would ring in a few minutes, he was sure, summoning him to do a brief TV spot. A nuisance but a necessary one.

That happened when he was in the shower. He’d long since had a phone installed just outside the door.

“Yeah.”

“Mr. Henriksen?”

“Yeah, who’s this?” The voice wasn’t familiar.

“Bob Smith at Fox News New York. Have you seen coverage of the incident in Switzerland?”

“Yeah, matter of fact I just saw it on your network.”

“Any chance you could come in and give us some commentary?”

“What time?” Henriksen asked, knowing the response, and what his answer would be.

“Just after eight, if you could.”

He even checked his watch, an automatic and wasted gesture that nobody saw. “Yeah, I can do that. How long will I be on this time?”

“Probably four minutes or so.”

“Okay, I’ll be down there in about an hour.”

“Thank you, sir. The guard will be told to expect you.”

“Okay, see you in an hour.” The kid must be new, Henriksen thought, not to know that he was a regular commentator—why else would his name have been in the Fox rolodex?—and that the security guards all knew him by sight. A quick cup of coffee and a bagel got him out the door, into his Porsche 911, and across the George Washington Bridge to Manhattan.

 

 

Dr. Carol Brightling awoke, patted Jiggs on the top of his head, and stepped into the shower. Ten minutes later, a towel wrapped around her head, she opened the door and got the morning papers. The coffee machine had already made its two cups of Mountain-Grown Folger’s, and in the refrigerator was the plastic box full of melon sections. Next she switched on the radio to catch the morning edition of
All Things Considered,
beginning her news fix, which started here and would go on through most of the day. Her job in the White House was mainly reading . . . and today she had to meet with that bozo from the Department of Energy who still thought it important to build H-bombs, which she would advise the President against, which advice he would probably decline without direct comment to her.

Why the hell had she been taken in by this administration? Carol wondered. The answer was simple and obvious: politics. This president had tried valiantly to avoid such entanglements in his year and a half of holding office. And she was female, whereas the President’s team of insiders was almost entirely male, which had caused some comment in the media and elsewhere, which had befuddled the President in his political innocence, which had amused the press even more and given them a further tool to use, which had worked, after a fashion. And so she had been offered the appointment, and taken it, with the office in the Old Executive Office Building instead of the White House itself, with a secretary and an assistant, and a parking place on West Executive Drive for her fuel-efficient six-year-old Honda—the
only
Japanese-made car on that particular block, which
nobody
had said anything about, of course, since she was female, and she’d forgotten more about Washington politics than the President would ever learn. That was astounding when she thought about it, though she warned herself that the President was a notoriously quick learner. But not a good listener, at least as far as she was concerned.

The media let him get away with it. The lesson of that was that the media was nobody’s friend. Lacking convictions of its own, it just published what people said, and so she had to speak, off the record, on deep background, or just casually, to various reporters. Some, those who covered the Environment regularly, at least understood the language, and for the most part could be trusted to write their pieces the proper way, but they always included the other side’s rubbish science—
yes, maybe your position has merit, but the science isn’t firm enough yet and the computer models are
not
accurate enough to justify this sort of action,
the other side said. As a result of which, the public’s opinion—as measured in polls—had stagnated, or even reversed a little bit. The President was anything but an Environmental President, but the bastard was getting away with it—at the same time using Carol Brightling as political camouflage, or even political
cover!
That appalled her . . . or would have under other circumstances. But here she was, Dr. Brightling thought, zipping up her skirt before donning the suit-jacket, a senior advisor to the President of the United States.
That
meant she saw him a couple of times per week. It meant that he
read
her position papers and policy recommendations. It meant that she had
access
to the media’s top-drawer people, free to pursue her own agenda . . . within reason.

But she was the one who paid the price. Always, it was she, Carol thought, reaching down to scratch Jiggs’s ears as she made her way to the door. The cat would pass the day doing whatever it was that he did, mainly sleeping in the sun on the windowsill, probably waiting for his mistress to come home and feed him his Frisky treat. Not for the first time, she thought about stopping by a pet store and getting Jiggs a live mouse to play with and eat. A fascinating process to watch, predator and prey, playing their parts . . . the way the world was supposed to be; the way it had been for unnumbered centuries until the last two or so. Until Man had started changing everything, she thought, starting the car, looking at the cobblestoned street—still real cobbles for this traditional Georgetown address, with streetcar tracks still there, too—and brick buildings which had covered up what had probably been a pretty hardwood forest less than two hundred years before. It was even worse across the river, where only Theodore Roosevelt Island was still in its pristine state—and that was interfered with by the screech of jet engines. A minute later, she was on M Street, then around the circle onto Pennsylvania Avenue. She was ahead of the daily rush-hour traffic, as usual, heading the mile or so down the wide, straight street before she could turn right and find her parking place—they weren’t reserved
per se,
but everyone had his or her own, and hers was forty yards from the West Entrance—and as a regular, she didn’t have to submit to the dog search. The Secret Service used Belgian Malinois dogs—like brown German shepherds—keen of nose and quick of brain, to sniff at cars for explosives. Her White House pass got her into the compound, then up the steps into the OEOB, and right to her office. It was a cubbyhole, really, but larger than those of her secretary and assistant. On her desk was the
Early Bird,
with its clips of articles from various national newspapers deemed important to those who worked in this building, along with her copy of
Science Weekly, Science,
and, today,
Scientific American,
plus several medical journals. The environmental publications would arrive two days later. She hadn’t yet sat down when her secretary, Margot Evans, came in with the codeword folder on nuclear-weapons policy, which she’d have to review before giving the President advice that he’d reject. The annoying part of that, of course, was that she’d have to think to produce the position paper that the President would not think about before rejecting. But she couldn’t give him an excuse to accept, with great public reluctance, her resignation—rarely did anyone at this level ask to leave
per se,
though the local media had the mantras down and fully understood. Why not take it a step further than usual, and recommend the closure of the dirty reactor at Hanford, Washington? The only American reactor of the same design as Chernobyl—less a power reactor than one designed to produce plutonium—Pu
²³⁹
—for nuclear weapons, the worst gadget the mind of warlike
men
had ever produced. There were new problems with Hanford, new leaks from the storage tanks there, discovered before the leakage could pollute ground water, but still a threat to the environment, expensive to fix. The chemical mix in those tanks was horribly corrosive,
and
lethally toxic,
and
radioactive . . . and the President wouldn’t listen to that bit of sound advice either.

The science of her objections to Hanford was real, even Red Lowell worried about it—but
he
wanted a
new
Hanford built! Even this President wouldn’t countenance that!

With that reassuring thought, Dr. Brightling poured herself a cup of coffee and started reading the
Early Bird,
while her mind pondered how she’d draft her doomed recommendation to the President.