by Tom Clancy
“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 two-suiter 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 Interferon 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 a 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 objecti
ve, 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, a 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 psychological 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 René. 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 Fürchtner/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.”
“Known associates?” Covington asked.
“All interviewed by the BKA, with no results. Hans and Petra were never known for talking. The same was true of Model and Guttenach.” Tawney waved his hands in frustration.
“It’s out there, John,” Chavez said. “I can feel it.”
“I agree,” Covington said with a nod. “But the trick’s getting our hands on it.”
Clark frowned mightily, but he knew the drill, too, from his time in the field. You wanted information to develop, but merely wanting it never made it happen. Things like that just came to you when they decided to come. It was that simple, and that maddening, especially when you knew it was there and you knew that you needed it. With one small bit of information, Rainbow could turn some national police force loose and sweep up the person or persons they wanted and grill them over a slow fire until they got what they needed. The French or the Germans would be best—neither of them had the legal restrictions that the Americans and Brits had placed on their police forces. But that wasn’t a good way to think, and the FBI usually got people to spill their guts, even though they treated all criminals with white kid gloves. Even terrorists, once caught, usually told what they knew—well, not the Irish, John remembered. Some of those bastards wouldn’t say “boo,” not even their own names. Well, there were ways of handling that level of recalcitrance. It was just a matter of speaking to them outside of police view, putting the fear of God, and of pain, into them. That usually worked—had always worked in John Clark’s experience. But first you needed somebody to talk to. That was the hard part.
As a field officer of the CIA he’d often enough been in distant, uncomfortable places on a mission, then had the mission aborted—or just as bad, postponed—because some vital bit of information had been missing or lost. He’d seen three men and one woman die for that reason, in four different places, all of them behind the Iron
Curtain. Four people, all of whose faces he’d known, lost, judicially murdered by their parent countries. Their struggle against tyranny had ultimately been successful, but they hadn’t lived to see it or enjoy the fruits of their courage, and it was part of Clark’s conscience that he remembered every single one of them—and because of that he’d grown to hate the people who’d had the information he’d needed but had not been able to get out in time. So it was now. Ding was right. Somebody was calling these animals out of their lairs, and he wanted that somebody. Finding him or her would give them all manner of names and telephone numbers and addresses for the European police agencies to sweep up into one big bag, and so end much of the terrorism that still hung over Europe like a cloud. And that would be a hell of a lot better than sending his troopers out into the field with loaded guns.
Popov packed his bags. He was getting quite expert at this, the Russian told himself, and had learned to pack his shirts without their coming out of the bag wrinkled, which he’d never learned as a KGB officer. Well, the shirts were more expensive now, and he’d learned to take better care of them. The suitcases, however, reflected his previous occupation, and included some special pockets and compartments in which he could keep his “alternate” travel documents. These he kept with him at all times now. Should the whole project collapse of its own weight, he wanted to be able to disappear without a trace, and his three unused sets of documents should help in that. In the final extreme, he could access his Bern bank account and disappear back into Russia, though he had other plans for his future—
