by Tom Clancy
M7, Chip Smitton, was little better off. His immune system was doing its best, but Shiva was just too malignant for him, working more slowly than in F4, but just as inexorably.
F5, Anne Pretloe, was from the deep end of the gene pool. He’d bothered to take full medical histories of all the current crop of test subjects. Bannister had a family history of cancer—breast cancer had claimed her mother and grandmother, and he saw that Shiva was working rapidly in her. Might there be a correlation between vulnerability to cancer and infectious disease? Could that indicate that cancer was fundamentally a disease of the immune system, as many physician-scientists suspected? It was the stuff of a paper for the New England Journal of Medicine, might get himself some additional standing in his community—but he didn’t have the time, and anyway, by the time he published, there’d be few to read it. Well, it would be something to talk about in Kansas, because they’d still be practicing medicine there, and still working on the Immortality Project. Most of Horizon’s best medical researchers were not really part of the Project, but they couldn’t kill them, could they? And so, like many others, they’d find themselves beneficiaries of the Project’s largesse. They would be allowing far more people than necessary to live—oh, sure, they needed the genetic diversity, and why not pick smart people who’d eventually understand why the Project had done what it had? And even if they didn’t, what choice would they have but to live? All of them were earmarked for the -B vaccine Steve Berg had developed along with the lethal -A variant. In any case, his speculation had scientific value, even though it was singularly useless for the test subjects who now filled every available room in the treatment area. Killgore gathered his notes and started rounds, beginning with F4, Mary Bannister.
Only the heavy morphine dose made life tolerable for her. The dosage might have killed a healthy person, and would have been enough to delight the most hardened IV-drug user.
“How are we feeling this morning?” the doctor asked brightly.
“Tired . . . weak . . . crummy,” Mary Bannister replied.
“How’s the pain, Mary?”
“It’s there, but not so bad . . . mainly my stomach.” Her face was deathly pale from the internal bleeding, and the petechiae were sufficiently prominent on her face that she couldn’t be allowed to use a mirror, lest the sight panic her. They wanted all the subjects to die comfortably. It would be far less trouble for everyone that way—a kindness not shown to other test subjects, Killgore thought. It wasn’t fair, but it was practical. The lower animals they tested didn’t have the capacity to make trouble, and there were no useful data on how to medicate them against pain. Maybe he’d develop some in Kansas. That would be a worthy use of his abilities, he thought, as he made another upward adjustment in F4’s morphine drip . . . just enough to . . . yes, make her stuporous. He could show her the mercy he would have liked to have shown rhesus monkeys. Would they do animal experimentation in Kansas? There would be practical difficulties. Getting the animals to the labs would be very difficult in the absence of international air-freight service, and then there was the aesthetic issue. Many of the project members would not approve, and they had a point. But, damn it, it was hard to develop drugs and treatment modalities without some animal testing. Yes, Killgore thought, leaving one treatment room for another, it was tough on the conscience, but scientific progress had a price, and they were saving literally millions of animals, weren’t they? They’d needed thousands of animals to develop Shiva, and nobody had really objected to that. Another subject for discussion at the staff conference, he decided, entering M7’s room.
“How are we feeling, Chip?” he asked.
They collectively thanked Providence for the lack of Garda in this part of County Cork. There was little crime, after all, and therefore little reason for them. The Irish national police were as efficient as their British colleagues, and their intelligence section unfortunately cooperated with the “Five” people in London, but neither service had managed to find Sean Grady—at least not after he’d identified and eliminated the informers in his cell. Both of them had vanished from the face of the earth and fed the salmon, or whatever fish liked the taste of informer flesh. Grady remembered the looks on their faces as they protested their innocence right up until the moment they’d been thrown into the sea, fifteen miles offshore, with iron weights on their legs. Protested their innocence? Then why had the SAS never troubled his cell again after three serious attempts to eliminate them all? Innocence be damned.
They had half-filled a delightful provincial pub called The Foggy Dew, named after a favored rebel song, after several hours of weapons practice on the isolated coastal farm, which was too far from civilization for people to hear the distinctive chatter of automatic-weapons fire. It had required a few magazines each for his men to reassert their expertise with the AKMS assault rifles, but shoulder weapons were easily mastered, and that one more easily than most. Now they talked about nonbusiness matters, just a bunch of friends having a few pints. Most watched the football game on the wall-hung telly. Grady did the same, but with his brain in neutral, letting it slide over the next mission, examining and reexamining the scene in his mind, thinking about how quickly the British or this new Rainbow group might arrive. The direction of their approach was obvious. He had that all planned for, and the more he went over his operational concept, the better he seemed to like it. He might well lose some people, but that was the cost of doing business for the revolutionary, and looking around the pub at his people, he knew that they accepted the risks just as readily as he did.
He checked his watch, subtracted five hours, and reached into his pocket to turn on his cell phone. He did this three times per day, never leaving it on for more than ten minutes at a time, as a security measure. He had to be careful. Only that knowledge—and some luck, he admitted to himself—had allowed him to carry on the war this long. Two minutes later, it rang. Grady rose from his seat and walked outside to take the call.
“Hello.”
“Sean, this is Joe.”
“Hello, Joe,” Grady said pleasantly. “How are things in Switzerland?”
“Actually, I’m in New York at the moment. I just wanted to tell you that the business thing we talked about, the financing, it’s done,” Popov told him.
“Excellent. What of the other matter, Joe?”
“I’ll be bringing that myself. I’ll be over in two days. I’m flying into Shannon on my business jet. I should get in about six-thirty in the morning.”
“I shall be there to see you,” Grady promised.
“Okay, my friend. I will see you then.”
“Good-bye, Joe.”
“Bye, Sean.” And the line went dead. Grady thumbed off the power and replaced the phone in his pocket. If anyone had overheard it—not likely, since he could see all the way to the horizon, and there were no parked trucks in evidence . . . and, besides, if anyone knew where he was, they would have come after him and his men with a platoon of soldiers and/or police—all they would have heard was a business chat, brief, cryptic, and to the point. He went back inside.
“Who was it, Sean?” Roddy Sands asked.
“That was Joe,” Grady replied. “He’s done what we asked. So, I suppose we get to move forward as well.”
“Indeed.” Roddy hoisted his pint glass in salute.
The Security Service, once called MI (Military Intelligence) 5, had lived for more than a generation with two high-profile missions. One was to keep track of Soviet penetration agents within the British government—a regrettably busy mission, since the KGB and its antecedents had more than once penetrated British security. At one point, they’d almost gotten their agent-in-place Kim Philby in charge of “Five,” thus nearly giving the Soviets control of the British counterintelligence service, a miscue that still sent a collective shiver throughout “Five.” The second mission was the penetration of the Irish Republican Army and other Irish terrorist groups, the better to identify their leaders and eliminate them, for t
his war was fought by the old rules. Sometimes, police were called in to make arrests, and other times, SAS commandos were deployed to handle things more directly. The differences in technique had resulted from the inability of Her Majesty’s Government to decide if the “Irish Problem” was a matter of crime or national security—the result of that indecision had been the lengthening of “The Troubles” by at least a decade, in the view of the American FBI.
But the employees of “Five” didn’t have the ability to make policy. That was done by elected officials, who often as not failed to listen to the trained experts who’d spent their lives handling such matters. Without the ability to make or affect policy, they soldiered on, assembling and maintaining voluminous records of known and suspected IRA operatives for eventual action by other government agencies.
This was done mainly by recruiting informers. Informing on one’s comrades was another old Irish tradition, and one that the British had long exploited for their own ends. They speculated on its origins. Part of it, they all thought, was religion. The IRA regarded itself as the protector of Catholic Irishmen, and with that identification came a price: the rules and ethics of Catholicism often spilled over into the hearts and minds of people who killed in the name of their religious affiliation. One of the things that spilled over was guilt. On the one hand, guilt was an inevitable result of their revolutionary activity, and on the other hand, it was the one thing they could not afford to entertain in their own consciences.
“Five” had a thick file on Sean Grady, as they did for many others. Grady’s was special, though, since they’d once had a particularly well-placed informer in his unit who had, unfortunately, disappeared, doubtless murdered by him. They knew that Grady had given up kneecapping early on and chosen murder as a more permanent way of dealing with security leaks, and one that never left bodies about for the police to find. “Five” had twenty-three informants currently working in various PIRA units. Four were women of looser morality than was usual in Ireland. The other nineteen were men who’d been recruited one way or another—though three of them didn’t know that they were sharing secrets with British agents. The Security Service did its collective best to protect them, and more than a few had been taken to England after their usefulness had been exhausted, then flown to Canada, usually, for a new, safer life. But in the main “Five” treated them as assets to be milked for as long as possible, because the majority of them were people who’d killed or assisted others in killing, and that made them both criminals and traitors, whose consciences had been just a little too late to encourage much in the way of sympathy from the case officers who “worked” them.
Grady, the current file said, had fallen off the face of the earth. It was possible, some supposed, that he’d been killed by a rival, but probably not, as that bit of news would have percolated through the PIRA leadership. Grady was respected even by his factional enemies in the Movement as a True Believer in the Cause and an effective operator who had killed more than his fair share of cops and soldiers in Londonderry. And the Security Service still wanted him for the three SAS troopers he’d somehow captured, tortured, and killed. Those bodies had been recovered, and the collective rage in SAS hadn’t gone away, for the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment never forgave and never forgot such things. Killing, perhaps, but never torture.
Cyril Holt, Deputy Director of the Security Service, was doing his quarterly review of the major case files, and stopped when he got to Grady’s. He’d disappeared from the scope entirely. If he’d died, Holt would have heard about it. It was also possible that he’d given up the fight, seen that his parent organization was finally ready to negotiate some sort of peace, and decided to play along by terminating his operations. But Holt and his people didn’t believe that either. The psychological profile that had been drawn up by the chief of psychiatry at Guy’s Hospital in London said that he’d be one of the last to set the gun down and look for a peaceful occupation.
The third possibility was that he was still lurking out there, maybe in Ulster, maybe in the Republic . . . more probably the latter, because “Five” had most of its informants in the North. Holt looked at the photos of Grady and his collection of twenty or so PIRA “soldiers,” for whom there were also files. None of the pictures were very good despite the computer enhancement. He had to assume he was still active, leading his militant PIRA faction somehow, planning operations that might or might not come off, but meanwhile keeping a low profile with the cover identities he had to have generated. All he could do was keep a watch on them. Holt made a brief notation, closed the file, placed it on his out pile and selected another. By the following day, the notations would be placed into the “Five” computer, which was slowly supplanting the paper files, but which Holt didn’t like to use. He preferred files he could hold in his hands.
“That quickly?” Popov asked.
“Why not?” Brightling responded.
“As you say, sir. And the cocaine?” he added distaste-fully.
“The suitcase is packed. Ten pounds in medically pure compounding condition from our own stores. The bag will be on the plane.”
Popov didn’t like the idea of transporting drugs at all. It wasn’t a case of sudden morality, but simply concern about customs officials and luggage-sniffing dogs. Brightling saw the worry on his face, and smiled.
“Relax, Dmitriy. If there is any problem, you’re transporting the stuff to our subsidiary in Dublin. You’ll have documents to that effect. Just try to make sure you don’t need to use them. It could be embarrassing.”
“As you say.” Popov allowed himself to be relieved. He’d be flying a chartered Gulfstream V private business jet this time, because bringing the drugs through a real airport on a real international flight was just a little too dangerous. European countries tended to give casual treatment to arriving Americans, whose main objective was to spend their dollars, not cause trouble, but everyone had dogs now, because every country in the world worried about narcotics.
“Tonight?”
Brightling nodded and checked his watch. “The plane’ll be at Teterboro Airport. Be there at six.”
Popov left and caught a cab back to his apartment. Packing wasn’t difficult but thinking was. Brightling was violating the most rudimentary security considerations here. Chartering a private business jet linked his corporation with Popov for the first time, as did the protective documentation attached to the cocaine. There was no effort to cut Popov loose from his employer. Perhaps that meant that Brightling didn’t trust his employee’s loyalty, didn’t trust that if arrested he would keep his mouth shut . . . but, no, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich thought. If he wasn’t trusted, then the mission would not be undertaken. Popov had always been the link between Brightling and the terrorists.
So, the Russian thought, he does trust me. But he was also violating security . . . and that could only mean that in Brightling’s mind security didn’t matter. Why—how could it not matter? Perhaps Brightling planned to have him eliminated? That was a possibility, but he didn’t think so. Brightling was ruthless, but not sufficiently clever—rather, too clever. He would have to consider the possibility that Popov had left a written record somewhere, that his death would trigger the unveiling of his own part in the exploits. So he could discount that, the Russian thought.
Then what?
The former intelligence officer looked in the mirror at a face that still didn’t know what it needed to know. From the beginning, he’d been seduced by money. He’d turned into a hired agent of sorts, motivated by personal gain—the “M” of MICE—but was working for someone for whom money had no importance. Even CIA, rich as it had always been, measured the money it gave out to its agents. The American intelligence service paid a hundred times better than its Russian counterpart, but even that had to be justified, because CIA had accountants who ruled the field officers as the Czar’s courtiers and bureaucrats had once ruled over the smallest village. Popov knew from his research that Horizon Corporation had a huge amou
nt of money, but one did not become wealthy from profligacy. In a capitalist society, one became wealthy by cleverness, perhaps ruthlessness, but not by stupidity, and throwing money about as Brightling did was stupid.
So, what is it? Dmitriy wondered, moving away from the mirror and packing his bag.
Whatever he’s planning, whatever his reason for these terrorist incidents—is close at hand?
That did make a little sense. You concealed as long as you had to, but when you no longer had to, then you didn’t waste the effort. It was an amateur’s move, though. An amateur, even a gifted one like Brightling, didn’t know, hadn’t learned from bitter institutional experience that you never broke tradecraft, even after an operation had been successfully concluded, because even then your enemy might find things out that he could use against you in your next one . . .
. . . unless there is not to be a next one? Dmitriy thought, as he selected his underwear. Is this the last operation to be run? No, he corrected himself, is this the last operation which I need to run?
He ran through it again. The operations had grown in magnitude, until now he was transporting cocaine to make a terrorist happy, after helping transfer six million dollars! To make the drug smuggling easier, he would have documentation to justify the drug shipment from one branch of a major corporation to another, tying himself and the drugs to Brightling’s company. Perhaps his false ID would hold up if the police showed interest in him—well, they would almost certainly hold up, unless the Garda had a direct line into MI-5, which was not likely, and neither was it likely that the British Security Service had his cover name, or even a photo, good or bad—and besides, he’d changed his haircut ages ago.
