Popov made a show of looking through the pipe, but saw nothing at all, the metal tube was so packed with sediment, he guessed from what Miles had said. Then the plumber took it back and inserted a small screwdriver, jammed it like the ramrod of a musket to clear it out, then switched ends to do the same from the other direction.
“So, we’re going to get clean water for our coffee?” a voice asked.
“I expect so, sir,” Miles replied.
Popov looked up and managed to keep his heart beating. It was Clark, Ivan Timofeyevich, as the KGB file had identified him. Tall, middle fifties, smiling down at the two workmen, dressed in suit and tie, which somehow looked uncomfortable on him. He nodded politely at the man, and looked back down to his tools while thinking as loudly as he could, Go away!
“There, that should do it,” Miles said, reaching to put the pipe back inside, then taking the wrench from Popov to screw it into place. In another moment he stood and turned the plastic handle. The water that came out was dirty. “We just need to keep this open for five minutes or so, sir, to allow the pipe to flush itself out.”
“Fair enough. Thanks,” the American said, then walked off.
“A pleasure, sir,” Miles said to the disappearing back. “That was the boss, Mr. Clark.”
“Really? Polite enough.”
“Yes, decent bloke.” Miles stood and flipped the plastic lever. The water coming out of the spigot was clouded at first, but after a few minutes it appeared totally clear. “Well, that’s one job done. It’s a nice wrench,” Miles said, handing it back. “What do they cost?”
“This one – it’s yours.”
“Well, thank you, my friend.” Miles smiled on his way out the door and past the corporal of the British Army’s military police.
Next they rode around the base. Popov asked where Clark lived, and Miles obliged by taking a left turn and heading off to the senior officers’ quarters.
“Not a bad house, is it?”
“It looks comfortable enough.” It was made of brown brick, with what appeared to be a slate roof, and about a hundred square meters, and a garden in the back.
“I put the plumbing in that one myself, Miles told him, “back when it was renovated. Ah, that must be the missus.”
A woman came out dressed in a nurse’s uniform, walked to the car, and got in. Popov looked and recorded the image.
“They have a daughter who’s a doctor at the same hospital the mum works Lit,” Miles told him. “Bun in the oven for that one. I think she’s married to one of the soldiers. Looks just like her mum, tall, blond, and pretty-smasher, really.”
“Where do they live?”
“Oh, over that way, I think,” Miles replied, waving vaguely to the west. “Officer housing, like this one, but smaller.”
“So, what can you offer us?” the police superintendent asked.
Bill Henriksen liked the Australians. They came right to the point. They were sitting in Canberra, Australia’s capital, with the country’s most senior cop and some people in military uniforms.
“Well, first of all, you know my background.” He’d already made sure that his FBI experience and the reputation of his company were well known. “You know that I work with the FBI, and sometimes even with Delta at Fort Bragg. Therefore I have contacts, good ones, and perhaps in some ways better than your own,” he said, risking a small boast.
“Our own SAS are excellent,” the chief told him.
“I know it,” Bill responded, with a nod and a smile. “We worked together several times when I was in the Hostage Rescue Team, in Perth twice, Quantico and Fort Bragg once each, back when Brigadier Philip Stocker was the boss. What’s he do now, by the way?”
“Retired three years ago,” the chief answered.
“Well, Phil knows me. Good man, one of the best I ever met,” Henriksen pronounced. “Anyway, what do I bring to the party? I work with all the hardware suppliers. I can connect you with H&K for the new MP-10 that our guys like-it was developed for an FBI requirement, because we decided the nine millimeter wasn’t powerful enough. However, the new Smith & Wesson ten millimeter cartridge is-it’s a whole new world for the H&K weapon. But anyone can get guns for you. I also do business with E-Systems, Collins, Fredericks-Anders, Micro-Systems, Halliday, Inc., and all the other electronics companies. I know what’s happening in communications and surveillance equipment. Your SAS is weak in that area, according to my contacts. I can help fix that, and I can get you good prices for the equipment you need. In addition, my people can help train you up on the new equipment. I have a team of former Delta and HRT people. Mostly NCOs, including the regimental sergeant major from the Special Operations Training Center at Bragg, Dick Voss. He’s the best in the world, and he works for me now.”
“I’ve met him,” the Aussie SAS major noted. “Yes, he’s very good indeed.”
“So, what can I do for you?” Henriksen asked. “Well, you’ve all seen the upsurge of terrorist activity in Europe, and that’s a threat you need to take seriously for the Olympics. Your SAS people don’t need any advice from me or anyone else on tactics, but what my company can do is to get you state of-the-art electronics gear for surveillance and communication. I know all the people who custom-make the gear our guys use, and that’s stuff your people want to have. I know that-they have to want it. Well, I can help you get exactly what you need, and train your troops up on it. There’s no other company in the world with our expertise.”
The reply was silence. Henriksen could read their minds, however. The terrorism they’d watched on TV, just like everyone else had, had perked up their ears. It must have. People in this line of work worried for a living, always searched for threats, real and imagined. The Olympic games were a catch of immense prestige for their nation, and also the most prestigious terrorist target on the planet, which the German police had learned the hard way at Munich in 1972. In many ways the Palestinian attack had been the kick-off of the world terrorist game, and as a result the Israeli team was always a little better looked after than any other national collection of athletes, and invariably had some of their own military’s commandos tucked in with the wrestlers, generally with the knowledge of the host nation’s security people. Nobody wanted Munich to happen again.
The recent terrorism incidents in Europe had lit up awareness across the world, but nowhere more seriously than in Australia, a nation with great sensitivity to crime not long ago, a madman had shot to death a number of innocent people, including children, which had resulted in the outlawing of guns throughout the country by the parliamentarians in this very city.
“What do you know about the European incidents?” the Aussie SAS officer asked.
Henriksen affected a sensitive look. “Much of what I know is, well, off-the-record, if you know what I mean.”
“We all have security clearances,” the cop told him.
“Okay, but you see, the problem is, I am not cleared into this stuff, exactly, and-oh, what the hell. The team doing the takedowns is called `Rainbow.’ It’s a black operation composed mainly of Americans and Brits, but some other NATO nationalities tossed in, too. They’re based in U.K., at Hereford. Their commander is an American CIA type, guy name of John Clark. He’s a serious dude, guys, and so’s his outfit. Their three known operations went down smooth as a baby’s ass. They have access to American equipment-helicopters and such-and they evidently have diplomatic agreements in place to operate all over Europe, when the countries with problems invite them in. Has your government talked to anyone about them?”
“We’re aware of it,” the chief cop replied. “What you said is correct in all details. In honesty, I didn’t know the name of the commander. Anything else you can tell us about him?”
“I’ve never met the man. Only know him by reputation. He’s a very senior field officer, close to the DCI, and I gather that our president knows him personally as well. So, you would expect him to have a very good intelligence staff and, well, his operational people have shown what they can do, haven’t they?”
“Bloody right,” the major observed. “The Worldpark job was as good a bit of sorting out as I have ever seen, even better than the Iranian Embassy job in London, way back when.”
“You could have handled it about the same way,” Henriksen observed generously, and meaning it. The Australian Special Air Service was based on the British model, and while it didn’t seem to get much work, the times he’d exercised with them during his FBI career had left him in little doubt as to their abilities. “Which squadron, Major?”