CHAPTER 25
SUNRISE
“You didn’t stay very long, sir,” the immigration inspector observed, looking at Popov’s passport.
“A quick business meeting,” the Russian said, in his best American accent. “I’ll be back again soon.” He smiled at the functionary.
“Well, do hurry back, sir.” Another stamp on the well worn passport, and Popov headed into the first-class lounge.
Grady would do it. He was sure of that. The challenge was too great for one of his ego to walk away, and the same was true of the reward. Six million dollars was more than the IRA had ever seen in one lump sum, even when Libya’s Muammar Qaddafi had bankrolled them in the early 1980s. The funding of terrorist organizations was always a practical problem. The Russians had historically given them some arms, but more valuably to the IRA, places to train, and operational intelligence against the British security services, but never very much money. The Soviet Union had never possessed a very large quantity of foreign exchange, and mainly used it to purchase technology with military applications. Besides, it had turned out, the elderly married couple they’d used as couriers to the West, delivering cash to Soviet agents in America and Canada, had been under FBI control almost the entire time! Popov had to shake his head. Excellent as the KGB had been, the FBI was just as good. It had a long-standing institutional brilliance at false-flag operations, which, in the case of the couriers, had compromised a large number of sensitive operations run by the “Active Measures” people in KGB’s Service A. The Americans had had the good sense not to burn the operations, but rather use them as expanding resources in order to gain a systematic picture of what KGB was doing-targets and objectives-and so learn what the Russians hadn’t already penetrated.
He shook his head again, as he walked off to the gate.
And he was still in the dark, wasn’t he? The questions continued to swarm: Exactly what was he doing? What did Brightling want? Why attack this Rainbow group?
Chavez decided to set his MP-10 submachine gun aside today and concentrate instead on his Beretta .45. He hadn’t missed a shot with the Heckler & Koch weapon in weeks-in this context, a “miss” meant not hitting within an inch of the ideal bullet placement, between and slightly above the eyes on the silhouette target. The H&K’s diopter sights were so perfectly designed that if you could see the target through the sights, you hit the target. It was that simple.
But pistols were not that simple, and he needed the practice. He drew the weapon from the green Gore-Tex holster and brought it up fast, his left hand joining the right on the grip as his right foot took half a step back, and he turned his body, adopting the Weaver stance that he’d been taught years before at The Farm in the Virginia Tidewater. His eyes looked down, off the target, acquiring the pistol’s sights as it came up to eye level, and when it did, his right index finger pulled back evenly on the trigger
-not quite evenly enough. The shot would have shattered the target’s jaw, and maybe severed a major blood vessel, but it would not have been instantly fatal. The second shot, delivered about half a second later, would have been. Ding grunted, annoyed with himself. He dropped the hammer with the safety-decock lever and reholstered the pistol. Again. He looked down, away from the target, then looked up. There he was, a terrorist with his weapon to the head of a child. Like lightning, the Beretta came up again, the sights matched up and Chavez pulled back his linger. Better. That one would have gone through the bastard’s left eye, and the second round, again half a second later, made the first between-the-eyes hole into a cute little figure-eight.
“Excellent double-tap, Mr. Chavez.”
Ding turned to see Dave Woods, the range master.
“Yeah, my first was wide and low,” Ding admitted.
That it would have blown half the bastard’s face right off was not good enough.
“Less wrist, more finger,” Woods advised. “And let me see your grip again.” Ding did that. “Ah, yes, I see.” His hands adjusted Chavez’s left hand somewhat. “More like that, sir.”
Shit, Ding thought. Was it that simple? By moving two fingers less than a quarter of an inch, the pistol slipped into a position as though the grip had been custom-shaped for his hands. He tried it a few times, then reholstered again and executed his version of a quick-draw. This time, the first round was dead between the eyes of the target seven meters away, and the second right beside it.
“Excellent,” Woods said.
“How long you been teaching, Sergeant Major?”
“Quite some time, sir. Nine years here at Hereford.”
“How come you never joined up with SAS?”
“Bad knee. Hurt it back in 1986, jumping down off a Warrior. I can’t run more than two miles without its stiffening up on me, you see.” The red mustache was waxed into two rather magnificent points, and the gray eyes sparkled. This son of a bitch could have taught shooting to Doc Holliday, Chavez knew at that moment. “Do carry on, sir.” The range master walked off.
“Well, shit,” Chavez breathed to himself. He executed four more quick-draws. More finger, less wrist, lower the left hand a skosh on the grip . . . bingo . . . In three more minutes there was a two-inch hole right in the middle of the instant-incapacitation part of the target. He’d have to remember this little lesson, Ding told himself.
Tim Noonan was in the next lane over, using his own Beretta, shooting slower than Chavez, and not quite as tight in his groups, but all of his rounds would have driven through the bottom of the brain, and right into the stem, where instant kills happened, because that was where the spinal cord entered the brain. Finally, both ran out of ammunition. Chavez took off his ear-protectors and tapped Noonan on the shoulder.
“A little slow today.” the technical expert observed, with a frown.
“Yeah, well, you dropped the fucker. You were HRT.”
“Yeah, but not really a shooter. I did the tech side for them, too. Well, okay, I shot with them regularly, but not quite good enough for the varsity. Never got as fast as I wanted to be. Maybe I have slow nerves.” Noonan grinned as he field-stripped his pistol for cleaning.
“So how’s that people-finder working out?”
“The damned thing is fucking magic, Ding. Give me another week and I’ll have the new one figured out. There’s a parabolic attachment for the antenna, looks like something out of Star Trek, I guess, but goddamn, does it find people.” He wiped the parts off and sprayed Break-Free on them for cleaning and lubrication. “That Woods guy’s a pretty good coach, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, well, he just fixed a little problem for me,” Ding said, taking the spray can to start cleaning his own service automatic.
“The head guy at the FBI Academy when I was there did wonders for me, too. Just how your hands match up on the butt, I guess. And a steady finger.” Noonan ran a hatch through the barrel, eyeballed it, and reassembled his pistol. “You know, the best part about being over here is, we’re about the only people who get to carry guns.”
“I understand civilians can’t own handguns over Here, eh?”
“Yeah, they changed the law a few years ago. I’m sure it’ll help reduce crime,” Noonan observed. “They started their gun-control laws back in the ’20s, to control the IRA. Worked like a charm, didn’t it?” The FBI agent laughed. “Oh, well, they never wrote down a Constitution like we did.”
“You carry all the time?”
“Hell, yes!” Noonan looked up. “Hey, Ding, I’m a cop, y’dig? I feel naked without a friend on my belt. Even when I was working Lab Division in Headquarters, reserved parking space and all, man, I never walked around D.C. without a weapon.”
“Ever have to use it?” Tim shook his head. “No, not many agents do, but it’s part of the mystique, you know?” He looked back at his target. “Some skills you just like to have, man.”
“Yeah, same for the rest of us.” It was a fillip of British law that the Rainbow members were authorized to carry weapons everywhere they went, on the argument that as counterterror people they were always on duty. It was a right Chavez hadn’t exercised very much, but Noonan had a point. As Chavez watched, he slapped a full magazine into the reassembled and cleaned handgun, dropped the lever to close the slide, then after safing the weapon, ejected the magazine to slide one more round into it. The gun went back into his hip holster, along with two more full magazines in covered pockets on the outside. Well, it was part of being a cop, wasn’t it?