Brightling knew that Bill’s heart was divided on the mission. He had to have at least some sympathy with the people he’d helped to attack. “Fallout?”
“Well, if they got the leader alive, they’re going to sweat him, but these IRA guys don’t sing. I mean, they never sing. The only pipeline they could possibly have to us is Dmitriy, and he’s a pro. He’s moving right now, probably on an airplane to somewhere if I know him. He’s got all sorts of false travel documents, credit cards, IDs. So, he’s probably safe. John, the KGB knew how to train its people, trust me.”
“If they should get him, would he talk?” Brightling asked.
“That’s a risk. Yes, he might well spill his guts,” Henriksen had to admit. “If he gets back, I’ll debrief him on the hazards involved ….”
“Would it be a good idea to . . . well . . . eliminate him?”
The question embarrassed his boss,Henriksen saw, as he prepared a careful and honest answer: “Strictly speaking, yes, but there are dangers in that, John. He’s a pro. He probably has a mailbox somewhere.” Seeing Brightling’s confusion, he explained, “You guard against the possibility of being killed by writing everything down and putting it in a safe place. If you don’t access the box every month or so, the information inside gets distributed according to a prearranged plan. You have a lawyer do that for you. That is a big risk to us, okay? Dead or alive. he can burn us, and in this case, it’s more dangerous if he’s dead.” Henriksen paused. “No, we want him alive – and under our control, John.”
“Okay, you handle it, Bill.” Brightling leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. They were too close now to run unnecessary risks. Okay, the Russian would be handled, put under wraps. It might even save Popov’s life hell, he thought, it would save his life, wouldn’t it? He hoped that the Russian would be properly appreciative. Brightling had to be properly appreciative, too. This Rainbow bunch was crippled now, or at least badly hurt. It had to be. Popov had fulfilled two missions, he’d helped raise the world’s consciousness about terrorism, and thus gotten Global Security its contract with the Sydney Olympics. and then he’d helped sting this new counterterror bunch, hopefully enough to take them out of play. The operation was now fully in place and awaited only the right time for activation.
So close, Brightling thought. It was probably normal to have the jitters at moments like this. Confidence was a thing of distance. The farther away you were, the easier it was to think yourself invincible, but then you got close and the dangers grew with their proximity. But that didn’t change anything, did it? No, not really. The plan was perfect. They just had to execute it.
Sean Grady came out of surgery at just after eight in the evening, following three and a half hours on the table. The orthopod who’d worked on him was first-rate, Bellow saw. The humerus was fixed in place with a cobalt-steel pin that would be permanent and large enough that in the unlikely event that Grady ever entered an international airport in the future, he’d probably set off the metal detector while stark naked. Luckily for him the brachial plexus had not been damaged by the two bullets that had entered his body,and so he’d suffer no permanent loss of use of his arm. The secondary damage to his chest was minor.
He’d recover fully, the British Army surgeon concluded, and so could enjoy full physical health during the lifelong prison term that surely awaited him.
The surgery had been performed under full general anesthesia, of course, using nitrous oxide, just as in American hospitals, coupled with the lingering effects of the barbiturates that had been used to begin his sedation. Bellow sat by the bed in the hospital’s recovery room, watching the bio-monitors and waiting for him to awaken. It would not be an event so much as a process, probably a lengthy one.
There were police around now, both in uniform and out, watching with him. Clark and Chavez were there. too, standing and staring at the man who’d so brazenly a t tacked their men-and their women, Bellow reminded himself. Chavez especially had eyes like flint-hard, dark, and cold, though his face appeared placid enough. He thought he knew the senior Rainbow people pretty well. They were clearly professionals, and in the case of Clad, and Chavez, people who’d lived in the black world and done some very black things, most of which he didn’t and would never know about. But Bellow knew that both men were people of order, like police officers in many ways. keepers of the rules. Maybe they broke them sometime. but it was only to sustain them. They were romantics, just as the terrorists were, but the difference was in their choice of cause. Their purpose was to protect. Grady’s was to upset, and in the difference of mission was the difference between the men. It was that simple to them. Now, however angry they might feel at this sleeping man, they would not cause him physical harm. They’d leave his punishment to the society that Grady had so viciously attacked and whose rules they were sworn to protect, if not always uphold.
“Any time now,” Bellow said. Grady’s vital sign were all coming up. The body moved a little as his brain started to come back to wakefulness, just minor flexes here and there. It would find that some and there. It would find that some parts were not responding as they should, then focus on them to see what the limitations were, looking for pain but not finding it yet.
Now the head started turning, slowly, left and right. and soon . . .The eyelids fluttered, also slowly. Bellow consulted the list of IDs that others had drawn up and hoped that the British police and the guys from “Five” had provided him with good data.
“Sean?” he said. “Sean, are you awake?”
“Who? . . .”
“It’s me, it’s Jimmy Carr, Sean. You back with us now, Sean?”
“Where . . . am . . . I?” the voice croaked.
“University Hospital, Dublin, Sean. Dr. McCaskey just finished fixing your shoulder up. You’re in the recovery room. You’re going to be okay, Sean. But, my God, getting you here was the devil’s own work. Does it hurt, your shoulder, Sean?”
“No, no hurt now, Jimmy. How many?. . .”
“How many of us? Ten, ten of us got away. They’re off in the safe houses now, lad.”
“Good.” The eyes opened, and saw someone wearing a surgical mask and cap, but he couldn’t focus well, and the image was a blur. The room . . . yes, it was a hospital . . . the ceiling, rectangular tiles held in a metal rack . . . the lighting, fluorescent. His throat was dry and a little sore from the intubation, but it didn’t matter. He was living inside a dream, and none of this was actually happening. He was floating on a white, awkward cloud, but at least Jimmy Carr was here.
“Roddy, where’s Roddy?”
“Roddy’s dead, Sean,” Bellow answered. “Sorry, but he didn’t make it.”
“Oh, damn . . .” Grady breathed. “Not Roddy . . .”
“Sean, we need some information, we need it quickly.”
“What.. . information?”
“The chap who got us the information, we need to contact him, but we don’t know how to find him.”
“Iosef, you mean?”
Bingo, Paul Bellow thought. “Yes. Sean, Iosef, we need to get in touch with him. . .”
“The money? I have that in my wallet, lad.”
Oh, Clark thought, turning. Bill Tawney had all of Grady’s personal possessions sitting on a portable table. In the wallet, he saw, were two hundred and ten British pounds, one hundred seventy Irish pounds, and several slips of paper. On one yellow Post-it note were two numbers, six digits each, with no explanation. A Swiss or other numbered account? the spook wondered.
“How do we access it, Sean? We need to do that at once, you see, my friend.”
“Swiss Commercial Bank in Bern . . . call . . . account number and control number in . . . in my wallet.”
“Good, thank you, Sean . . . and Iosef, what’s the rest of his name . . . how do we get in touch with him, Sean? Please, we need to do that right away, Sean.” Bellow’s false Irish accent wasn’t good enough to pass muster with a drunk, but Grady’s current condition was far beyond anything alcohol could do to the human mind.
“Don’t . . . know. He contacts us, remember. Iosef Andreyevich contacts me through Robert . . . through the network . . . never gave me a way to contact him.”