“You do not mean simply political action, do you?” the former KGB spook observed.
“No, it’s too late for that, and not enough people would listen anyway.” Killgore turned his horse to the right and the others followed. “I’m afraid you have to take more drastic measures.”
“What’s that? Kill the whole world population?” Dmitriy Arkadeyevich asked, with hidden humor. But the reply to the rhetorical question was the same look in two sets of eyes. The look didn’t make his blood go cold, but it did get his brain moving off in a new and unexpected direction. These were fascisti. Worse than that, fascisti with an ethos in which they believed. But were they willing to take action on their beliefs? Could anyone take action like that? Even the worst of the Stalinists-no, they’d never been madmen, just political romantics.
Just then an aircraft’s noise disturbed the morning. It was one of Horizon’s fleet of G’s, lifting off from the complex’s runway, climbing up and turning right, looping around to the east-for New York, probably, to bring more of the “project” people in? Probably. The complex was about 80 percent full now, Popov reflected. The rate of arrivals had slowed, but people were still coming, most by private car. The cafeteria was almost full at lunch and dinnertime, and the lights burned late in the laboratory and other work buildings. But what were those people doing?
Horizon Corporation, Popov reminded himself, was a biotech company, specializing in medicines and medical treatments, Killgore was a physician, and Maclean an engineer specializing in environmental matters. Both were druids, both nature-worshipers, the new kind of paganism spawned in the West. John Brightling seemed to be one as well, judging by that conversation they’d had in New York. That, then, was the ethos of these people and their company. Dmitriy thought about the printed matter in his room. Humans were a parasitic species doing more harm than good to the earth, and these two had just talked about sentencing the harmful people to death-then made it clear that they thought of everyone as harmful. What were they going to do, kill everyone? What rubbish. The door leading to the answer had opened further. His brain was moving far more quickly than Buttermilk was, but still not fast enough.
They rode in silence for a few minutes. Then a shadow crossed the ground, and Popov looked up.
“What is that?”
“Red-tail hawk,” Maclean answered, after a look. “Cruising for some breakfast.”
As they watched, the raptor climbed to five hundred feet or so, then spread his wings to ride the thermal air currents, his head down, examining the surface of the land for an unwary rodent through his impossibly sharp eyes. By unspoken consent the three men stopped their horses to watch. It took several minutes and then it was both beautiful and terrible to behold. The hawk folded its wings back and dropped rapidly, then flapped to accelerate like a feathered bullet, then spread its wings wide, nosing up, its yellow talons leading the descent now
“Yes!” Maclean hooted.
Like a child stomping on an anthill, the hawk used its talons to kill its prey, twisting and crushing, then, holding the limp tubular body in them, flapped laboriously into the sky, heading off to the north to its nest or home, or whatever you called it, Popov thought. The prairie dog it killed had enjoyed no chance, Dmitriy thought, but nature was like that, as were people. No soldier willingly gave his foe a fair chance on any battlefield. It was neither safe nor intelligent to do so. You struck with total fury and as little warning as possible, the better to take his life quickly and easily-and safely-and if he lacked the wit to protect himself properly, well, that was his problem, not yours. In the case of the hawk, it had swooped down from above and down-sun, not even its shadow warning the prairie dog sitting at the entrance to its home, and killed without pity. The hawk had to eat, he supposed. Perhaps it had young to feed, or maybe it was just hunting for its own needs. In either case, the prairie dog hung limp in its claws, like an empty brown sock, soon to be ripped apart and eaten by its killer.
“Damn, I love watching that,” Maclean said.
“It is cruel, but beautiful,” Popov said.
“Mother Nature is like that, pal. Cruel but beautiful.” Killgore watched the hawk vanish in the distance. “That was something to see.”
“I have to capture one and train it,” Maclean announced. “Train it to kill off my fist.”
“Are the prairie dogs endangered?”
“No, no way,” Killgore answered. “Predators can control their numbers, but never entirely eliminate them. Nature maintains a balance.”
“How do men fit into that balance?” Popov asked.
“They don’t,” Kirk Maclean answered. “People just screw it up, ‘cuz they’re too dumb to see what works and what doesn’t. And they don’t care about the harm they do. That’s the problem.”
“And what is the solution?” Dmitriy asked. Killgore turned to look him right in the eyes.
“Why, we are.”
“Ed, the cover name must be one he’s used for a long time,” Clark argued. “The IRA guys hadn’t seen him in years, but that’s the name they knew him by.”
“Makes sense,” Ed Foley had to admit over the phone. “So, you really want to talk to him, eh?”
“Well, it’s no big thing, Ed. He just turned people loose to kill my wife, daughter, and grandson, you know? And they did kill two of my men. Now, do I have permission to contact him or not?” Rainbow Six demanded from his desk.
In his seventh-floor office atop CIA Headquarters, Director of Central Intelligence Edward Foley uncharacteristically wavered. If he let Clark do it, and Clark got what he wanted, reciprocity rules would then apply. Sergey Nikolay’ch would someday call CIA and request information of a delicate nature, and he, Foley, would have to provide it, else the veneer of amity within the international intelligence community would crumble away. But Foley could not predict what the Russians would ask about, and both sides were still spying on each other, and so the friendly rules of modern life in the spook business both did and did not apply. You pretended that they did, but you remembered and acted as though they did not. Such contacts were rare, and Golovko had been very helpful twice in real-world operations. And he’d never requested a return favor, perhaps because the operations had been of direct or indirect benefit to his own country. But Sergey wasn’t one to forget a debt and-
“I know what you’re thinking, Ed, but I’ve lost people because of this guy, and I want his ass, and Sergey can help us identify the fuck.”
“What if he’s still inside?” Foley temporized.
“Do you believe that?” Clark snorted.
“Well, no, I think we’re past that.”
“So do I, Ed. So, if he’s a friend, let’s ask him a friendly question. Maybe we’ll get a friendly answer. The quid pro quo on this could be to let Russian special-operations people train a few weeks with us. That’s a price I’m willing to pay.
It was ultimately a futile exercise to argue with John, who’d been the training officer to him and his wife, Mary Pat, now Deputy Director (Operations). “Okay, John, it’s approved. Who handles the contact?”
“I have his number,” Clark assured the DCI.
“Then call it, John. Approved,” the DCI concluded, not without reluctance. “Anything else?”
“No, sir, and thank you. How are Mary Pat and the kids?”
“They’re fine. How’s your grandson?”
“Not too bad at all. Patsy is doing fine, and Sandy’s taken over the job with JC.”
“JC?”
“John Conor Chavez,” Clark clarified.
That was a complex name, Foley thought, without saying so. “Well, okay. Go ahead, John. See ya.”
“Thanks, Ed. Bye.” Clark switched buttons on his phone. “Bill, we got approval.”
“Excellent,” Tawney replied. “When will you call?”
“How’s right now grab you?”
“Set things up properly,” Tawney warned.
“Fear not.” Clark killed that line and punched another button. That one activated a cassette-tape recorder before lie punched yet another and dialed Moscow.
“Six-Six-Zero,” a female voice answered in Russian.
“I need to speak personally with Sergey Nikolayevich. Please tell him that this is Ivan Timofeyevich calling,” Clark said in his most literate Russian.
“Da, ” the secretary replied, wondering how this person had gotten the Chairman’s direct line.
“Clark!” a man’s voice boomed onto the line. “You are well there in England?” And already it started. The Chairman of the reconfigured Russian foreign-intelligence service wanted him to know that he knew where he was and what he was doing, and it wouldn’t do to ask how he’d found out.
“I find the climate agreeable, Chairman Golovko.”
“This new unit you head has been rather busy. The attack on your wife and daughter-they are well?”