“Bus stop for the intercity buses,” Mark Waterhouse replied. “They have them out here in the boonies. You sit there and wait, then you wave for the bus to stop, like the old flag stops for trains.”
“Ah.” Dmitriy filed that one away as he turned his horse to the east. The hawk, he saw, the one that lived around here, was up and flying again, looking down for one of those tubular rodents to eat for its own breakfast. He watched, but evidently the hawk didn’t see one. They rode for another hour, then headed back. Popov ended up next to Hunnicutt.
“You been riding how long?”
“Hardly more than a week,” Dmitriy Arkadeyevich answered.
“You’re doing okay for a tenderfoot,” Foster told him in a friendly voice.
“I want to do it more, so that I can ride better at a faster pace.”
“Well, how about tonight, just ‘fore sundown, say?”
“Thank you, Foster, yes, I would like that. Just after dinner, shall we say?”
“Sure. Meet me around six-thirty at the corral.”
“Thank you. I will do that,” Popov promised. A night ride, under the stars, yes, that should be very pleasant.
“I got an idea,” Chatham said when he got to work in the Javits Building.
“What’s that?”
“This Russian guy, Serov. We got a passport photo, right?”
“Yeah,” Sullivan agreed.
“Let’s try the flyers again. His bank, it’s probably within walking distance of his apartment, right?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I like it,” Special Agent Tom Sullivan said with some enthusiasm. “Let’s see how fast we can get that done.”
“Hey, Chuck,” the voice said over the phone.
“Good morning-afternoon for you, I suppose, John.”
“Yeah, just finished lunch,” Clark said. Any luck with this Serov investigation?”
“Nothing yet,” the assistant director for the criminal division answered. “These things don’t happen overnight, but they do happen. I have the New York field division looking for this mutt. If he’s in town, we’ll find him,” Baker promised. “It might take a while, but we will.”
“Sooner is better than later,” Rainbow Six pointed out.
“I know. It always is, but stuff like this doesn’t happen overnight.” Baker knew that he was being kicked in the ass, lest he allow this hunt to become a low-priority item. That would not happen, but this Clark guy was CIA, and he didn’t know what it was like to be a cop. “We’ll find the guy for you, John. If he’s over here, that is. You have the British cops looking, too?”
“Oh, yeah. Thing is, we don’t know how many identities he might have.”
“In his place, how many would you have?”
“Three or four, probably, and they’d be similar so they’re easy for me to remember. This guy’s a trained spook. So, he probably has a number of `legends’ that he can change into about as easy as he changes shirts.”
“I know, John. I’ve worked Foreign Counterintelligence before. They are elusive game, but we know how to hunt ’em. Are you sweating any more stuff out of your terrorists?”
“They don’t talk all that much,” the voice replied. “The cops here can’t interrogate very effectively.”
So, are we supposed to roast them over a slow fire? Baker didn’t ask. The FBI operated under the rules established by the U.S. Constitution. He figured that CIA most often did not, and like most FBI types he found that somewhat distasteful. He’d never met Clark, and knew him only by reputation. Director Murray respected him, but had his reservations. Clark had once tortured subjects, Murray had hinted once, and that, for the FBI, was beyond the pale, however effective it might be. The Constitution said “no” on that issue, and that was that, even for kidnappers, even though that was one class of criminal that deserved it in the eyes of every special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Trust the Brit cops. They’re damned good, John, and they have a lot of experience with IRA types. They know how to talk to them.”
“You say so, Chuck,” the voice responded somewhat dubiously. “Okay, anything else we get comes right to your desk.”
“Good. Talk to you later if we get anything here, John.”
“Right, see ya.”
Baker wondered if he should visit the bathroom to wash his hands after that conversation. He’d been briefed into Rainbow and its recent activities, and while he admired the military way of doing things-like many FBI agents, he’d been a Marine officer, recruited right out of the Quantico Marine Base into the Bureau-it differed in several important areas from the Bureau’s way of doing things.. . like not violating the law. This John Clark was a hardcase son of a bitch, a former Agency guy who’d done some spooky things, Dan Murray had told him, with a mixture of admiration and disapproval. But, what the hell, they were on the same side, sort of, and this Russian subject had probably initiated an operation that had gone after Clark’s own family. That added a personal element to the case, and Baker had to respect that.
Chavez turned in after another long day of watching athletes run and sweat. It had been an interesting couple of weeks, and though he sorely missed Patsy and JC, whom he’d hardly had a chance to meet, he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying himself. But soon it would be over. Sports reporters were tallying up the medals America had done quite well, and the Aussies had done spectacularly well, especially in swimming events-in anticipation of announcing which nation had “won” the games. Three more days and they’d run the Marathon, traditionally the last Olympic event, followed soon thereafter by the closing ceremonies and the dousing of the flame. Already the runners were walking and/or driving along the course, to learn the hills and turns. They didn’t want to get lost, though that would hardly be possible, as the route would be lined with screaming fans every step of the way. And they were working out, running in the training/practice area of the Olympic Village, not so much so as to tire themselves out, but just enough to keep their muscles and lungs ready for the murderous exertion of this longest of footraces. Chavez considered himself to be in shape, but he’d never run a twenty-plus-mile course. Soldiers had to know how to run, but not that far, and running that distance on paved roads had to be pure murder on the feet and ankles, despite the cushioned soles of modern running shoes. Yeah, those bastards had to be in real shape, Ding thought, lying down in his bed.
From the opening-day ceremonies, when the Olympic flame had been lit, through today, the games had been wonderfully managed and run, as if the entire national soul and strength of Australia had been devoted to one task-as America had once decided to go to the moon. Everything was superbly organized, and that was further proof that his presence here was a total waste of time. Security hadn’t had even a hint of a problem. The Aussie cops were friendly, competent, and numerous, and the Australian SAS backing them up were nearly as good as his own troopers, well supported and advised by the Global Security people who’d gotten them the same tactical radios that Rainbow used. That company looked like a good vendor to use, and he thought he might recommend that John talk to them along those lines. It never hurt to have an outside opinion.
About the only bad news was the weather, which had been sultry-hot for the entire Olympiad. That had kept the medics busy at their heatstroke kiosks. Nobody had died yet, but about a hundred people had been hospitalized, and thirty times that many treated and released by the firemen paramedics and Australian army medical orderlies. That didn’t count the people who just sat down on the curb and tried to cool off without getting any proper medical assistance. He didn’t mind the heat all that much-Chavez had never been afraid of sweat-but he also paced himself, and, like everyone else in the Olympic stadium, was grateful for that fogging system. The TV guys had even done a story about it, which was good news for the American company that had designed and installed it. They were even talking about a version for golf courses in Texas and elsewhere, where it got about this hot. Traveling from ninety-five degrees to an apparent temperature of eighty or so was a pleasant sensation indeed, not unlike a shower, and the concourses were often crowded with people in the afternoons, escaping from the blazing sunshine.
Chavez’s last thought of the night was that he would not have minded having the sunblock concession. There were signs everywhere telling people to be mindful of the hole in the ozone layer, and he knew that sun-caused skin cancer wasn’t a pleasant death. So, Chavez and his men liberally slathered the stuff on every morning just like everyone else. Well, a few more days and they’d go back to Britain, where their tans would be noted by the pasty pale Englishmen, and the weather would be a good twenty degrees cooler on what the Brits called a “hot” day. Anything over seventy-five over there and people started dropping dead in the street-which made Ding wonder about the old song that claimed only “mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.” They must have been a lot tougher back then, Chavez thought, falling off to sleep.