But it had had its own price. John had been seen in public with all manner of young women, and had doubtless dallied with many of them, for he’d always been a passionate man. It was something they hadn’t discussed before their public divorce, and for that reason it had come to her as an unpleasant surprise to see him at those occasional social functions they both had to attend, always with a pretty young thing on his arm-always a different one, since he’d never formed a realrelationship with anyone but her. Carol Brightling told herself that this was good, since it meant that she was the only woman really a part of John’s life, and thus those annoying young women were merely a way for him to dissipate his male hormones . . . . But it hadn’t been easy to see, and harder still to think about, alone in her home, with only Jiggs for company, and often as not weeping in her loneliness.
But set against that small personal consideration was the Project. The White House job had merely fortified her beliefs. She’d seen it all here, Carol Brightling reminded herself, from the specifications for new nuclear weapons to bio-war reports. The Iranian attempt at a national plague, which had predated her government job, had both frightened and encouraged her. Frightened, because it had been a real threat to the country, and one that could have begun a massive effort to counter a future attack. Encouraged, because she’d learned in short order that a really effective defense was difficult at best, because vaccines had to be tailored for specific bugs. And, when one got down to it, the Iranian plague had merely heightened the public’s appreciation of the threat, and that would make distribution ofthe “A” vaccine the easier to sell to the public . . . and to the government bureaucrats here and around the world who would leap at the offered cure. She would even return to her OEOB office at the proper time to urge approval for this essential public health measure. and on this issue she would be trusted.
Dr. Carol Brightling walked out of her office, turned left down the wide corridor, then left again and down the steps to her parked car. Twenty minutes later, she locked the car and walked up the steps of her apartment building, there to be greeted by the faithful Jiggs, who jumped into her arms and rubbed his furry head against her breast, as he always did. Her ten years of misery were over, and though the sacrifice had been hard to endure, the reward for it would be a planet turning back to green, and a Nature restored to Her deserved Glory.
It was somehow good to be back in New York. Though he didn’t dare to return to his apartment, this was at least a city, and here he could disappear as easily as a rat in a junkyard. He told the taxi driver to take him to Essex House, an upscale hotel on CentralPark South, and there he checked in under the name of Joseph Demetrius. Agreeably, there was a minibar in his room, and he mixed a drink with two miniatures of an American brand of vodka, whose inferior taste he was too anxious to be concerned about. Then, having come to his decision, he called the airline to confirm flight information, checked his watch, then called the front desk and instructed the clerk there to give him a wake-up call at the hellish hour of 3:30 A.m. The Russian collapsed into the bed without undressing. He’d have to do some quick shopping in the morning, and also visit his bank to pull his Demetrius passport out of the safe-deposit box. Then he’d get five hundred dollars out of an ATM cash machine, courtesy of his Demetrius MasterCard, and he’d be safe . . . well, if not truly safe, then safer than he was now, enough to be somewhat confident in himself and his future, such as it was, if the Project could be stopped. And if not, he told himself behind closed and somewhat drunken eyes, then at least he’d know what to avoid in order to keep himself alive. Probably.
Clark awoke at his accustomed hour. JCwas sleeping better now, after two weeks of life, and this morning he’d at least synchronized himself with the master of the house, John found, as he emerged from his morning shave to hear his grandson’s first wake-up chirps in the bedroom where he and Patsy were currently quartered. Sandy was awakened by the sounds, though she’d managed to ignore the alarm on John’s side of the bed, her maternal or grandmaternal instincts obviously having their own selective power. Clark headed down to the kitchen to flip on the coffee machine, then opened the front door to collect his morning copies of the Times, the Daily Telegraph, and the Manchester Guardian for his morning news brief. One thing about Brit papers, he’d learned, the quality of the writing was better than in most American newspapers, and the articles were rather more concise.
The little guy was growing, John told himself when Patsy came into the kitchen with JC affixed to her left breast and Sandy in tow behind. But his daughter wasn’t drinking coffee, evidently fearful that the caffeine might find its way into her breast milk. Instead she drank milk herself, while Sandy got breakfast going. John Conor Chavez was fully engaged with his breakfast, and in tenminutes, his grandfather was similarly engaged with his own, the radio now on a BBC channel to catch the morning news to supplement the print in front of him. Both modalities confirmed that the world was essentially at peace. The lead story was the Olympic Games, which Ding had reported on every night for themthe morning for him, all those time zones away-the reports usually ending with the phone held to JC’s little face so that his proud father might hear the mewings he occasionally made, though rarely on cue.
By 6:30, John was dressed and heading out the door, and this morning, unlike a few others, he drove to the athletic field for his morning exercises. The men of Team-1 were there, their numbers still short because of the losses at the hospital shoot-out, but proud and tough as ever. Sergeant First Class Fred Franklin led the team this morning, and Clark followed his instructions, not as ably as the younger men, but trying still to keep up, and so earn their respect if also a few disparaging looks at the old fart who thought he was something else. The also short-numbered Team-2 was at the other side of the field, led by Sergeant Major Eddie Price, John saw. Half an hour later, he showeredagain-doing so twice in ninety minutes almost every day had often struck him as strange, but the wake-up shower was so firm a part of his life that he couldn’t dispense with it, and after working up a sweat with the troops, he always needed another. After that, dressed in his “boss’s” suit, he entered the headquarters building, checked the fax machine first, as always, and found a message from FBI headquarters that told him that nothing new had developed on the Serov case. A second fax told him that a package would be couriered to him early that morning from Whitehall, without saying exactly what it was. Well, John thought, flipping on the office coffee-drip machine, he’d find out in due course.
Al Stanley came in just before eight, still showing the effects of his wounds, but bouncing back well for a man of his age. Bill Tawney was in just two minutes later, and the senior leadership of Rainbow was in place for another working day.
The phone woke him up with a jolt. Popov reached for it in the darkness, missed, then reached again. “Yes.”
“It’s three-thirty, Mr. Demetrius,” the operator said.
“Yes, thank you,” Dmitriy Arkadeyevich replied, switching on the light and swiveling to get his feet on the carpeted floor. The note next to his phone told him how to dial the number he wanted: nine . . . zero-one-one-four four…
Alice Foorgate came in a few minutes early. She put her purse in a desk drawer and sat down, and began reviewing her notes on the things that were supposed to happen today. Oh, she saw, a budget meeting. Mr. Clark would be in a foul mood until after lunch. Then her phone rang.
“I need to speak to Mr. John Clark,” the voice said.
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“No,” the voice said. “You may not.”
That made the secretary blink with puzzlement. She almost said that she could hardly forward a call under such circumstances, but didn’t. It was too early in the morning for unpleasantness. She placed the incoming call on hold and punched another button.
“A call for you on line one, sir.”