Inside the terminal, his partner, Frank Chatham, was waiting at the exit ramp off British Airways Flight 1, in a suit and tie.His coverall outfit was inside the Con Ed van that Sullivan had parked outside the terminal. They didn’t even know who this Clark guy was whom they were meeting, just that Assistant Director Baker thought he was pretty fucking important.
The aircraft got in exactly on time. Clark, in seat 1-C, stood and was the first off the aircraft. The FBI escort at the jetway exit was easy to spot.
“Looking for me?”
“Your name, sir?”
“John Clark. Chuck Baker should have-”
“He did. Follow me, sir.” Chatham led him out the fast way, bypassing immigration and customs, and it was just one more time that John’s passport wouldn’t be stamped to celebrate his entry into a sovereign country. The Con Ed van was easily spotted. Clark went for it without being told to and hopped in.
“Hi, I’m John Clark,” he told the driver.
“Tom Sullivan. You’ve met Frank.”
“Let’s move, Mr. Sullivan,” John told him.
“Yes, sir.” The van took off at once. In the back, Chatham sat and struggled into his blue coveralls.
“Okay, sir, what exactly is happening here?”
“I’m meeting a guy.”
“Serov?” Sullivan asked, as he negotiated his way onto the highway.
“Yeah, but his real name is Popov. Dmitriy Arkadeyevich Popov. He used to be a colonel in the old KGB. I have his personnel package, read it coming across. He’s a specialist in dealing with terrorists, probably has more connections than the phone company.”
“This guy set up the operation that-”
“Yeah.” John nodded in the front-right passenger seat. “The operation that went after my wife and my daughter. They were the primary targets.”
“Shit!” Chatham observed, as he zipped his outfit up. They hadn’t known that. “And you want to meet with this mutt?”
“Business is business, guys,” John pointed out, wondering if he really believed that or not.
“So, who are you?”
“Agency, used to be, anyway.”
“How do you know Mr. Baker?”
“I have a slightly different job now, and we have to interface with the Bureau. Mainly with Gus Werner, but lately I’ve been talking with Baker, too.”
“You part of the team that took down thebad guys at the hospital over in England?”
“I’m the boss of it,” Clark told them. “But don’t go spreading that around, okay?”
“No problem,” Sullivan replied.
“You’re working the case on Mr. Serov?”
“That’s one of them we’ve got on the desk, yes.”
“What do you got on it?” John asked.
“Passport photo-I guess you have that.”
“Better, I have his official KGB photo. Better than the passport one, it’s like a mug shot full face and profile, but it’s ten years old. What else you have?”
“Bank accounts, credit-card records, post-office box, but no address yet. We’re still working on that.”
“What’s he wanted for?” John asked next.
“Conspiracy mainly,” Sullivan answered. “Conspiracy to incite terrorism, conspiracy to traffic in illegal drugs. Those statutes are pretty broad, so that’s what we use in cases where we don’t have much of a clue as to what’s really happening.”
“Can you arrest him?”
“You bet. On sight,” Chatham said in the back. “Do you want us to do that?”
“I’m not sure.” Clark settled into the uncomfortable seat, and watched the approach of the New York skyline, still wondering whatthe hell this was all about. He’d find out soon enough, John told himself, thinking that it couldn’t be soon enough to meet the fucker who’d sent armed men out after his wife and daughter. He managed a scowl at the approaching city that the FBI agents didn’t notice.
Popov thought that he had two FBI types spotted, not to mention a pair of uniformed police officers who might or might not be part of the surveillance that had to be assembling here. There was nothing for it, however. He had to meet with this Clark fellow, and that meant that the meet had to be in a public place, else he’d have to walk right into the lion’s den, something he could not bring himself to do. Here he’d have some chance, just a matter, really, of walking south toward the subway station and racing down to catch a train. That would shake a lot of them off, and give him options. Dump his suit coat and change his appearance, put on the hat he had tucked into a pants pocket. He figured he had about an even chance of evading contact if he had to, and there was little danger that anyone would shoot him, not in the heart of America’s largest city.But his best chance was to communicate with Clark. If he were the professional Popov believed him to be, then they could do business. They had to. There was no choice for either of them, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich told himself.
The van crossed the East River and proceeded west through crowded streets. John checked his watch.
“No problem, sir. We’ll be about ten minutes early,” Sullivan told him.
“Good,” John replied tensely. It was coming soon now, and he had to get his emotions totally under control. A passionate man, John Terence Clark had more than once let them loose on a job, but he coulldn’t allow this now. Whoever this Russian was, he had invited him to the meeting, and that meant something-what, he could not yet know, but it had to mean that something unusual was afoot. And so he had to set aside all thoughts of past dangers to his immediate family. He had to be stone cold at this meeting, and so, sitting there in the front seat of the Con Ed truck, Clark told himself to breathe deeply and relax, and slowly he managed to accomplish that. Then hiscuriosity took over. This Russian had to know that Clark knew what he’d done, and still he’d asked for this meeting, and insisted on having it done speedily. That had to mean something, John told himself, as they broke through traffic and turned left onto Fifth Avenue. He checked his watch again. They were fourteen minutes early. The van eased over to the right and stopped. Clark stepped out and headed south on the crowded sidewalk, past people selling used books and other gimcracks from what appeared to be portable wooden closets. Behind him the FBI agents moved the van forward, stopped it close to the meetbuilding and got out, carrying papers and looking around rather too obviously like Con Ed employees, John thought. Then he turned right and walked down the stairs and looked up at the redbrick building that had been someone’s idea of a castle a hundred years or so before. It didn’t take long.
“Good morning, John Clark,” a man’s voice said behind him.
“Good morning, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich,” John replied, without turning at first.
“Very good,” the voice said approvingly. “I congratulate you on learning one of my names.”
“We have good intelligence support,” Johnwent on, without turning.
“You had a pleasant flight?”
“A fast one. I’ve never done the Concorde before. It was not unpleasant. So, Dmitriy, what can I do for you?”
“I must first of all apologize to you for my contacts with Grady and his people.”
“What about the other operations?” Clark asked as a dangle, something of a gamble,. but he was in a gambling mood.
“Those did not concern you directly, and only one person was killed.”
“But that one was a sick little girl,” John observed too quickly.
“No, I had nothing to do with Worldpark. The bank in Bern, and the stock-trader outside Vienna, yes, those were my missions, but not the amusement park.”
“So, you have implicated yourself in three terrorist operations. That is against the law, you know.”
“Yes, I am aware of that,” the Russian replied dryly.
“So, what can I do for you?” John asked again.
“It is more what I can do for you, Mr. Clark.”
“And that is?” Still he didn’t turn. But there had to be half a dozen FBI agentswatching, maybe one with a shotgun microphone to record the exchange. In his haste to come over, Clark hadn’t been able to get a proper recording system for his suit.
“Clark, I can give you the reason for the missions, and the name of the man who instigated it all-it is quite monstrous. I only discovered yesterday, not even twenty-four hours ago, what the purpose for all of this is.”
“So, what is the objective?” John asked.
“To kill almost every human being on the planet,” Popov replied.
That made Clark stop walking and turn to look at the man. The KGB file mug shot was pretty good, he saw. “Is this some sort of movie script?” he asked coldly.
“Clark, yesterday I was in Kansas. There I learned the plan for this `project.’ I shot and killed the person who told me so that I could escape. The man I killed was Foster Hunnicutt, a hunterguide from Montana. I shot him in the chest with his own Colt forty-four pistol. From there I went to the nearest highway and managed to beg a ride to the nearest regional airport, from there to Kansas City, and from there to New York. I called you from my hotel room less than eight hours ago. Yes, Clark, I know you have thepower to arrest me. You must have security watching us right now, presumably from your FBI,” he said as they walked into the area with the animal cages. “And so you need only wave your hand and I will be arrested, and I have just told you the name of the man I shot, and the location where it was done. Plus you have me for inciting terrorist incidents, and I presume for drugtrafficking as well. I know this, yet I have asked for this meeting. Do you suppose that I am joking with you, John Clark?”