“So, what is it that you want to learn?” she asked.
“Electronic access codes to the international trading system.”
“So, you, too, are a common thief now?” Hans asked, before Petra could sneer.
“A very uncommon thief, my sponsor is. If we are to restore a socialist, progressive alternative to capitalism, we need both funding and to instill a certain lack of confidence in the capitalist nervous system, do we not?” Popov paused for a second. “You know who I am. You know where I worked. Do you think I have forgotten my Motherland? Do you think I have forsaken my beliefs? My father fought at Stalingrad and Kursk. He knew what it was to be pushed back, to suffer defeat-and yet not give ever!” Popov said heatedly. “Why do you think I risk life here? The counterrevolutionaries in Moscow would not look kindly upon my mission . . . but they are not the only political force in Mother Russia!”
“Ahhh,” Petra Dortmund observed. Her face turned serious. “So, you think all is not lost?”
“Did you ever think the forward march of humanity would be absent of setbacks? It is true we lost our way. I saw it myself in KGB, the corruption in high places. That is what defeated us-not the West! I saw it myself as a captain, Brezhnev’s daughter-looting the Winter Palace for her wedding reception. As though she were the Grand Duchess Anastasia herself! It was my function in KGB to learn from the West, learn their plans and secrets, but our Kameraden learned only their corruption. Well, we have learned that lesson, in more ways than one, my friends. You are a communist or you are not. You believe or you do not. You act in accordance with those beliefs or you do not.”
“You ask us to give up much,” Hans Furchtner pointed out.
“You will be properly provided for. My sponsor-”
“Who is that?” Petra asked.
“This you may not know,” Popov replied quietly. “You suppose that you take risks here? What about me? As for my sponsor, no, you may not know his identity. Operational security is paramount. You are supposed to know these things,” he reminded them. They took the mild rebuke well, as he’d expected. These two fools were true believers, as Ernst Model had been, though they were somewhat brighter and far more vicious, as that luckless American sergeant had learned, probably staring with disbelief into the still-lovely blue eyes of Petra Dortmund as she’d used the hammer on his various body parts.
“So, Iosef Andreyevich,” Hans said-they knew Popov by one of his many cover names, in this case I. A. Serov. “When do you wish us to act?”
“As quickly as possible. I will call you in a week, to see if you are indeed willing to take this mission and-”
“We are willing,” Petra assured him. “We need to make our plans.”
“Then I shall call you in a week for your schedule. I will need four days to activate my part of the operation. An additional concern, the mission depends on the placement of the American navy carrier in the Mediterranean. You may not execute the mission if it is in the western Mediterranean, because in such a case their aircraft might track your flight. We wish this mission to succeed, my friends.” Then they negotiated the price. It didn’t prove hard. Hans and Petra knew Popov from the old days and actually trusted him personally to make the delivery.
Ten minutes later, Popov shook hands and took his leave, this time driving a rented BMW south toward the Austrian border. The road was clear and smooth, the scenery beautiful, and Dmitriy Arkadeyevich wondered again about his hosts. The one bit of truth he’d given them was that his father was indeed a veteran of the Stalingrad and Kursk campaign, and had told his son much about his life as a tank commander in the Great Patriotic War. There was something odd about the Germans, he’d learned from his professional experience in the Committee for State Security. Give them a man on a horse, and they’d follow him to the death. It seemed that the Germans craved someone or something to follow. How very strange. But it served his purposes, and those of his sponsor, and if these Germans wanted to follow a red horse a dead red horse, Popov reminded himself with a smile and a grunt-well, that was their misfortune. The only really innocent people involved were the bankers whom they would attempt to kidnap. But at least they wouldn’t be subjected to torture, as that black American sergeant had been. Popov doubted that Hans and Petra would get that far, though the capabilities of the Austrian police and military were largely unknown to him. He’d find out, he was sure, one way or another.
It was odd the way it worked. Team-1 was now the Go Team, ready to depart Hereford at a moment’s notice while Chavez’s Team-2 stood down; but it was the latter that was running complex exercises while the former did little but morning PT and routine marksmanship training. Technically, they were worried about a training accident that could hurt or even cripple a team member, thus breaking up a field team at a delicate moment.
Master Chief Machinist’s Mate Miguel Chin belonged to Peter Covington’s team. A former U.S. Navy SEAL, he’d been taken from Norfolk-based SEAL Team Six for Rainbow. The son of a Latino mother and a Chinese father, he, like Chavez, had grown up in East L.A. Ding spotted him smoking a cigar outside the Team-1 building and walked over.
“Hey, Chief,” Chavez said from ten feet away.
“Master Chief,” Chin corrected. “Like being a CSM in the army, sir.”
“Name’s Ding, ‘mano.”
“Mike.” Chin extended a hand. Chin’s face could have passed for damned near anything. He was an iron-pumper like Oso Vega, and his rep was of a guy who’d been around the block about a hundred times. Expert with all types of weapons, his handshake announced his further ability to tear a man’s head right off his shoulders.
“Those are bad for you,” Chavez noted.
“So’s what we do for a livin’, Ding. What part of L.A.?”
Ding told him.
“No kiddin’? Hell, I grew up half a mile from there. You were Banditos country.”
“Don’t tell me-”
The master chief nodded. “Piscadores, till I grew out of it. A judge suggested that I might like enlisting better ‘n jail, and so I tried for the Marines, but they didn’t want me. Pussies,” Chin commented, spitting some tobacco off his cigar. “So, went through Great Lakes, they made me a machinist . . . but then I heard about the SEALS, an’, well, ain’t a bad life, y’know? You’re Agency, I hear.”
“Started off as an Eleven-Bravo. Took a little trip to South America that went totally to shit, but I met our Six on the job and he kinda recruited me. Never looked back.”
“Agency send you to school?”
“George Mason, just got my master’s. International relations,” Chavez replied with a nod. “You?”
“Yeah, shows, I guess. Psychology, just a bachelor’s, Old Dominion University. The doc on the team, Bellow.
Smart son of a bitch. Mind-reader. I got three of his books :a my place.” ‘
“How’s Covington to work for?”
“Good. He’s been there before. Listens good. Thoughtful kinda guy. Good team here, but as usual, not a hell of it to do. Liked your takedown at the bank, Chavez. and clean.” Chin blew smoke into the sky.
“Well, thank you, Master Chief.”
“Chavez!” Peter Covington came out the door just then. “Trying to steal my number-one?”
“Just found out we grew up a few blocks apart, Peter.”
“Indeed? That’s remarkable,” the Team-1 commander said.
“Harry’s aggravated his ankle some this morning. No big deal, he’s chewing some aspirin,” Chin told his boss. “He banged it up two weeks ago zip-lining down from the helo,” he added for Ding’s benefit.
Damn training accidents, the chief didn’t have to add. That was the problem with this sort of work, they all knew. The Rainbow members had been selected for many reasons, not the least of which was their brutally competitive nature. Every man deemed himself to be in competition with every other, and each one of them pushed himself to the limit in everything. It made for injuries and training accidents-and the miracle was that they’d yet to place one of the team into the base hospital. It was sure to happen soon. The Rainbow members could no more turn that aspect of their personalities off than they could stop breathing. Olympic team members hardly had a tougher outlook on what they did. Either you were the very best, or you were nothing. And so every man could run a mile within thirty or forty seconds of the world record, wearing boots instead of track shoes. It did make sense in the abstract. Half a second could easily be the difference between life and death in a combat situation-worse, not the death of one of their own, but of an innocent party, a hostage, the person whom they were sworn to protect and rescue. But the really ironic part was that the Go-Team was not allowed heavy training for fear of a training accident, and so their skills degraded slightly over time-in this case, the two weeks of being stood-to. Three more days to go for Covington’s Team-1, and then, Chavez knew, it would be his turn.