Rainbow Six (1997) (61 page)

“What if he wants to be something else?”

“He won’t,” Domingo Chavez assured her. “He’ll see what fine men his antecedents are, and want to emulate them. It’s a Latino thing, babe”—he kissed her with a smile—“following in the honorable footsteps of your father.” He couldn’t say that he hadn’t done so himself. His father had died at too early an age for his son to be properly imprinted. Just as well. Domingo’s father, Esteban Chavez, had driven a delivery truck. Too dull, Domingo thought.

“What about the Irish? I thought it was their ‘thing,’ too.”

“Pretty much.” Chavez grinned. “That’s why there are so many paddies in the FBI.”

 

 

“Remember Bill Henriksen?” Augustus Werner asked Dan Murray.

“Used to work for you on HRT, bit of a nut, wasn’t he?”

“Well, he was heavily into the environmental stuff, hugging trees and all that crap, but he knew the job at Quantico. He laid a good one on me for Rainbow.”

“Oh?” The FBI Director looked up and instantly focused at the use of the codeword.

“In Spain they were using an Air Force chopper. The media hasn’t caught on to it, but it’s there on the videotapes if anyone cares to notice. Bill said it wasn’t real bright. He’s got a point.”

“Maybe,” the FBI Director allowed. “But as a practical matter—”

“I know, Dan, there are the practical considerations, but it
is
a real problem.”

“Yeah, well, Clark’s thinking about maybe going a little public on Rainbow. One of his people brought it up, he tells me. If you want to deter terrorism, you might want to let the word get out there’s a new sheriff in town, he said. Anyway, he hasn’t made any decision for an official recommendation to the Agency, but evidently he’s kicking the idea around.”

“Interesting,” Gus Werner said. “I can see the point, especially after three successful operations. Hey, if I were one of those idiots, I’d think twice before having the Wrath of God descend on me. But they don’t think like normal people, do they?”

“Not exactly, but deterrence is deterrence, and John has me thinking about it now. We could leak the data at several levels, let the word out that there’s a secret multinational counterterror team now operating.” Murray paused. “Not take them black to white, but maybe black to gray.”

“What will the Agency say?” Werner asked.

“Probably no, with an exclamation point behind it,” the Director admitted. “But like I said, John has me thinking about it a little.”

“I can see his point, Dan. If the world knows about it, maybe people will think twice, but then people will start to ask questions, and reporters show up, and pretty soon you have people’s faces on the front page of
USA Today,
along with articles about how they screwed up on a job, written by somebody who can’t even put a clip in a gun the right way.”

“They can put a D-Notice on stories in England,” Murray reminded him. “At least they won’t make the local papers.”

“Fine, so then they come out in the
Washington Post,
and
nobody
reads that, right?” Werner snorted. And he well knew the problems that the FBI’s HRT had gotten into with Waco and Ruby Ridge after his tenure as commander of the unit. The media had screwed up the reporting of events in both cases—as usual, he thought, but that was the media for you. “How many people are into Rainbow?”

“About a hundred . . . pretty big number for a black outfit. I mean, their security hasn’t been broken yet that we know of, but—”

“But as Bill Henriksen said, anybody who knows the difference ’tween a Huey and a Black Hawk knows that there was something odd about the Worldpark job. Hard to keep secrets, isn’t it?”

“Sure as hell, Gus. Anyway, give the idea some thought, will you?”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Yeah, also from Clark—does anybody think three terrorist incidents since Rainbow set up is a big number? Might somebody be activating cells of bad guys and turning them loose? If so, who, and if so, what for?”

“Christ, Dan, we get our European intelligence from
them,
remember? Who’s the guy they have working the spook side?”

“Bill Tawney’s his chief analyst. ‘Six’ guy, pretty good as a matter of fact—I know him from when I was the legal attaché in London a few years ago. He doesn’t know, either. They’re wondering if some old KGB guy or something like that might be traveling around, telling the sleeping vampires to wake up and suck some blood.”

Werner considered that for about half a second or so before speaking. “If so, he hasn’t been a raving success. The operations have some of the earmarks of professionalism, but not enough of it to matter. Hell, Dan, you know the drill. If the bad guys are in the same place for more than an hour, we descend on them and take them out the instant they screw up. Professional terrorists or not, they are
not
well-trained people, they don’t have anything like our resources, and they surrender the initiative to us sooner or later. All we need to know is where they are, remember? After that, the thunderbolt is in our hands.”

“Yeah, and you have zapped a few, Gus. And that’s why we need better intelligence, to zap them before they show up on the radarscope of their own accord.”

“Well, one thing I can’t do is their intel for them. They’re closer to the sources than we are,” Werner said, “and I bet they don’t send us everything they have anyway.”

“They can’t. Too much of it to fax back and forth.”

“Okay, yes, three hard incidents looks like a lot, but we can’t tell if it’s just coincidence or part of a plan unless we have people to ask. Like a live terrorist. Clark’s boys haven’t taken anyone alive yet, have they?”

“Nope,” Murray agreed. “That’s not part of their mission statement.”

“So tell them that if they want hard intel, they have to have somebody with a live brain and a mouth after the shooting stops.” But Werner knew that that wasn’t easy under the best of circumstances. Just as taking tigers alive was far harder than taking them dead, it was difficult to capture someone possessing a loaded submachine gun and the will to use it. Even the HRT shooters, who were trained to bring them in alive in order to toss them in front of a Federal District Court judge for proper sentencing and caging at Marion, Illinois, hadn’t done well in that area. And Rainbow was made up of soldiers for whom the niceties of law were somewhat foreign. The Hague Convention established rules for war that were looser than anything found in the United States Constitution. You couldn’t kill prisoners, but you had to capture them alive before they
were
prisoners, and that was something armies generally didn’t emphasize.

“Does our friend Mr. Clark require any more guidance from us?” Werner asked.

“Hey, he’s on our side, remember?”

“He’s a good guy, yes. Hell, Dan, I met with him while they were setting Rainbow up, and I let him have one of our best troops in Timmy Noonan,
and
I’ll grant you he’s done a great job—three of them so far. But he’s
not
one of us, Dan. He doesn’t think like a cop, but if he wants better intel, that’s what he has to do. Tell him that, will ya?”

“I will, Gus,” Murray promised. Then they moved on to other things.

 

 

“So what are we supposed to do?” Stanley asked. “Shoot the bloody guns out of their hands? That only happens in the cinema, John.”

“Weber did exactly that, remember?”

“Yes, and that was against policy, and we damned well can’t encourage it,” Alistair replied.

“Come on, Al, if we want better intelligence information, we have to capture some alive, don’t we?”

“Fine,
if possible,
which it rarely will be, John. Bloody rarely.”

“I know,” Rainbow Six conceded. “But can we at least get the boys to think about it?”

“It’s possible, but to make that sort of decision on the fly is difficult at best.”

“We need the intel, Al,” Clark persisted.

“True, but not at the cost of death or injury to one of our men.”

“All things in life are a compromise of some sort,” Rainbow Six observed. “Would you like to have some hard intelligence information on these people?”

“Of course, but—”

“ ‘But,’ my ass. If we need it, let’s figure a way to get it,” Clark persisted.

“We’re not police constables, John. That is
not
part of our mission.”

“Then we’re going to change the mission. If it becomes
possible
to take a subject alive, then we’ll give it a try. You can always shoot ’em in the head if it’s not. The guy Homer took with that gut shot. We
could
have taken him alive, Al. He wasn’t a direct threat to anyone. Okay, he deserved it, and he was standing out in the open with a weapon, and our training said
kill,
and sure enough, Johnston took the shot, and decided to make a statement of his own because he wanted to—but it would have been just as easy to take out his kneecap, in which case we’d have somebody to talk to now, and maybe he would have sung like most of them do, and
then
maybe we’d know something we’d sure as hell
like
to know now, wouldn’t we?”

“Quite so, John,” Stanley conceded. Arguing with Clark wasn’t easy. He’d come to Rainbow with the reputation of a CIA knuckle-dragger, but that’s not what he was at all, the Brit reminded himself.

“We just don’t know enough, and I don’t like not knowing enough about the environment. I think Ding’s right. Somebody’s setting these bastards loose. If we can figure out a little about that, then maybe we can locate the guy and have the local cops put the bag on him wherever he is, and then maybe we can have a friendly little chat and maybe the ultimate result will be fewer incidents to go out and take risks on.” The ultimate goal of Rainbow was an odd one, after all: to train for missions that rarely—if ever—came, to be the fire department in a town with no fires.

“Very well, John. We should talk with Peter and Domingo about it first of all, I think.”

“Tomorrow morning, then.” Clark stood from his desk. “How about a beer at the club?”

 

 

“Dmitriy Arkadeyevich, I haven’t seen you in quite some time,” the man said.

“Four years,” Popov confirmed. They were in London, at a pub three blocks from the Russian Embassy. He’d taken the train here just on the off chance that one of his former colleagues might show up, and so one had, Ivan Petrovich Kirilenko. Ivan Petrovich had been a rising star, a few years younger than Popov, a skilled field officer who’d made full colonel at the age of thirty-eight. Now, he was probably—

“You are the
rezident
for Station London now?”

“I am not allowed to say such things, Dmitriy.” Kirilenko smiled and nodded even so. He’d come very far and very fast in a downsized agency of the Russian government, and was doubtless still actively pursuing political and other intelligence, or rather, had a goodly staff of people to do it for him. Russia was worried about NATO expansion; the alliance once so threatening to the Soviet Union was now advancing eastward toward his country’s borders, and some in Moscow worried, as they were paid to worry, that this could be the precursor to an attack on the Motherland. Kirilenko knew this was rubbish, as did Popov, but even so he was paid to make sure of it, and the new
rezident
was doing his job as instructed. “So, what are
you
doing now?”

“I am not permitted to say.” Which was the obvious reply. It could mean anything, but in the context of their former organization, it meant that Popov was still a player of some sort. What sort, Kirilenko didn’t know, though he’d heard that Dmitriy Arkadeyevich had been RIF’d from the organization. That had been a surprise to him. Popov still enjoyed an excellent service reputation as a field spook. “I am living between worlds now, Vanya. I work for a commercial business, but I perform other duties as well,” he allowed. The truth was so often a useful tool, in the service of lies.

“You did not appear here by accident,” Kirilenko pointed out.

“True. I hoped to see a colleague here.” The pub was too close to the Embassy on Palace Green, Kensington, for serious work, but it was a comfortable place, for casual meets, and besides, Kirilenko believed his status as
rezident
to be entirely secret. Showing up in a place like this enhanced that. No real spook, everybody knew, would take the chance. “I need some help with something.”

“What might that be?” the intelligence officer asked, over a sip of bitter.

“A report on a CIA officer who is probably known to us.”

“The name?”

“John Clark.”

“Why?”

“He is now, I believe, the leader of a black operation based here in England. I would like to offer the information I have on the man in return for whatever information you might have. I can perhaps add a few things to that dossier. I believe my information will be of interest,” Popov concluded mildly. In context, it was a large promise.

“John Clark,” Kirilenko repeated. “I will see what I can do for you. You have my number?”

Popov slipped a piece of paper on the bar unseen. “Here is my number. No. Do you have a card?”

“Certainly.” The Russian pocketed the scrap of paper and pulled out his wallet and handed the card over.
I. P.
Kirilenko, it said, Third Secretary, Russian Embassy, London. 0181-946-0001, with -9009 as the fax number. Popov pocketed the card. “Well, I must get back. Good to see you, Dmitriy.” The
rezident
set his glass down and walked out onto the street.

“Get the picture?” one “Five” man said to the other on the way out the door, about forty seconds behind their surveillance target.

“Well, not good enough for the National Portrait Gallery, but . . .” The problem with covert cameras was that the lenses were too small to make a really good photo. They were usually good enough for identification purposes, however, and he’d gotten eleven exposures, which, combined with computer-enhancement, should be entirely adequate. Kirilenko, they knew, thought his cover to be adequate. He didn’t and couldn’t know that “Five,” once called MI-5, and now officially called the Security Service, had its own source inside the Russian Embassy. The Great Game was still ongoing in London and elsewhere, new world order or not. They hadn’t caught Kirilenko in a compromising act yet, but he was the
rezident,
after all, and therefore not given to such action. But you tracked such people anyway, because you knew who they were, and sooner or later, you got something on them, or from them. Like the chap he’d just had a beer with. Not a regular for this pub—they knew who they were. No name. Just some photos that would be compared with the library of photos at “Five’s” new headquarters building, Thames House, right on the river near Lambeth Bridge.