selected from English, American, and perhaps some other nationalities. It was a black operation, known only to a handful of highly placed people. His wife was a nurse working at the local public hospital. His team was well regarded by the local civilians who worked on the SAS base. Rainbow had been on three missions, Bern, Vienna, and Worldpark, where, in every case, it had dealt with the terrorists-Kirilenko noted that Popov had avoided use of the previous term of art, 'progressive elements' efficiently, quickly, and under the cover of local police agencies. The Rainbow team had access to American hardware, which had been used in Spain, as was clear from television coverage of the event. which he recommended that the embassy get hold of. Through the Defense Attach+й would probably be best, Popov noted.
On the whole a useful, concise, and informative report, the rezident thought, and a fair trade for what he'd exchanged on the street corner.
'Well, see anything this morning?' Cyril Holt asked the head of the surveillance group.
'No,' the other 'Five' man replied. 'He was carrying the usual paper in the usual hand, but the pavement will crowded. There could have been a switch, but if there was. we didn't see it. And we are dealing with a professional, sir.' the chief of the surveillance section reminded the Deputy Director of the Security Service.
Popov, his brown wide-brimmed hat in his lap, was sitting in the train on the way back to Hereford, seemingly reading the newspaper, but in fact leafing through the photocopies of the single-spaced pages relayed from Moscow. Kirilenko was as good as his word, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich saw with pleasure. As a good rezident should be. And so. now, here he was, sitting alone in the first-class carriage of the inter-city train out of Paddington Station, learning more about this John Clark chap, and impressed with what he saw. His former agency in Moscow had paid quite a bit of attention to him. There were three photographs. one of them quite good that appeared to have been shot in the office of the RVS chairman himself in Moscow. They'd even taken the time to learn about his family. Two daughters, one still in college in America, and one a physician now married to one Domingo Chavez another CIA field officer! Popov saw, in his middle thirties. Domingo Estebanovich, who'd also met Golovko, and was evidently partnered with the older officer. Both were paramilitary officers… might this Chavez be in England, too? A physician, so that was easily checked. Clark and his diminutive partner were officially described as formidable and experienced field-intelligence officers, both spoke Russian in a manner described as literate and cultured - Graduates of the U.S. military's language school at Monterey, California, no doubt. Chavez, the report went on, had an undergraduate and a master's degree in International Relations from George Mason University outside of Washington, doubtless paid for by CIA. So, neither he nor Clark was merely a strong back. Both were educated as well. And the younger one was married to a physician.
Their known and confirmed field operations- -nichevo! Popov thought. Two really impressive ones done with Russian assistance, plus the exfiltration of Gerasimov's wife and daughter ten years before, along with several others suspected but not confirmed… 'Formidable' was the right word for both of them. Himself a field intelligence officer for over twenty years, he knew what to be impressed with. Clark had to be a star at Langley, and Chavez was evidently his protege, following in the wide, deep footsteps of his… father-in-law… Wasn't that interesting?
They found her at three-forty, still typing away on the computer, slowly and badly. Ben Farmer opened the door and saw, first, the IV tree, then the back on the hospital gown.
'Well, hello,' the security guard said, not unkindly. 'Taking a little walk, eh?'
'I wanted to tell Daddy where I was,' Mary Bannister replied.
'Oh, really. By e-mail?'
'That's right,' she answered pleasantly.
'Well, how about we get you back to your room now, okay?'
'I guess,' she agreed tiredly. Farmer helped her to her feet and walked her out into the corridor, gently, his hand around her waist. It was a short walk, and he opened the door into Treatment 4, got her in bed, and pulled the blanket up. He dimmed the lights before leaving, then found Dr. Palachek walking the halls.
'We may have a problem, Doc.'
Lam Palachek didn't like being called 'doc,' but didn't make an issue of it now. 'What's the problem?'
'I found her on the computer in T-9. She says she e-mailed her father.'
'What?' That popped the doc's eyes open, Farmer saw.
'That's what she said.'
Oh, shit! the doctor thought. 'What does she know?'
'Probably not much. None of them know where they are.' And even looking out the windows wouldn't help. The scenery showed only wooded hills, not even a parking lot whose auto license plates might give a clue. That part of the operation had been carefully thought through.
'Any way to recover the letter she sent?'
'If we get her password and the server she logged into, maybe,' Farmer replied. He was fully checked out on computers. Just about everyone in the company was. 'I can try that when we wake her up-say, in about four hours?'
'Any way to un-send it?'
Farmer shook his head. 'I doubt it. Not many of them work that way. We don't have AOL software on the systems, just Eudora, and if you execute the IMMEDIATE-SENT) command, it's all the-way gone, Doc. That goes right into the Net, and once it's there-oh, well.'
'Killgore is going to freak.'
'Yes, ma'am,' the former Marine said. 'Maybe we need to codeword access to the 'puters.' He didn't add that he'd been off the monitors for a while, and that it was all his fault. Well, he hadn't been briefed on this contingency, and why the hell didn't they lock the rooms they wanted to keep people out of? Or just locked the subjects in their rooms? The winos from the first group of test subjects had spoiled them. None of those street bums had had the ability to use a computer, nor the desire to do much of anything, and it hadn't occurred to anyone that the current group of experimental animals might. Oops. Well, he'd seen bigger mistakes than that happen before. The good news, however, was that there was no way they could know where they were, nor anything about the name of the company that owned the facility. Without those things, what could F4 have told anyone? Nothing of value, Farmer was sure. But she was right about one thing, Farmer knew. Dr. John Killgore was going to be seriously pissed.
The English ploughman's lunch was a national institution. Bread, cheese, lettuce, baby tomatoes, chutney, and some meat-turkey in this case-along with a beer, of course. Popov had found it to be agreeable on his first trip to Britain. He'd taken the time to remove his tie and change into more casual clothes, in order to appear a working-class type.
'Well, hello,' the plumber said as he sat down. His name was Edward Miles. A tall, powerfully built man with tattoos on his arm-a British affectation, especially for men in uniform, Popov knew. 'Started ahead of me, I see.'
'How did the morning go?'
'The usual. Fixed a water-heater in one of the houses, for a French chap, in fact, part of the new team. His wife is a smasher,' Miles reported. 'Only saw a picture of him. A sergeant in the French army, it would seem.'
'Really?' Popov took a bite of his open-face sandwich.
'Yes, have to go back this afternoon to finish up. Then I have a watercooler to fix in the headquarters building. Bloody things, must be fifty years old. I may have to make the part I need to repair the damned thing. Impossible to get them. The maker went out of business a dog's age ago.' Miles started on his own lunch, expertly dividing the various ingredients and then piling them on the freshly made bread.
'Government institutions are all the same,' Popov told him.
'That's a fact!' Miles agreed. 'And my helper called iii sick. Sick my ahss, ' the plumber said. 'No rest for the bloody wicked.'
'Well, perhaps my tools can help,' Popov offered. They continued talking about sports until lunch was finished, then both stood and walked to Miles's truck, a small blue van with government tags. The Russian tossed his collection of tools in the back. The plumber started it up, pulled onto the road.;end headed for the main gate of the Hereford base. The security guard waved them through without a close look.
'See, you just need to know the right bloke to get in here.' Miles laughed at his conquest of base security, which, the sign said, was on BLACK status, the lowest alert state. 'I suppose the IRA chaps have calmed down quite a bit, and it would never have been a good idea to conic here, not against these chaps, like tweaking a lion's nose - bad job, that,' he went on.
