the moment.
'So how was the flight?'
'About what you'd expect, a whole fucking day trapped in a 747,' Ding groused over the phone.
'Well, at least it was first class,' Clark observed.
'Great, next time you can have the pleasure, John. How're Patsy and JC?' Chavez asked, getting on to the important stuff.
'They're just fine. The grandpa stuff isn't all that bad.' Clark could have said that he hadn't changed a single diaper yet. Sandy had seized on the ancillary baby-in-the-house duties with utter ruthlessness, allowing her husband to only hold the little guy. He supposed that such instincts were strong in women, and didn't want to interfere with her self-assumed rice bowl. 'He's a cute little guy, Domingo. You done good, kid.'
'Gee, thanks, Dad' was the ironic reply from ten thousand miles away. 'Patsy?'
'She's doing fine, but not getting a hell of a lot of sleep. JC only sleeps about three hours at a stretch at the moment. But that'll change by the time you get back. Want to talk to her?' John asked next.
'What do you think, Mr. C?'
'Okay, hold on. Patsy!' he called. 'It's Domingo.'
'Hey, baby,' Chavez said in his hotel room.
'How are you, Ding? How was the flight out?'
'Long, but no big deal,' he lied. One doesn't show weakness before one's own wife. 'They're treating us pretty nice, but it's hot here. I forgot what hot weather is like.'
'Will you be there for the opening?'
'Oh, yeah, Pats, we all have security passes, courtesy of the Aussies. How's JC?'
'Wonderful' was the inevitable reply. 'He's so beautiful. He doesn't cry much. It's pretty wonderful to have him, y'know?'
'How are you sleeping, baby?'
'Well, I get a few hours here and there. No big deal. Internship was a lot worse.'
'Well, let your mom help you out, okay?'
'She does,' Patsy assured her husband.
'Okay, I need to talk to your dad again-business stuff. Love ya, baby.'
'Love you, too, Ding.'
'Domingo, I think you're going to be okay as a son-in-law,' the male voice said three seconds later. 'I've never seen Patricia smile so much, and I guess that's your doing.'
'Gee, thanks, Pop,' Chavez replied, checking his U.K. watch. It was just after seven in the morning there, whereas in Sydney it was four in the hot afternoon.
'Okay, how are things there?' Clark asked.
'Good,' Chavez told Rainbow Six. 'Our point of contact is a short colonel named Frank Wilkerson. Solid troop. His people are pretty good, well trained, confident, nice and loose. Their relationship with the police is excellent. Their reaction plans look good to me-short version, John, they don't need us here any more than they need a few more kangaroos in the outback I flew over this morning.'
'So, what the hell, enjoy the games.' Bitch as he might, Chavez and his people were getting about ten grand worth of free holiday, Clark thought, and that wasn't exactly a prison sentence.
'It's a waste of our time, John,' Chavez told his boss.
'Yeah, well, you never know, do you, Domingo?'
'I suppose,' Chavez had to agree. They'd just spent several months proving that you never really knew.
'Your people okay?'
'Yeah, they're treating us pretty nice. Good hotel rooms, close enough to walk to the stadium, but we have official cars for that. So, I guess we're just paid tourists, eh?'
'Yep, like I said, Ding, enjoy the games.'
'How's Peter doing?'
'Bouncing back okay, but he'll be out of business for at least a month, more like six weeks. The docs here are okay. Chin's legs are going to be a pain in the ass. Figure two and a half months for him to get back in harness.'
'He must be pissed.'
'Oh, he is.'
'What about our prisoners?'
'Police are interrogating them now,' Clark answered. 'We're hearing more about this Russian guy, but nothing we can really use yet. The Irish cops are trying to ID the cocaine by manufacturer it's medical quality, from a real drug company. Ten pounds of pure coke. Street value would buy a friggin' airliner. The Garda is worried that it might be the start of a trend, the IRA splinter groups getting into drugs big-time, but that's not our problem.'
'This Russian guy-Serov, right?-he's the guy who gave them the intel on us?'
'That's affirmative, Domingo, but where he got it we don't know, and our Irish guests aren't giving us anything more than what we already have-probably all they know. Grady isn't talking at all. And his lawyer's bitching about how we interrogated him in the recovery room.'
'Well, isn't that just a case of tough shit?'
'I hear you, Ding,' Clark chuckled. It wasn't as though they'd be using the information in a trial. There was even a videotape of Grady's leaving the scene from the BBC news crew that had turned up at Hereford. Sean Grads would be imprisoned for a term defined by 'the Queen's pleasure,' which meant life plus forever, unless the European Union treaty interfered with it. Timothy O'Neil and the people who'd surrendered with him might get out around the time they turned sixty, Bill Tawney had told him the previous day. 'Anything else?'
'Nope, everything's looking good here, John. I'll report in the same time tomorrow.'
'Roger that, Domingo.'
'Kiss Patsy for me.'
'I'll even manage a hug if you want.'
'Yeah, thanks, Grandpa,' Ding agreed with a smile.
'Bye,' he heard, and the line went dead.
'Not a bad time to be away from home, boss,' Mike Pierce observed from a few feet away. 'The first two weeks can be a real pain in the ass. This way, by the time you get back home, the little guy'll be sleeping four, five hours. Maybe more if you're really lucky,' predicted the father of three sons.
'Mike, you see any problems here?'
'Like you told Six, the Aussies have it under control. They look like good people, man. Us bein' here's a waste of time, but what the hell, we get to see the Olympics.'
'I suppose so. Any questions?'
'Do we carry?' Pierce asked.
'Pistols only, and casual clothes. Your security pass will take care of that. We pair off, you with me, and George with Homer. We take our tactical radios, too, but that's all.'
'Yes, sir. Works for me. How's the jet lag?'
'How's it with you, Mike?'
'Like I been put in a bag and beat with a baseball bat.' Pierce grinned. 'But it'll be better tomorrow. Shit, I'd hate to think that gutting it through today won't help some tomorrow. Hey, tomorrow morning, we can work out with the Aussies, do our running on the Olympic track. Pretty cool, eh?'
'I like it.'
'Yeah, it would be nice to meet up with some of those pussy athletes, see how fast they can run with weapons and body armor.' At his best and fully outfitted, Pierce could run a mile in thirty seconds over four minutes, but he'd never broken the four minute mark, even in running shoes and shorts. Louis Loiselle claimed to have done it once, and Chavez believed him. The diminutive Frenchman was the right size for a distance runner. Pierce was too big in height and across the shoulders. A Great Dane rather than a greyhound.
'Be cool, Mike. We have to protect them from the bad guys. That tells us who the best men are,' Chavez observed through the jet lag.
'Roge-o, Sir.' Pierce would remember that one.
Popov awoke for no particular reason he could see, except that yes, another Gulfstream jet had just landed.
