"Yes, General, I know," Clark said into the phone at 1:05 the next afternoon, damning time zones as he did so.
"That comes out of my budget, too," General Wilson pointed out. First, CINC-SNAKE thought, they ask for a man, then they ask for hardware, and now, they are asking for funding, too.
"I can try to help with that through Ed Foley, sir, but the fact of the matter is that we need the asset to train with. You did send us a pretty good man," Clark added, hoping to assuage Wilson's renowned temper.
It didn't help much. "Yes, I know he's good. That's why he was working for me in the first goddamned place."
This guy's getting ecumenical in his old age, John told himself. Now he's praising a Marine-rather unusual for an Army snake eater and former commander of XVIII Airborne Corps.
"General-sir, you know we've had a couple of jobs already, and with all due modesty, my people handled them both pretty damned well. I have to fight for my people, don't I?"
And that calmed Wilson down. They were both commanders, they both had jobs to do, and people to, command and defend.
"Clark, I understand your position. I really do. But I can't train my people on assets that you've taken away."
"How about we call it time-sharing?" John offered, as a further olive branch. "It still wears out a perfectly good Night Hawk."
"It also trains up the crews for you. At the end of this, on may just have a primo helicopter crew to bring down to Bragg to work with your people-and the training expense for your operation is just about nothing, sir." And that, he thought, was a pretty good play.
At MacDill Air Force Base, Wilson told himself that this was a losing proposition. Rainbow was a bulletproof operation, and everyone knew it. This Clark guy had sold it first of all to CIA, then to the President himself-and sure enough, they'd had two deployments, and both had worked out, though the second one had been pretty dicey. But Clark, clever as he was, and good commander that he seemed to be, hadn't learned how to run a unit in the modern military world, where half the time was spent managing money like some goddamned white-socked accountant, instead of leading from the front and training with the troops. That's what really rankled Sam Wilson, young for a four-star, a professional soldier who wanted to soldier, something that high command pretty well precluded, despite his fitness and desire. Most annoying of all, this Rainbow unit promised to steal a lot of his own business. The Special Operations Command had commit menu all over the world, but the international nature of Rainbow meant that there was now somebody else in the Same line of work, whose politically neutral nature was supposed to make their use a lot more palatable to countries that might need special services. Clark might just put him out of business in a real sense, and Wilson didn't like that at all. But, really, he had no choice in the matter, did he?
"Okay, Clark, you can use the aircraft so long as the parent unit is able to part with it, and so long as its use by you does not interfere with training and readiness with that parent unit. Clear?"
"Yes, sir, that is clear," John Clark acknowledged.
"I need to come over to see your little circus," Wilson said next.
"I'd like that a lot, General."
"We'll see," Wilson grumbled, breaking the connection.
"Tough son of a bitch," John breathed.
"Quite," Stanley agreed. "We are poaching on his patch, after all."
"It's our patch now, Al."
"Yes, it is, but you mustn't expect him to like that fact."
"And he's younger and tougher than me?"
"A few years younger, and I personally would not wish to cross swords with the gentleman." Stanley smiled. "The war appears to be over, John, and you appear to have won."
Clark managed a smile and a chuckle. "Yeah, Al, but it's easier to go into the field and kill people."
"Quite."
"What's Peter's team doing?"
"Long-line practice."
"Let's go and watch," John said, glad to have an excuse to leave his desk.
"I want to get out of this place," he told his attorney.
"I understand that, my friend," the lawyer replied, with a look around the room. It was the law in France, as in America, that conversations between clients and attorneys were privileged, and could not be recorded or used in any way by the state, but neither man really trusted the French to abide by that law, especially since DGSE, the French intelligence service, had been so instrumental in bringing Il'ych to justice. The DGSE was not known for its willingness to abide by the rules of civilized international behavior, as people as diverse as international terrorists and Greenpeace had learned to their sorrow.
Well, there were other people talking in this room, and there were no obvious shotgun microphones here-and the two had not taken the seats offered by the prison guards, opting instead for one closer to the windows because, they'd said, they wanted the natural light. Of course, every booth could easily be wired.
"I must tell you that the circumstances of your conviction do not lend themselves to an easy appeal," the lawyer advised. This wasn't exactly news to his client.
"I am aware of that. I need you to make a telephone call."
"To whom?"
The Jackal gave him a name and a number. "Tell him that it is my wish to be released."
"I cannot be part of a criminal act."
"I am aware of that as well," Sanchez observed coldly. "Tell him also that the rewards will be great."
It was suspected, but not widely known for certain, that Il'ych Ramirez Sanchez had a goodly sum of money squirreled away as a result of his operations while a free man. This had come mainly as a result of his attack on the OPEC ministers in Austria almost twenty years earlier, which explained why he and his group had been so careful not to kill anyone really important, despite the political flap that would have caused-all the better for him to gain notice and acclaim at the time. Business was business, even for his sort of people. And someone had paid his own legal bills, the attorney thought.
"What else do you expect me to tell him?"
"That is all. If he has an immediate reply, you will convey it to me," the Jackal told him. There was still an intensity to his eyes, something cold and distant - but even so, right there looking deep into his interlocutor and telling him what must be.
For his part, the attorney asked himself again why he'd taken on this client. He had a long history of championing radical causes, from which notoriety he'd gained a wide and lucrative criminal practice. There was an attendannt element of danger involved, of course. He'd recently handled three major drug cases, and lost all three, and those clients hadn't liked the idea of spending twenty or more years in prison and had expressed their displeasure to him recently. Might they arrange to have him killed? It had happened a few times in America and elsewhere. It was as a more distant possibility here. the lawyer thought, though he'd made no promises to those clients except to do his best for them. It was the same with Carlos the Jackal. After his conviction, the lawyer had come into the case to look at the possibilities of an appeal, and made it, and lost-predictably. The French high courts held little clemency for a man who'd done murder on the soil of France, then essentially boasted of it. Now the man had changed his mind and decided petulantly that he didn't enjoy prison life. The lawyer knew that he'd pass along the message, as he had to, but did that make him part of a criminal act?