"Okay, two out of three were about money," Clark agreed. "But the terrorists in both those cases were supposed to be ideological, right?"
"Correct."
"Why the interest in money? In the first one, okay, maybe it was a straight robbery. But the second one was more sophisticated well, both sophisticated and dumb, 'cuz they were after something that doesn't exist, but as ideological operators they would not have known that. Bill, somebody told them to go after it. They didn't start that one by themselves, did they?"
"I agree, your supposition is likely," the spook said. "Very likely, perhaps."
"So, in that case we have two ideological operators, technically fairly competent, but going after something that doesn't really exist. The combination of operational cleverness and objective stupidity just seems to cry out to us, doesn't it?"
"But what of Worldpark?"
Clark shrugged. "Maybe Carlos knows something they need. Maybe he has a stash somewhere that they want, or information, or contact numbers, maybe even cash-there's no telling, is there?"
"And I think it unlikely that he can be persuaded to cooperate with us."
Clark grunted. "Damned skippy."
"What I can do is talk with the chaps at `Five,' too. Perhaps this Russian shadow fellow worked with the PIRA. Let me do some nosing around, John.",
"Okay, Bill, and I'll talk things over with Langley." Clark stood, wandered out of the room, and headed back to his own, still groping for the idea he needed before he could do something useful.
It didn't start well, and Popov nearly laughed about it. On reaching his rental car he opened the left-side door instead of the right side. But he figured it out in as few seconds as it took him to load his luggage into the trunk - boot - and get in the driver's side. From that point he opened the map book he'd purchased in the terminal and made his way away from Heathrow's Terminal Four onto the motorway that would lead him to Hereford.
"So, how does this thing work, Tim?" Noonan moved his hand away, but the pointer stayed right on Chavez. "Damn, this is slick. It's supposed to track the electromagnetic field generated by the human heart. It's a unique low-frequency signal… doesn't even get confused by gorillas and animals…"
The gadget looked like a ray-gun pistol from a '30s science fiction movie, with a slim antenna wire out the front and a pistol grip underneath. It swung on a frictionless bearing, drawn to the signal it received. Noonan moved away from Chavez and Covington, and headed for the wall. There was a secretary sitting right… there. The gadget locked on her. As he walked, it stayed pointed at her, through the blank wall.
"It's like a bloody divining rod," Peter observed, no small amount of wonder in his voice. "Like finding water…"
"Does look that way, doesn't it? Damn, no wonder the Army wants this baby. Forget about being ambushed. This thing's supposed to find people underground, behind trees, in the rain - whenever they're there, this thing'll pick them up."
Chavez thought about that. He thought especially about his operation in Colombia so many years before, walking point in the weeds, looking and listening for people who might have worried his ten-man team. Now this thing replaced all the skills he'd learned in the 7th Light. As a defensive tool, it could put the ninjas out of business. As an offensive tool, it could tell you where the bad guys were long before you could see or hear them, and allow you to get close enough to…
"What's it for - what's the manufacturer say, I mean?"
"Search and rescue - firemen in a burning building, avalanche victims, lots of things, Ding. As a counter intruder tool, this puppy's going to be hard to beat. They've been playing with it at Fort Bragg for a couple of weeks. The Delta Guys have fallen in love with it. Still a little hard to use, and it can't tell range yet, but all they have to do is modify the antenna for greater gain, then link two of the detectors with GPS, and triangulate… The ultimate range this thing can achieve hasn't been determined yet. They say this one can lock onto a person at five hundred meters."
"Bloody hell," Covington observed. But the instrument still looked like some sort of an expensive small-boy's toy.
"What good will it be for us? It can't tell a hostage from a terrorist," Chavez pointed out.
"Ding you never know, do you? Damned sure it can tell you where the bad guys are not, " Noonan pointed out. He'd be playing with this thing all day, getting a feel for how to use it effectively. He hadn't felt like a kid with a new toy in quite a while, but this gadget was so new and so unexpected that it should have arrived under a decorated pine tree.
The Brown Stallion was the name of the pub right next door to his motel. It was only half a kilometer from the main gate at Hereford, and seemed like a good place to start, and better yet to have a beer. Popov ordered a pint of Guinness and sipped at it, surveying the room. A television was on, carrying a soccer match-live or taped, he couldn't tell at the moment-between Manchester United and Rangers from up in Scotland, and that attracted the attention of the pub's patrons, and the barman, as it turned out. Popov watched as well, sipping at his pint and listening to the chitchat around the room. He was trained to be patient, and knew from experience that patience was usually rewarded in the business of intelligence, all the more so in this culture, where people came to their regular pub every night to chat with their friends, and Popov had unusually good hearing.
The football game ended in a 1-1 tie around the time Popov ordered a second pint.
"Tie, bloody tie," one man observed at the bar seat next to Popov's.
"That's sport for you, Tommy. At least the chaps down the road never tie, and never bloody lose."
"How are the Yanks fitting in, Frank?"
"Good bunch, that lot, very polite. I had to fix the sink for one of the houses today. The wife is very nice indeed, tried to give me a tip. Amazing people, the Americans. Think they have to give you money for everything." The plumber finished off his pint of lager and called for another.
"You work on the base?" Popov asked.
"Yes, have for twelve years, plumbing and such."
"Good lot of men, the SAS. I like how they sort the IRA buggers out," the Russian offered, in his best British blue-collar accent.
"That they do," the plumber agreed. "So, some Americans are based there now, eh?"
"Yes, about ten of them, and their families." He laughed. "One of the wives nearly killed me in her car last week, driving on the wrong side of the bloody road. You do have to be careful around them, especially in your car."
"I may know one of them, chap name of Clark, I think," Popov offered as a somewhat dangerous ploy.
"Oh? He's the boss. Wife's a nurse in the local hospital. Haven't met him, but they say he's a very serious chappie must be to command that lot. Scariest people I've ever met, not the sort you'd like to find in a dark alley - very polite of course, but you only have to look at them to know. Always out running and such, keeping fit, practicing with their weapons, looking dangerous as bloody lions."
"Were they involved in the show down in Spain last week?"
"Well, they don't tell us any of that, see, but" - the man smiled - "I saw a Hercules fly out of the airstrip the very day it happened, and they were back in their club late that night, Andy told me, looking very chuffed with themselves, he said. Good lads, dealing with those bastards."
"Oh, yes. What sort of swine would kill a sick child? Bahst'ds, " Popov went on.
"Yes, indeed. Wish I could have seen them. Carpenter I work with, George Wilton, sees them practice their shooting from time to time. George says they're like something from a film, magical stuff, he says."