"Dr. Chavez, please," Popov told the operator at the hospital.
"Wait, please," the female voice replied. It took seventy seconds.
"Dr. Chavez," another female voice said.
"Oh, sorry, I have the wrong number," Popov said, and cradled the phone. Excellent, both Clark's wife and daughter worked at the hospital, just as he'd been told. That confirmed that this Domingo Chavez was over in Hereford as well. So, he knew both the chief of this Rainbow group, and one of its senior staff members. Chavez probably was one of those. Maybe the chief of intelligence for the group? No, Popov thought, he was too junior for that. That would be a Brit, a senior man from MI-6, someone known to the continental services. Chavez was evidently a paramilitary officer, just as his mentor was. That meant that Chavez was probably a soldier type, maybe a field leader? A supposition on his part, but a likely one. A young officer, physically fit by reports. Too junior for much of anything else. Yes, that made sense.
Popov had stolen a base map from Miles, and had marked the location of Clark's home on it. From that he could easily deduce the route his wife took to the local hospital, and figuring out her hours would not be terribly difficult. It had been a good week for the intelligence officer, and now it was time to leave. He packed his clothes and walked to his rented car, then drove to the lobby to check out. At London-Heathrow, a ticket was waiting for the 747 flight back to New York's JFK International. He had sometime, so he rested in the British Airways first-class lounge, always a comfortable place, with the wine even champagne-bottles set out in the open. He indulged himself, then sat on one of the comfortable couches and picked up a complimentary newspaper, but instead of reading, he started going over the things he'd learned and wondering what use his employer would wish to make of it. There was no telling at the moment, but Popov's instincts made him think about telephone numbers he had in Ireland.
"Yes, this is Henriksen," he said into the hotel phone.
"This is Bob Aukland," the voice said. He was the senior cop at the meeting, Bill remembered. "I have good news for you."
"Oh? What might that be, sir?"
"The name's Bob, old man. We spoke with the Minister, and he agrees that we should award Global Security the consulting contract for the Olympics."
"Thank you, sir."
"So, could you come down in the morning to work out the details with me?"
"Okay, good. When can I go out to the facility?"
"I'll fly you down myself tomorrow afternoon."
"Excellent, Bob. Thank you for listening to me. What about your SAS people?"
"They'll be at the stadium as well."
"Great. I look forward to working with them," Henriksen told them.
"They want to see that new communications equipment you told them about."
"E-Systems has just started manufacturing it for our Delta people. Six ounces per unit, real-time 128bit encryption, X-band frequency, side-band, burst transmission. Damned near impossible to intercept, and highly reliable."
"For what do we deserve this honor, Ed?" Clark asked.
"You have a fairy godmother at the White House. The first thirty sets go to you. Ought to be there in two days," the DCI told Rainbow Six.
"Who at the White House?"
"Carol Brightling, Presidential Science Advisor. She's into the cryppie gear, and after the Worldpark job she called me to suggest you get these new radios. "
"She's not cleared into us, Ed," Clark remembered. "At least, I don't remember her name on the list."
"Well, somebody must have told her something, John. When she called, she knew the codeword, and she is cleared into damned near everything, remember. Nuclear weapons, and all the commo stuff."
"The President doesn't like her, or so I hear…"
"Yeah, she's a radical tree-hugger, I know. But she's pretty smart, too, and getting you this gear was a good call on her part. I talked to Sam Wilson down at Snake Headquarters, and his people have signed off on it with enthusiasm. Jam-proof, encrypted, digital clarity, and light as a feather." As well it ought to be, at seven thousand dollars per set, but that included the R amp;D costs, Foley reminded himself. He wondered if it might be something his field officers could use for covert operations.
"Okay, two days, you said?"
"Yep. Regular trash-haul out of Dover to RAF Mildenhall, and a truck from there, I guess. Oh, one other thing."
"What's that?"
"Tell Noonan that his letter about that people-finder gadget has generated results. The company's sending a new unit for him to play with-four of them, as a matter of fact. Improved antenna and GPS locator, too. What is that thing, anyway?"
"I've only seen it once. It seems to track people from their heartbeats."
"Oh, how's it do that?" Foley asked.
"Damned if I know, Ed, but I've seen it track people through blank walls. Noonan's going nuts over it. He said it needed improvements, though."
"Well, DKL - that's the company - must have listened. Four new sets are in the same shipment with a request for our evaluation of the upgrade."
"Okay, I'll pass that along to Tim."
"Any further word on the terrorists you got in Spain?"
"We're faxing it over later today. They've ID'd six of them now. Mainly suspected Basques, the Spanish figured out. The French have largely struck out, just two probables - well, one of them's fairly certain. And still no clue on who might be sending these people out of the dugout after us."
"Russian," Foley said. "A KGB RIF, I bet."
"I won't disagree with that, seeing how that guy showed "p in London-we think-but the Five' guys haven't turned up anything else."
"Who's working the case at `Five'?"
"Holt, Cyril Holt," Clark answered.
"Oh, okay, I know Cyril. Good man. You can believe what he tells you."
"That's nice, but right now I believe it when he says he doesn't have jack shit. I've been toying with the idea of calling Sergey Nikolay'ch myself and asking for a little help."
"I don't think so, John. That'll have to go through me, remember? I like Sergey, too, but not on this one. Too open-ended."
"That leaves us dead in the water, Ed. I do not like the fact that there's some Russkie around who knows my name and my current job."
Foley had to nod at that. No field officer liked the idea of being known to anyone at all, and Clark had ample reason to worry about it, with his family sharing his current duty station. He'd never taken Sandy into the field to use diem as cover on a job, as some field officers had done in their careers. No officer had ever lost a spouse that way, but a few had been roughed up, and it was now contrary to CIA policy. More than that, John had lived his entire professional life as an unperson, a ghost seen by few, recognized by none, and known only to those on his own side. He would no more wish to change that than to change his sex, but his anonymity had been changed, and it upset him. Well, the Russians knew him and knew about him, and that had been his own doing in Japan and Iran; he must have known then that his actions would have consequences.
"John, they know you. Hell, Golovko knows you personally, and it figures they'd be interested in you, right?"
"I know, Ed, but-damn it!"
"John, I understand, but you're high-profile now, and there's no evading that fact. So, just sit tight, do your job, and let us rattle some bushes to find out what's happening, okay?"
"I guess, Ed" was the resigned reply.
"If I turn anything, I'll be on the phone to you immediately."
"Aye aye, sir," Clark replied, using the naval term that had been part of his life a long time ago. Now he reserved it for things he really didn't like.