A beeper went off. He turned to look at the control panel. "It's Ernie, MS-looks like cardiac arrest," he said.
"What are you going to do?" Barbara Archer asked.
Killgore stood. "Make sure he's dead." He bent down to select a camera for the big monitor on his desk. "Here, you can watch."
Two minutes later, he appeared on the screen. An orderly was already there, but did little more than watch. She saw Killgore check the man's pulse, then check his eyes. Despite having the -B vaccine, Killgore used gloves and a mask. Well, that made sense. Then he stood back pup and switched off the monitoring equipment. The orderly detached the IV lines and covered the body with a sheet. Killgore pointed to the door, and soon the orderly wheeled the gurney out, heading off for the incinerator. Killgore took the time to look at other subjects, and even appeared to speak with one before leaving the screen for good.
"I figured that," he said, returning to the control room without his protective gear. "Ernie's heart wasn't all that good, and Shiva went right after it. Wendell's going to be next, M2. Maybe tomorrow morning. Liver function's off the chart, and he's bleeding out big-time in the upper GI."
"What about the control group?"
"Mary, F4, two more days she's going to be in frank symptoms."
"So the delivery system works?" Archer asked.
"Like a charm." Killgore nodded, getting some coffee before he sat back down. "It's all going to work, Barb, and the computer projections look better than our requirement parameters. Six months from initiation, the world is going to be a very different place," he promised her.
"I still worry about those six months, John. If anybody figures out what's happened - their last conscious act will be to try and kill us all."
"That's why we have guns, Barb."
"It's called 'Rainbow,'" he told them, having gotten the best information of the day. "It's based in England. It was set up by a CIA guy named John Clark, and he's evidently the boss of the outfit."
"That makes sense," said Henriksen. "Multinational, right?"
"I think so," John Brightling confirmed.
"Yes," Dmitriy Popov said, picking at his Caesar salad. "That is all sensible, some sort of NATO unit, I imagine, based at Hereford?"
"Correct," said Henriksen. "By the way, nice job figuring out who they were."
Popov shrugged. "It was simple, really. I ought to have made the guess sooner. My question now, what do you want me to do about it?"
"I think we need to learn more," Henriksen said, with a glance at his boss. "A lot more."
"How do you do that?" Brightling asked.
"It is not difficult," Popov assured him. "Once you know where to look-that is most of the battle. Once you know that, you merely go there and look. And I already have one name, do I not?"
"You want to take it?" John asked the Russian.
"Certainly." If you pay me to do so. "There are dangers, but-"
"What kind of dangers?"
"I once worked in England. There is the possibility that they have a photograph of me, under a different name, but I do not think that likely."
"Can you fake the accent?" Henriksen asked.
"Most certainly, old boy," Popov replied with a grin. "You were FBI once?"
Nod. "Yep."
"Then you know how it is done. A week, I think."
"Okay," Brightling said. "Fly over tomorrow."
"Travel documents?" Henriksen asked.
"I have several sets, all current, and all perfect," the intelligence officer assured him.
It was nice to have a pro on the payroll, Henriksen thought to himself. "Well, I have an early flight, and I haven't packed yet, guys. See you next week when I get back."
"Easy on the jet lag, Bill," John advised.
The former FBI agent laughed. "You got a drug that works on that?"
Popov boarded the morning Concorde flight. He'd never flown the Concorde before, and found the interior of the aircraft cramped, though the legroom was all right. He settled into seat 4C. Meanwhile, at another terminal, 13 Henriksen was in a first-class seat in an American DC for his trip to Los Angeles.
William Henriksen, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich Popov thought. Formerly of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Teams: and an expert on counter-terrorism, president of an international security-consulting company now headed oft Australia to seek a consulting contract for the next Olympics… How did that factor into what Popov had been doing for John Brightling's Horizon Corporation? What, exactly, was he doing-more properly, what idea was he serving? What task? He was certainly being paid top dollar-he hadn't even raised the money issue over dinner, because he was sure he'd get whatever he asked for. He was thinking in terms of $250,000 for this job alone, even though it held few dangers, aside from driving an automobile in British traffic. $250,000? Maybe more, Popov told himself. After all, this mission seemed pretty important to them.
