"Why not?" Popov stood and followed him out the door. Five minutes later, he regretted it. An armed soldier was outside the entrance to headquarters-and then he realized that this was the headquarters for Rainbow. Inside would be Clark, Ivan Timofeyevich, himself.
Miles parked the truck, got out, walked to the rear door, and opened it, pulling out his toolbox.
"I'll need a small pipe wrench," he told Popov, who opened the canvas sack he'd brought, and extracted a brand-new twelve-inch Rigid wrench.
"Will this do?"
"Perfect." Miles waved him along. "Good afternoon, Corp," he said to the soldier, who nodded politely in reply, but said nothing.
For his part, Popov was more than surprised. In Russia the security would have been much tighter. But this was England, and the plumber was doubtless known to the guard. With that, he was inside, trying not to look around too obviously, and exercising all of his self-control not to appear nervous. Miles immediately set to work, unscrewing the front, setting the cover aside, and peering back into the guts of the watercooler. He held his hand out for the small wrench, which Popov handed to him. "Nice feel for the adjustment… but it's brand-new, so that's to be expected…" He tightened an a pipe and gave the wrench a twist. "Come on, now… there." He pulled the pipe out and inspected it by holding it up to a light. "Ah, well, that I can fix. Bloody miracle," he added. He slid back on his knees and looked in his toolbox. "The pipe is merely clogged up. Look, must be thirty years of sediment in there." He handed it over.
Popov made a show of looking through the pipe, but saw nothing at all, the metal tube was so packed with sediment, he guessed from what Miles had said. Then the plumber took it back and inserted a small screwdriver, jammed it like the ramrod of a musket to clear it out, then switched ends to do the same from the other direction.
"So, we're going to get clean water for our coffee?" a voice asked.
"I expect so, sir," Miles replied.
Popov looked up and managed to keep his heart beating. It was Clark, Ivan Timofeyevich, as the KGB file had identified him. Tall, middle fifties, smiling down at the two workmen, dressed in suit and tie, which somehow looked uncomfortable on him. He nodded politely at the man, and looked back down to his tools while thinking as loudly as he could, Go away!
"There, that should do it," Miles said, reaching to put the pipe back inside, then taking the wrench from Popov to screw it into place. In another moment he stood and turned the plastic handle. The water that came out was dirty. "We just need to keep this open for five minutes or so, sir, to allow the pipe to flush itself out."
"Fair enough. Thanks," the American said, then walked off.
"A pleasure, sir," Miles said to the disappearing back. "That was the boss, Mr. Clark."
"Really? Polite enough."
"Yes, decent bloke." Miles stood and flipped the plastic lever. The water coming out of the spigot was clouded at first, but after a few minutes it appeared totally clear. "Well, that's one job done. It's a nice wrench," Miles said, handing it back. "What do they cost?"
"This one - it's yours."
"Well, thank you, my friend." Miles smiled on his way out the door and past the corporal of the British Army's military police.
Next they rode around the base. Popov asked where Clark lived, and Miles obliged by taking a left turn and heading off to the senior officers' quarters.
"Not a bad house, is it?"
"It looks comfortable enough." It was made of brown brick, with what appeared to be a slate roof, and about a hundred square meters, and a garden in the back.
"I put the plumbing in that one myself, Miles told him, "back when it was renovated. Ah, that must be the missus."
A woman came out dressed in a nurse's uniform, walked to the car, and got in. Popov looked and recorded the image.
"They have a daughter who's a doctor at the same hospital the mum works Lit," Miles told him. "Bun in the oven for that one. I think she's married to one of the soldiers. Looks just like her mum, tall, blond, and pretty-smasher, really."
"Where do they live?"
"Oh, over that way, I think," Miles replied, waving vaguely to the west. "Officer housing, like this one, but smaller."
"So, what can you offer us?" the police superintendent asked.
Bill Henriksen liked the Australians. They came right to the point. They were sitting in Canberra, Australia's capital, with the country's most senior cop and some people in military uniforms.
"Well, first of all, you know my background." He'd already made sure that his FBI experience and the reputation of his company were well known. "You know that I work with the FBI, and sometimes even with Delta at Fort Bragg. Therefore I have contacts, good ones, and perhaps in some ways better than your own," he said, risking a small boast.
"Our own SAS are excellent," the chief told him.
