Rainbow six by Tom Clancy

Author:Tom Clancy
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fiction:War
ISBN: 9780425170342
Publisher: Penguin Group
Published: 1999-07-14T10:00:00+00:00

Cyril Holt was over fifty, and had the tired look of a senior British civil servant. Well dressed in a finely tailored suit and an expensive tie—clothing over there, Clark knew, was excellent, but not exactly cheap—he shook hands all around and took his seat in John’s office.

“So,” Holt said. “I gather we have a problem here.”

“You’ve read the intercept?”

“Yes.” Holt nodded. “Good work by your NSA chaps.” He didn’t have to add that it was good work by his chaps as well, identifying the line used by the rezident.

“Tell me about Kirilenko,” Clark said.

“Competent chap. He has a staff of eleven field officers, and perhaps a few other off-the-books helpers to do pickups and such. Those are all ‘legals’ with diplomatic cover. He has illegals as well who report to him, of course. We know two of them, both covered as businessmen who do real business in addition to espionage. We’ve been building up this book for some time. In any case, Vanya is a competent, capable chap. He’s covered as the embassy’s third secretary, does his diplomatic duties like a genuine diplomat, and is well liked by the people with whom he comes into contact. Bright, witty, good chap to have a pint with. Drinks beer more than vodka, oddly enough. He seems to like it in London. Married, two children, no bad habits that have come to our attention. His wife doesn’t work at all, but we haven’t seen anything covert on her part. Just a housewife, so far as we can discern. Also well liked in the diplomatic community.” Holt passed across photographs of both. “Now,” he went on, “just yesterday our friend was having a friendly pint in his favorite pub. It’s a few blocks from the embassy in Kensington, close to the palace—the embassy dates back to the Czars, just like the one you have in Washington—and this pub is rather upscale. Here’s the enhanced photo of the chap he had his beer with.” Another photo was passed across.

The face, Clark and Tawney saw, was grossly ordinary. The man had brown hair and eyes, regular features, and was about as distinctive as a steel garbage can in an alley. In the photo, he was dressed in jacket and tie. The expression on his face was unremarkable. They might have been discussing football, the weather, or how to kill someone they both didn’t like—there was no telling.

“I don’t suppose he has a regular seat?” Tawney asked.

“No, usually sits at the bar, but sometimes in a booth, and rarely in the same seat twice in a row. We’ve thought about placing a bug,” Holt told them, “but it’s technically difficult, it would let the publican know we’re up to something, and it’s very doubtful that we’d get anything useful from it. His English is superb, by the way. The publican seems to think he’s a Briton from the North Country.”

“Does he know you’re following him?” Tawney asked, before Clark could.

Holt shook his head. “Hard to say, but we do not think so.

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