Free Jack Ryan 10 - Rainbow Six by Tom Clancy

moved ever so subtly in a direction that came more as a surprise to the Russian than the American. Popov had impressed the American with his knowledge of safety issues on the streets of foreign cities, then the discussion had moved into very different areas of expertise.
    “How do you know all this?” the American had asked in his New York office.
    The response had been a broad grin, after three double vodkas. “I know these people, of course. Come, you must know what I did before leaving the service of my country.”
    “You actually worked with terrorists?” he'd asked, surprised, and thinking about this bit of information, even back then.
    It was necessary for Popov to explain in the proper ideological context: “You must remember that to us they were not terrorists at all. They were fellow believers in world peace and Marxism-Leninism, fellow soldiers in the struggle for human freedom - and, truth be told, useful fools, all too willing to sacrifice their lives in return for a little support of one sort or another.”
    “Really?” the American asked again, in surprise. “I would have thought that they were motivated by something important-”
    “Oh, they are,” Popov assured him, “but idealists are foolish people, are they not?”
    “Some are,” his host admitted, nodding for his guest to go on.
    “They believe all the rhetoric, all the promises. Don't you see? I, too, was a Party member. I said the words, filled out the bluebook answers, attended the meetings, paid my Party dues. I did all I had to do, but, really, I was KGB. I traveled abroad. I saw what life was like in the West. I much preferred to travel abroad on, ah, `business' than to work at Number Two Dzerzhinsky Square. Better food, better clothes, better everything. Unlike these foolish youths, I knew what the truth was,” he concluded, saluting with his half-full glass.
    “So, what are they doing now?”
    “Hiding,” Popov answered. “For the most part, hiding.
Some may have jobs of one sort or another-probably menial ones, I would imagine, despite the university education most of them have.”
    “I wonder. . .” A sleepy look reflected the man's own imbibing, so skillfully delivered that Popov wondered if it were genuine or not.
    “Wonder what?”
    “If one could still contact them. . .”
    “Most certainly, if there were a reason for it. My contacts” - he tapped his temple - “well, such things do not evaporate.” Where was this going?
    “Well, Dmitriy, you know, even attack dogs have their uses, and every so often, well” - an embarrassed smile - “you know. . .”
    In that moment, Popov wondered if all the movies were true. Did American business executives really plot murder against commercial rivals and such? It seemed quite mad . . . but maybe the movies were not entirely groundless . . . .
    “Tell me,” the American went on, “did you actually work with those people-you know, plan some of the jobs they did?”
    “Plan? No,” the Russian replied, with a shake of the head. “I provided some assistance, yes, under the direction of my government. Most often I acted as a courier of sorts.” It had not been a favored assignment; essentially he'd been a mailman tasked to delivering special messages to those perverse children, but it was duty he'd drawn due to his superb field skills and his ability to reason with nearly anyone on nearly any topic, since the contacts were so difficult to handle once they'd decided to do something. Popov had been a spook, to use the Western vernacular, a really excellent field intelligence officer who'd never, to the best of his knowledge, been identified by any Western counterintelligence service. Otherwise, his entry into America at JFK International Airport would hardly have been so uneventful.
    “So, you actually know how to get in touch with those people, eh?”
    “Yes, I do,” Popov assured his host.
    “Remarkable.” The American stood. “Well, how about some dinner?”
    By the