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.

How did an expert on the mission side of terrorism and an expert on counterterrorism factor into the same plan? Why had they so rapidly seized on his discovery that there was a new international counterterror organization? It was important to them but why? What the hell were they up to? He shook his head. He was so smart, yet he didn't have a clue. And he wanted to know, now more than ever.

Again, it was the not-knowing that worried him. Worried? Yes, he was worried now. The KGB had never encouraged curiosity, but even they knew that you had to tell intelligent people something and so with mission orders had usually come some kind of explanation - and at the least he'd always known that he was serving the interests of his country. Whatever information he'd gathered, whatever foreign national he'd recruited, it had all been aimed at making his nation more secure, more knowledgeable, more strong. That the entire effort had failed was not his fault. The KGB had never failed the State. It had been the State that had failed the KGB. He'd been part of the world's finest intelligence service, and he remained proud of its abilities and his own.

But he didn't know what he was doing now. He was supposed to gather information, and it was quite easy for him, but he still didn't know why. The things he'd learned at dinner the night before had merely opened another door into another mystery. It seemed so like some Hollywood movie of conspiracy or some detective book whose ending he could not yet discern. He'd take the money and do the job, but for the first time he was uneasy, and the feeling was not a pleasant one, as the aircraft raced down the runway and took off into the rising sun for London Heathrow.

"Any progress, Bill?"

Tawney leaned back in his chair. "Not much. The Spanish have identified two of the terrorists as Basque separatists, and the French think they have a line on another of their citizens at the park, but that's all. I suppose we could ask Carlos for some information, but it's rather doubtful that he'd cooperate-and who's to say that he even knew the buggers in the first place?"

"True." Clark took a seat. "You know, Ding's right - One of these incidents was probably to be expected, but three all in the brief time we've been here seems like a lot. Is it possible that somebody is setting them loose somehow, Bill?"

"I suppose it's possible, but who would do it - and why would he do it?" Tawney asked.

"Back up. Stay with the 'who' part first. Who has the ability?"

"Someone who had access to them back in the seventies and eighties-that means someone well inside the movement or someone who controlled them, 'influenced' them, from the outside. That would mean a KGB type. Notionally this chap would be known to them, would have means to contact them, and thus the ability to activate them."