"Is that a pistol?" Popov asked.
"It's an M-1873 Colt's Single-Action Army Revolver," Foster replied, lifting it from the equally authentic Three persons holster. "The gun that won the West. Dmitriy. I never go riding without a friend," he said with a self-satisfied smile.
"Forty-five?" the Russian asked. He'd seen them in movies, but never in real life. "No, it's a.44-40. Caliber forty-four, with forty grains of black powder. Back a hundred years ago, you used the same cartridge in your handgun and your rifle. Cheaper that way," he explained. "And the bullet'll kill just about anything you want. Maybe not a buffalo," he allowed, "but damned sure a deer-"
"Or a man?"
"You bet. This is just about the deadliest cartridge ever made, Dmitriy." Hunnicutt replaced the revolver in the leather holster. "Now, this holster isn't authentic, really. It's called a Three persons, named for Billy Three persons. I think. He was a U.S. Marshal back in the old days-he was a Native American, too, and quite a lawman, so the story goes. Anyway, he invented the holster late in the nineteenth century. Easier to quick-draw out of this one, see?" Foster demonstrated. It impressed Popov to see it in real life after so many movies. The American hunter even wore a wide-brim Western hat. Popov found himself liking the man despite his bombast.
"Come on, Jeremiah," Hunnicutt said, as the other two entered the corral, and with that he led them off.
"Your horse?" Popov asked."Oh, yeah, bought him off a Nez Perce Indian pal. Eight years old, just about right for me." Foster smiled as they walked out the gate, a man fully in his element, Popov thought.
The rides had become somewhat repetitive. Even here there was only so much land to walk and examine, but the simple pleasure of it hadn't changed. The four men went north this morning, slowly through the prairie-dog town, then close to the interstate highway with its heavy truck traffic.
"Where is the nearest town?" Popov asked.
"That way"-Killgore pointed-"about five miles. Not much of a town."
"Does it have an airport?"
"Little one for private planes only," the doctor replied. "You go east about twenty miles, there's another town with a regional airport for puddle jumpers, so you can get to Kansas City, from there you can fly anywhere."
"But we'll be using our own runways for the Gs, right?"
"Yep," Killgore confirmed. "The new ones can hop all the way to Johannesburg from right here."
"No shit?" Hunnicutt asked. "You mean, like, we could go hunting in Africa if we want?"
"Yeah, Foster, but packing back the elephant on a horse might be a little tough." The epidemiologist laughed.
"Well, maybe just the ivory," the hunter replied, doing the same. "I was thinking lion and leopard, John."
"Africans like to eat the lion's gonads. You see, the lion is the most virile of all the animals," Killgore told them.
"How's that?"
"Once upon a time, a nature-film crew watched two males servicing a female who was in season. They averaged once every ten minutes for a day and a half between 'em. So, the individual males were going three times an hour for thirty-six hours. Better than I ever did." There was another laugh that the men all shared. "Anyway, some African tribes still believe that when you eat a body part off something you killed, you inherit the attribute of that part. So, they like to eat lion balls."
"Does it work?" Maclean asked.
Killgore liked that. "If it did, wouldn't be many male lions left in the world, Kirk."
"You got that one right, John!" And there was more general laughter that dawn.Popov wasn't as amused by this discussion as his companions. He looked off at the highway, and saw a Greyhound bus pass by at about seventy miles per hour but then it slowed and stopped at an odd little square building. "What's that?" he asked.
"Bus stop for the intercity buses," Mark Waterhouse replied. "They have them out here in the boonies. You sit there and wait, then you wave for the bus to stop, like the old flag stops for trains."
"Ah." Dmitriy filed that one away as he turned his horse to the east. The hawk, he saw, the one that lived around here, was up and flying again, looking down for one of those tubular rodents to eat for its own breakfast. He watched, but evidently the hawk didn't see one. They rode for another hour, then headed back. Popov ended up next to Hunnicutt.
"You been riding how long?"
"Hardly more than a week," Dmitriy Arkadeyevich answered.
"You're doing okay for a tenderfoot," Foster told him in a friendly voice.
"I want to do it more, so that I can ride better at a faster pace."
"Well, how about tonight, just 'fore sundown, say?"
"Thank you, Foster, yes, I would like that. Just after dinner, shall we say?"
"Sure. Meet me around six-thirty at the corral."
"Thank you. I will do that," Popov promised. A night ride, under the stars, yes, that should be very pleasant.
"I got an idea," Chatham said when he got to work in the Javits Building.
"What's that?"
"This Russian guy, Serov. We got a passport photo, right?"
"Yeah," Sullivan agreed.
"Let's try the flyers again. His bank, it's probably within walking distance of his apartment, right?"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? I like it," Special Agent Tom Sullivan said with some enthusiasm. "Let's see how fast we can get that done."
"Hey, Chuck," the voice said over the phone.
"Good morning-afternoon for you, I suppose, John."
"Yeah, just finished lunch," Clark said. Any luck with this Serov investigation?"
"Nothing yet," the assistant director for the criminal division answered. "These things don't happen overnight, but they do happen. I have the New York field division looking for this mutt. If he's in town, we'll find him," Baker promised. "It might take a while, but we will."
"Sooner is better than later," Rainbow Six pointed out.
"I know. It always is, but stuff like this doesn't happen overnight." Baker knew that he was being kicked in the ass, lest he allow this hunt to become a low-priority item. That would not happen, but this Clark guy was CIA, and he didn't know what it was like to be a cop. "We'll find the guy for you, John. If he's over here, that is. You have the British cops looking, too?"
"Oh, yeah. Thing is, we don't know how many identities he might have."
"In his place, how many would you have?"
"Three or four, probably, and they'd be similar so they're easy for me to remember. This guy's a trained spook. So, he probably has a number of `legends' that he can change into about as easy as he changes shirts."
"I know, John. I've worked Foreign Counterintelligence before. They are elusive game, but we know how to hunt 'em. Are you sweating any more stuff out of your terrorists?"
"They don't talk all that much," the voice replied. "The cops here can't interrogate very effectively."
So, are we supposed to roast them over a slow fire? Baker didn't ask. The FBI operated under the rules established by the U.S. Constitution. He figured that CIA most often did not, and like most FBI types he found that somewhat distasteful. He'd never met Clark, and knew him only by reputation. Director Murray respected him, but had his reservations. Clark had once tortured subjects, Murray had hinted once, and that, for the FBI, was beyond the pale, however effective it might be. The Constitution said "no" on that issue, and that was that, even for kidnappers, even though that was one class of criminal that deserved it in the eyes of every special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
"Trust the Brit cops. They're damned good, John, and they have a lot of experience with IRA types. They know how to talk to them."