an HMP-prisoner by the name of Sean, S-E-A-N, Hennessy, double n, double s. Probably an SIB apprehension, approximately three months ago. Status: arraigned, not convicted, awaiting trial." Her eyes sought out his for confirmation, and Janson nodded.
"We'll need to have him released at once and on a plane bound for ... " She paused, reconsidering. "There's an LF jet docked at Gatwick. Get him on board immediately. Call me back within forty-five minutes with an estimated arrival time."
Janson shook his head, marveling. "Sir Richard" had to be Richard Whitehead, the director of Britain's Special Investigations Branch. But what most impressed him was her coolly instructive tone. Whitehead was to call back to let her know not whether the request could be accommodated but when the request would be accommodated. As Novak's seniormost deputy, she was obviously well known to political elites around the world. He had been preoccupied with the advantages enjoyed by his Anuran adversaries, but Novak's people were hardly without resources themselves.
Janson also admired Lang's instinctive respect for operational security. No final destination was divulged; the Liberty Foundation jet at Gatwick would just need to provide a proximate flight plan. Only once it had crossed into international airspace would its pilot need to know the rendezvous point Janson had determined, in the Nicobar archipelago.
Now Janson started to go over a list of military equipment with one of Lang's associates, a man named Gerald Hochschild, who served as a de facto logistics officer. To each request, Hochschild responded not with a yes or no, but with a time interval: twelve hours, four hours, twenty hours. The amount of time that would be necessary to locate and ship the equipment to the Nicobar rendezvous.
It was almost too easy, Janson mused. Then he realized why. While human rights organizations held conferences to discuss the problem of the small-arms trade in Sierre Leone or the traffic in military helicopters in Kazakhstan, Novak's foundation had a more direct method for taking the noxious hardware off the market: it simply acquired the stuff. As Hochschild confirmed, as long as the model was discontinued and therefore irreplaceable, the Liberty Foundation would buy it, warehouse it, and eventually recycle it as scrap or, in the case of military transport, have it retooled for civilian purposes.
Thirty minutes later, a green light on the telephone blinked. Marta Lang picked up the handset. "So he's en route? Condition?" There was a pause, and then she said, "We'll assume a departure time in less than sixty minutes, in that case." Her voice softened. "You've been a dear. We couldn't appreciate it more. Really. And you be sure to send my love to Gillian, will you? We all missed you in Davos this year. You can be certain that Peter gave the PM an earful about that! Yes. Yes. We'll catch up properly - soon."
A woman of parts, Janson thought admiringly.
"There's a reasonable chance that your Mr. Hennessy will beat you to the rendezvous," Marta told him immediately after she hung up.
"My hat's off," Janson said simply.
Through the windows, the sun was a golden orb, cushioned by white, fluffy-looking clouds. Though they were flying toward the setting sun, the passage of time was keeping pace. When Lang's eyes lowered to her watch, he knew she was looking at more than simply the time of day. She was looking at the number of hours Peter Novak had left. She met his gaze and paused for a moment before speaking. "Whatever happens," she said, "I want to thank you for what you've given us."
"I've given you nothing," Janson protested.
"You've given us something of quite substantial value," she said. "You've given us hope."
Janson started to say something about the realities, the long odds, the abundant downside scenarios, but he stopped himself. There was a higher pragmatism to be respected. At this stage of a mission, false hope was better than none at all.
CHAPTER THREE
The memories were thirty years old, but they could have been yesterday's. They unspooled in his dreams at night - always the night before an operation, fueled by repressed anxiety - and though they started and ended at different points, it was as though they were from the same continuous loop of tape.
In the jungle was a base. In the base was an office. In the office was a desk. On the desk was a sheet of paper.
It was, in fact, the list for that date's Harassment & Interdiction fire.
Possible VC rocket attack, launch site grid coordinates AT384341, between 0200 and