State of Siege - Tom Clancy [4]
The door opened and Etienne Vandal walked in. His longish brown hair was slicked back and he was wearing sunglasses, a video camera carrying case slung casually over his left shoulder. He was followed by the bald, barrel-chested Georgiev, the short and swarthy Barone, and the tall, broad-shouldered Sazanka. All of the men were wearing touristy T-shirts and blue jeans. They also wore the same, flat expressions.
Sazanka shut the door. He shut it quietly, politely. Downer sighed. He slipped the firearm back in its hol-ster. "How'd it go?" the Australian asked. Downer's voice was still rich with the tight gutturals of western New South Wales.
"Ewed ih gow?" Barone said, mimicking the Australian's thick accent.
"Stop that," Vandal told him.
"Yes, sir," Barone replied. He threw the officer a casual salute and frowned at Downer.
Downer didn't like Barone. The cocky little man had something none of the other men possessed: an attitude. He acted as though everyone were a potential enemy, even his allies. Barone also had a good ear. He'd worked as a custodian at the American embassy when he was a teenager and had lost most of his accent. The one thing that kept Downer from lashing out at the younger man was they both knew that if the little Uruguayan ever crossed the line too far, the six-foot-four-inch Australian could and would pull him in two. Vandal put the case on the table and popped the tape from the camera. He walked over to the TV.
"I think the surveillance went fine," Vandal said. "The traffic patterns appear to be the same as they were last week. But we'll compare the tapes, just to make sure."
"For the last time, I hope," Barone said. "We all hope," Downer said.
"Yes, but I'm anxious to move," the twenty-nine-year-old officer said. He did not say where he wanted to move. A group of foreigners meeting in a rundown flat never knew who might be eavesdropping. Sazanka sat silently on the sofa and untied his Nikes. He massaged his thick feet. Barone tossed him a bottled water from the refrigerator in the kitchenette. The Japanese grunted his thanks. Sazanka's command of English was the weakest, and he tended to say very little. Downer shared his uncle's view of the Japanese, and Sazanka's silence made him happy. Ever since Downer was a child, Japanese sailors, tourists, and speculators had been all over the harbor in Sydney. If they didn't act as though they owned it, they acted as though one day they would. Unfortunately, Sazanka could fly a variety of aircraft. The group needed his skills. Barone handed a bottle to Georgiev, who was standing behind him. "Thank you," Georgiev said.
They were the first words Downer had heard the Bulgarian speak since dinner the night before-even though he spoke nearly perfect English, having worked for almost ten years as a Central Intelligence Agency contact in Sofia. Georgiev hadn't talked a lot in Cambodia, either. He'd kept an eye out for their Khmer Rouge contacts as well as undercover government police or UN human rights observers. The Bulgarian preferred to lis ten, even when nothing was being discussed. Downer wished he himself had the patience for that. Good listeners could hear things in casual conversation, when people had their guard down, that often proved valuable. "Want one?" Barone asked Vandal. The Frenchman shook his head.
Barone looked at Downer. "I'd offer you a bottle, but I know you'd refuse. You like it hot. Boiling." "Warm beverages are better for you," Downer replied. "They make you sweat. Cleans the system." "As if we don't sweat enough," Barone commented. "I don't," Downer said. "And it's a good sensation. Makes you feel productive. Alive."
"When you're with a lady, sweating is great," Barone said. "In here, it's self-punishment."
"That can be a good feeling, too," Downer said. "To a psychotic, maybe."
Downer grinned. "And aren't we, mate?" "Enough," Vandal said as the videotape began to