by Tom Clancy
“I can understand that,” Harrison said. “I send thousands of men in blue uniforms out into harm’s way every day.”
“Then you can understand that there is very little that I won’t do to protect my people.”
“Exactly where do you draw the line? Where do you stop when it’s important to you?” Harrison was beginning to get an inkling, finally, of what this was about.
“It depends — certainly, where law-abiding citizens are concerned, we follow the letter and spirit of the law of the land. Always. I’m proud of my company. But where criminals and terrorists are concerned, shall we just say there are gray areas in my corporate security measures, and leave it at that?” Gordian tapped the envelope against his leg. It rasped a little across the fine British wool of his suit. The tiny noise was loud in the quiet office.
“I’ll make it a point not to inquire too closely into your methods unless I have to.” Harrison, like Gordian, stared at the envelope.
“The Times Square incident was a terrible tragedy,” Gordian said. “I was watching on television when it happened. It reminded me far too much of my days in Vietnam. If I haven’t mentioned it, you have my deepest sympathies.”
Harrison took a deep breath. He could tell Gordian knew what he was feeling now, knew it all the way to the gut from hard experience. Gordian had been there. He’d survived it. Harrison swallowed hard. “Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you.”
“I don’t like terrorists.” Gordian tightened his jaw. “And when they threaten my people, I refuse to sit still, wring my hands, and watch. Some of my employees had family in that crowd.”
“So did I,” Harrison said softly. “So did I…”
“I’m sorry — I wasn’t thinking…” Gordian looked appalled, clearly realizing what he’d just said.
“It’s okay. I spend every day going through pictures of the crime scene, looking at the evidence from my men, from the FBI and the ATF, trying to see a pattern, see who did this. Believe me, the reminders are everywhere I turn. I’m going to find out who did this to my wife and my city. I’ve got 400 guys working on nothing but this twenty-four hours a day. We’ll get to the bottom of it if I have to dig the pit myself. We have to. For the city. For the mayor. And for my wife. It’s what’s keeping me going.” Harrison gave Gordian a long, level look. “I’d be willing to deal with the devil himself for a shot at the evidence to break this case.”
Gordian held out the envelope. Hands trembling, Harrison took it. He didn’t open it.
“I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t know what was in there,” Gordian said. “Nor will I say that we went through strictly legal channels to get it. We took some shortcuts.”
Harrison didn’t ask. There were some things a man preferred not to know. “I’ll assume you covered your tracks. ”
“Maybe not — I’ll deal with that problem if we get to it. Everything that we’ve been able to find out is in that envelope, along with the supporting evidence, if we’ve got it. If you’d like me to keep you updated from our end, I will. If you find it in your heart to do it, I’d like you, as far as you’re able under the law, to return the favor.”
“Thank you.” Harrison looked down at the envelope, now in his hands. “I’ll keep your name out of it if I can.” He looked back at Gordian, clearly gathering his things to leave now that his mission was accomplished. “I have one question. Why me? You don’t even know me.”
“It seemed to me that you had the greatest right to it. Use it well.” With that, Gordian shook Harrison’s hand, a warm, firm grip that somehow conveyed sympathy, confidence, and comfort without saying a word. Then he left, as quietly as he had come in. It seemed, Harrison thought, he was so bowled over by the encounter with this man he was unable to move, that Gordian’s reputation, considerable though it was, didn’t do him justice. It had taken balls to do what he had just done; balls, and a finely developed conscience, whatever the man said about gray areas.
He shook his head a little to clear it.
Tearing the envelope open, he poured the contents across his desk.
“Jesus!”
Names, photos, times, points of entry and exit, transcripts of conversations, audio cassettes, video cassettes — they were all there.
He shuffled them around, read snatches. He popped the VCR tape into his machine and watched for a second. His jaw dropped. Then he realized what the two people making out in that tape were saying.
Jesus!
He ran to his office door.
“Jackie,” he yelled, “get me the heads of the Times Square special squad, and get them in here right now. Call the D.A. — we’re gonna need some subpoenas. And call the FBI.”
He turned his attention back to the TV, now officially X-rated.
He was looking at the faces of his wife’s murderers.
It was time to take action.
* * *
Security had tightened at the Platinum Club. The number of guards had tripled, and new video cameras hung down from the ceiling beneath understated black plastic bubbles.
Boris smiled to himself as he surveyed the arrangements. Boris wasn’t his real name, but it was the name he was using for this assignment. He couldn’t help thinking that Nick’s effort to increase his security after the break-in was too much like that old American saying — what was it again? Ah, yes: locking the barn doors after the cows had gone.
Too little, too late. That was another American saying, and one that was just as true.
Feeling the weight of the silenced SIG Sauer P229 riding comfortably beneath the jacket of his stolen UPS uniform, he shifted the oversized bubblepak envelope resting on his electronic clipboard and started up the stairs leading to Nick’s private offices.
Two big, burly bodyguards, one with a close-trimmed beard, the other clean shaven, met him at the top of the stairs, cutting him off before he could do more than look around. Right on time, Boris thought.
“I’ll sign for that,” one of them said.
Boris glanced up. There was one of those opaque plastic bubbles up here, too, hanging down from the ceiling at the far end of the plush, carpeted hallway. He wasn’t surprised, though. From what he’d heard about the man, he knew that Nick Roma liked to record everything.
“No problem,” he said, handing the oversized envelope to the bodyguard on his left, the one without the beard, and holding the clipboard out to the one on his right. As that bodyguard reached for the clipboard, Boris pressed a button built into its bottom, triggering its concealed taser and also setting off the small flash unit buried in the envelope.
The taser hit the bodyguard with the beard, burying its tiny dart lead into the soft flesh directly beneath the neatly trimmed black beard. Beside him, the other bodyguard had started to scream as the flames from the suddenly burning package ate at his hands.
Boris was already moving. Drawing his 9mm, he put two quick, subsonic bullets into each bodyguard, and then raced forward toward the door that led into Nick’s private office.
He knew his target was inside. He also knew that the door would be unlocked — Nick relied too much on fallible humans for his personal safety — and that the warning from his security force would come too late.
* * *
Nick Roma looked up as the door of his office swung softly open to reveal a man in a familiar brown uniform.
“A package? Who’s it from?” he asked, even as it dawned on him that his personal bodyguards weren’t flanking the UPS man as they should have been. He started to reach for the gun he kept in a drawer in his desk, but his hand didn’t make it that far.
“Our mutual friend, Yuri Vostov, sends his regards,” said the man in the brown UPS outfit.
Nick Roma’s eyes widened in surprise and sudden understanding — an understanding that came too late.
“Wait—”
But Boris didn’t wait. He put two shots directly into Nick’s head, the first right between the eyes, the second — a difficult shot with the head still
moving from the first impact — slightly higher. Unscrewing the hot, spent silencer from the barrel of his pistol, he screwed a new one in place, slipped in a new clip, and turned toward the fire exit. He paused only once on his way out, to toss a quick smile and a jaunty wave at the mirror, and then he fled the office.
FORTY-TWO
KALININGRAD REGION FEBRUARY 10
The American compound rose up out of the darkness like a silent fortress, but its air of solidness and protection was a mere illusion. There were ten buildings, none of them more than two stories tall, and a concrete wall running around the perimeter. Gregor knew there were infrared beams and sensors running along the top of the wall that would sound an alarm if anyone breached their security. He also knew those infrared beams and sensors were going to do those inside no good at all.
There was one gate in the wall nearest them. Wide enough to permit two trucks to pass through at the same time, the reinforced metal gates swung open past small guard booths mounted on either side.
A typical American setup, Gregor thought. Within, there would be only a handful of poorly armed security guards, and maybe a score or two of technicians. None of them would be a match for him and his team.
As planned, the four BTR-40s came to a halt fifty yards from the metal gates, well beyond the perimeter of light cast by the spots set along the wall. Their headlights were already off, and all the team members had their night vision goggles in place.
Gregor looked over at Nikita. “Get ready, Nikki,” he said.
She looked at him silently for a moment and then nodded. Climbing onto the back of the armored personnel carrier, she went to the M-38 82mm mortar bolted to the floor and made her final sighting adjustments.
She waited a moment longer, giving the passengers of the other three BTR-40s time to get ready, and then fired off the first of her rounds. An instant later, three rocket-propelled grenades arced through the night, streaking toward the metal gate.
Nikki didn’t stay around to watch. As soon as she fired, she dove back into the already moving vehicle, plucking an RPG for herself from the back as she did so.
The peace and stillness of the quiet night erupted in sudden death and destruction. One grenade impacted directly on the metal gates, blasting them off their hinges and flinging them farther into the compound. Two other grenades hit the two guard shacks, cutting off any communication and killing the guards within. Nikita, however, hadn’t aimed at the gate or the guard shacks. She’d had a trickier shot, lifting her mortar shell high above the wall and dropping it directly onto the roof of the building that housed the generator. It was their only shot at taking out the Americans’ communications completely — and even though Gregor knew the Americans had no one to call, still he believed in taking no unnecessary chances.
Nikki’s shot was perfect. Gregor smiled to himself and, closing the fifty yards quickly, he plunged through the debris left behind by the grenades, ignoring whatever damage he might be doing to his tires and the underside of his carrier. His team had already identified the motor pool inside the compound. They planned to leave that untouched, except for any personnel who might be working or hiding in there, and if their own vehicles were damaged they would simply ride out on stolen Jeeps once their mission was accomplished.
The personnel carriers went through the gates single file, Gregor in the lead, then Gilea’s four men in the next two, and the last members of his personal team in the final vehicle. Once inside, each of the four veered off, heading to their preplanned corners of the compound. When they were all in position, they turned and started heading toward the building in the center — the low, concrete building with the satellite uplink equipment mounted on the roof — firing as they went.
There was no resistance. Gregor hadn’t expected much, but he’d expected more than the Americans managed. A couple of security guards were cut down early, caught out in the open with confusion on their faces and fear in their eyes, but beyond those two it appeared that all the remaining personnel were holed up in their prefab apartment buildings, keeping their heads down and hoping to just survive this onslaught.
Unfortunately for them, Gregor’s orders were to the contrary.
As they passed each building, Gregor’s team sent a grenade into the doorway, causing additional destruction and sealing the survivors within. His mission priority was the satellite uplink building. Once that was destroyed, he would be able to devote his full attention to the rest of the compound.
The only building that slowed Gregor down at all was the one where the Americans kept their small supply of firearms. Two of his BTR-40s converged on that building and paused long enough to level it with grenades. Then, turning down the sensitivity on his night vision goggles, Gregor Sadov resumed his methodical advance toward the command and control section of the compound.
* * *
Max Blackburn was on the phone with Alan Jacobs, the head of security at the compound, when the link went dead. Max and his team had been out following leads and were on their way back to the compound. Alan had called him the moment the power went out. No one really suspected there was anything devious or deliberate about the power outage, but standard protocol was to maintain an open line until the problem was identified and solved. Blackburn and his security detail were on their way back to the compound already — except for Vince Scull who had stayed behind to check on a few loose ends — but when the call came in he’d told his driver to speed up a bit.
Max did not hang up when the phone went dead against his ear. Instead, he kept the line open and turned to Meg. They were in the back of a covered truck, the kind used to haul produce from small local farms into the nearby towns for sale, bouncing along on the local equivalent of a road.
“Call in,” he said to her, giving her Jacob’s direct dial.
“Trouble?” she asked, already punching in the number. Standard protocol was to not record any numbers in speed dial, and to always clear the last number in redial memory after completing a call.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
Meg pressed Send and then lifted the phone to her ear. “It’s ringing,” she said after a moment.
Max leaned forward. “Step on it,” he said to the driver.
Meg looked at him, a quizzical expression on her face. Blackburn hadn’t even waited for anyone to answer before reacting.
“There’s trouble,” Max said. “You should have gotten a busy signal. The fact that you didn’t means that the primary phone lines are down.” Turning his head, he called back to Lee “Seal” Johnson, the team’s radio expert. “Use the TAC-Sat,” he said. “I want satellite communication established with the compound, and I want it now. Something’s happening there, and I need to know what it is.”
“It’s no good, sir,” Johnson said after a moment. “The satellite’s responding, but the ground station isn’t.”
Blackburn nodded, his lips pressed into a grim line. “How long until we get back there?”
“Ten minutes, sir,” the driver said.
Blackburn shook his head. He knew all too well just how long ten minutes could be in a firefight. “Make it five,” he said.
“But, sir. The axles won’t take—”
“I don’t give a damn about the axles,” he snapped, “or the ruts in the road. I care about the people who are being attacked back at that compound, and who are relying on us to protect them — which we can’t do from here. Get us back there in five minutes. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said. “Five minutes.”
Blackburn nodded, then turned away and began issuing orders to his team. They had five minutes to get ready, five minutes to prepare for a battle against an unknown adversary, against unknown numbers and unknown firepower.
Five minutes — an eternity for those back at the compound, but not nearly as long as Blackburn would have liked for his team.
Gregor’s men had run into some trouble. Nothing they couldn’t handle, but it had slowe
d them down more than he liked.
He had expected the guards to be unarmed, but as Gregor’s team approached the pillbox building in the heart of the compound, their armored vehicles illuminated by the fires burning around them, they ran into some small arms fire coming from gun ports in all four sides. From the sounds, the guards didn’t have anything bigger than.38-caliber, but that wasn’t what worried him. If the personnel in any of the apartment buildings also had weapons, Gregor and his men could be caught in a deadly crossfire before they accomplished their mission.
This was the point where the battle plan went to hell. Up until now, everything had gone like clockwork — which was especially pleasing considering how little time they’d had to prepare. But now it was time to improvise.
Reaching down, he grabbed the headlight knob and gave it a quick yank. At the same moment, he stomped on the switch on the floor, flipping the lights to bright.
“Get ready, Nikki,” he said, pulling hard on the hand brake.
Diving out of the still moving BTR-40, he rolled a couple of feet, being careful to stay in the zone of darkness created behind the bright headlights. Coming up to one knee, he sharpened the focus on his goggles, raised his rifle, rested his elbow on his left knee, and sighted carefully on the nearest gun port.
He could see the face of a frightened guard staring down over the barrel of what looked like a 9mm Beretta. A nice weapon, but pretty much useless under these conditions.
Gregor took a deep breath, let some of it out, and then, holding the rest of it to calm the slight shake of his rifle, he gently squeezed off a single shot.
Even with his goggles, he couldn’t see the bullet hit home. He was still riding the recoil of his shot when it struck, but a moment later he could see that the gun port was empty, and there were no more shots coming from this side.