"We're listening," said the President.
Rodgers leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Sir, Grozny takes its name from Ivan Grozny, Ivan the Terrible-"
"Why am I not surprised?" muttered Rachlin.
"As far back as the Revolution, they've worked for political gain, not money," Rodgers said. "They were fifth columnists in Germany during the War and caused some minor trouble here during the Cold War. We traced some of the early, unmanned Redstone rocket failures to them."
"Who finances them?" asked Parker.
"Until recently," said Rodgers, "they were underwritten by extreme nationalistic political forces that needed terrorist enforcers. Gorbachev disbanded them in the mid-1980s, at which point they hunkered down overseas, especially in the U.S. and South America, and joined with the increasingly powerful Russian mafia in an effort to overthrow their westernized leaders."
"So they must really hate Zhanin," said Lincoln.
"You've got it," said Rodgers.
"But if they're not tied to the government," the President said, "what can they be planning in Eastern Europe? A military operation of any size can't be run without the approval of the Kremlin. This isn't Chechnya, with a handful of generals in the field dictating military policy to President Yeltsin."
"Hell," Rachlin observed, "I never believed he wasn't calling the shots behind his hand the whole time."
"That's just it," Rodgers said. "Something big just might be run without the Kremlin. What we saw in Chechnya in 1994 was the beginning of a trend toward decentralization in Russia. It's a big country with eight time zones. Suppose someone finally woke up there and said, 'This is like a dinosaur. It needs a couple of brains to make the whole work'?"
The President regarded Rodgers. "Has someone, in fact, done this?"
Rodgers said, "Before the blast, Mr. President, we intercepted a bagel order sent from St. Petersburg to a shop in New York."
"A bagel order?" said Burkow. "Get real."
"That was my reaction," said Rodgers. "We noodled around with it, but it didn't make any sense until after the blast. Using the Midtown Tunnel as a point on a grid, one of our cryptologists figured out that it was a map of New York, with the tunnel as one of the highlights."
"Were the other points secondary targets?" asked Egenes. "After all, the World Trade Center bombers had alternate targets, including the Lincoln Tunnel."
"I don't think so," said Rodgers. "It looked to our analyst like stops in the bomb-making process. Now, Larry-you'll bear me out on this. For a couple of months now, we've been picking up microwave radiation from the Neva in St. Petersburg."
"It's really been cooking over there," Rachlin agreed.
"We thought the radiation was coming from a TV studio being built in the Hermitage," said Rodgers. "We now believe that the studio is a front for some kind of topsecret operation."
"A second 'brain' for the dinosaur," said Lincoln.
"Exactly," said Rodgers. "It was financed, apparently, using funds approved by Interior Minister Nikolai Dogin."
"The loser in the elections," said the President.
"The same," Rodgers said. "And there's one thing more. A British agent was killed trying to have a look at the place. So something is going on there. And whatever it is, whether it's a command center or military base, it's probably connected to the attack in New York through that bagel order."
"So," said Av Lincoln, "we have the Russian government, or some faction thereof, in league with an outlawed terrorist group and, quite possibly, with the Russian mafia. And they apparently control enough of the military so that they can make something major happen in Eastern Europe."
"That's right," said Rodgers.
Rachlin said, "God, how I'd love to grill that arrogant little Grozny rat personally when we have him."
"I guarantee we won't get a thing from him," Egenes said. "They wouldn't have told him anything, then let him hand himself over to us."
"That would be kind of dumb," Rachlin agreed. "They gave him to us just so we could took good, like we wielded a swift and terrible sword of justice."'
"Let's not spit on that," the President said. "We all know that JFK had to compromise the U.S. military in Turkey to get Khrushchev's missiles out of Cuba. The fact that only half the deal came out made him look like a hero and Khrushchev a chump. So," he said, "let's assume that, through St. Petersburg, a government official ordered the attack in New York Could it have been President Zhanin?"
"I doubt it," said Secretary Lincoln. "He wants a relationship with the West, not war."
"Do we know that for sure?" Burkow said. "Speaking of Boris Yeltsin, we've been snowed before."
"Zhanin has nothing to gain," said Lincoln. "He ran against military expenditures. Besides, he and Grozny are natural-born enemies."
"What about Dogin?" the President asked. "Can this be his doing?"
"He's a likelier candidate," said Rodgers. "He paid for the place in St. Petersburg and probably owns the people in it."
"Is there any way we can talk to Zhanin about it. asked Tobey.
"I wouldn't risk it," said Rodgers. "Even if he's out of the loop, chances are good that not everyone around him is trustworthy."
"So then what's your plan, Mike?" Burkow said testily. "From where I sit, one bomb has effectively put the United States on the sidelines. Christ, I remember when things like that used to galvanize people and get us into wars."
Rodgers said, "Steve, the bomb hasn't stopped us. From a strategic point of view, it may have helped."
"How?" asked Burkow.
"Whoever is behind this probably feels they don't have to watch us closely," Rodgers said. "Just like the Russians felt about Hitler after signing the Nonaggression Pact."
"They were wrong," said Lincoln. "He attacked them anyway."
"Exactly," said Rodgers. He looked at the President. "Sir, let's do the same. Let me send Striker to St. Petersburg. As promised, we don't do anything in Eastern Europe. In fact, we let Europe tremble a little at our isolationism."
"That'll certainly tie in with American sentiments these days," said Lincoln.
"Meanwhile," said Rodgers, "we let Striker take these people apart from the brain down."
The President looked at each man's face in turn. Rodgers felt the mood in the room shift.
"I like it," said Burkow. "A lot."
The President stopped at Rodgers's face. "Do it," he said. "Bring me the head of the Big Bad Wolf."
SIXTEEN
Sunday, 8:00 P.M., Los Angeles
Paul Hood was sitting in a lounge beside the hotel pool. He had his pager and cellular phone by his side, and his Panama hat pulled low so that he wouldn't be recognized. He didn't feel like chewing the fat with old constituents just now. Except for the conspicuously absent tan, he probably looked the part of the modem, selfabsorbed, independent film producer.
The truth was, even with Sharon and the kids frolicking a few yards away, in the deep end of the pool, he felt melancholy and strangely alone. He had his Walkman on, listening to an all-news channel as he waited for the President's address to the nation. It had been a long time since he'd followed a breaking news story as a citizen and not a public official, and he didn't like it. He didn't like the sense of helplessness, at not being able to share his grief with the press, with other officials. He wanted to contribute to the healing or the sense of outrage or even the vengeance.
He was just a man on a rubber chair waiting for news like everyone else.
No, not quite like everyone else, he knew. He was waiting for Mike Rodgers to call. Even though the line wasn't secure, Rodgers would find a way to tell him something. Assuming there was something to be told.
As he waited, his thoughts returned to the bombing. The target didn't have to be the tunnel. It could just as well have been this hotel's lobby, with its Asian tourists and businesspeople, filmmakers from Italy, Spain, South America, and even Russia. Scare them away and damage the local economy, from limousine services to r
estaurants. When Hood was the Mayor of Los Angeles, he had participated in a number of seminars about terrorists. Though they'd all had their own methods and reasons for doing what they did, they also had one thing in common. They struck at places people had to use, whether it was a military command center or a means of transportation or an office building. That was how they brought governments to the bargaining table, despite public posturing to the contrary.
He also thought about Bob Herbert, who had lost his legs and his wife in a terrorist bombing. He couldn't imagine how this was affecting him.
A bleached-blond young waiter stopped by Hood's chair and asked him if he wanted a beverage. He ordered a club soda. When the waiter returned, he looked at Hood for a moment.
"You're him, aren't you?"
Hood unhooked his Walkman. "Excuse me?"
"You're Mayor Hood."
"Yes," he smiled up, and nodded.
"Cool," said the young man. "I had Boris Karloff's daughter here yesterday." He set the glass on a wobbly metal table. "Pretty unbelievable about New York, isn't it? It's the kind of thing you don't want to think about, yet you can't not think about."
"True," said Hood.
The waiter leaned closer as he poured the sparkling water. "You'll appreciate this. Or maybe you won't. I heard Manager Mosura tell the house detective that our insurance company wants us to offer daily evacuation drills, like they do on luxury liners. Just so people can't sue the chain if we get blown up."
"Protect your guests and your assets," Hood said.
"Exactamundo," said the waiter.
Hood signed the bill and thanked the waiter as his phone chirped. He answered quickly.
"How are you, Mike?" he asked. He picked up the phone and began walking toward a shady corner, where there were no other guests.
"Same as everyone," Rodgers said. "Sick and mad."
"What can you tell me?" Hood asked.
"I'm heading to the office after meeting with the boss," he said. "A lot's happened. For one thing, the perpetrator called. Gave up. We've got him."
"Just like that?" Hood asked.
"There were some strings attached," Rodgers said. "We have to stay out of some business he says is going down overseas. Old Red zone. Otherwise, we get more of the same."
"Is this big business?" Hood asked.
"We're not sure. Army business, it appears.
"From the new President?" Hood asked.
"We don't think so," Rodgers said. "It appears to be a reaction to him and not necessarily his doing."
"I see," said Hood.
"In fact, we think the okay for all this came from that TV studio we've been tuned in to. Got a pretty solid paper trail. The boss has authorized us to have a look see, pending all the paperwork. I've put Lowell on it."
Hood stopped walking under a palm tree. The President had authorized a Striker excursion into St. Petersburg, and Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey II was going to seek approval from the Congressional Oversight Intelligence Committee. That was heavy-duty.
Hood looked at his watch. "Mike, I'm going to try and catch a red-eye back there."
"Don't," said Rodgers. "We've got some time on this. When things start to hop, I can chopper you up to Sacramento and you can hitch a ride from March."
Hood looked back at the kids. They were all supposed to take the Magna Studio tour in the morning. And Rodgers had a point. It would be a half-hour hop up to the Air Force base, then less than a five-hour ride back to D.C. But he had taken an oath to do a job, and it was a job-more accurately, a burden, a responsibility, which he didn't want to put on anyone else's shoulders.
His heart was beating fast. Hood knew what it wanted to do. It was already getting the blood to his legs so he could make the plane.
"Let me talk to Sharon," he said to Rodgers.
She's going to kill you," Rodgers said. "Take a deep breath and a jog around the parking lot. We can handle this."
"Thanks," Hood said, "but I'll let you know what I'm doing. I appreciate the update. I'll talk to you later."
"Sure," Rodgers said glumly.
Hood clicked off and folded up the phone. He swatted it gently in his open palm.
Sharon would kill him, and the kids would be crushed. Alexander had been looking forward to doing the virtual reality Teknophage attraction with him.
Jesus, why can't anything ever be simple he asked himself as he walked toward the pool. "Because then there would be no dynamics between people," he said under his breath, "and life would be boring."
Though he had to admit that a little boredom would be good right now. It was what he'd come back to Los Angeles in the hopes of finding.
"Dad, you comin' in?" his daughter, Harleigh, yelled as he approached.
"No, cheesehead," said Alexander. "Can't you see he's got his phone?"
"I can't see that far without my glasses, dorko," she replied.
Sharon had stopped squirt-gunning their son and was swimming in place. From her expression, he could tell that she knew what was coming.
"Gather round," Sharon said as her husband squatted by the side of the pool. "I think Dad's got something to tell us."
Hood said simply, "I have to go back. What happened today-we have to respond."
"They need Dad to kick ass," Alexander said.
"Hush," Hood said. "Remember, loose lips-"
"Sink ships," said the ten-year-old. "Ex-squeeze me," he said as he went under.
His twelve-year-old sister went to hold him there, but Alexander darted away.
Sharon just glared at her husband. "This response," she asked quietly. "It can't possibly be made without you?"
"It can."
"Then let it.
"I can't," Hood said. He looked down, then off to the side. Anywhere but in her eyes. -I'm sorry. I'll call you later."
Hood got up and called out to the kids, who interrupted their chase long enough to wave. "Get me a T-shirt at Teknophage," he said.
"We will!" Alexander said.
He turned to walk away.
"Paul?" Sharon said.
He stopped and looked back.
"I know this is difficult," she said, "and I'm not making it any easier. But we need you too. Especially Alexander. He's going to be, 'Oh, Dad would have loved this' and 'Dad would have loved that' all day tomorrow. Sometime real soon, you're going to have to start 'responding' to not being around enough."
"You don't think this kills me?" Hood asked.
"Not enough," Sharon said as she pushed off the side. "Not as much as being away from your electric trains in D.C. Think about it, Paul.
He would, he promised himself.
In the meantime, he had a plane to catch.
SEVENTEEN
Monday, 3:33 A.M., Washington D.C.
Lieutenant Colonel W. Charles Squires stood on the dark airstrip at Quantico. He was dressed in civilian clothes and a leather jacket, his laptop computer standing on the tarmac between his legs as he hustled the six other members of the Striker team into the two Bell JetRangers that would shuttle them to Andrews Air Force Base. There, they would transfer to Striker's private C-141B StarLifter for the eleven-hour flight to Helsinki.
The night was crisp and invigorating, though, as always, it was the work itself that exhilarated him the most. When he was a kid growing up in Jamaica, he had never experienced anything more exciting than running onto the soccer field before a game, especially when the odds were against his team; that was how he felt each time Striker kicked into action. It was because of Squires's passion for soccer that Hood allowed him to name the team after the position he had played.
Squires had been sleeping in his small home on the base when Rodgers called, giving him his orders for the trip to Finland. Rodgers apologized that they were only able to get congressional approval for a seven-person team, rather than the usual twelve. Congress had to mess with everything they were given, and this time it was the roster that was pared. The thinking was, if caught, they could always exp
lain to the Russians that they hadn't sent over a full force. In the world of international politics, distinctions like that apparently meant something. Fortunately, after the last mission, Squires had adapted Strikers' playbook to work with almost any number of team members.
Squires didn't kiss his wife goodbye: farewells were easier if she stayed asleep through them. Instead, he took the secure phone into the bathroom and talked to Rodgers while he dressed. The tentative plan was for them to pose as tourists once they arrived. Once the team was airborne, Rodgers would be in contact with Squires with additions or embellishments to the plan. As it stood, three operatives would go into St. Petersburg, four would wait in Helsinki as backup.
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