by Tom Clancy
"Bob, it's Darrell. The FBI lost their guy in Tokyo."
"What happened?"
"Gunned down by the crew of the Gulfstream," McCaskey said grimly. "The Japanese lost their Self-Defense Force guy in the cross fire."
"Darrell, it's Mike," said Rodgers. "Anyone hurt on the plane?"
"Not that we can tell, though the ground crew didn't say much. They're scared."
"Or bribed," Herbert said. "Sorry about this, Dar. Did he have any family?"
"A father," McCaskey said. "I'll see if there's anything we can do for him."
"Right," said Herbert.
"I guess that cements the link between the plane and the Russian drug dealers," said McCaskey. "Even the Colombians aren't insane enough to have a firefight at an international airport."
"No," Herbert said. "They shoot the guys who are supposed to try the cases. They all stink deeply, and I'd love to turn Striker loose on the lot of them."
Herbert hung up and took a second to collect himself. These things always made the Intelligence Officer queasy, the more so when there was any kind of family involved.
He looked at Rodgers. "What was it that you were wondering a minute ago, General?"
Rodgers was more somber than before. "If this connects with what Matt found out. Our boy genius just conferenced with Paul and me," Rodgers said. "He hacked the Kremlin payroll through the bank in Riyadh that holds about ten billion dollars in IOUs. He found out they've been employing some very expensive executives at the new TV studio in the Hermitage and in the Ministry of the Interior— people with no prior records anywhere."
"Meaning that someone may have created names and identities for payroll purposes," Herbert said, "to pay people who are working secretly in St. Petersburg."
"Correct," Rodgers said, "as well as to buy a lot of hi-tech stuff from Japan, Germany, and the U.S. — components which were sent to the Ministry of the Interior. It's beginning to smell a lot like Dogin put together a very sophisticated intelligence operation up there. Maybe Orlov is there to help with any orbital hardware they're using."
Herbert tapped his forehead. "So assuming Dogin is the bossman, and is tight with the Russian mafia, there's a good chance he's planning a coup. He doesn't need arms. Kosigan has those."
"No," said Rodgers. "It's what I was telling Paul earlier. What he needs is money to buy politicians, journalists, and support from abroad. And that money might very well come from Shovich in exchange for future considerations."
"Could be," Herbert agreed. "Or Dogin may be planning to raise money by selling drugs provided by Shovich. He wouldn't be the first world leader to do that. Just the biggest. He could have the crap carried around the world in diplomatic pouches by officials sympathetic to his cause."
"Makes sense," Rodgers said. "The diplomats take out drugs, come back with hard currency."
"So those crates up in Vladivostok are probably a part of all this," Herbert said. "Either drugs, money, or both."
"You know what's a real kick in the head?" Rodgers said. "Even if Zhanin found out about all this, he couldn't do a damn thing. If he acted, one of two things would happen.
"One," Rodgers said, "he defeats Dogin, but his subsequent purge is so far-reaching and debilitating that it scares off the foreign investors he needs to rebuild the country. Result: Russia ends up in worse shape than it is.
"Two," Rodgers continued, "Zhanin forces his enemies to attack before they're ready, causing a long and bloody revolt with nuclear weapons in God knows whose hands. Our main concern has got to be what it was in Panama under Noriega or Iran under the Shah. Stability, not legality."
"Good point," Herbert said. "So what do you think the President will do?"
"Just what he did last night," Rodgers said. "Nothing. He can't inform Zhanin for fear of leaks. And he can't offer any military help. We bargained that option away. In any case, there's a danger in any kind of preemptive strike. You don't want to force Dogin and his cronies underground, where they would still be a tremendous threat."
"And how will the President explain to NATO that he's doing nothing?" Herbert said. "They're a bunch of chickenhearts, but they'll want to rattle their sabers."
"He may rattle along with them," Rodgers said, "or, if I know Lawrence, he may cloak himself in neo-isolationism and tell NATO to take a swim. That'll play well with the mood of the American public. Especially in the wake of the tunnel bombing."
As Herbert sat there, tapping his leather armrest, the desk phone beeped. He glanced at the ID number on the base. It was the NRO. He put it on speaker so Rodgers could hear.
"Bob," said Stephen Viens, "we haven't got your AIM reading yet, but we watched the first truck as it left the airport. It went straight to the railroad station in Vladivostok.
"What's the weather like at the site?" Herbert asked.
"Awful," said Viens, "which is probably why they did it. Real heavy snows. It's storming all over the region, in fact, and it's supposed to stay that way for at least forty-eight hours."
"So Dogin or Kosigan decided to transfer the goods from a grounded airplane to the railroad," Herbert said. "Can you see anything at the station?"
"No," Viens said. "The train is inside the terminal. But we have the scheduled departures and we'll watch any one that leaves when it isn't supposed to."
"Thanks," Herbert said. "Keep me up-to-date."
When Viens clicked off, the Intelligence Officer contemplated the cargo being placed in an ITS target— identifiable, trackable, strikable.
"And important," he said under his breath.
"What was that?" Rodgers asked.
"I said, obviously the cargo is important," Herbert said. "Otherwise, they'd have sat out the storm."
"I agree," Rodgers said. "And not only is it vitally important, it's also out there in the open."
It took a moment before Herbert really heard what Rodgers had said. He frowned. "No, Mike, it's not out in the open. It's heading deep into Russia, thousands of miles from any friendly border. This is not a short hop and you're back in Finland."
"You're right," said Rodgers. "But it's also the quickest way to hamstring Dogin. No bucks, no buckshot."
"Jesus, Mike," Herbert said, "think this through. Paul believes in diplomacy, not warfare. He'll never agree—"
"Hold on," said Rodgers.
Herbert sat there while Rodgers went to the desk phone and buzzed Hood's executive assistant.
"Bugs?" he said. "Is Paul still sitting in on the TAS session?"
"I believe so, " Bugs Benet responded.
"Ask him if he can come to Bob Herbert's office. Something has come up."
"Will do," Benet said.
When Benet clicked off, Rodgers said, "We'll find out right now if he agrees."
"Even if you can convince him," Herbert said, "the CIC will never in a million years go along with this."
"They already okayed a Striker incursion into Russia," Rodgers said. "Darrell and Martha will have to get them to approve another."
"And if they can't?"
Rodgers said, "What would you do, Bob?"
Herbert was silent for a long moment. "Jesus, Mike," he said, "you know what I'd do."
"You'd send them in because it's the right mission and they're the right team, and you know it. Look," Rodgers said, "we both shoveled dirt on Bass Moore's coffin after North Korea— I was in on that incursion. I've been on other missions where troops have been killed. But that can't immobilize us. This is what we created Striker for."
Herbert's door beeped and he let Hood in.
The Director's tired eyes showed concern as they settled on Herbert. "You don't look very happy, Bob. What's up?"
Rodgers told him. Hood sat on the edge of Herbert's desk, listening without comment as the General informed him about the situation in Russia and his thoughts on Striker.
When he was finished, Hood asked, "How do you think our terrorists would react to this? Would it be a breach of our deal with them?"
; "No," said Rodgers. "They specifically told us to stay out of Eastern Europe, not central Russia. In any case, we'd be in and out before they knew it."
"Fair enough," said Hood. "On to the larger question, then. You know how I feel about force as opposed to negotiation."
"Same as I do," said Rodgers. "Better to shoot off your mouth than a gun. But we won't be able to talk this train back to Vladivostok."
"Probably not," Hood agreed, "which raises another issue entirely. Let's assume you get an okay to send Striker to reconnoiter and you find out what's on the train. Say it's heroin. What then? Do you seize it, destroy it, or call Zhanin to send Russian troops to fight Russian troops?"
Rodgers said, "When you've got a fox in your gunsight, you don't put down the rifle and call for the hounds. That's how you end up with Nazis in Poland, Castro in Cuba, and a Communist Vietnam."
Hood shook his head. "You're talking about attacking Russia."
"Yes, I am," Rodgers said. "Didn't they just attack us?"
"That was different."
"Tell that to the families of the dead," Rodgers said. He walked toward Hood. "Paul, we aren't another fat, pass-the-buck government agency. Op-Center was chartered to get things done, things the CIA and the State Department and the military can't do. We've got a chance to do that. Charlie Squires put Striker together with the full knowledge that they would be called upon to play with fire, no different than any other elite military team, from the spetsnaz to Oman's Royal Guard to Equatorial Guinea's Guardia Civil. What we have to work toward— what we have to believe— is that if we all do our jobs and keep our wits, this thing can be kept under wraps and dealt with."
Hood looked at Herbert. "What do you think?"
Herbert shut his eyes and rubbed the lids. "As I get older, the thought of kids dying for political expediency is increasingly nauseating to me. But the Dogin-Shovich-Kosigan team is a nightmare, and like it or not, Op-Center is in the front line."
"What about St. Petersburg?" Hood asked. "We decided that cutting the brain from the body would be enough."
"This dragon is bigger than we thought," Rodgers said. "You take off the head, the body may still be alive long enough to do some serious damage. Those drugs or money or whatever is on the train can make that happen."
Herbert rolled over to Hood. He clapped a hand on his knee. "You look as unhappy as I did, Chief."
Hood said, "And now I know why." He looked at Rodgers. "I know you wouldn't risk your team unless you thought it was worth it. If Darrell can swing this with the CIC, do what needs to be done."
Rodgers turned to Herbert. "Head over to TAS. Have them draw up a plan leaving as small a Striker contingent as possible in Helsinki, then figure out the cleanest, fastest way of getting Striker to the train. Bounce it off Charlie each step of the way, and make sure he's comfortable with it."
"Oh, you know Charlie," Herbert said as he swung his wheelchair toward the door. "If it involves putting his ass on the line, he'll be for it."
"I know," Rodgers said. "He's the best of us."
"Mike," Hood said, "I'll brief the President on this one. Just so you know, I'm still not behind this one hundred percent. But I'm behind you."
"Thanks," Rodgers said. "That's all I want or expect."
The men followed Herbert out.
As he rolled alone toward the TAS command center, the Intelligence Officer found himself wondering why nothing in human affairs— whether it was the conquest of a nation or the changing of a single mind or the pursuit of a lover— could be accomplished without struggle.
It was said that trials were what made the victory so sweet, but Herbert never bought that. From where he sat, he'd settle for having the victories come a little easier now and then
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tuesday, 11:20 P.M., Moscow
The room was small and dark with concrete walls and a fluorescent light overhead. There was a wooden table, a single stool, and a metal door. There were no windows. The black tile floor was faded and badly scuffed.
Andrei Volko sat beneath the flickering lights in the small, windowless room. He knew why he was here, and he had a good idea what was going to happen to him. The militiaman with the gun had led him from the train without a word, to two waiting armed guards and, together, the four of them had climbed into a police car and come to the station on Dzerzhinsky Street, not far from the old KGB headquarters. Volko had been handcuffed at the station. As he sat on the stool feeling utterly helpless, he wondered how they had found out about him. He assumed it was through something Fields-Hutton had left behind. Not that it mattered. He tried not to think how long and hard he would be beaten until his captors believed he knew absolutely nothing about any operatives apart from the ones they'd already taken. More important, he wondered how many days it would be before he was tried, imprisoned, and finally awakened one morning and shot in the head. What lay ahead seemed surrealistic.
He could only hear his thumping heart as it beat loudly in his ears. Every now and then a wave of terror rolled through him, a mix of fear and despair that caused him to ask himself, How have I come to this point in my life? A decorated soldier, a good son, a man who had only wanted what was due to him- A key turned and the door swung open. Three guards entered the room. Two men wore uniforms and carried clubs. The third man was young, short, and dressed in crisply pressed brown trousers and a white shirt without any tie. He had a round face with gentle eyes and smoked a strong-smelling cigarette. The two guards positioned themselves alongside the open door, legs spread wide apart, blocking it.
"My name is Pogodin," the young man said firmly as he approached him, "and you are in quite a bit of trouble. We found the telephone in your cassette machine. Your fellow traitor in St. Petersburg had one also. However, unlike you, he had the misfortune of falling into the hands of a spetsnaz officer who dealt with him rather harshly. We also have the labels from the English tea bags you served the British spy. Very clever. I imagine you passed information inside them, then cleared the table so no one would ever notice the missing labels. There were fibers from one of the labels in his wallet. We wouldn't have found you if not for that. Do you deny any of this?"
Volko said nothing. He wasn't feeling especially brave, but all he had left was his self-respect. He wasn't about to lose it.
Pogodin was standing right beside Volko, looking down at him. "Commendable. Most people in your position screech like birds. Perhaps you don't know of our reputation for obtaining information?"
"I know," Volko said.
Pogodin regarded him for a moment. He looked as though he was trying to decide whether Volko was brave or stupid. "Would you care for a cigarette?"
The waiter shook his head.
"Would you care to save your life and repay some of the debt you owe to your country?"
Volko looked up at his youthful captor.
"I see that you would," Pogodin said. He used his cigarette to point to the men behind him. "Shall I send them away so we can talk?"
Volko thought for a moment, then nodded.
Pogodin told them to go and they shut the door behind them as they left. The young man walked around Volko to the table and perched on the edge.
"You were expecting somewhat different treatment, weren't you?" Pogodin asked.
"When?" Volko said. "Today, or when I returned from Afghanistan with a broken back and a pension that wouldn't support a dog?"
"Ah, bitterness," Pogodin said. "A greater motivator than anger because it doesn't pass. So you betrayed Russia because your pension was too small?"
"No," Volko said. "Because I felt betrayed. I was in pain every moment I worked, every time I stood."
Pogodin poked his chest with a thumb. "And I'm in pain each day I think of my grandfather being crushed by a tank in Stalingrad, or my two elder brothers killed by snipers in Afghanistan— and men like you betraying what they died for because you felt uncomfortable. Is that all the affection you can muster for Russia?"
Volko loo
ked straight ahead. "A man has to eat, and in order to eat he must work. I would have been fired from the hotel if the Englishman hadn't insisted they keep me. He spent a great deal of money there."
Pogodin shook his head. "I should tell my superiors at the Ministry of Security that you are unapologetic and would sell your country again for a price."
"That wasn't what I wanted," Volko said. "It never was, and it isn't now."
"No," said Pogodin, drawing on his cigarette, "because now your friends are dead and you're facing death." He leaned toward the waiter, blowing smoke from both nostrils. "Here's how it can be different, Andrei Volko. Why were you heading to St. Petersburg?"
"To meet someone. I didn't know that he was already dead."
Pogodin slapped the waiter hard across the cheek. "You weren't going to meet the Englishman or the Russian. You wouldn't have been told who the latter was, and besides— they were already dead and DI6 knew it. When the spetsnaz officer tried to use their concealed telephones, the lines were inactive. He was too impatient. You have an ID to enter first, correct?"
Volko remained silent.
"Of course, correct," Pogodin said. "So you were headed to St. Petersburg to meet someone else. Who?"
Volko continued to stare ahead, his terror supplanted by shame. He knew what was coming, what Pogodin had in mind, and he knew he would have a terrible choice to make.
"I don't know," Volko said. "I was—"
"Go on."
Volko took a long, tremulous breath. "I was to go there, contact London, and await further instructions."
"Were they going to try and get you into Finland?" Pogodin asked.
"That— was my impression," Volko said.
Pogodin smoked while he thought, then rose and looked down at the waiter. "I'll be frank, Andrei. The only way you can save yourself is to help us learn more about the British operation. Are you willing to go to St. Petersburg as planned and work with us instead of with the enemy?"
"Willing?" Volko said. "In a relationship that began with a gun at my neck?"
Pogodin said coldly, "And it will end with one there if you don't cooperate."