by Tom Clancy
"In China?" Coffey said. "No one in Russia?"
"Our people in Vladivostok became repatriated when the Iron Curtain came down," Rodgers said. "We haven't had the resources to recruit others."
"What about lying low until things quiet down," Phil Katzen asked. "The terrain is survivable—"
"The Russians know Striker's there, dammit!" Rodgers said. "They've got satellites too, and they'll find them!" He looked at Hood. "Paul, the best way out of this is straight ahead, as planned."
"Straight ahead," said Martha, "to a showdown with Russian soldiers at a time when the country's a tinderbox waiting for a match."
"The only way you'd keep that quiet," Coffey warned, "is to kill everyone on the train."
"Is it better to let a war happen," Rodgers countered, "one that would suck in Europe and probably the Chinese? Why do I feel like I'm back in 1945, listening to all the arguments about why we shouldn't use the A-bomb to save American lives?"
Hood said, "Mike, the issue here is American lives. Striker lives—"
"Don't lecture me about Striker lives, Paul," Rodgers said through his teeth. "Please."
Hood sat quietly for a moment. "Fair enough."
Rodgers's hands were folded on the table. His thumbs were red and pressing down hard.
"You all right, Mike?" Liz asked.
He nodded and looked at Hood. "Sorry, Paul. I was out of line."
"Forget it," Hood said. "You and I could both use a movie and popcorn."
"Whew!" said Coffey. "Who's the family man here?"
Hood and Rodgers both smiled.
"All right," said Hood. "An R-rated movie."
"Hey, the guy's out of control," Coffey said. "Someone call the excitement police!"
Everyone but Ann was chuckling, and Hood tapped a finger on the table to bring them back. "What I was about to say a moment ago," he continued, "is that the diplomats haven't given up on solving this, and no one knows what President Zhanin will do. Do we jeopardize that by going ahead with the mission?"
"Whatever they do," Rodgers said evenly, "the crates on that train represent a lot of power for corrupt people. Even if it doesn't start a war, the cargo places influence in the hands of gangsters. Don't we have a responsibility to try and take that away?"
Coffey said, "Our first responsibility is to Striker and the laws we're all supposed to live by."
"Laws passed by your friends on the Hill," Rodgers said, "not moral law. You did what was necessary up there, but like Benjamin Franklin said, 'Necessity never made a good bargain.' " Rodgers looked at Hood. "You know me, Paul. Striker is dearer than my own life, but doing what's right is more important than both. And stopping that train is right."
Hood listened carefully. Rodgers and Coffey were coming at the problem from two directions, and neither of them was wrong. But the call was his, and he hated the fact that he was sitting here in comfort and security deciding the fate of seven people on a frozen cliff on the opposite side of the world.
He input Bugs's code on the computer, and his assistant's face appeared on the monitor.
"Yes, Paul?"
"Signal Striker on the TAC-Sat, see if Lieutenant Colonel Squires is free to come on. If not, when it's convenient."
"Will do," Bugs said, and his image winked off.
Rodgers didn't look happy. "What are you going to do, Paul?"
"Charlie's the commander in the field," Hood said. "I want his input."
"He's a professional soldier," Rodgers said. "What do you think he's going to say?"
"If he can take the call, let's find out."
"You don't do that to a soldier," Rodgers said. "That's not leadership, it's management. The only question we should be asking is, are we behind Striker or aren't we? Can we make this commitment and stick to it?"
"We can," Hood replied coolly. "But after your Korean mission, I went back and read the white papers you wrote as part of the ad hoc joint task force planning the rescue of our hostages from Khomeini's Revolutionary Guards. You were right about our forces being ready on paper and not in practice. And you were also right to be very concerned about extracting the advance party of Special Forces soldiers that would infiltrate Teheran a few days before the Eagle Claw mission. Without your prompting, the agents wouldn't have had a plan to get them out of the Mehrabad International Airport on Swiss Air if things went wrong. Why did you come up with that?"
"Because sneaking them out, one at a time, from the safe house would have given the Iranians more time to find them," Rodgers said. "It made more sense to buy commercial airline tickets and get them the hell out together."
"Who did you work that out with?" Hood asked.
"Ari Moreaux, who set up the safe house for us."
"Your man on the site," Hood said as Bugs's image reappeared. "Yes, Bugs?"
"I beeped Honda's helmet phones. We'll just have to wait."
"Thanks," said Hood. He looked at Rodgers again. "This isn't Vietnam, Mike. We're not withdrawing moral or tactical support from our personnel in the field. If Squires wants to go ahead, I'll back him and take the butt-whipping from Congress later."
"It's not your call," Rodgers quietly reminded him.
"Striker is yours to command," Hood agreed, "but going outside the parameters established by the Intelligence Committee is my call."
Bugs came back on. "Lieutenant Colonel Squires is minding the headphones, Paul. I have him on the line."
Hood punched up the volume on the phone link. "Lieutenant Colonel?"
"Yes, sir!" said Squires, his voice clear despite the crackling caused by the snowfall.
"What's your disposition?" Hood asked.
"Five Strikers are nearly down the cliff. Private Newmeyer and I are about to descend."
"Lieutenant Colonel," Rodgers said, "there are Russian soldiers on top of the train. We make out ten or eleven, the all-NEWS network."
Facing north, east, west, and south, Hood knew. "We're concerned about letting you go ahead with the mission," Hood said. "What does it look like to you?"
"Well, sir," Squires said, "I've been standing here looking at the landscape—"
"The landscape?" Hood said.
"Yes, sir. This looks doable, and I'd like permission to proceed."
Hood caught the glint in Rodgers's eye. It was a flash of pride, not triumph.
"You understand the mission parameters," Hood said.
"We don't break any Russians," Squires said. "I think we can manage that. If not, we'll abort and head for the extraction point."
"Sounds like a plan," Hood said. "We'll keep an eye on the train and update you if necessary."
"Thank you, sir General Rodgers. As they say in the foothills, 'Dosvedanya.' See you later."
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Tuesday, 2:52 P.M., St. Petersburg
Peggy stopped at the coin-operated telephone just above the Griboyedora Canal. After looking around, she pushed two kopeks into the coin slot. She answered George's mystified look by saying, "Volko. Cellular phone."
Right, he thought. The spy. With everything else that was going on, George had forgotten about him. One of the things Striker operatives had been trained to do was take in their surroundings in a seemingly casual glance, remembering details that most people would have missed. The ordinary person looked at the sky or the sea or a skyline— big, impressive sights. But that wasn't where "information" tended to be. It was in a glen under the sky or a cove beside the sea or a street running past a building. Those were the places Strikers looked. And at people, always people. A tree or mailbox wasn't a threat to a mission, but someone behind them could be.
And because he hadn't looked at the trees in the park or the busy thoroughfare when he'd arrived, Private George noticed that the man who had been napping on the bench was no longer asleep. He was walking slowly less than two hundred yards behind them and his St. Bernard was panting. He had been running to get there, not strolling.
Peggy said in Russian, "The Hermitage, Raphael
's Conestabile Madonna, left side, every hour and half hour for one minute. After closing, go to Krasnyy Prospekt, Upper Park, lean on a tree, left arm."
The English operative had told him where to meet her and how to stand so she'd know him.
She hung up and they started walking again.
"We're being followed," George said in English.
"The man with the beard," Peggy said, "I know. This could make things a little easier."
"Easier?"
"Yes," she said. "The Russians know we're here, and the surveillance facility Keith was looking for could very well be involved. Anyway, if that man is wired we may be able to find it. Do you have a light?"
"Excuse me?"
"A match?" she said. "A lighter?"
"I don't smoke," George said.
"Neither do I," Peggy said impatiently, "but pat your pockets like you're looking for one."
"Oh. Sorry," George said as he slapped his shirt and pants pockets.
"Fine," Peggy said. "Now wait here."
Almost every soldier in Russia smoked, and though George didn't enjoy it, he, like Peggy, had mastered the art of inhaling the potent Turkish blend favored by Russian and Chinese militiamen— just in case Striker ever ended up in Asia. But George had no idea what she had in mind as he watched her pull a package of cigarettes from her breast pocket and walk toward the bearded man.
As George looked down at the ground, convincingly affecting boredom, the Russian pretended to be waiting for the dog to finish up with a tree, something the dog had no apparent inclination to do. The cigarette poking from her mouth, Peggy was about ten yards from the man when he turned to walk in the other direction.
"Sir!" she said in perfect Russian as she jogged after him. "Have you got a match?"
He shook his head as he strolled away.
Peggy came up behind him and, in one quick motion, grabbed the leash at the base of the loop that was slung around his left hand. She twisted hard, and in the same motion stepped around so she was facing him. He groaned as the leash cut off the circulation in his fingers.
George saw her eyes drop to his beard. She nodded once when she spotted the wire. Peggy faced the Russian and put a rigid finger to her lips, indicating silence.
The Russian nodded.
"Thanks for the match," she said as she led the spy toward George. "That's a lovely dog you have."
She was talking, George knew, to keep the Russians from communicating with their agent. As long as someone was there, they wouldn't expect the Russian to answer their questions. He also realized she couldn't shut it off, or they'd know something was wrong.
Except for the fact that he was wincing slightly, it would have appeared to an observer that Peggy and the Russian were friends holding hands as they walked the dog. When they reached George's side, Peggy patted the Russian's left pants pocket with the back of her hand. She reached in, pulled out his car keys, and swept her free hand back and forth.
Still grimacing, the Russian pointed toward a row of cars on the far side of the park.
She looked at George, who nodded with understanding.
"I'm always surprised at how passive most large dogs are," Peggy said as they walked, the dog lumbering after them. "It's the little ones who cause trouble."
The three of them entered the park and headed toward a row of cars parked on the other side of the kidney-shaped green. When they had crossed it, the Russian led them to a black two-door sedan.
Upon reaching the passenger's side, Peggy faced the Russian and rapped on the car with a knuckle. "Does she bite?"
He shook his head.
She turned the leash and the pain brought the Russian up to the tips of his toes.
"Yes!" he said. "Be careful!"
She gave the Russian the keys and indicated for him to open the door. He did, then pointed to the glove compartment. Peggy knelt beside the car so that he could sit down and turn the knob with his right hand. One twist to the left, one to the right, then a full clockwise turn back to the right opened the compartment. Inside was a gas canister and a switch. George knew from a briefing on taking hostages-in-place— high-ranking persons, instead of ordinary people in the street— that wealthy people, military figures, and government officials often had booby traps in their cars that were triggered automatically in the event of kidnaping. In the case of the Russians, there was typically a noxious gas of some kind that went off after a short time. The abductee, of course, would know when to hold his or her breath.
After the Russian disarmed the device, Peggy tugged him out by the hand, took the keys, and handed them to George. She cocked her head toward the driver's side.
George went around, climbed in, and started the car while Peggy slid into the backseat with the Russian. With her free hand, she released the dog from its collar and shut the door. The St. Bernard jumped up at the window, barking. Peggy ignored it as she turned down the volume on the Walkman microphone.
"Check for bugs," Peggy said to George as she settled in beside the Russian.
George removed the handheld bug transmitter locator from his ruck. He swept it around the car and toward the Russian. There was no loud screeching.
"We're clean," said George.
"Good."
George could hear the buzz of voices from the Russian's earphones. "But I think they're talking to him. Probably wondering why the mike has gone dead."
"I'm not surprised," said Peggy, "but they'll just have to wait." She looked at George in the rearview mirror. "What are your orders under these circumstances?"
"The manual says that if we're discovered, we disperse and get out."
"Safety first," she said. "Our manual says that too."
"It's more for security," said George. "We know things the Russians would love to—"
"I know," said Peggy. "But what do you really want to do?"
George replied, "Find out what's going on at the Hermitage."
"So do I," said Peggy. "So let's see if our friend and his beard can help." Peggy pulled a dagger from the sleeve behind her lapel and put it under the Russian's left ear. She released the leash and said in Russian, "What's your name?"
The Russian hesitated, and Peggy pressed the needlesharp tip of the blade against his superficial temporal artery. "The longer you take, the more pressure I apply," she said.
The Russian replied, "Ronash."
"All right, Ronash," said Peggy. "We're going to make sure you don't tell your friends anything in code, so say exactly what I say. Understand?"
"Da."
"Who is in charge of this operation?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Oh, come now," said Peggy.
"A spetsnaz officer," said Ronash. "I don't know him."
"All right," Pegg said, "Here's what you tell them: 'This is Ronash, and I wish to speak with the spetsnaz officer in charge.' When he gets on, give me the unit."
Ronash nodded tightly so as not to run the knife through his throat.
George glanced at her in the mirror. "What are we going to do?" he asked in English.
Peggy said, "Head for the Hermitage. We'll find a way in if we have to, but I have a better idea."
As George backed the car from the parking area, the dog stopped jumping. It just watched, its great tail wagging, as the car pulled away. Then it settled down on the grass, its big head flopping to the side and dragging the rest of its body with it.
So much for industry in the post-Cold War Russia, the Striker thought. Even the dogs don't want to do any heavy lifting.
As he swung the car toward the main thoroughfare, and then along the Obvodnyy Canal toward the Moskovsky Prospekt, George couldn't help but marvel, by contrast, at the way Peggy had executed her duties, with cool efficiency. Though he didn't like having had his mission command posture usurped, he was impressed by her style and her ability to improvise. He was also damned curious and a little excited to see where all of this would lead— despite the fact that he was already up to his neck in wate
rs that were definitely rising.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Tuesday, 10:07 P.M., Khabarovsk
With all the hi-tech wizardry the military had put at his disposal, Charlie Squires couldn't understand why they didn't have nonfog night-vision goggles instead of these "foggles," as the Strikers had nicknamed them. Sweat pooled on the inside bottom of the lenses, and if you covered your mouth with a muffler, as he'd tried to do, the perspiration warmed, turned to vapor, and you couldn't see. If you didn't use the muffler, your lips froze together and the tip of your nose went numb.
A warm face wouldn't matter much if he dropped off the hundred-foot-high cliff, so Squires chose to see— as much as one could see with thick snow swirling around. At least he could see the cliff.
Squires was descending, buddy style, with Private Terrence Newmeyer. One man started rappelling down the cliff, got a foothold, then extended a hand and steadied the other as he descended a little further. In the dark, on icy cliffs, Squires didn't want anyone rappelling without something for guidance— though he had to admit, these weren't the worst conditions he'd seen. Squires had once been invited to participate with Israel's Sayeret Giva'ati, the elite reconnaissance brigade, during their "hell week" training. The exercises included climbing down a twenty-four-meter high cliff and then running an obstacle course. The olive fatigues of the soldiers were ripped to shreds by the end of the drill, though not from the cliff itself: throughout the descent, officers had been pelting the soldiers with both Arabic epithets and rocks. Compared to that climb, this one— foggles and all— was a day at the beach.
About fifteen yards from the bottom, five yards to their left, Squires heard Sondra yell at them to wait. Squires looked down and saw her huddled close to her climbing partner, Private Walter Pupshaw.
"What's wrong?" Squires shouted as he stole a quick look at the horizon. He was searching for smoke from the locomotive and didn't see it— yet.
'He's frozen to the cliff," Sondra yelled back. "He tore his pant leg on a rock. Looks like perspiration stuck the lining to the ice."