But Ekdol wasn’t worried. In less than a half hour, he’d have reached the safe house. The car would be dismantled in the garage and he would have burned the false beard, mustache, sunglasses, and baseball cap he was wearing.
For now, his job was finished. Arnold Belnick and his mercenary “bagel brigade” would be paid handsomely for their role in this and then it would be up to other soldiers in the Grozny cell to continue what he had begun.
Though his own life was about to be forfeited, he was honored to surrender it in the name of the new Soviet Union.
ELEVEN
Sunday, 9:05 P.M., Washington, D.C.
Mike Rodgers loved Khartoum.
It wasn’t soft and warm like Elizabeth or Linda or Kate or Ruthie, but he didn’t have to go out in the middle of the night to take it home. The movie was right there in his laser disc library, along with other favorites like El Cid, Lawrence of Arabia, The Man Who Would Be King, and virtually everything John Wayne ever made. What’s more, he didn’t have to be sociable. The movie didn’t require him to do anything except put it in the player, sit back, and enjoy himself.
Rodgers had been looking forward to watching Khartoum all day, which is why he should have known that something would come between him and his film.
He’d begun his Sunday by jogging his daily five miles. Then he made coffee-black, no sugar-sat at the dining room table with his laptop, and brought himself up to speed on Paul Hood’s schedule-now his schedule-for the coming week. There were meetings with the heads of the other U.S. intelligence groups about sharing information more efficiently, a preliminary budget hearing, and lunch with the head of the French Gendarmerie Nationale, Benjamin. Just the thought of all that talk made his mouth dry. But there were some real challenges ahead as well. He’d be sitting down with Bob Herbert and Matt Stoll, their computer genius, to work out programs for coverage from the new ED satellite, the Electronic Disruptor. The ED satellite was being tested over Japan and could disrupt electronic impulses in objects as small as a desktop computer. He would also be receiving data from personnel on the ground in the Middle East, South America, and elsewhere. And then there were reports from U.S. agents in the Russian Army. He was looking forward to news of the Petroleum, Oil, and Lubricants Distribution overhaul, and he was curious to see how the new Russian President planned to compensate for personnel cutbacks in both the troop rear and operational rear.
Most of all, he was looking forward to the first conceptual sit-downs with Op-Center engineers for the proposed Regional Op-Center. After Korea, it had occurred to him that they should have mobile facilities which could be shuttled anywhere in the world. If it was feasible, one or more ROCs could make them an even more effective intelligence unit.
After lunch, Rodgers had gone to the shooting range at Andrews. There were days when he could dance around a bull’s-eye with a .45-caliber M3 grease gun and miss it every time. Then there were days when he could pick his teeth with a .22-caliber Colt Woodsman. Today had been one of those good days. After two hours of marksmanship that left Air Force personnel stunned, Rodgers visited his mother in the Van Gelder Nursing Home. She was no more lucid than she’d been since her stroke two years before. But he read to her, as he always did, her favorite Walt Whitman poems, then sat and held her hand. After he left, he met an old Vietnam buddy for dinner. Andrew Porter owned a chain of comedy clubs up and down the East Coast, and he made Rodgers laugh like no one else.
While they were drinking coffee and getting ready to pay the check, Rodgers’s pager beeped. It was Assistant National Security Director Tobey Grumet. He used his cellular phone to call her back.
Tobey informed him of the New York bombing and of an emergency Oval Office meeting called by the President. Rodgers apologized to Porter and left at once.
As he raced along the highway, Rodgers’s thoughts went to General Charles “Chinese” Gordon. Gordon’s efforts to protect indefensible Khartoum from the fanatical hordes of the Mahdi were at once among the boldest and most insane military adventures in history. Gordon paid for his heroism with his life, taking a spear in the chest and having his head paraded around on a pike. But Rodgers knew that that was how Gordon had wanted to die. The Englishman had traded his life for the chance to tell a tyrant, “No. You can’t have this place without a fight.”
Rodgers felt the same way. No one was going to do something like this to his country. Not without a fight.
He listened to the news on the radio and spoke on the phone as he drove to the White House. He was glad he had something to do: it kept him from dwelling on the horror. There were over two hundred deaths. The East River was shut down to traffic, and the FDR Drive on Manhattan’s east side would be closed for days while it was examined for structural damage, Other transit points were being checked for explosives-bridges, railroads, airports, highways, subways-meaning that the hub of the world’s economy would be effectively shut down on Monday morning.
Op-Center’s staff FBI liaison, Darrell McCaskey phoned Rodgers and told him that the FBI had taken charge of the investigation and that Director Egenes would be at the meeting. McCaskey told Rodgers that the usual list of extremists had called to take credit for the bombing. But no one believed that the real perpetrator had come forward, and McCaskey had no opinion as to who the terrorist might be.
Rodgers also received a call from Assistant Deputy Director Karen Wong, who ran Op-Center on weekend evenings.
“General,” she said, “I understand you’ve been called to a meeting.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Then here’s some information you should take with you. As soon as Lynne Dominick in cryptology heard about the explosion, she took a fresh look at that bagel order from overseas. The timing and receiver location made it seem like a good fit.”
“What did she find?”
“Knowing the outcome has allowed her to work backward,” Wong said, “albeit very quickly. And it seems like a match. Assuming the last bagel represents the tunnel, she created a map. The rest of the order seems to be points in Manhattan-for example, places to deliver components of the bomb.”
Then we’d be up against the Russians, he thought with dread. And if they were behind this, it would not be regarded as terrorism. It would be considered an act of war.
“Tell Lynne that was heads-up work,” Rodgers said. “Memo her findings and secure-fax it to the Oval Office.”
“Right away. There’s something else, though, that’s happened in St. Petersburg,” she said. “We’ve just learned from Commander Harry Hubbard at D16 in London that he lost two people there. The first one was yesterday afternoon, a veteran named Keith Fields-Hutton. He was outside the Hermitage, by the Neva, and suffered what the Russians say was a heart attack.”
“A euphemism for ‘We killed him,”‘ Rodgers said. “Was he checking on the studio?”
“Yes,” Wong said. “He never got to phone a single report, though. That’s how fast he was spotted and terminated.”
“Thanks,” Rodgers said. “Has Paul been briefed?”
“Yes,” said Wong. “He called after he heard about the explosion. He asked to talk to you after the meeting.”
“I’ll phone him,” Rodgers said as he pulled up to the sentry at the gate which led to the winding White House driveway.
TWELVE
Monday, 6:00 A.M., St. Petersburg
When he was a boy growing up in the early 1950s, in the small town of Naryan-Mar on the Arctic Ocean, Sergei Orlov thought he would never treasure a sight more than he did the orange glow of the hearth in his parents’ home as he trudged through the snow carrying two or three fish tucked in his canvas sack, caught in the small lake near his home. For Orlov, the glowing fireplace wasn’t just a beacon in the cold, dark night. it was a bright and hopeful sign of life in a cold and barren wasteland.
Circling the earth in the late 1970s, flying five Soyuz missions that ranged from eight to eighteen days and commanding the last three, General Sergei Orlov saw something even more memorable. It was not something new. Dozens of cosmonauts had seen the earth from space. But whether they had described our world as a blue bubble, a beautiful marble, or a Christmas-tree ornament, they all agreed that seeing it gave them a new outlook on life. Political ideologies were no match for the power of that fragile globe. Space travelers realized that if humans had a destiny, it was not to fight for control of their home but to cherish its peace and warmth as they journeyed to the stars.