“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 restaurants. 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.