Less than two miles to the south of the park, planes were landing regularly in the St. Petersburg airport. The roar of the engines disturbed the tranquility of the setting. But that was the paradox of Russia, the brutish rudeness of the modem day allowed to smother the beauty of the old. She looked north, toward the city itself. Through the filmy sky she saw the array of blue domes, gold domes, white cupolas, gothic spires, bronze statues, winding waterways and canals, and countless flat, brown roofs. It was more like Venice or Florence than like London or Paris. Keith must have loved coming here.
Private George completed his task and walked over after pulling on his backpack. “Ready,” he said softly.
Peggy looked toward the broad Petergofskoye Shosse, less than half a mile away. According to the map, if they followed the road east, they would reach the Metro station. A change at the Technological Institute Station would bring them right to the Hermitage.
As they set out, Peggy chattered in Russian about the condition of the buoys and how the maps showing the currents required updating.
The man on the bench watched them go. Without moving his hands, which were folded on his belly, he spoke into the thin wire hidden in his shaggy beard.
“This is Ronash,” he said. “Two sailors have just come ashore at the park and left their raft. Both are wearing backpacks and walking east.”
Breathing deeply, Rossky’s undercover operative turned his eyes back toward the beautiful Finnish girl and decided that on his next stakeout he would most definitely be an artist.
FOURTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, 6:09 A.M., Washington, D.C.
It had been an uneventful night for Paul Hood.
He’d managed to locate Sharon and the kids at Bloopers the night before, and after hearing about the jelly bean burger and turkey ice cream soda, he’d stretched out on the couch in his office while Curt Hardaway ran the evening shift. A former CEO of SeanCorp, which provided navigation software to the military, Hardaway was an effective manager, a dynamic leader, and was familiar with the ins and outs of government. He had retired at sixty-five a millionaire, joking that he would have been a billionaire if he’d sold to private industry rather than the government. He once told Hood, “I never skimp on quality, however little the government is paying. I don’t want some kid sitting in the cockpit of a Tomcat thinking, ‘All of this stuff was provided by the lowest bidder!’ ”
Unofficially, both Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers were off duty after 6:00 P.M. Officially, however, neither man was relieved until he left the premises. And while they were here, neither night Director Bill Abram nor Curt Hardaway ever attempted to “take the bones away from those two dogs,” as Hardaway put it.
As he lay there through the night, his shoes off, feet on the padded armrest, he thought about his family-the people he didn’t want to let down most, yet seemed to disappoint every which way he turned. Maybe that was inevitable. You let down the people closest to you because you know they’ll be there when you get back. But boy, did it rip the conscience to ribbons. Ironically, the people he really seemed to have pleased yesterday were the people with whom he had the least in common, Liz Gordon and Charlie Squires. One because he’d acknowledged something she’d done by using it in a planning session, the other because he was letting him go ahead with a once-in-a-lifetime mission.
Between short snatches of sleep, Hood also stared at the countdown clock as it crept toward the extraction time they’d set for the tundra Striker mission.
Twenty-five hours, fifty minutes, and counting, he thought, looking at it now. It had been thirty-seven-odd hours when Hardaway had first set it. How would we all feel when it cashed out at all zeroes? Hood wondered. Where would the world be then?
It was at once depressing and strangely exhilarating. In any case, looking at the clock was better than watching CNN. The airwaves were full of the New York bombing and a possible relationship to the attack on the newspaper in Poland. Then there was Eival Ekdol ranting about his ties to the Ukrainian Opposition Force. soldiers who objected to the Russian incursion. That was smart, Hood had to admit. The miserable thug was swinging American opinion toward the RussianUkrainian union by speaking stridently against it.
Hood was awakened with word from the midget submarine, relayed via Helsinki, that Private George and Peggy James had been put ashore in St. Petersburg. Five minutes later, he was informed by Mike Rodgers-who hadn’t slept much- that the 76T had crossed into Russian airspace and was speeding toward the drop point. It was expected to arrive in twenty minutes. Rodgers told him that the chaff the 76T dropped when it neared the coast disoriented the watching post at Nakhodka long enough for the plane to slip into the air lanes with the other transports. So far, no one had paid the plane any attention.
“Air Defense didn’t react to the jamming?” Hood asked incredulously.
“We only did it to conceal where they were coming from,” Rodgers said. “Once the 76T was in Russia, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Our crew is maintaining radio silence, and on the way out they’ll inform Nakhodka that they’re going to Hokkaido to pick up replacement parts for decoy transmitters.”
“I still can’t believe we slipped through so easily,” Hood said.
“For the last couple of years,” Rodgers said, “the Russians have been more huff than puff. The soldiers manning the radar have been working longer shifts than we have. If nothing stands out as strange, it’s unlikely they’re going to catch it.”
“Are you so sure it’s that,” he asked, “or could this be one of those traps that let a mouse in and don’t let it out again?”
“We considered that possibility when we were planning the operation,” Rodgers said. “There would have been no reason for the Russians to risk letting a strike force get on the ground. The truth is, Paul, the Russia you were worried about is no longer the Russia of reality.”
Hood said, “They’re still Russia enough to have us snacking on fingernails.”
“Touche,” said Rodgers.
Hood rose, phoned Bugs Benet, told him to send the department heads to the Tank, then went into his private washroom to scrub the sleep from his eyes. As he dried off, he couldn’t stop thinking about Russia. Was Mike right about Russia or were they all just delusional, caught up in a false euphoria about the fall of Russian Communism and the Soviet Union?
Had it really fallen at all? Was this just a dream, smoke and mirrors, an interstitial period like the lulls between the great Ice Ages? Had the dark forces merely withdrawn from the spotlight to regroup and return, stronger than before?
Russians were not used to initiative and freedom. They had been ruled by dictators since the days of Ivan the Terrible.
Since Ivan Grozny, he thought with alarm.
As he headed for the Tank, Hood did not believe that however the next day’s events turned out, the Evil Empire was dead at all.
FOURTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 2:29 P.M., St. Petersburg
During his first space mission, General Orlov had not been able to speak with Masha, and when he returned he found her emotionally taut. She pointed out to him that that was the first time since they’d known each other that a day, let alone three, had gone by without them talking to one another.
He’d thought, at the time, that it was a silly woman’s emotion he couldn’t understand. But then when Nikita was born and she bled profusely and was unable to speak, he realized what a solace just hearing the voice of your loved one could be. If she could only have told him, “I love you,” those long days of sitting by her bedside would have been easier.
He never again let a day pass without speaking to her, and was surprised to find how even the briefest talk anchored him as much it did her. Although Masha was not supposed to know what he did at the Hermitage, he had told her-though he did not tell her specifics or go into detail about personnel, other than Rossky: he had to have someone to complain to about him.
After calling Masha at 10:30 in the morning, and telling the disappointed woman that “business is so good” he wasn’t sure when he’d be back, Orlov had gone to the command center. He’d wanted to be with his team to mark the passage of the first day’s operational halfway point.
Rossky had come in at a few minutes past eleven, and both he and Orlov assumed what had quickly become their unofficial posts in the command center. Orlov walked slowly behind the bank of computer operators, each of whom was monitoring a section of the intelligence firmament. Rossky stood behind Corporal Ivashin monitoring the pipeline to Dogin and the other Ministers in the Kremlin. Rossky was even more intense and focused than usual, he followed military and political developments. Orlov didn’t think the impending arrival of the two operatives from Finland would put him on such high personal alert like this, though he decided not to ask him about it. Questions to Colonel Rossky did not seem to elicit useful answers.