“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.”
FIFTY-TWO
Tuesday, 2:32 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 skylinebig, 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 kidneyshaped 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?”