And as Nikita passed under the steam dome, just eight feet from the cab, the unsuspecting American soldier looked out.
SIXTY-THREE
Tuesday, 4:02 P.M., Moscow
Interior Minister Dogin was feeling good. Very good. Sitting alone in his office for the first time that day, he savored his impending triumph. General Kosigan’s troops were moving into Ukraine without incident. There were even reports of expatriate Russians and Ukrainians alike greeting them with Soviet flags.
Polish troops were being moved to the border with Ukraine. NATO and the United States shifted troops from England to Germany and in Germany toward Poland, and there was a blustery show of strength as NATO warplanes flew over Warsaw. But not a single non-Polish troop entered the country on the ground. Nor would they. Not with Russian operatives ready to raise hell in tinderboxes around the world. The United States would watch Russia recover its historic sphere of influence before allowing American soldiers to be spread out in rebellions and invasions from Latin America to the Middle East. Right now, Dogin’s emissary in Washington, Deputy Chief of Mission Savitski, was discussing Russian objectives in a closed-door meeting at the State Department. Zhanin’s new Ambassador had already had his meeting with Secretary of State Lincoln. By taking the second meeting, the U.S. had unofficially acknowledged that there was a second viable government in Rus sia, one that needed to be reckoned with. And Grozny didn’t even have to bomb a city to get that acknowledgment.
Dogin’s new political friends had agreed to wait for their money, and President Zhanin was finding roadblocks in the information and command conduits. He could not respond quickly or accurately, and Dogin took pride in how much more effective this was than the failed coup against Mikhail Gorbachev. It wasn’t necessary to isolate the leader with guns and soldiers. All one had to do was hamstring his ability to see and hear and he was helpless.
Dogin chuckled contentedly. What could the idiot do, go on the air and tell the electorate that he didn’t know what was going on in the government-could someone please tell him?
The Minister’s one fear, that Shovich would get restless with the unexpected delay, failed to materialize. No doubt he had already used one of his fake passports to leave the country, staying on the move like Patton during World War II to confuse his enemies and rivals. Not that it mattered to Dogin where Shovich was. He would be content if the worm remained beneath a rock somewhere.
Thus far, he thought, the only disappointment has been Sergei Orlov. The Minister and his allies were trying to make their sick country well, which required circumventing the laws. He had expected an orderly, traditional-minded man like the General to be unhappy with their unorthodoxy, but he hadn’t expected him to challenge them by pulling rank on Colonel Rossky. Doing so, Dogin reflected confidently, Orlov had effectively ended his career. He’d quit the Russian line and joined the British 27th Lancers for their ride into the Valley of Death.
Dogin felt bad for him. But Orlov had done his job, helped get reluctant politicians to go along with Operations Center funding because he was a man of integrity and honor. And he would have been allowed to stay if only he’d joined the team.
The Minister looked at the antique maps on his walls, and felt a thrill as he contemplated adding a new-old one, the reborn Soviet Union.
He glanced at his watch, noted that the storm should have passed by now and the money train should be reaching Khabarovsk. He picked up the telephone and asked his assistant to get General Orlov on the line. Once the train’s arrival had been confirmed, he would have an airplane sent to meet them in Birobidzhan, the capital of the Jewish region on the Bira River. The Dalselmash harvester factory had a landing strip that would accommodate a medium-sized military aircraft.
The man who got on the line was not the wary but composed officer he’d spoken to earlier. He was surprisingly aggressive.
“Your plan has gone sour,” the General said bluntly.
The Minister was suspicious. “Which plan? Has something happened to the train?”
“You could say that,” Orlov replied. “As we speak, American commandos are attacking it.”
Dogin sat up very straight. “The, train was your responsibility-your son’s!”
“I’m sure Nikita is doing his best to hold them off”, Orlov said. “And the Americans are at a disadvantage. They don’t want to hurt our people.”
“They would be insane to,” Dogin replied. “Where is Rossky?”
“Chasing spies,” Orlov said. “But they eluded him. They caught the man who was tailing them and used his radio to put me in touch with an operations center in Washington. That’s how I know about their plan. We tried to work things out.”
“I don’t want to hear about your failures,” Dogin said. “I want Rossky found, and when he is you’re relieved of your command.”
“You forget,” Orlov said. “Only the President can replace me.”
“You will resign, General Orlov, or I’ll have you removed from the Center.”
“How will Rossky and his brownshirts get in?” Orlov asked. “As of now, the Center will be sealed off.”
Dogin warned, “They will take it back!”
“Perhaps,” Orlov said. “But not in time to help you save your train … or your cause.”
“General!” Dogin yelled. “Think about what you’re doing. Think about your son, your wife.”
“I love them,” Orlov said, “but I’m thinking about Russia now. I only wish I weren’t alone. Goodbye, Minister.”
Orlov hung up, and for nearly a minute Dogin sat squeezing the phone. It was impossible to imagine that he had come so far only to be undermined by Orlov’s betrayal.
His brow flushed, hands shaking with rage, he set down the receiver and had his assistant call Air Force General Dhaka. The Americans had to have come in by air and no doubt were planning to get out the same way, fast and dirty. He would make that impossible, and if anything happened to his cargo the Americans would have to replace the money-or their soldiers would be returned to them through Shovich, a piece at a time.
SIXTY-FOUR
Tuesday, Il: 10 P.M., Khabarovsk
Squires peered through the last, thin puffs of tear gas out as they floated to the ceiling and then wound out the window and door. His eyes and mouth protected by gear that already seemed a part of him, his ears alert for danger, he ran to the cases stacked or strewn haphazardly in the rear of the car. He used his lapel knife to pry up the edge of one of the wooden crates.
It was money. Lots of it, the profits of suffering earmarked to cause more suffering.
Instead, he thought, looking at his watch, in thirtytwo minutes it will be confetti. He and his mini-team would ride the rails another twenty minutes to where the Russians wouldn’t be able to reach the train. Then they would hike toward the bridge as behind them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, the two cars of this rotten bank would blow cloudhigh. He experienced the flush of righteousness that Americans from Thomas Jefferson to Rosa Parks must have felt, the satisfaction and pride of saying no to something wrong, to someone corrupt.
Squires started toward the rear door of the train. As he was about to enter the second car to check on Newmeyer, his head was wrenched around by the sound of gunfire.
From the engine? he thought. How can that be? Grey wouldn’t be shooting at anyone now that they were under way.
Calling for Newmeyer, Squires ran toward the front of the car, stepped into the black clouds that fierce winds were pounding down from the smokestack, and felt his way cautiously around the coal tender.
There had only been time for a brief burst, but Nikita knew he’d tagged the American. He’d seen the way his shoulder had jerked back, saw the dark splash of blood on the camouflage whites.
Nikita moved rapidly along the side of the locomotive. It seemed cut off from the rest of the train, which was hidden behind clouds of coal smoke and glittering particles of windblown snow. Upon reaching the cab, he lowered his gun and edged along the injector pipe toward the window.
He looked in.
The cab was empty. His eyes darted from comer to comer, which were ht by the dull orange coal fire
He looked up as a dark forehead and then the barrel of a Beretta poked down from the roof of the cab. Nikita dove through the window, catching a bullet in the back of his right thigh as the American sprayed the side of the train with gunfire.
Grimacing, Nikita squeezed his lea with his left hand as blood dampened the back of his trousers. The wound ached as though his thigh were in a tight vise, but what bothered Nikita more was that he hadn’t anticipated the American going out the window and over the top of the cab.