SIXTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, 8:49 A.M.,M Washington, D.C.
“What kind of Oil Can Harry operation are you guys running, Paul?”
Paul Hood looked at the puffy face of Larry Rachlin in his TV monitor. The thinning gray hair was plastered neatly to the side, and the light hazel eyes were angry behind the gold-framed glasses. An unlit cigar moved up and down as the CIA Director spoke.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hood replied. He looked at the clock on the bottom of the screen. Just another few minutes until Striker was safe, and then two hours after that until the Mosquito was tucked away on a carrier, all evidence of the incursion gone.
Rachlin removed the cigar and pointed with it. “Y’know, that’s why you got that job instead of Mike Rodgers,” he said. “You got a poker face like Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind. ‘Who, me, Larry? Running a covert operation?” Well, Paul, despite Stephen Viens’s noble attempts to try and tell me a satellite was off-line, we’ve got some photos from a Chinese sky-spy showing commandos attacking a train. Beijing asked me about it and, unlike you, I really didn’t know a damn thing about it. Now, unless some other country has got ten hold of an II-76T-which the Chinese put at the scene of the crime, and which I happen to know the Pentagon owns-this makes it your operation. The CIC tells my guys they didn’t authorize any kind of shooting war over there. They, too, would like to know exactly what you’re doing over there. So I repeat: what’s going on?”
Hood said casually, “I’m as mystified as you are, Larry. I was on vacation, you know.”
“I know. And you came back fast.”
“I forgot how much I loathe L.A.,- Hood replied.
“Oh, sure. That was it. Everybody hates L.A., so why do they keep going?”
“The well-marked freeways,” said Hood.
“Well, how about I ask the President what’s going on?” Rachlin said, poking the cigar back into his mouth. “He’ll have all the information right there on his desk, right?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Hood said. “Give me a few minutes to talk to Mike and Bob and I’ll get back to you.”
“Sure, Paul,” Larry said. “Just remember something. You’re new here. I’ve been at the Pentagon, the FBI, and now here. This isn’t the City of Angels, friend. It’s the City of Devils. And if you try and pull anyone’s tail, you’re gonna get burned or pitchforked. Understand?”
“Message received and appreciated, Larry,” Hood said. “As I said, I’ll get back to you.”
“Do that,” said the CIA Director, using the tapered tip of his cigar to punch off his image.
Hood looked over at Mike Rodgers. Everyone else had left to attend to departmental business, leaving the Director and his deputy to wait for word from the Mosquito.
“Sorry you had to hear that,” Hood said.
“No sweat,” said Rodgers. He was sitting in an armchair, his arms crossed, his brow creased. “You don’t have to worry about him, though. We’ve got photos. That’s why he has to bluster so damn much. He doesn’t really carry a lot of weight.”
“What kind of photos?” Hood asked.
“Of him on a boat with three women who weren’t his wife,” Rodgers said. “The only reason the President replaced Greg Kidd with him is that Larry had wiretaps of the President’s sister trying to hold a Japanese company up for under-the-table campaign contributions.”
“That lady’s a piece of work.” Hood smiled. “President Lawrence should have given the CIA to her instead of Larry. At least she’d have used it to spy on our enemies instead of on us.”
“Like the man said,” Rodgers told him, “this is Purgatory. Everyone’s an enemy here.”
The phone beeped. Hood thumbed the speaker button.
“Yes?”
“Incoming from Striker,” said Bugs.
Rodgers jumped over.
“Private Honda reporting in,” said a clear voice from a sea of quiet.
“I’m here, Private,” said Rodgers.
“Sir, myself, Pups, and Sondra are on board the extraction craft-”
Rodgers felt his gut tighten.
“–the other three are still on the train. We don’t know why they haven’t stopped yet.”
Rodgers relaxed slightly. “Any indication of resistance?”
“There doesn’t appear to be,” said Honda. “We can see them moving in the windows of the cab. I’ll keep the line open. Contact in thirty-nine seconds.
Rodgers’s hands were fists and he leaned on them as he stood beside the desk. Hood’s hands were folded beside the phone, and he took the opportunity to pray for Striker.
Hood looked at Rodgers. The General raised his eyes to meet the Director’s. Hood could see the pride and concern in those eyes, understood the strength of the union between these men, a union deeper than love, closer than marriage. Hood envied Rodgers that bond even now, when it was causing him so much concern.
Especially now, Hood thought, for those fears made the bond even stronger.
And then Honda’s voice came back on, with an edge that hadn’t been there moments before.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 4:54 P.M., St. Petersburg
The distance between Peggy and the main entrance of the Hermitage couldn’t have been greater if she were still in Helsinki. At least, that was how the English operative felt as she walked briskly toward the next gallery to the south, paintings of the School of Bologna. From there, if she could make it, the walk to the State Staircase was a short one.
Peggy knew the woman was following her and would also have backup, someone who would be watching and reporting back to a command center. Perhaps the one right here in the Hermitage, operating with or without Orlov’s approval.
Peggy stopped to look at a painting by Tintoretto, just to see what her stalker would do. She watched her intently, as though she were a fingerprint under a magnifying glass.
The woman paused in front of a Veronese. There was no playacting. She stopped abruptly, obviously, wanting Peggy to know that she was being followed. Perhaps, Peggy thought, the woman was hoping she would panic.
Concentration put two little creases above her nose. Peggy considered and rejected a number of options, from taking a painting hostage to starting a fire. Counterattacks like those invariably brought more forces to the scene and made escape less likely. She even contemplated trying to reach the TV studio and surrender to General Orlov. But she quickly rejected that idea: even if he was willing to arrange a spy swap, Orlov wouldn’t be able to ensure her safety. Besides, the first lesson fifth columnists learned was never to box themselves in, and that basement was more than just a box, it was an already-buried coffin.
Peggy knew, though, that she wouldn’t be allowed to run for long: now that she and George had been spotted, exits would be closed to them, then corridors, and finally galleries. And then they would be boxed in. Peggy’d be damned if she was going to let the Russians control the time and place of their confrontation.
The thing to do was to blind them until she could get out of here, or at the very least draw their attention away from Private George. And the best way to do that was to start with the art connoisseur on her tail.
Peggy wondered what would happen if she offered herself to the woman in a way that was just too inviting to refuse-before the Russians were all in place and ready to receive her.
Turning suddenly from the Tintoretto, Peggy began walking briskly, nearly jogging, toward the State Staircase.
The woman followed, keeping pace with her quarry.
Peggy hurriedly rounded the comer of the gallery and reached the magnificent staircase, with its walls of yellow marble and two first-floor rows of ten columns each. Starting down the steps, the Englishwoman knit her way through the sparse late afternoon crowd, headed toward the ground floor.
And then, halfway down, she slipped and fell.
SIXTY-NINE
Tuesday, 11:55 P.M., Khabarovsk
It had been two minutes before Squires had planned to stop the train when the Russian officer said, “Cigaryet?”
The Strikers had been standing in the cab of the train, securing their gear, when Squires looked down.
“We don’t smoke,” the Striker commander had said. “It’s the new army. You got any on you?”
The Russian didn’t understand. “Cigaryet?” he said. He used his chin to point to his left breast.
Squires had looked back out the window as the train went into a gentle curve. He slipped down his night vision goggles. “Newmeyer,” he’d said, “see if you can help the man.”
“Yes, sir,” the Private had replied.
Leaving the wounded Sergeant Grey in the comer, Newmeyer had bent over the Russian. He’d reached into the officer’s jacket and withdrawn a worn leather packet of tobacco with a thick rubber band holding it closed. A steel lighter with Cyrillic initials and an engraved portrait of Stalin was tucked under the rubber band.