The outflow they entered drops into what is part of the Neglinnaya River System. But it branches into three tunnels so that during the spring melt off the system won’t overload and flood. It’s why only a portion of the dye showed up here. A third of it went directly beneath Red Square, and the last third here.” The engineer stabbed a blunt finger on St. Basil’s outlined on the plastic overlay.
“Is there access from the river into the church?” Chemov asked.
“Yes, sir. Through the crypts,” the engineer said. “They didn’t come up here, and they didn’t show up in the Moscow River. So unless their bodies are still down there, they came up inside St. Basil’s.”
“Within shooting distance of the reviewing stand,” Petrovsky said.
“That’s it,” Chernov shouted, and he bolted for the door, shouting for Petrovsky to follow him.
Outside, they piled into Chernov’s car and shot across the Kremlin toward the Trinity Gate, figuring they could circle around the crowds in Red Square and approach the Cathedral from Varvarka Street.
“Radio your people and have them cover every exit,” Chernov ordered.
“They’re gone,” Petrovsky said.
Chernov glanced at him. “What do you mean, gone?”
“Just that, Colonel, and I can’t say that I blame them. But we have another problem. General Vashleyev’s people are going to try to arrest Tarankov.”
“I heard,” Chernov said. “They missed him at Leningrad Station, but if they try anything down here there’s going to be a blood bath.”
“Mostly civilian,” Petrovsky said dourly.
“I thought you didn’t support Tarankov.”
“Let’s just say that I’m hedging my bets, Colonel,” Petrovsky said.
Tarankov’s column roared into Red Square from the north, raced down the broad boulevard in front of the masses of people who were joyously screaming his name, and pulled up in a semicircle in front of Lenin’s Mausoleum. The soldiers and police manning the barricades were overwhelmed by the press of people trying to get closer, aided only by the intimidating presence of the twelve heavily armed APCs now facing outward, their big diesel engines idling as if they were a pack of rabid dogs making ready to attack. The crowd surged only so far then stopped, their front ranks making an undulating line back up the square to the north.
Even the international media kept its respectful distance, though dozens of television cameras were trained on the column, and a few of the bolder photographers closed in on the lead APC from both sides hoping to catch a shot of the Tarantula. “Target is in place, are you in position Gamov Brigade?” the radio beside McGarvey stopped at the active frequency.
“Roger, we’re in place at the south end of the square.”
“Sokol, any trouble at your position?
“Nyet, we’re clear.”
“Okay, Azarov Brigade, we’re set down here, what’s your ETA to bottle the northern route?”
“Five minutes.”
McGarvey studied the lead APC through the Dragunov’s telescopic sights. The top hatch of the gun turret was open but no one was manning the position as they were on the other eleven vehicles. The wind had increased in the past half hour, and whipped the exhaust from the diesel engines from McGarvey’s left to right, making any attempted shot in the cross wind difficult at best.
The music suddenly stopped, and the crowd began to quiet down.
“COMRADES, MY NAME IS YEVGENNI TARANKOV, AND I HAVE COME TODAY TO OFFER MY HAND IN FRIENDSHIP AND HELP,” a voice boomed from the loudspeakers.
Now the vast crowd fell totally silent, and even the soldiers at the barricades looked over their shoulders at the lead APC.
The APC’s personnel hatch opened, and McGarvey switched aim, moving the sniper rifle’s safety to the off position with his thumb.
Chernov and Petrovsky were stopped from entering Red Square from the east by a skirmish line of five hundred heavily armed troops backed by three T-80-T tanks, with Moscow Defense Division markings on their sides, so they had to double back to Ilyinka Street that ran along the south side of the department store GUM.
Tarankov’s amplified voice boomed across the otherwise silent square, as Chernov and Petrovsky left the car and hurried down the street on foot.
They had to show their IDs before they were allowed through the barricades into the square itself, which took more precious time. By now Tarankov would be climbing out of his APC, exposing himself to McGarvey’s shot.
When they were through, they raced along the edge of the crowd, shoving people out of their way as they ran, Tarankov’s speech continuing to roll across the vast open space.
“OUR COUNTRY IS FALLING INTO A BOTTOMLESS PIT OF DESPAIR,” Tarankov said.
A figure appeared at the open hatch, paused a moment then stepped out. It was one of Tarankov’s young commandoes. McGarvey held the scope’s cross hairs steady on the hatch.
“OUR FORESTS ARE DYING. OUR GREAT RIVERS AND LAKES HAVE BECOME CESSPOOLS OF WASTE. THE AIR IS UNFIT TO BREATHE. THE ONLY FOOD WORTH EATING FILLS THE BELLIES OF APPARATCHIKS AND FOREIGNERS.”
Seven more armed commandoes dressed in plain battle fatigues climbed out of the APC, and formed a tight knot in front of the hatch.
“OUR CHILDREN ARE DYING AND OUR WOMEN ARE CRYING, BUT NO ONE IN MOSCOW CAN HEAR THEM. NO ONE IN MOSCOW WANTS TO HEAR THEM.”
McGarvey caught a glimpse of a smaller, much slighter figure emerging from the APC, and his stomach fluttered when he recognized his daughter. Directly behind her Tarankov climbed out, and taking Liz’s arm immediately moved behind the protective screen of his much taller, much larger commandoes, making any shot impossible.
“OUR HEALTH CARE SYSTEM IS BANKRUPT,” Tarankov said, as he and his men moved toward Lenin’s Mausoleum.
“All units, sixty seconds to first air strike, “the scanner radio beside McGarvey stopped at the active frequency.
A ninth commando emerged from the APC, and went immediately over to Tarankov, who was still speaking.
“OUR MILITARY HAS BECOME LEADERLESS AND USELESS.”
“Azarov Brigade, what is your ETA?”
“Two minutes,” an excited voice radioed.
“Sokol and Gamov will back you up if he heads your way, but you’re going to have to hold him.”
“HOOLIGANS AND PROFITEERS ERODE OUR LIVELIHOODS LIKE CANCER. THE MAFIA EATS BEEFSTEAKS AND CAVIAR, DRINKS SWEET CHAMPAGNE AND DRIVES CADILLACS AND—”
Tarankov’s amplified voice cut off in mid-sentence.
McGarvey caught glimpses of Tarankov, and the ninth commando to come out of the APC. They seemed to be arguing. The commando pointed back at the APC, and then up to the sky to the southwest.
“Forty seconds, all units keep your heads down in case he doesn’t move,” the excited voice on the scanner radioed.
Liz suddenly tried to break away, but Tarankov pulled her back, slapped her face, rocking her head back, and the commandoes surrounding him closed ranks even tighter.
No shot. Even without the wind there would have been no guarantee that if he fired he might hit Elizabeth, and McGarvey was beside himself with frustration and rage.
The ninth commando said something else to Tarankov and then the knot of commandoes headed back en masse to the lead APC.
McGarvey waited for an opening, any opening, but Tarankov ducked into the safety of the APC first, followed by Elizabeth and then his commandoes, and the hatch was shut.
“He’s on the move! He’s on the move! Azarov Brigade, he’s coming your way right now!”
Two of the APCs moved out, leaving Tarankov’s vehicle to take up the third position, the others falling in
