perimeter around the building. They may force us back. If so, we'll make our stand on the first floor. The walls are concrete. RPGs can hurt us, but the roof and walls will stop bullets. Pick one man to go inside and find men with military experience. Give them those two rifles. Whenever a man goes down, retrieve his weapon and get it to someone who knows how to use it. I'm going inside for a moment to see if I can get a telephone to work-'
'There's a radiotelephone in the first-floor office,' the sergeant said. 'All the buildings have them.'
'Good! Hold the perimeter, Sergeant. I'll be back to you in two minutes.' Bondarenko ran inside. The radiotelephone was hanging on a wall hook, and he was relieved to see it was a military type, powered by its own battery. The Colonel shouldered it and ran back outside.
The attackers-who were they? he wondered-had planned their attack poorly. First they had failed to identify the KGB barracks before launching their assault; second, they hadn't hit the residential area as quickly as they should have. They were moving in now, but they found a line of Border Guards lying in the snow. They were only KGB troops, Bondarenko knew, but they did have basic training, and most of all they knew that there was no place to run. That young sergeant was a good one, he saw. He moved from point to point along the perimeter, not using his weapon but encouraging the men and telling them what to do. The Colonel activated the radio.
'This is Colonel G. I. Bondarenko at Project Bright Star. We are under attack. I repeat, Bright Star is under attack. Any unit on this net respond at once, over.'
'Gennady. this is Pokryshkin at the laser site. We're in the control building. What is your situation?'
'I'm at the apartments. I have all the civilians we could find inside. I have forty men, and we're going to try to hold this place. What about help?'
'I'm trying. Gennady, we cannot get you any help from here. Can you hold?'
'Ask me in twenty minutes.'
'Protect my people, Colonel. Protect my people!' Pokryshkin shouted into the microphone.
'To the death, Comrade General. Out.' Bondarenko kept the radio on his back and hefted his rifle. 'Sergeant!'
'Here, Colonel!' The young man appeared. 'They're probing now, not really attacking yet-'
'Looking for weaknesses.' Bondarenko got back down to his knees. The air seemed alive with gunfire, but it was not yet concentrated. Above and behind the two, windows were shattering. Bullets pounded into the pre-cast concrete sections that formed the building wall, spraying everyone outside with chips. 'Position yourself at the corner opposite this one. You'll command the north and east walls. I'll handle these two. Tell your men to fire only when they have targets-'
'Already done, Comrade.'
'Good!' Bondarenko punched the young man on the shoulder. 'Don't fall back until you have to, but tell me if you do. The people in this building are priceless assets. They must survive. Go!' The Colonel watched the sergeant run off. Perhaps the KGB did train some of its people. He ran to this corner of the building.
He now had twenty-no, he counted eighteen men. Their camouflage clothing made them hard to spot. He ran from man to man, his back bowed by the weight of the radio, spacing them out, telling them to husband their rounds. He was just finishing the line on the west side when there came a chorus of human voices from the darkness.
'Here they come!' a private screamed.
'Hold your fire!' the Colonel bellowed.
The running figures appeared as though by magic. One moment the scene was empty of anything but falling snow-the next, there was a line of men firing Kalashnikov rifles from the hip. He let them get to within fifty meters.
'Fire!' He saw ten of them go down in an instant. The rest wavered and stopped, then fell back, leaving two more bodies behind. There was more firing from the opposite side of the building. Bondarenko wondered if the sergeant had held, but that was not in his hands. Some nearby screams told him that his men had taken casualties, too. On checking the line he found that one had made no noise at all. He was down to fifteen men.
The climb-out was routine enough. Colonel von Eich thought. A few feet behind him, the Russian in the jump seat was giving the electrical panel an occasional look.
'How's the electricity doing?' the pilot asked in some irritation,
'No problem with engine and hydraulic power. Seems to be in the lighting system,' the engineer replied, quietly turning off the tail and wingtip anticollision lights.
'Well?' The cockpit instrument lights were all on, of course, and there was no additional illumination for the flight crew. 'We'll fix it when we get to Shannon.'
'Colonel.' It was the voice of the crew chief in the pilot's headset.
'Go ahead,' the engineer said, making sure that the Russian's headset was not on that channel.
'Go ahead, Sarge.'
'We have our two? our two new passengers, sir, but Mr. Ryan-he got left behind, Colonel.'
'Repeat that?' von Eich said.
'He said to move out, sir. Two guys with guns, sir, they-he said to move out, sir,' the crew chief said again.
Von Eich let out a breath. 'Okay. How are things back there?'
'I got them in the back row, sir. I don't think anybody noticed, even, what with the engine noise and all.'
'Keep it that way.'
'Yes, sir. I have Freddie keeping the rest of the passengers forward. The aft can is broke, sir.'
'Pity,' the pilot observed. 'Tell 'em to go forward if they gotta go.'
'Right, Colonel.'
'Seventy-five minutes,' the navigator advised.
Christ, Ryan, the pilot thought. I hope you like it there
'I should kill you here and now!' Golovko said.
They were in the Chairman's car. Ryan found himself facing four very irate KGB officers. The maddest seemed to be the guy in the right-front seat. Gerasimov's bodyguard, Jack thought, the one who worked close in. He looked like the physical type, and Ryan was glad that there was a seatback separating them. He had a more immediate problem. He looked at Golovko and thought it might be a good idea to calm him down. 'Sergey, that would set off an international incident like you would not believe,' Jack said calmly. The next conversations he heard were in Russian. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but the emotional content was clear enough. They didn't know what to do. That suited Ryan just fine.
Clark was walking along a street three blocks from the waterfront when he saw them. It was eleven forty- five. They were right on time, thank God. This part of the city had restaurants and, though he scarcely believed it, some discos. They were walking out of one when he spotted them. Two women, dressed as he'd been told to expect, with a male companion. The bodyguard. Only one, also as per orders. It was an agreeable surprise that so far everything had gone according to plan. Clark counted another dozen or so other people on the sidewalk, some in loud groups, some in quiet couples, many of them weaving from too much drink. But it was a Friday night, and that's what people all over the world did on Friday night. He maintained visual contact with the three people who concerned him, and closed in.
The bodyguard was a pro. He stayed on their right, keeping his gun hand free. He was ahead of them, but that didn't keep his head from scanning in all directions. Clark adjusted the scarf on his neck, then reached in his pocket. The pistol was there as he increased his pace to catch up. It wasn't hard. The two women seemed to be in no hurry as they approached the corner. The older one seemed to be looking around at the city. The buildings looked old, but weren't. The Second World War had swept through Talinn in two explosive waves, leaving behind nothing but scorched stones. But whoever made such decisions had opted to rebuild the city much as it had been, and the town had a feel very different from the Russian cities Clark had visited before. It made him think of Germany somehow, though he couldn't imagine why. That was his last frivolous thought of the night. He was now thirty feet behind them, just another man walking home on a cold February night, his face lowered to avoid the wind and a fur hat pulled down over his head. He could hear their voices now, and they were speaking Russian. Time.
'Russkiy,' Clark said with a Moscow accent. 'You mean not everyone in this city is an arrogant Bait?'
'This is an old and lovely city, Comrade,' the older woman answered. 'Show some respect.' Here we go? Clark told himself. He walked forward with the curving steps of a man in his cups. 'Your pardon, lovely lady. Have a good
