so the new activity in the building gave him something to think about, at the very least.
Red laser lights appeared like fireflies shooting across the surfaces of the floors, the table, the men standing around, and John Clark himself. In the cold dusty air John could see the needle-thin lines of the red lasers as they swept around. He was then bathed in white light, and he shut his eyes tightly.
When he opened them he realized the overhead hanging light fixtures, two stories above him on the ceiling of the warehouse, had been turned on, and the big room was awash in light now.
Valentin Kovalenko was the smallest figure in the building. In front of him, facing him, black-clad gunmen with HK MP5 submachine guns.
These were Spetsnaz troops, and they were led by a man in civilian dress. Kovalenko and his men — there were eight in total, John could now see — all raised their hands.
Who the fuck was this new clown? Clark wondered. Out of the frying pan, then into the fire, but
Valentin and his crew were led out of the warehouse with just a few gruff comments from the man in street clothes, who then left the warehouse with several, but not all, of the paramilitaries. The helicopter took off a minute later.
The chopper that had been hovering above peeled away.
Behind the Spetsnaz soldiers remaining in the room a lean man in his late fifties walked into the cold cellar. The man had a short crew cut, narrow wire-rimmed glasses, and bright intelligent eyes on his deeply creased face. He looked like he ran five miles before breakfast every morning.
John Clark felt like he could be looking at a mirror image of himself, only in a Russian suit.
Except it wasn’t a mirror. Clark knew the man in front of him.
The man stood over the American and he ordered one of the men to cut away Clark’s bindings. While doing so the older man said, “Mr. Clark. My name is Stanislav Biryukov. I am—”
“You are the director of the FSB.”
“I am, indeed.”
“Is this just a changing of the guard, then?” Clark asked.
The FSB man shook his head emphatically. “
Clark just looked at him.
Biryukov said, “My country has a serious problem and we find ourselves needing to call on your expertise. At the same moment, we realize that you are here, right here in Russia, and you seem to have a bit of a problem yourself. It is fate that brings us together today, John Clark. I am hoping the two of us can come to a quick and mutually beneficial agreement.”
Clark wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Keep talking.”
“There has been a terrorist incident in Kazakhstan involving our space launch facility at Baikonur.”
Clark had no idea what was going on beyond his field of view. “A terrorist incident?”
“Yes. A terrible thing. Two rockets tipped with nuclear bombs are in the hands of terrorists from the Caucasus, and they have the manpower and k?now-how to launch the rockets. We have asked for assistance from your former organization. I am not speaking of the CIA, I am speaking of Rainbow. Unfortunately, the men leading Rainbow at the moment find themselves unprepared for the magnitude of this problem.”
“Call the White House.”
Biryukov shrugged. “We did. Edward Kealty sent four men with laptop computers to save us. They are at the Kremlin. They did not even go to Kazakhstan.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Rainbow is positioned there right now. Forty men.”
Clark just repeated himself: “What are you doing here?”
“I have asked my president to appeal to Rainbow to let you take temporary command of the organization for the Baikonur operation. Russian Spetsnaz forces would assist you in any way you wish. The Air Force, as well. In fact, you will have the entire Russian military at your disposal.” He paused, then said, “We will need to take action by tomorrow evening.”
“You are asking
Stanislav Biryukov shook his head slowly. “I am begging you, Mr. Clark.”
Clark raised an eyebrow as he looked up at the head of the FSB. “If you are appealing to my love of all things Russian in order to stop the attack on Moscow, well, sorry, comrade, but you’ve caught me on a bad day. My first inclination is to root for the guy with his finger on the button over there in Kazakhstan.”
“I understand, in light of present circumstances. But I also know that you will do this. You will want to save millions of lives. That is all that you will require to accept this role, but I have been authorized by President Rychcov to offer you whatever you want. Anything.”
John Clark stared at the Russian. “Right now I could use a goddamn bag of ice.”
Biryukov acted as if he had just noticed the swollen, broken hand. He called out to the men behind him, and soon a Spetsnaz sergeant with a medical kit came over and began unwrapping the towel. He placed cold gel packs on the horrific injuries, and he slowly moved the two twisted fingers back into place. He then began to wrap the entire hand and ice packs with compression bandages.
While he did this, Clark spoke through winces of pain. “Here are my demands. Your people talk to the press about how Kovalenko conspired with Paul Laska to bring down the Ryan administration with fabrications about me. The Russian government distances themselves from the allegations completely, and hands over any evidence they have on Laska and his associates.”
“Of course. Kovalenko has brought shame and embarrassment on us all.”
The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment before Clark said, “I’m not going to take your assurances. There’s a guy at
Stanislav Biryukov nodded. “I will contact President Rychcov’s office and see that it happens today.” He then looked around at the torture implements on the table. “Between you and me, between two old men who have seen a lot more than many of the young people who have risen to the top ranks today… I would like to apologize for what the SVR has done. This was not an FSB ?operation at all. I hope you will tell your new president that personally.”
Clark responded to this request with a question: “What will happen to Valentin Kovalenko?”
Biryukov shrugged. “Moscow is a dangerous place, even for an SVR leader. His operation, his rogue operation, I will say, has been an embarrassment for my country. He will make important people angry when it is found out what he has done. Who’s to say he might not meet with an accident?”
“I am not asking you to kill Kovalenko on my behalf. I am just suggesting that he will have a problem when he finds out I’ve been freed by the FSB.”
Biryukov smiled. Clark could tell the man was not in the least bit concerned about Valentin Kovalenko. “Mr. Clark. Someone has to shoulder Russia’s responsibility in this unfortunate affair.”
John shrugged it away. He wasn’t going to worry about saving Kovalenko’s ass right now. There were innocent people out there who actually deserved his help.
John Clark and Stanislav Biryukov climbed into a helicopter five minutes later. Heavily armed commandos helped John walk, and the medic applied cold packs and compression bandages around his broken ribs. As the helo lifted off into the night sky the American leaned over to the head of the FSB. “I need the fastest plane to Baikonur, and a satellite phone. I need to call a former colleague from Rainbow and get him here. If you can speed up his visa and passport process, it would be very helpful.”
“Just tell your man to get himself on the way to Baikonur. I will contact the head of customs authority of Kazakhstan personally. There will be no delays getting him in the country, I can promise you. You and I will meet him there. By the time we land, Rychcov will have negotiated authority for you to lead Rainbow once again.”
