complex below. Though he was no longer able to see the earth from space, there was still much to savor down here. It bothered him that Rossky and the Minister never stopped to look at the river, the buildings, and especially the art. To them, beauty was merely something to hide under.
Upon entering the museum, Orlov walked toward the Jordan Staircase and the entrance to the secret new arm of the Kremlin, a facility at once practical and idiosyncratic.
The practical side was the Hermitage site itself. It had been chosen over potential locations in Moscow and Volgograd because operatives could he moved in and out inconspicuously with tour groups; because agents could travel easily from here to Scandinavia and Europe; because the Neva would hide and disperse most of the radio waves coming from equipment at the Center; because the working TV studio they'd built gave them access to satellite communications; and most important, because no one would attack the Hermitage.
The idiosyncrasy came from Minister Dogin's devotion to history. The Minister collected old maps, and in his collection were the blueprints of Stalin's wartime headquarters under the Kremlin— rooms that were not only bombproof but led to a private subway tunnel that would have been used to shuttle Stalin from Moscow in the event of an attack. The Minister revered Stalin, and when he, now— President Zhanin, and the head of the Ministry of Security first planned this communications and spy facility for Boris Yeltsin, Dogin insisted on using the layout that worked for Stalin. The design actually worked out well, Orlov felt. As in a submarine, the tight, somewhat claustrophobic quarters helped to keep workers focused on the tasks at hand.
Orlov acknowledged the guard as he passed. The General used the keypad to enter; once inside, he showed the receptionist his ID, despite the fact that she was Masha's cousin and knew him well. Then he made his way through the reception area and down the stairs to the TV studio. At the far end, he punched the day's four-digit code on a keypad and the door popped open. When Orlov shut it behind him, the dark stairwell's single overhead bulb snapped on automatically. He walked down the stairs where another keypad gained him access to the Center. Entering the dimly lit central corridor, he turned to the right and strode toward the office of Colonel Rossky.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rodgers was ushered quickly through the outer and inner gates, and was met at the White House by Assistant National Security Director Grumet. The fifty-year-old woman stood nearly six feet tall, had long, straight blond hair, and wore very little makeup. Rodgers had a great deal of respect for the Vietnam veteran, who had lost her left arm in a helicopter crash during the war.
'You're waiting for me,' said Rodgers. 'Am I late?'
'Not at all, sir,' Grumet said, saluting the General. 'The rest of us happen to be old married people who were sitting home watching TV when the blast happened. We had a little head start. I swear, just when you think the world can't get any sicker—'
'Oh, I read history,' Rodgers said. 'I never think that. '
As Rodgers entered the doorway, he took off the jacket of his uniform and handed it to the armed Marine standing outside. Otherwise, the brass buttons would have set off the metal detector hidden in the jamb. The detector didn't ping. After running a portable detector over the jacket, the Marine returned it to Rodgers and saluted.
'What's been happening?' Rodgers asked Grumet as they walked down the short corridor to the Oval Office.
'We responded by the book,' she said. 'We closed down immigration and rounded up the usual suspects. The FBI put various bureaus and agencies on alert, dropped divers into the wreckage. Director Rachlin complained that the CIA spends too much money on political sensitivity training and not enough on keeping track of sociopaths, mad scientists, and ideological foes.'
'That's Larry,' said Rodgers. 'More outspoken than Mr. Kidd. What the hell do these people want, Tobey?'
'Until we know more, we're treating it as a standard terrorist attack. It's possible that this was simply a criminal act, and that there will be a ransom demand. It's also possible that the bombing was the work of a psychotic individual or a domestic group.'
'Like the bombing in Oklahoma City.'
'Exactly. A group acting out their own deep anger and alienation from society.'
'But you don't think so?'
'No, Mike, we don't. We think this was the work of a foreign terrorist group.'
'Terrorists.'
'Exactly. If so, they could simply want publicity for their cause. Generally, though, terrorist acts are used instrumentally— that is, they are part of a plan to achieve larger ends.'
'The question is, what is the goal of these people?'
'We'll know soon enough,' Tobey said. 'Five minutes ago, the FBI got a call in New York saying that the President would be contacted by the terrorist. The caller provided the FBI with information about the size of the blast, its location, the kind of explosives used. It checked out exactly.'
'Is he going to take the call?' Rodgers asked.
'Technically, no,' Tobey said, 'but he'll be in the room. We think that will satisfy— shoot!' she said as her pager buzzed. 'They want us in there right now.'
The two ran down the corridor. They were waved ahead by an assistant in the antechamber of the Oval Office, and were buzzed through the inner door.
President Mike Lawrence was standing behind his desk. He was drawn to his full six-foot-four inch height, his hands on his hips, his shirtsleeves neatly rolled back a turn. Facing him was Secretary of State Av Lincoln. Lincoln was a former major league pitcher with a round face and thinning widow's peak.
Four other officials were also present: FBI Director Griffen Egenes, CIA director Larry Rachlin, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Melvin Parker, and National Security Chief Steve Burkow.
All of the men looked grim as they listened to a voice coming from the President's speakerphone.
'?save you the trouble of tracing this call,' the thinly accented Russian voice was saying. 'My name is Eival Ekdol. I am at 1016 Forest Road in Valley Stream on Long Island. It is a Grozny safe house, and you can have it, and me. I will also stand trial and denounce the officials who brought me down. It will be a good show.'
Grozny, thought Rodgers as he took a seat beside the dashing young National Security Chief. Oh, Christ.
Ascetic FBI Director Egenes wrote on a yellow pad, 'Let me get people over there, ' and held it up.
The President nodded and Egenes left the room.
'Once you have me,' Ekdol concluded, 'there will be no further acts of terrorism.'
'Why blow up the tunnel and then surrender yourself?' Burkow asked. 'What do you want in return?'
'Nothing. What I mean is, we want the United States to do nothing.'
'Where, when, and why?' Burkow asked.
'In Eastern Europe,' said Ekdol. 'A situation will soon develop militarily and we want neither the U.S. nor its allies to become involved.'
Chairman Parker picked up a phone near him. He turned his body so his voice couldn't be heard.
Burkow said, 'We can't promise that. The United States has interests in Poland, Hungary—'
'You have interests in the United States as well, Mr. Burkow.'
Burkow appeared to be taken by surprise. Rodgers just sat still, listening carefully.
'Are you threatening other American interests?' Burkow asked.
'Yes, I am,' said Ekdol. 'In fact, at a quarter past ten, a major suspension bridge in another American city will be blown up. Unless, of course, we've reached an agreement by that time.'
All in the room looked at their watches.
'As you no doubt realize,' said Ekdol, 'you have just under four minutes.'
The President said, 'Mr. Ekdol, this is President Lawrence. We need more time.'
'Take all the time you want, Mr. President,' said Ekdol. 'But you'll pay for it with lives. You can't reach me in time, even if you dispatched personnel when I gave you the address. And though you'll have me, you won't stop
