'Jesus, Mike,' Herbert said, 'think this through. Paul believes in diplomacy, not warfare. He'll never agree —'
'Hold on,' said Rodgers.
Herbert sat there while Rodgers went to the desk phone and buzzed Hood's executive assistant.
'Bugs?' he said. 'Is Paul still sitting in on the TAS session?'
'I believe so, ' Bugs Benet responded.
'Ask him if he can come to Bob Herbert's office. Something has come up.'
'Will do,' Benet said.
When Benet clicked off, Rodgers said, 'We'll find out right now if he agrees.'
'Even if you can convince him,' Herbert said, 'the CIC will never in a million years go along with this.'
'They already okayed a Striker incursion into Russia,' Rodgers said. 'Darrell and Martha will have to get them to approve another.'
'And if they can't?'
Rodgers said, 'What would you do, Bob?'
Herbert was silent for a long moment. 'Jesus, Mike,' he said, 'you know what I'd do.'
'You'd send them in because it's the right mission and they're the right team, and you know it. Look,' Rodgers said, 'we both shoveled dirt on Bass Moore's coffin after North Korea— I was in on that incursion. I've been on other missions where troops have been killed. But that can't immobilize us. This is what we created Striker for.'
Herbert's door beeped and he let Hood in.
The Director's tired eyes showed concern as they settled on Herbert. 'You don't look very happy, Bob. What's up?'
Rodgers told him. Hood sat on the edge of Herbert's desk, listening without comment as the General informed him about the situation in Russia and his thoughts on Striker.
When he was finished, Hood asked, 'How do you think our terrorists would react to this? Would it be a breach of our deal with them?'
'No,' said Rodgers. 'They specifically told us to stay out of Eastern Europe, not central Russia. In any case, we'd be in and out before they knew it.'
'Fair enough,' said Hood. 'On to the larger question, then. You know how I feel about force as opposed to negotiation.'
'Same as I do,' said Rodgers. 'Better to shoot off your mouth than a gun. But we won't be able to talk this train back to Vladivostok.'
'Probably not,' Hood agreed, 'which raises another issue entirely. Let's assume you get an okay to send Striker to reconnoiter and you find out what's on the train. Say it's heroin. What then? Do you seize it, destroy it, or call Zhanin to send Russian troops to fight Russian troops?'
Rodgers said, 'When you've got a fox in your gunsight, you don't put down the rifle and call for the hounds. That's how you end up with Nazis in Poland, Castro in Cuba, and a Communist Vietnam.'
Hood shook his head. 'You're talking about attacking Russia.'
'Yes, I am,' Rodgers said. 'Didn't they just attack us?'
'That was different.'
'Tell that to the families of the dead,' Rodgers said. He walked toward Hood. 'Paul, we aren't another fat, pass-the-buck government agency. Op-Center was chartered to get things done, things the CIA and the State Department and the military can't do. We've got a chance to do that. Charlie Squires put Striker together with the full knowledge that they would be called upon to play with fire, no different than any other elite military team, from the spetsnaz to Oman's Royal Guard to Equatorial Guinea's Guardia Civil. What we have to work toward— what we have to believe— is that if we all do our jobs and keep our wits, this thing can be kept under wraps and dealt with.'
Hood looked at Herbert. 'What do you think?'
Herbert shut his eyes and rubbed the lids. 'As I get older, the thought of kids dying for political expediency is increasingly nauseating to me. But the Dogin-Shovich-Kosigan team is a nightmare, and like it or not, Op-Center is in the front line.'
'What about St. Petersburg?' Hood asked. 'We decided that cutting the brain from the body would be enough.'
'This dragon is bigger than we thought,' Rodgers said. 'You take off the head, the body may still be alive long enough to do some serious damage. Those drugs or money or whatever is on the train can make that happen.'
Herbert rolled over to Hood. He clapped a hand on his knee. 'You look as unhappy as I did, Chief.'
Hood said, 'And now I know why.' He looked at Rodgers. 'I know you wouldn't risk your team unless you thought it was worth it. If Darrell can swing this with the CIC, do what needs to be done.'
Rodgers turned to Herbert. 'Head over to TAS. Have them draw up a plan leaving as small a Striker contingent as possible in Helsinki, then figure out the cleanest, fastest way of getting Striker to the train. Bounce it off Charlie each step of the way, and make sure he's comfortable with it.'
'Oh, you know Charlie,' Herbert said as he swung his wheelchair toward the door. 'If it involves putting his ass on the line, he'll be for it.'
'I know,' Rodgers said. 'He's the best of us.'
'Mike,' Hood said, 'I'll brief the President on this one. Just so you know, I'm still not behind this one hundred percent. But I'm behind you.'
'Thanks,' Rodgers said. 'That's all I want or expect.'
The men followed Herbert out.
As he rolled alone toward the TAS command center, the Intelligence Officer found himself wondering why nothing in human affairs— whether it was the conquest of a nation or the changing of a single mind or the pursuit of a lover— could be accomplished without struggle.
It was said that trials were what made the victory so sweet, but Herbert never bought that. From where he sat, he'd settle for having the victories come a little easier now and then
CHAPTER THIRTY
The room was small and dark with concrete walls and a fluorescent light overhead. There was a wooden table, a single stool, and a metal door. There were no windows. The black tile floor was faded and badly scuffed.
Andrei Volko sat beneath the flickering lights in the small, windowless room. He knew why he was here, and he had a good idea what was going to happen to him. The militiaman with the gun had led him from the train without a word, to two waiting armed guards and, together, the four of them had climbed into a police car and come to the station on Dzerzhinsky Street, not far from the old KGB headquarters. Volko had been handcuffed at the station. As he sat on the stool feeling utterly helpless, he wondered how they had found out about him. He assumed it was through something Fields-Hutton had left behind. Not that it mattered. He tried not to think how long and hard he would be beaten until his captors believed he knew absolutely nothing about any operatives apart from the ones they'd already taken. More important, he wondered how many days it would be before he was tried, imprisoned, and finally awakened one morning and shot in the head. What lay ahead seemed surrealistic.
He could only hear his thumping heart as it beat loudly in his ears. Every now and then a wave of terror rolled through him, a mix of fear and despair that caused him to ask himself, How have I come to this point in my life? A decorated soldier, a good son, a man who had only wanted what was due to him- A key turned and the door swung open. Three guards entered the room. Two men wore uniforms and carried clubs. The third man was young, short, and dressed in crisply pressed brown trousers and a white shirt without any tie. He had a round face with gentle eyes and smoked a strong-smelling cigarette. The two guards positioned themselves alongside the open door, legs spread wide apart, blocking it.
'My name is Pogodin,' the young man said firmly as he approached him, 'and you are in quite a bit of trouble. We found the telephone in your cassette machine. Your fellow traitor in St. Petersburg had one also. However,
