by Tom Clancy
What first alerted him was the way they had positioned themselves. One by the magazine stand in the corridor, another beside the entry to the waiting area, a third near the gate. It was where they stood and how they stood: the lift of their chins, their straight postures, their discreetly observant eyes, taking everything in without seeming to move. It was their dark suits and overcoats, their pastel ties, the slight catches in the fabric of their pants several inches above the hemline, giveaway signs of ankle holsters. It was their scrubbed, clipped, efficient appearance.
He lowered himself into a contoured plastic chair and glanced up at the bank of monitors displaying estimated arrival and departure schedules. His flight to Stockholm was to take off in half an hour, and he expected to hear the boarding announcement very shortly.
Normally the surveillance wouldn’t have ruffled his calm. He had spent many years masking his trail across scores of countries, and was wise to the ways of eluding pursuit. And while the cast of the net was wider now than in the past, the spaces one could slip through remained as large as ever. Larger, in fact, than it had been in some previous instances. The national origin of the bombing suspects was unknown. What was more, their sponsor had not been identified, and even the connection to Russia remained uncertain. He should have felt secure in being a faceless, invisible presence, camouflaged like the mantis. And would have, had it not been for the photograph.
It had appeared in the New York Daily News the very day after the explosion, and then had been splashed all over the media, a grainy image taken off an amateur videotape, made by someone who’d been high above the square on Seventh Avenue and Fifty-third Street. A circle had been drawn around the man that the headline declared was responsible for having left behind one of the secondary charges. In the picture, he was setting a nylon athletic bag on the sidewalk near an unmanned police barricade. While it was clear he had dark hair and wore a leather jacket, his features were shadowed and indistinct. Still, Sadov had recognized himself. He had feared the people who were looking for him would be able to sharpen the image with computer enhancements, and hesitated to enter a busy airport at a time when his photograph was being exhibited on every newsstand. It had meant staying in New York nearly a full week longer than Gilea and the others, laying low in Roma’s safehouses. During that week he had lightened and cut his hair, obtained a pair of stage eyeglasses, and traded his clothing for an expensive business suit. The disguise was satisfying, and he was confident he could make it through the airport despite the heightened state of alert. Nevertheless, he would be glad once he was up and walking through the jetway.
Yes, he’d relax once he was on the plane. The undercover surveillance of key transit points had been expected, and well considered by Roma’s people when they plotted out his return to Russia. The route they had arranged would take him from Sweden into Finland by rail, then through the border crossing at Nuijaama to the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Though circuitous, and requiring some extra paperwork, this had been deemed the best way to go. The Finnish and Russian border guards were known for their laxity, and gave automobiles only perfunctory inspections. There would be a quick customs check afterward—an X-ray scan of his luggage, two steps through a metal detector, and that was all. He would be safe on familiar ground.
Now Sadov sat flipping through a magazine without giving any attention to its contents, looking over the tops of the pages, carefully watching the agents who were watching the departure area. Had the red-haired man by the gate had his eye on him, glancing away just as he, Sadov, glanced up? Sadov turned another page. Almost certainly he was letting his nerves run away with him. It was the photograph, the extended period in New York.
He waited.
The announcement came over the speakers ten minutes later: flight 206 to Stockholm was now boarding, handicapped passengers and those with seating in rows A through L could enter the gate, please have your tickets ready.
Sadov slowly closed his magazine and zipped it into a side compartment of his carry-on bag. Around him, other fliers rose off their chairs and got in line at the gate. He let his gaze skim over the redheaded agent. The man had his arms crossed over his chest and seemed focused on the waiting area. As Sadov stood to join the line the man bounced up and down on his toes. Once. Was that an indication of boredom and restlessness, a reflexive little stretch? Or an indication he might be preparing to make a move? For one small second, Sadov had thought he’d felt eyes on his face.
He slung his travel bag over his shoulder and moved to the back of the line. He noticed the agent who had been posted at the entrance to the waiting area start walking in his approximate direction. The man had bristle-cut hair and a pointed, vigilant face. Like a fox.
Sadov ground his teeth. He remembered the close call he’d had after the job in London. That had been a little over a year ago. A pair of bobbies had identified him, followed him for several blocks. He’d left both in an alley with bullets in their skulls. But now, here, he was unarmed. And with all these people around, he would be trapped.
The line moved forward. He moved with it, his ticket in hand. The redhaired agent was now almost directly in front of him, to the right of the gate, scrutinizing the passengers as they stepped through. Sadov wondered to what extent the image of him could have been refined. There was a great deal of technology available to the authorities. And wasn’t it also possible they had been tipped off? There was a reward. New York City alone had offered fifty thousand dollars. And he did not fully trust Roma or his men. They might have been tempted. Think of the things he himself had done for money.
Sadov continued toward the gate. There were only three passengers ahead of him. An elderly couple, and a well-dressed woman in her forties. The couple exchanged brief pleasantries with a flight attendant as she took their tickets, then disappeared into the jetway. The woman was next. The redheaded man gave her a cursory glance, looked past her at the shrinking line.
Sadov squeezed his tension into a tight ball and pushed it somewhere deep inside him. He had no choice but to continue ahead toward the gate and hope he got through.
He held out his ticket. The attendant’s mouth was smiling. He nodded, peeled his own lips back over his teeth to mimic the expression. The redhead was almost beside him now.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “would you please step off the line a moment?”
Sadov kept his eyes on the stewardess’s teeth, peripherally glimpsed the fox-faced agent approaching from the right, joining the redheaded man. He did not yet see the third agent, the one he’d spotted at the magazine stand, but felt sure he would be closing in as well.
“Sir, did you hear me? We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Sadov’s blood surged into his ears. He would have to comply, there was really nothing else to do.
He looked over at the redhead.
And realized the agent wasn’t speaking to him at all. Was in fact addressing someone in line behind him.
He expelled a breath, spared a moment to glance over his shoulder.
Three places down the line was a man about the same age and height as Sadov himself, wearing jeans and a short ski jacket. His hair was dark brown, the same color that Sadov’s had been before he dyed it. The agents had gently taken hold of his elbow, steered him aside, and asked to see his identification. He looked confused, agitated, and embarrassed as he reached into his shoulder bag.
Sadov turned back to the flight attendant. He felt his smile transform into something authentic, like a stone sculpture that had suddenly become imbued with life.
The agents had come close, but they were off by three. Pulling a sheep in wolf’s clothing, he thought with amusement.
“Have a nice flight, sir,” the attendant said.
His grin expanded.
“Thank you,” he said, entering the gate. “I’m sure that I will.”
THIRTY-TWO
WASHINGTON, D.C. JANUARY 26, 2000
“BALLS,” THE PRESIDENT SAID TO HIS GATHERING
OF the National Security Council. “Colossal fucking balls.”
He slammed his hand down on the classified CIA/FBI intelligence report on his desk, drawing looks from the men at the table in the conference room down the hall from the Oval Office. In an unprecedented show of inter-organizational cooperation, the two agencies had gotten together, combined their investigative researches into the Times Square bombing, and reached certain mutual assessments that likely spelled disaster for his Russian foreign policy agenda—shooting his self-image all to the moon in the process. What accounted for his multileveled chagrin and dismay was the understanding that, if those assessments were right, he would have to reexamine his commitment to prop up Starinov and his closest government associates. He’d always been quick to read popular currents of opinion, always recognized when they threatened to capsize him, and was nearly always willing and able to jump ship when his political survival was at stake. Criticism tended to roll off his hide unless there were polling numbers to make it stick, and he was especially unaccustomed to having that thick and famously lubricious epidermal layer pierced by straightforward jabs of morality.
But it had happened when he’d read the intelligence reports. Happened in a big way. The presidential hide had been weakened, compromised from within. And the implications this presented about his own deepest nature were unexpected and jarring.
If the conclusions laid out in those documents were correct, if, he would be outraged, horrified, and soul-sick. And the hell of it was, he had realized he would have to act on those feelings or be unable to live with himself. What kind of national leader would that make him? A President whose major policy decisions were prompted by heart and conscience? Jesus Almighty, he’d be great white Washington shark food!
“The way I see it, we’ve still got some wriggle room here,” Vice President Humes said. “The Bashkir connection is based on inference. Implication. Circumstantial evidence. As far as I can see, it’s going to be impossible for anyone to conclusively establish his guilt—”
The President propped his right elbow on the table, formed a wide V with his thumb and forefinger, and leaned the bridge of his nose down into it. He simultaneously pushed his right palm out in the air like a traffic cop signaling Humes to a full stop.
“Listen to me, Steve. Listen carefully,” he said. “This isn’t about what we can prove. It’s about what we believe or do not believe to be true. And these reports make a convincing case that the Russian minister of the interior brought about the deaths of a thousand American citizens, on American soil, the mayor of America’s largest city among them.” He paused a moment, his head still lowered into his hand, looking almost penitent. “This puts the attack nearly on a scale with Pearl Harbor ... and it occurred during my goddamned watch.”
“I agree,” said Kenneth Taylor, the national security advisor. “And it’s probably worth mentioning that the Japanese were going after a military target, not civilians.”
“There’s a more important distinction to bear in mind, though,” said Secretary of Defense Roger Farrand, stroking his scrupulously trimmed Mellvillian beard. “Should Bashkir be responsible, he would have been acting as a member of a renegade cell, not a representative of the government in power. In fact, it goes beyond that. What he did, if he did it, was a deliberate attempt at bringing down one of his own country’s leaders.”
“Qualifying him as a subversive and traitor within Russia, as well as an international criminal,” Secretary of State Bowman said, nodding. “I think I see Roger’s point, and tend to go along with him on this.”
Which, given the two men’s usual contentious relationship, was yet another source of inner upheaval for the President. What next? Would the world tilt on its axis, the sun go dark at noon, the sky itself turn upside down? He had been launched into uncharted waters, and there were dragons beneath his keel.
“I’d appreciate it if one of you would explain what you’re getting at,” he said. “Maybe I’m overtired, but I need it served up nice and plain.”
Bowman nodded again. “Starinov could very publicly expose Bashkir. I can’t see any reason why he wouldn’t want to, considering Bashkir’s disloyalty. Should he oust him from his cabinet post immediately, it would be a start at salvaging Starinov’s reputation and our relationship with him. After that, we can talk about bringing him to trial, maybe establish a U.N. tribunal that could charge him with crimes against humanity.” He paused. “I know I’m broad-jumping here, but it’s a direction in which we really ought to move.”
“Everything you’ve said sounds fine, but there are a couple of aspects to the situation you may be overlooking,” President Ballard said. “The evidence we’ve obtained is highly subject to interpretation, and Starinov is liable to draw less certain conclusions from it than we have ... if and when we present it to him. These two men have been friends and allies for decades.”
“He could be pressured,” the Veep said. “Starinov needs our support to continue sharing power with Korsikov and Pedachenko, and probably to win election once the state of emergency in Russia is lifted. We can make it clear that backing will be withdrawn unless he gives up Bashkir.”
President Ballard looked at him with mild wonder. A few minutes ago Humes had been talking about giving their administration wriggle room, a way to avoid holding Bashkir accountable for mass murder in pursuit of political goals. By what shortcut of reasoning had he gone from there to his latest suggestion? Had he always been this cynical? Ballard suddenly felt like someone who’d found religion, or gone from being a three-pack-a-day smoker to being an anti-tobacco activist. But what place was there for a born-again idealist in office? He needed to get a grip.
“I’m not averse to maneuvering Starinov if it comes to that,” he said. “But I think I know the man a little and, believe me, his personal allegiance isn’t to be underestimated.”
“Et tu, Bruté,” Taylor said.
“Exactly.” The President straightened in his chair. “Right now, I’m wondering if we ought to be less concerned with reaction in Moscow than in Washington. We’ve got Delacroix sitting on the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee and the Intelligence Committee. He’s objected to our foreign aid package to Russia from the beginning, and these reports will finally give him something to hang his hat on.”
“You can bet on it being a circus ringmaster’s hat, too,” Humes said. “The only question is what sort of dog-and-pony show he’s going to put on.”
President Ballard looked at him.
“This report’s going to be in his hands by tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Something tells me you’ll have your answer soon enough. I suggest that you have a response formulated and ready to go before the good senator takes the stage.”
They met near midnight, in the square outside Saint Basil’s Cathedral. Just the two of them, as arranged, although each arrived with an assignment of bodyguards, who hung a short and inconspicuous distance back in the shadows. Whatever trust there was between them was bought and maintained with power.
“Arkady,” Starinov said with a nod of greeting.
His hands in the pockets of his trench coat, Pedachenko gave him an agreeable, artificial smile.
“I’m glad you agreed to meet tonight, Vladimir,” he said.
Starinov said nothing in response. It was bitterly cold and he was bundled in a heavy wool coat, scarf, and fur hat. Pedachenko, however, stood with his thick hair whipping in the wind, and the top buttons of his coat open, as if in brash challenge to the elements.
The man was steeped in his own arrogance, Starinov thought.
Pedachenko turned, craning back his head to look up at the unlikely group of turban domes above them. The floodlights that illuminated the cathedral for tourists were switched off at this hour; in the darkness, its fanciful architecture took on the strange, alien nature of a half-forgotten myth.
“I’ve been thinking a little about St. Basil tonight,” he said. “The Holy Fool who shunned all creature comforts, walking naked
in the snow, eating and drinking only what he needed to survive. Yet known for always speaking the truth. For being the living conscience of the Russian people. A man so good and pious that even Ivan the Terrible tolerated his barbs.”
Starinov looked at him.
“I hope,” he said, “you aren’t going to profess to that sort of self-denial.”
Pedachenko chuckled.
“Nor anything like St. Basil’s virtue,” he said, turning back toward Starinov. “We are politicians, Vladimir. That in itself damns us, don’t you think?”
Starinov shrugged and looked directly into the other man’s pale blue eyes. He wanted to get down to business.
“If we are to discuss matters of state, as I assume is the case, then shouldn’t Korsikov be with us?”
“He is the reason we’ve come here rather than to a pleasant old government chamber. One where we could clink snifters of brandy and stare meditatively at crackling logs as we speak,” Pedachenko said. His smile, though unmoving, had somehow become derisive. “If you will pardon the term, Korsikov is the weak sister in our troika, Vladimir. And he is also a prying one. There’s no point in having him meddle. We will make our decisions tonight, and he will go along with them.”
Starinov kept looking at him.
“Whatever your opinion of Korsikov, he is still in place within the Kremlin.”
“But perhaps not for much longer,” Pedachenko said.
Starinov was quiet for several seconds. His breath puffed from his nose in little jets of vapor.
“Hours after Yeltsin died, the three of us formed our interim government, and mutually decided that it would last until there is an election,” he said. “I will not engage in conspiratorial back-stabbing—”
Pedachenko held up his hand.
“Please, Vladimir, you misunderstand me,” he said. “What I am about to propose is strictly aboveboard. There will be no garrotes in the night, either literally or figuratively. ”
