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"I beeped Honda's helmet phones. We'll just have to wait."

"Thanks," said Hood. He looked at Rodgers again. "This isn't Vietnam, Mike. We're not withdrawing moral or tactical support from our personnel in the field. If Squires wants to go ahead, I'll back him and take the butt-whipping from Congress later."

"It's not your call," Rodgers quietly reminded him.

"Striker is yours to command," Hood agreed, "but going outside the parameters established by the Intelligence Committee is my call."

Bugs came back on. "Lieutenant Colonel Squires is minding the headphones, Paul. I have him on the line."

Hood punched up the volume on the phone link. "Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Yes, sir!" said Squires, his voice clear despite the crackling caused by the snowfall.

"What's your disposition?" Hood asked.

"Five Strikers are nearly down the cliff. Private Newmeyer and I are about to descend."

"Lieutenant Colonel," Rodgers said, "there are Russian soldiers on top of the train. We make out ten or eleven, the all-NEWS network."

Facing north, east, west, and south, Hood knew. "We're concerned about letting you go ahead with the mission," Hood said. "What does it look like to you?"

"Well, sir," Squires said, "I've been standing here looking at the landscape--"

"The landscape?" Hood said.

"Yes, sir. This looks doable, and I'd like permission to proceed."

Hood caught the glint in Rodgers's eye. It was a flash of pride, not triumph.

"You understand the mission parameters," Hood said.

"We don't break any Russians," Squires said. "I think we can manage that. If not, we'll abort and head for the extraction point."

"Sounds like a plan," Hood said. "We'll keep an eye on the train and update you if necessary."

"Thank you, sir General Rodgers. As they say in the foothills, 'Dosvedanya.' See you later."

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Tuesday, 2:52 P.M., St. Petersburg

Peggy stopped at the coin-operated telephone just above the Griboyedora Canal. After looking around, she pushed two kopeks into the coin slot. She answered George's mystified look by saying, "Volko. Cellular phone."

Right, he thought. The spy. With everything else that was going on, George had forgotten about him. One of the things Striker operatives had been trained to do was take in their surroundings in a seemingly casual glance, remembering details that most people would have missed. The ordinary person looked at the sky or the sea or a skyline-- big, impressive sights. But that wasn't where "information" tended to be. It was in a glen under the sky or a cove beside the sea or a street running past a building. Those were the places Strikers looked. And at people, always people. A tree or mailbox wasn't a threat to a mission, but someone behind them could be.

And because he hadn't looked at the trees in the park or the busy thoroughfare when he'd arrived, Private George noticed that the man who had been napping on the bench was no longer asleep. He was walking slowly less than two hundred yards behind them and his St. Bernard was panting. He had been running to get there, not strolling.

Peggy said in Russian, "The Hermitage, Raphael's Conestabile Madonna, left side, every hour and half hour for one minute. After closing, go to Krasnyy Prospekt, Upper Park, lean on a tree, left arm."

The English operative had told him where to meet her and how to stand so she'd know him.

She hung up and they started walking again.

"We're being followed," George said in English.

"The man with the beard," Peggy said, "I know. This could make things a little easier."

"Easier?"

"Yes," she said. "The Russians know we're here, and the surveillance facility Keith was looking for could very well be involved. Anyway, if that man is wired we may be able to find it. Do you have a light?"

"Excuse me?"

"A match?" she said. "A lighter?"

"I don't smoke," George said.

"Neither do I," Peggy said impatiently, "but pat your pockets like you're looking for one."

"Oh. Sorry," George said as he slapped his shirt and pants pockets.

"Fine,"