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The woman said without hesitation, "Agreed."

"Colonel?" said Orlov.

"Yes, sir?" Rossky replied, his voice taut.

"No one moves except by direct order from me. Is that understood?"

"It is understood."

Orlov heard rustling and the sounds of muffled conversation. He couldn't tell whether it was from the car or from the Technological Institute Metro stop, where Rossky had gone to catch his rats. In either case, he knew the Colonel wouldn't be idle, that he'd do something to save face and to make sure that the two operatives did not get away.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Tuesday, 7:35 A.M., Washington, D.C.

Hood had learned that the paradox of crisis management was you invariably had to lop off the head of Medusa, face the heart of the situation, when you were most tired.

The last time his head had rested on a pillow, Hood was in a Los Angeles hotel room with his family. Now here he was, more than twenty-four hours later, sitting in his office with Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, Ann Farris, Lowell Coffey, and Liz Gordon, waiting for the first reports from a pair of Striker teams that had been sent to attack a foreign country. However they dressed up the language-- which was what Ann would have to do in press releases if the teams were discovered or captured that's exactly what Striker was doing. Attacking Russia.

Hood's staff was marking time as they waited to hear from either team, and he only half listened as he considered the ramifications of what they were doing. From the out-of-sorts look on Mike Rodgers's face he was evidently doing the same.

Coffey hooked a finger under his sleeve and checked his watch.

Herbert scowled. "Checking Mickey's hands every minute isn't going to make the time go any faster," he said.

Liz sat up and jumped to his defense. "It's like chicken soup, Bob. It doesn't hurt."

Ann started to say something but stopped when the phone beeped. Hood rapped the speaker button.

"Mr. Hood," Bugs Benet said, "there's a call for you relayed through Major Pentti Aho's office from St. Petersburg."

"Put it through," Hood said. He felt like he did on hot summer mornings, when the air was still and silent and it was difficult to breathe. "Any guesses, Bob?" he asked, hitting mute on the phone.

"Our Striker man there may have been caught and forced to call," he said. "I can't think of any other--"

"This is Kris," said Peggy.

"Scratch that," said Herbert. "Kris is Peggy's code name if she's free. Kringle if she's stuck in the chimney, so to speak."

Hood unmuted the phone.

"Yes, Kris," he said.

"General Sergei Orlov would like to speak with his counterpart," Peggy said.

"Are you with the General?" Hood asked.

"No. We've raised him by radio."

Hood touched mute and looked at Herbert. "Can this be on the level?"

"If it is," Herbert said, "Peg and George worked a Galilee-grade miracle."

Rodgers said, "That's what Striker's trained to do. And the lady was no slouch either."

Hood unmuted. "Kris, his counterpart agrees."

A strong voice said in thickly accented English, "And with whom have I the honor of speaking?"

"This is Paul Hood," he answered as his eyes took in the faces of his officers. He noticed that everyone in the room was leaning forward in their chairs.

Orlov said, "Mr. Hood, this is a pleasure."

"General Orlov," said Hood, "I've followed your career for many years. We all have. You've many admirers here."

"Thank you."

"Tell me, do you have video capabilities?"

Orlov said, "We do, through the Zontik-6 satellite."

Hood glanced at Herbert. "Can you hook me into it?"

The intelligence chief looked as though someone had turned a cold hose on him. "He'll see the Tank, You can't be serious."

"I am."

With an oath, Herbert called his office on his cellular phone, swinging his wheelchair around and huddling over it so Orlov couldn't hear.

Hood said, "General, I would like to talk face-to-face. If we can arrange that, will you agree to it?"

"Gladly," Orlov said. "Our respective governments would