Tom Clancy's op-centre_ mirror image - Tom Clancy [132]
The man who got on the line was not the wary but composed officer he'd spoken to earlier. He was surprisingly aggressive.
"Your plan has gone sour," the General said bluntly.
The Minister was suspicious. "Which plan? Has something happened to the train?"
"You could say that," Orlov replied. "As we speak, American commandos are attacking it."
Dogin sat up very straight. "The, train was your responsibility-- your son's!"
"I'm sure Nikita is doing his best to hold them off", Orlov said. "And the Americans are at a disadvantage. They don't want to hurt our people."
"They would be insane to," Dogin replied. "Where is Rossky?"
"Chasing spies," Orlov said. "But they eluded him. They caught the man who was tailing them and used his radio to put me in touch with an operations center in Washington. That's how I know about their plan. We tried to work things out."
"I don't want to hear about your failures," Dogin said. "I want Rossky found, and when he is you're relieved of your command."
"You forget," Orlov said. "Only the President can replace me."
"You will resign, General Orlov, or I'll have you removed from the Center."
"How will Rossky and his brownshirts get in?" Orlov asked. "As of now, the Center will be sealed off."
Dogin warned, "They will take it back!"
"Perhaps," Orlov said. "But not in time to help you save your train or your cause."
"General!" Dogin yelled. "Think about what you're doing. Think about your son, your wife."
"I love them," Orlov said, "but I'm thinking about Russia now. I only wish I weren't alone. Goodbye, Minister."
Orlov hung up, and for nearly a minute Dogin sat squeezing the phone. It was impossible to imagine that he had come so far only to be undermined by Orlov's betrayal.
His brow flushed, hands shaking with rage, he set down the receiver and had his assistant call Air Force General Dhaka. The Americans had to have come in by air and no doubt were planning to get out the same way, fast and dirty. He would make that impossible, and if anything happened to his cargo the Americans would have to replace the money-- or their soldiers would be returned to them through Shovich, a piece at a time.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 11:10 P.M., Khabarovsk
Squires peered through the last, thin puffs of tear gas out as they floated to the ceiling and then wound out the window and door. His eyes and mouth protected by gear that already seemed a part of him, his ears alert for danger, he ran to the cases stacked or strewn haphazardly in the rear of the car. He used his lapel knife to pry up the edge of one of the wooden crates.
It was money. Lots of it, the profits of suffering earmarked to cause more suffering.
Instead, he thought, looking at his watch, in thirty-two minutes it will be confetti. He and his mini-team would ride the rails another twenty minutes to where the Russians wouldn't be able to reach the train. Then they would hike toward the bridge as behind them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, the two cars of this rotten bank would blow cloud-high. He experienced the flush of righteousness that Americans from Thomas Jefferson to Rosa Parks must have felt, the satisfaction and pride of saying no to something wrong, to someone corrupt.
Squires started toward the rear door of the train. As he was about to enter the second car to check on Newmeyer, his head was wrenched around by the sound of gunfire.
From the engine? he thought. How can that be? Grey wouldn't be shooting at anyone now that they were under way.
Calling for Newmeyer, Squires ran toward the front of the car, stepped into the black clouds that fierce winds were pounding down from the smokestack, and felt his way cautiously around the coal tender.
There had only been time for a brief burst, but Nikita knew he'd tagged the American. He'd seen the way his shoulder had jerked back, saw the dark splash of blood on the camouflage whites.
Nikita