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, unlike you, he had the misfortune of falling into the hands of a spetsnaz officer who dealt with him rather harshly. We also have the labels from the English tea bags you served the British spy. Very clever. I imagine you passed information inside them, then cleared the table so no one would ever notice the missing labels. There were fibers from one of the labels in his wallet. We wouldn't have found you if not for that. Do you deny any of this?"
Volko said nothing. He wasn't feeling especially brave, but all he had left was his self-respect. He wasn't about to lose it.
Pogodin was standing right beside Volko, looking down at him. "Commendable. Most people in your position screech like birds. Perhaps you don't know of our reputation for obtaining information?"
"I know," Volko said.
Pogodin regarded him for a moment. He looked as though he was trying to decide whether Volko was brave or stupid. "Would you care for a cigarette?"
The waiter shook his head.
"Would you care to save your life and repay some of the debt you owe to your country?"
Volko looked up at his youthful captor.
"I see that you would," Pogodin said. He used his cigarette to point to the men behind him. "Shall I send them away so we can talk?"
Volko thought for a moment, then nodded.
Pogodin told them to go and they shut the door behind them as they left. The young man walked around Volko to the table and perched on the edge.
"You were expecting somewhat different treatment, weren't you?" Pogodin asked.
"When?" Volko said. "Today, or when I returned from Afghanistan with a broken back and a pension that wouldn't support a dog?"
"Ah, bitterness," Pogodin said. "A greater motivator than anger because it doesn't pass. So you betrayed Russia because your pension was too small?"
"No," Volko said. "Because I felt betrayed. I was in pain every moment I worked, every time I stood."
Pogodin poked his chest with a thumb. "And I'm in pain each day I think of my grandfather being crushed by a tank in Stalingrad, or my two elder brothers killed by snipers in Afghanistan— and men like you betraying what they died for because you felt uncomfortable. Is that all the affection you can muster for Russia?"
Volko looked straight ahead. "A man has to eat, and in order to eat he must work. I would have been fired from the hotel if the Englishman hadn't insisted they keep me. He spent a great deal of money there."
Pogodin shook his head. "I should tell my superiors at the Ministry of Security that you are unapologetic and would sell your country again for a price."
"That wasn't what I wanted," Volko said. "It never was, and it isn't now."