Sergei Kovnir livedor, some said, was dyingin Crospar. He was dying in a second-floor flat that had once been the home of someone Kovnir neither knew nor cared about. The only thing that was important was that they, who-ever they were, were gone and because of that he had a roof over his head.
At sixty-one years of age, Sergei Kovnir had long since given up hope of achieving the American dream. He worked, when he worked, as a dishwasher at a tiny Lithuanian café that, like Crospar, was in the final stages of decay. The owner of the café, the querulous and aging widow of a man he had once met from Byelorussia, gave him work, sometimes something to eat, and even less frequently an occasional bottle of cheap vodka. She had even given him herself once, but Kovnir had botched the opportunity, falling asleep on top of her before he could consummate his dubious opportunity.
On this Sunday morning he was awakened, not by the church bells, as he usually was, but by the sound of voices, voices elsewhere in the dilapidated old structure he called his home. He pushed himself up on his elbow and listened. The voices traveled through old heating ducts and through the myriad holes in the wall and flooring. They were busy voices, voices that spoke a language Sergei Kovnir did not recognize.
Because the old building often served as the meeting place for local street gangs, he stood and picked up a small piece of steel pipe that he kept nearby to defend himself. Then he shuffled to the staircase leading down to the debris-laden first floor and listened. The voice — she could identify three — sounded hurried and spoke in some sort of Asian tongue — Chinese, perhaps Vietnamese, or maybe even Korean. He crouched in the shadows as the early-September Sunday-morning sun streamed through a latticework of broken and missing windows, and tried to determine what the trio was doing.
Finally, when his curiosity had gotten the best of him, Sergei Kovnir descended several steps so that he could actually observe their activities. Two of the men were huddled over a table, while a third stood in front of an old blackboard propped against a pitted wall.
The man at the blackboard was, in fact, an Asian, slight of build, quite tall, and had long, shoulder-length hair tied into a ponytail. He wore blue jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. From his attire, Kovnir would have guessed him to be a student. The man made rapid sketches on the blackboard that were difficult for Sergei to understand.
"We take a box, preferably a small cardboard one. A large cigar box will do, but we make certain it is long enough and deep enough to accommodate four sticks of dynamite, stacked or standing. Then make certain that the blasting cap is tucked securely in between the explosives." He demonstrated. "… like so." Then he repeated the drawing and pointed to a second cavity in the box. "It is important that you have enough room to create a second cavity, separated by a thin wall of material, preferably cardboard. This is the area where you place the two C-type batteries." Again he demonstrated. "Put them in sequence with a small wire leading from the electrode to a safety pin that has been broken and inserted horizontally through the wall of the box approximately one-half inch from the batteries."
While Kovnir watched, the other two men replicated the assembly.
"Now — directly above the area where you have the wire leading from the electrode to the pin is a common nail with a hole bored in it. The nail is driven upward through the lid of the box with the spring we removed from a ballpoint pen positioned between the head of the nail and the box lid."
Tang Ro Ji paused, waiting for the two men to complete their assembly.
"Now insert a small straight pin through that hole in the shank of the nail. A thin wire should be tied around the head of the pin so that the nail can be triggered from a reasonable distance."
The two men nodded their understanding.
Tang inspected their work, then continued. "By removing the pin, the head of the nail is forced down by the tiny spring, making contact with the pin, which sends an electrical charge to the blasting cap and…"
His students smiled.
Sergei Kovnir scratched his head. He did not understand. But on this particular Sunday morning, it made no difference; he was more hungry than curious — and besides, they were not there to harm him. He rubbed his eyes and made his first decision of the day; he would head down to the little Lithuanian café; on Fillmore Street to see if a couple of hours of work for the widow Sochi would lead to something to eat. Little did Sergei Kovnir realize that he was about to play an important role in a terrorist attack of international magnitude.
Air Major Arege Borisov picked up the approaching MiG-23s in the Liuzhou corridor. The in-flight computer flashed telemetric data on the screen in a rapid sequence search for target recognition. The data feedback from the RAD-7 on the synthetic aperture profiled the oncoming aircraft, and Borisov quickly determined that the planes were unarmed. Neither aircraft profiled a weapons configuration. He keyed the sort term REVIEW into his onboard and played the reception against the static profile. The words VERIFICATION and CONFIRMED blinked intermittently on his display. Both chronos indicated he was 03:45:21 ahead of schedule. He double-checked the in-flight and reverified contact instructions. Then he turned on the INS and keyed coordinates into the FLIR. Ten seconds before target acquisition the laser would illuminate the target — if there had been armament.
"Gray on gray. IV-Gray. Ident," the voice crackled through static. The transmission was in Russian, fragmented, but sufficiently clear for Borisov to understand.
"176.484," Borisov confirmed. He changed frequencies.
"Say again," came the garbled command.
"176.484," Borisov repeated. Then he added the words "Red red," as he had been instructed. He could almost hear the sigh of relief. He knew that the pilots of the twenty-plus-year-old MiG-23s had to be concerned until contact had been established and verified.
"We do not have you on our scope," one of the MiG pilots advised him.
Borisov laughed. "Descending to forty-five thousand feet. Airspeed seven hundred." Then he added for the MiG pilot's benefit, "That is the whole purpose of this aircraft, Comrade."
"We will escort you in, Air Major. Our ETA at Danjia is 01.41."
As most of the world had been doing for the last twelve hours, Robert Miller had spent the night monitoring the terrible news coming out of London. At Packer's request, he had come into the office as soon as they heard about the bombing. Now, because he knew Packer would be up — if he had gone to bed at all — he picked up the phone and dialed the bureau chief.
Packer's sixty-two-year-old voice sounded tired. "Packer here," he said.
"Been watching it, Chief?" Miller asked.
"Yeah, I turned CNN on, but I must have dozed off. What's the latest?"
"They've just announced that the death toll has exceeded two hundred," Miller said. "And they've confirmed that the Queen and her entourage are safe. M1 is confirming that they left somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty minutes before the explosion."
Packer was quiet for a moment. "Suppose that was coincidence, or was it planned that way?"
"I've been surfing back and forth on all the major news channels," Miller admitted. "Right now I'm watching CNN. They've got a feed from the BBC. You can get a pretty good view of it. There isn't much left of it"
"Did anyone get the call yet?"
"Uh-huh," Miller confirmed, "to the BBC outlet in Liverpool. Just like before. The guy said his name was Tang Ro Ji and claimed the attack was the work of the Fifth Academy. The message was obviously taped and played by someone over the phone from a local telephone. Scotland Yard is trying to trace it."