The president nodded. “See to it. And these two? Do they have diplomatic immunity?” he asked, nodding at Kyra and Barron.
“Technically, no,” Grigoriyev admitted. “But I think that consigning them to prison would be to waste an advantage.”
The president looked at his FSB director, considering the implication. He turned to the head of his security detail. “Fetch me the secure phone from my car.”
“Mr. President?” It was the second time in ten minutes that his secretary had asked for his attention and Rostow was already getting tired of the woman’s voice.
“Yes, Vickie?”
“Sir, it’s the Watch Office again. The president of the Russian Federation is standing by to speak to you.”
Rostow’s eye’s widened at the news. “Put him on.”
The connection took almost ten seconds. “Daniel, how are you this morning?” The Russian president’s English was quite good, his accent strong but his diction still understandable.
“I’m doing well. And yourself?”
“My health is good. What more can I ask?” the Russian replied. “There have been several unpleasant exchanges between our two countries of late. That is unfortunate. This business of expelling so many of each other’s diplomats? The great powers should not be so hostile to each other.”
“I agree,” Rostow said. “How can we mend our fences?” What are you selling? he wondered.
“There has been an incident here in Moscow this evening… very unpleasant business. Two of your intelligence officers have been detained by the FSB, neither with diplomatic immunity, and the GRU has two others in its infirmary. I believe that one is wanted by your FBI. As an act of my good faith, I would like to return the injured men to you after we treat them in our finest hospital.”
“That would be a very gracious act. On behalf of the American people, I would like to thank you for your concern and generosity.”
“It is my pleasure. As for the other two, they are more problematic. Without immunity, it would be our standard practice to try them and consign them to prison. But I believe that a better solution might be possible,” the Russian offered.
“I would be pleased to hear any proposal you would care to offer,” Rostow said. He wanted to gag on the words. The American president was skilled at the language of diplomats and had no issue with the hypocrisy behind it, but he hated to ever look like he was at the mercy of others.
“We have both expelled a number of the other’s diplomats from our respective countries these past days. You have sent our ambassador home and we were preparing to do the same to yours. This has all been very disruptive. I would suggest a trade. If you will agree to withdraw the expulsion of a select number of our diplomats, I would be pleased to do the same for an equal number of yours. I will send these two home as an incentive. They would be persona non grata to us forever, of course.”
“Of course,” Rostow replied. He let the silence hang for a few moments. The Russian would know that he wasn’t really thinking things over, but appearances had to be maintained for the benefit of the security officers on both sides who were listening in. You want to send some intel officers back to the U.S., we get to send back some of ours. Whoever went back in on either side would spend at least a year under intense surveillance, but the CIA wouldn’t lose its entire brain trust in Moscow. It’ll still take ’em a couple of years to get back on their feet, but that’s less than the alternative. We’ll have to get some new people over there to work the street, but at least they’ll have experienced people running things from the office.
“I think that’s a very generous offer. On behalf of the United States, I accept,” Rostow said. “Please let Ambassador Galushka know that he can return to Washington at his convenience. I will have our ambassador in Moscow provide you with a list of our people we would like restored as soon as I can discuss the matter with him and the secretary of state.” And the director of national intelligence, he didn’t add.
“Excellent!” the Russian exclaimed. “I am gratified that this matter will conclude in an agreeable way. I do hope that we can avoid any such unpleasant quarrels in the future.”
“As do I,” Rostow replied. “Good night, Mr. President.”
“Do svedaniya, Daniel.” The line died, and Rostow set his own handset on the cradle. Kathy is going to have to explain what in heaven’s name just happened, he thought.
The Russian president turned off the phone and looked at Barron and Kyra. “You will be returned home,” he announced. “You will have to spend the evening in Lubyanka, of course. There are protocols we must follow. You are also persona non grata to the Russian people and will never set foot in our country again.”
“We understand,” Barron said.
“Then this matter is concluded, for you anyway.” The Russian president turned to Grigoriyev. “I leave this in your hands, Anatoly Maksimovich. I regret that I did not listen to your advice sooner. I will take it as a lesson that the wisdom of FSB men is not to be discounted so lightly.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Grigoriyev said. The Russian president turned away and began the walk across the tarmac back to his car. The FSB director stared at the group. “The FSB will not charge the Spetsnaz officers who participated in this affair with any crime. You may return to your duties and deliver your wounded to your infirmary. You were only following your orders and did not realize that the man giving them had betrayed you.” He turned to his own men. “Take the general and the Americans to Lubyanka, separate cars. Also, advise their embassy of the need for the medical flight. These two are being expelled from the country and will leave on that aircraft. They may have escaped prison, but we do not have to allow them the luxury of a soft seat on a commercial flight for their trip home.”
“Always wanted to see Lubyanka,” Barron muttered.
“Just so long as we get to walk back out again,” Kyra replied.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The C-130E Hercules was a cavern, loud, though brighter and smaller than Kyra had imagined. The four Rolls-Royce turboprops filled the flying tube with a steady buzz, but the air outside was calm enough to keep the ride smooth. Kyra was grateful for it, more for Jon than herself. The flight nurses had hung a new bag of Dilaudid and increased his drip in the last hour to keep Jon asleep, but Kyra still wondered if he could feel the pain. She’d been shot once herself. The morphine injection she’d given herself had wiped the pain away like an eraser across a chalkboard and knocked her cold. Despite the doctors’ later assurances that it was a dream, she was sure that the agony had broken through the oblivion in fits and spurts. She imagined that whatever Jon would feel now if he awoke would eclipse the agony she’d suffered after that bullet had torn through her arm. She prayed Jon wasn’t hurting that way, but the lack of turbulence would be a blessing if she was wrong.
They were an hour out of Rammstein. A bus was waiting on the tarmac to move Jon and Maines to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, where they would spend three days at least. The Russian doctors at Botkin Hospital had been as professional as any Kyra had known in the States, and appalled to the last man at the state of Jon’s gunshot wound to his leg. The chief physician had declared Jon was lucky that infection had not set in and had muttered some Russian profanity Kyra didn’t understand when the X-rays of Jon’s knee were delivered and posted on the light board.