there, until an arm appeared and waved them inside.
The inside was a predictable mess. The entry door was now fit only for kindling and toothpicks, and the pictures that decorated the wall did so without any glass in the frames. The blue sofa had a ruinous scorch mark on the right side, and the carpet was cratered by the other flash-bang.
Suvorov and Suslov had been sitting in the kitchen, always the heart of any Russian home. That had placed them far enough away from the explosion to be unhurt, though both looked stunned by the experience, and well they might be. There were no weapons in evidence, which was surprising to the Russians but not to Clark, and the two supposed miscreants were now facedown on the tile floor, their hands manacled behind them and guns not far behind their heads.
“Greetings, Klementi Ivan’ch,” General Kirillin said. “We need to talk.”
The older of the two men on the floor didn’t react much. First, he was not really able to, and second, he knew that talking would not improve his situation. Of all the spectators, Clark felt the most sympathy for him. To run a covert operation was tense enough. To have one blown—it had never happened to John, but he’d thought about the possibility often enough—was not a reality that one wished to contemplate. Especially in this place, though since it was no longer the Soviet Union, Suvorov could take comfort in the fact that things might have been a little worse. But not that much worse, John was sure. It was time for him to say something.
“Well executed, Major. A little heavy on the explosives, but we all do that. I say that to my own people almost every time.”
“Thank you, General Clark.” The senior officer of the strike team beamed, but not too much, trying to look cool for his subordinates. They’d just done their first real-life mission, and pleased as they all were, the attitude they had to adopt was of course we did it right. It was a matter of professional pride.
“So, Yuriy Andreyevich, what will happen with them now?” John asked in his best Leningrad Russian.
“They will be interrogated for murder and conspiracy to commit murder, plus state treason. We picked up Kong half an hour ago, and he’s talking,” Kirillin added, lying. Suvorov might not believe it, but the statement would get his mind wandering in an uncomfortable direction. “Take them out!” the general ordered. No sooner had that happened than an FSS officer came in to light up the desktop computer to begin a detailed check of its contents. The protection program Suvorov had installed was bypassed because they knew the key to it, from the keyboard bug they’d installed earlier. Computers, they all agreed, must have been designed with espionage in mind—but they worked both ways.
“Who are you?” a stranger in civilian clothes asked.
“John Clark” was the surprising answer in Russian. “And you?”
“Provalov. I am a lieutenant-investigator with the militia.”
“Oh, the RPG case?”
“Correct.”
“I guess that’s your man.”
“Yes, a murderer.”
“Worse than that,” Chavez said, joining the conversation.
“There is nothing worse than murder,” Provalov responded, always the cop.
Chavez was more practical in his outlook. “Maybe, depends on if you need an accountant to keep track of all the bodies.”
“So, Clark, what do you think of the operation?” Kirillin asked, hungry for the American’s approval.
“It was perfect. It was a simple operation, but flawlessly done. They’re good kids, Yuriy. They learn fast and they work hard. They’re ready to be trainers for your special-operations people.”
“Yeah, I’d take any of them out on a job,” Ding agreed. Kirillin beamed at the news, unsurprising as it was.
CHAPTER 50
Thunder and Lightning
They got him,” Murray told Ryan. ”Our friend Clark was there to watch. Damned ecumenical of the Russkies.”
“Just want to be an ally back to us, I suppose, and RAINBOW is a NATO asset. You suppose he’ll sing?”
“Like a canary, probably,” the FBI Director predicted. “The Miranda Rule never made it to Russia, Jack, and their interrogation techniques are a little more—uh, enthusiastic than ours are. Anyway, it’s something to put on TV, something to get their public seriously riled up. So, boss, this war going to stop or go?”
“We’re trying to stop it, Dan, but—”
“Yeah, I understand,” Murray said. “Sometimes big shots act just like street hoods. Just with bigger guns.”
This bunch has H-bombs, Jack didn’t say. It wasn’t something you wanted to talk about right after breakfast. Murray hung up and Ryan checked his watch. It was