"He will give you a personal plea to stop the war from beginning."

"If he does, what ought I to say?"

"Have your secretary say you are out meeting the people," Zhang advised. "Don't talk to the fool."

Minister Shen wasn't fully behind his country's policy, but nodded anyway. It seemed the best way to avoid a personal confrontation, which Xu would not handle well. His ministry was still trying to get a feel for how to handle the American President. He was so unlike other governmental chiefs that they still had difficulty understanding how to speak with him.

"What of our answer to their note?" Fang asked.

"We have not given them a formal answer," Shen told him.

"It concerns me that they should not be able to call us liars," Fang said. "That would be unfortunate, I think."

"You worry too much, Fang," Zhang commented, with a cruel smile.

"No, in that he is correct," Shen said, rising to his colleague's defense. "Nations must be able to trust the words of one another, else no intercourse at all is possible. Comrades, we must remember that there will be an 'after the war,' in which we must be able to reestablish normal relations with the nations of the world. If they regard us as outlaw, that will be difficult."

"That makes sense," Xu observed, speaking his own opinion for once. "No, I will not accept the call from Washington, and no, Fang, I will not allow America to call us liars."

"One other development," Luo said. "The Russians have begun high-alt.i.tude reconnaissance flights on their side of the border. I propose to shoot down the next one and say that their aircraft intruded on our airs.p.a.ce. Along with other plans, we will use that as a provocation on their part."

"Excellent," Zhang observed.

So?" John asked.

"So, he is in this building," General Kirillin clarified. "The takedown team is ready to go up and make the arrest. Care to observe?"

"Sure," Clark agreed with a nod. He and Chavez were both dressed in their RAINBOW ninja suits, black everything, plus body armor, which struck them both as theatrical, but the Russians were being overly solicitous to their hosts, and that included official concern for their safety. "How is it set up?"

"We have four men in the apartment next door. We antic.i.p.ate no difficulties," Kirillin sold his guests. "So, if you will follow me."

"Waste of time, John," Chavez observed in Spanish.

"Yeah, but they want to do a show-and-tell." The two of them followed Kirillin and a junior officer to the elevator, which whisked them up to the proper floor. A quick, furtive look showed that the corridor was clear, and they moved like cats to the occupied apartment.

"We are ready, Comrade General," the senior Spetsnaz officer, a major, told his commander. "Our friend is sitting in his kitchen discussing matters with his guest. They're looking at how to kill President Grushavoy tomorrow on his way to parliament. Sniper rifle," he concluded, "from eight hundred meters."

"You guys make good ones here," Clark observed. Eight hundred was close enough for a good rifleman, especially on a slow-moving target like a walking man.

"Proceed, Major," Kirillin ordered.

With that, the four-man team walked back out into the corridor. They were dressed in their own RAINBOW suits, black Nomex, and carrying the equipment Clark and his people had brought over, German MP-10 submachine guns, and .45 Beretta sidearms, plus the portable radios from E-Systems. Clark and Chavez were wearing identical gear, but not carrying weapons. Probably the real reason Kirillin had brought them over, John thought, was to show them how much his people had learned, and that was fair enough. The Russian troopers looked ready. Alert and pumped up, but not nervous, just the right amount of tenseness.

The officer in command moved down the corridor to the door. His explosives man ran a thin line of det-cord explosive along the door's edges and stepped aside, looking at his team leader for the word.

"Shoot," the major told him- -and before Clark's brain could register the singleword command, the corridor was sundered with the crash of the explosion that sent the solid-core door into the apartment at about three hundred feet per second. Then the Russian major and a lieutenant tossed in flash-bangs sure to disorient anyone who might have been there with a gun of his own. It was hard enough for Clark and Chavez, and they'd known what was coming and had their hands over their ears. The Russians darted into the apartment in pairs, just as they'd been trained to do, and there was no other sound, except for a scream down the hall from a resident who hadn't been warned about the day's activities. That left John Clark and Domingo Chavez just standing 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 gla.s.s in the frames. The blue sofa had a ruinous scorch mark on the right side, and the carpet was cratered by the other flashbang.

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 att.i.tude 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 bypa.s.sed 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. d.a.m.ned ec.u.menical of the Russkies."

"Just want to be an ally back to us, I suppose, and RAINBOW is a NATO a.s.set. 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 time. He punched the intercom b.u.t.ton on his phone.

"Ellen, could you come in, please?"

It took the usual five seconds. "Yes, Mr. President."

"I need one, and it's time to call Beijing."

"Yes, sir." She handed Ryan a Virginia Slim and went back to the anteroom.

Ryan saw one of the phone lights go on and waited, lighting his smoke. He had his speech to Premier Xu pretty well canned, knowing that the Chinese leader would have a good interpreter nearby. He also knew that Xu would still be in the office. He'd been working pretty late over the past few days-it wasn't hard to figure out why. Starting a potential world war had to be a time-consuming business. So, it would be less than thirty seconds to make the guy's phone ring, then Ellen Sumter would talk to the operator on the far end-the Chinese had full-time switchboard operators rather than secretary-receptionists as in the White House-and the call would be put through. So, figure another thirty seconds, and then Jack would get to make his case to Xu: Let's reconsider this one, buddy, or something bad will happen. Bad for our country. Bad for yours. Probably worse for yours. Mickey Moore had promised something called Hyperwar, and that would be seriously bad news for someone unprepared for it. The phone light stayed on, but Ellen wasn't beeping him to get on the line . . . why? Xu was still in his office. The emba.s.sy in Beijing was supposed to be keeping an eye on the guy. Ryan didn't know how, but he was pretty sure they knew their job. It might have been as easy as having an emba.s.sy employee-probably an Agency guy-stand on the street with a cell phone and watch a litup office window, then report to the emba.s.sy, which would have an open line to Foggy Bottom, which had many open lines to the White House. But then the light on the phone blinked out, and the intercom started: "Mr. President, they say he's out of the office," Mrs. Sumter said.

"Oh?" Ryan took a long puff. "Tell State to confirm his location."

"Yes, Mr. President." Then forty seconds of silence. "Mr. President, the emba.s.sy says he's in his office, as far as they can tell."

"And his people said . . . ?"

"They said he's out, sir."

"When will he be back?"

"I asked. They said they didn't know."

"s.h.i.t," Ryan breathed. "Please get me Secretary Adler."

"Yeah, Jack," SecState said a few seconds later.

"He's dodging my call, Scott."

"Xu?"

"Yeah."

"Not surprising. They-the Chinese Politburo-don't trust him to talk on his own without a script."

Like Arnie and me, Ryan thought with a mixture of anger and humor. "Okay, what's it mean, Scott?"

"Nothing good, Jack," Adler replied. "Nothing good."

"So, what do we do now?"

"Diplomatically, there's not much we can do. We've sent them a stiff note, and they haven't answered. Your position vis--vis them and the Russian situation is as clear as we can make it. They know what we're thinking. If they don't want to talk to us, it means they don't care anymore."

"s.h.i.t."

"That's right," the Secretary of State agreed.

"You're telling me we can't stop it?"

"Correct." Adler's tone was matter-of-fact.

"Okay, what else?"

"We tell our civilians to get the h.e.l.l out of China. We're set up to do that here."

"Okay, do it," Ryan ordered, with a sudden flip of his stomach.

"Right."

"I'll get back to you." Ryan switched lines and punched the b.u.t.ton for the Secretary of Defense.

"Yeah," Tony Bretano answered.

"It looks like it's going to happen," Ryan told him.

"Okay, I'll alert all the CINCs."

In a matter of minutes, FLASH traffic was dispatched to each of the commanders-in-chief of independent commands. There were many of them, but at the moment the most important was CINCPAC, Admiral Bart Mancuso in Pearl Harbor. It was just after three in the morning when the STU next to his bed started chirping.

"This is Admiral Mancuso," he said, more than half asleep.

"Sir, this is the watch officer. We have a war warning from Washington. China. 'Expect the commencement of hostilities between the PRC and the Russian Federation to commence within the next twenty-four hours. You are directed to take all measures consistent with the safety of your command.' Signed Bretano, SecDef, sir," the lieutenant commander told him.

Mancuso already had both feet on the floor of the bedroom. "Okay, get my staff together. I'll be in the office in ten minutes."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The chief petty officer a.s.signed to drive him was already outside the front door, and Mancuso noted the presence of four armed Marines in plain sight. The senior of them saluted while the others studiously looked outward at a threat that probably wasn't there . . . but might be. Minutes later, he walked into his hilltop headquarters overlooking the naval base. Brigadier General Lahr was there, waiting for him.

"How'd you get in so fast?" CINCPAC asked him.

"Just happened to be in the neighborhood, Admiral," the J-2 told him. He followed Mancuso into the inner office.

"What's happening?"

"The President tried to phone Premier Xu, but he didn't take the call. Not a good sign from our Chinese brethren," the theater intelligence officer observed.

"Okay, what's John Chinaman doing?" Mancuso asked, as a steward's mate brought in coffee.

"Not much in our area of direct interest, but he's got a h.e.l.l of a lot of combat power deployed in the Shenyang Military District, most of it right up on the Amur River." Lahr set up a map stand and started moving his hand on the acetate overlay, which had a lot of red markings on it. For the first time in his memory, Mancuso saw Russian units drawn in blue, which was the "friendly" color. It was too surprising to comment on.