Mirror Image

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

"General Orlov," Major Levski said, "I've had rather distressing news."

Only the Major's voice came in over the headphones plugged into the computer in Orlov's office. The naval base on the outskirts of the city was not yet equipped with video capabilities; nor, with the budget cuts in the military, was it ever likely to be.

"What is it, Major?" Orlov asked. He was tired, and his voice sounded it.

"Sir, General Mavik ordered me to recall the Molot team."

"When?"

"I've just gotten off the phone with him," said Levski. "Sir, I'm sorry but I must carry out—"

"I understand," Orlov interrupted. He took a sip of black coffee. "Be sure to thank Lieutenant Starik and his team for me."

"Yes, sir, I will," Levski said. "You understand, General, that whatever is happening, you're not alone. I'm with you. So is Molot."

Orlov's mouth perked at the edges. "Thank you, Major."

"I don't pretend to know what's going on," Levski continued. "There are all these rumors of an impending coup, of black marketeers being behind this. All I know is that I once tried to pull a vintage Kalinin K-4 out of a nosedive, sir. It had a bear of an engine— a BMW IV, very stubborn."

"I know the plane," Orlov said.

"I remember thinking as I burst through the clouds, looking straight down, 'This is a vintage beauty, and I've no right to give up on her, however temperamental she gets.' It wasn't just a duty, it was an honor. Instead of bailing out, I wrestled her to the ground. It wasn't pretty, but we both made it. And then I personally— personally— took that bastard Bavarian mechanism apart and fixed it."

"She flew?"

"Like a young sparrow," Levski said.

Orlov knew he was tired because that Young Boy's Digest story touched him. "Thank you, Major. I'll let you know when I get my hands on the damn engine cowl."

Orlov hung up and drained his coffee cup. It was nice to know he had an ally, other than his devoted assistant, Nina, who was due back at four. And then there was his wife. She was with him always, of course, but like the dragon slayer who carried his lady's colors into battle, he still rode out alone. And at this moment the sense of isolation was stronger than any he'd experienced, even in the bleakness of outer space.

Using the keyboard, he switched back to the channel the militia used to monitor their field forces.

"…want to be left alone," a female voice was saying in perfect Russian.

"Leave a surgical assault force free in Russia?" Rossky laughed. He was obviously communicating with his quarry on his cellular telephone, patched together either through the Operations Center or the local police station.

"We're not an assault force," said the woman.

"You were seen entering the Presidential Palace with Major Pentti Aho—"

"He arranged our transportation. We came to try and find out who killed a British businessman—"

"The official report and remains were turned over to the British Embassy," said Rossky.

"Cremated remains," said the woman. "The British don't accept that he died of a heart attack."

"And we don't accept that he was a businessman!" said Rossky. "You have another nine minutes to turn yourselves in or join your dead friend. It's that simple."

"Nothing is ever that simple," said Orlov.

Only the faint crackle of static filled the line for what seemed like a very long time.

"To whom am I speaking?" the woman said.

"To the highest-ranking military officer in St. Petersburg," said Orlov, more for Rossky's sake than the woman's. "Now who are you? And spare us the cover. We know how you came here and from where."

"Fair enough," said the woman. "We're COMINT officers who work with Defense Minister Niskanen in Helsinki."

"You are not!" Rossky bellowed. "Niskanen wouldn't risk his resources to disinter a corpse!"

"DI6 could not agree on a course of action," the woman explained, "so they consulted the CIA and the Defense Minister. They agreed that it would be less provocative for myself and my colleague to come in and try and find out why he was killed— and, once that was accomplished, to try and arrange a dialogue to avoid retaliation."

"Cutouts?" Rossky sneered. "You would have taken a direct flight with cobbled passports, gotten in quickly to make your case. You came by midget submarine because you didn't want to be seen at the airport. You're lying!"

"Which route crosses the Gulf of Bothnia?" Orlov asked.

"Route Two," the woman replied.

"How many provinces are there in Finland?"

"Twelve."

"This proves nothing!" said Rossky. "She was schooled!"

"That's right," she said. "In Turku, where I was raised."

"This is futile!" Rossky added. "She's in our country illegally, and in four minutes my forces will close in on her."

"If you can find me."

Rossky said, "The Kirov Theater is to your left, at the ten o'clock position. And there's a green Mercedes behind you. If you try to flee, you'll be shot."

There was another silence. While the woman may have swept the car for transmitters, Orlov knew that she probably hadn't noticed the cellular telephone in the trunk. The line was kept open when an agent was on the job. It didn't show up on transmitter detectors, but allowed them to triangulate the position of the car at all times.

The woman said calmly, "If anything happens to us, you'll lose an opportunity to communicate directly with your counterpart. Sir— I'm addressing the ranking officer, not the ruffian."

"Yes?" Orlov said. In spite of himself, he liked the way she'd said that.

"I believe, sir, that you are more than just the military head at St. Petersburg. I believe that you are General Sergei Orlov, and that you're in charge of an intelligence unit here in the city. I also believe that more can be accomplished by putting you in touch with your counterpart in Washington than by killing me and returning my ashes to Defense Minister Niskanen."

Over the past two years, Orlov and his staff had tried to find out more about their "doppelgänger" in Washington, their mirror image. An intelligence and crisis center that functioned much as theirs did. Moles at the CIA and FBI had been turned loose to discover whatever they could. But the Washington Op-Center was much newer, smaller, and tougher to penetrate. What this woman offered— because she was either very clever or very afraid— was the one thing he could not afford to let go.

"Perhaps," said Orlov. "How would you communicate with Washington?"

"Put me through to Major Aho at the Palace," she said. "I'll arrange it through him."

Orlov considered the offer for a moment. Part of him felt uneasy about cooperating with an invader, but a larger part felt comfortable trying diplomacy rather than giving an order that was certain to result in bloodshed. "Release the man you're holding," he said, "and I'll give you your chance."

The woman said without hesitation, "Agreed."

"Colonel?" said Orlov.

"Yes, sir?" Rossky replied, his voice taut.

"No one moves except by direct order from me. Is that understood?"

"It is understood."

Orlov heard rustling and the sounds of muffled conversation. He couldn't tell whether it was from the car or from the Technological Institute Metro stop, where Rossky had gone to catch his rats. In either case, he knew the Colonel wouldn't be idle, that he'd do something to save face… and to make sure that the two operatives did not get away.