Tom Clancy - Locked On

While he did this, Clark spoke through winces of pain. “Here are my demands. Your people talk to the press about how Kovalenko conspired with Paul Laska to bring down the Ryan administration with fabrications about me. The Russian government distances themselves from the allegations completely, and hands over any evidence they have on Laska and his associates.”

“Of course. Kovalenko has brought shame and embarrassment on us all.”

The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment before Clark said, “I’m not going to take your assurances. There’s a guy at The Washington Post . Bob Holtzman. He’s tough but fair. You can have your ambassador meet with him, or you can call him yourself. But this needs to happen before I do anything to help you out of that little fix you are in at the spaceport.”

Stanislav Biryukov nodded. “I will contact President Rychcov’s office and see that it happens today.” He then looked around at the torture implements on the table. “Between you and me, between two old men who have seen a lot more than many of the young people who have risen to the top ranks today… I would like to apologize for what the SVR has done. This was not an FSB 　operation at all. I hope you will tell your new president that personally.”

Clark responded to this request with a question: “What will happen to Valentin Kovalenko?”

Biryukov shrugged. “Moscow is a dangerous place, even for an SVR leader. His operation, his rogue operation, I will say, has been an embarrassment for my country. He will make important people angry when it is found out what he has done. Who’s to say he might not meet with an accident?”

“I am not asking you to kill Kovalenko on my behalf. I am just suggesting that he will have a problem when he finds out I’ve been freed by the FSB.”

Biryukov smiled. Clark could tell the man was not in the least bit concerned about Valentin Kovalenko. “Mr. Clark. Someone has to shoulder Russia’s responsibility in this unfortunate affair.”

John shrugged it away. He wasn’t going to worry about saving Kovalenko’s ass right now. There were innocent people out there who actually deserved his help.

John Clark and Stanislav Biryukov climbed into a helicopter five minutes later. Heavily armed commandos helped John walk, and the medic applied cold packs and compression bandages around his broken ribs. As the helo lifted off into the night sky the American leaned over to the head of the FSB. “I need the fastest plane to Baikonur, and a satellite phone. I need to call a former colleague from Rainbow and get him here. If you can speed up his visa and passport process, it would be very helpful.”

“Just tell your man to get himself on the way to Baikonur. I will contact the head of customs authority of Kazakhstan personally. There will be no delays getting him in the country, I can promise you. You and I will meet him there. By the time we land, Rychcov will have negotiated authority for you to lead Rainbow once again.”

Chavez, Ryan, and Caruso met with Mohammed al Darkur shortly after touchdown at Allama Iqbal International Airport in Lahore, the capital of the state of Punjab. The Americans were pleased to see that the ISI major had recovered from his shoulder wound for the most part, though it was evident from his stiff movements that he was still dealing with some issues.

“How is Sam?” Mohammed asked Chavez as they all climbed into an ISI van.

“He’s going to be okay. The infection is clearing up, wounds are healing, he says he’s a hundred percent good to go, but our bosses wouldn’t hear of him coming back to Pakistan just yet.”

“It is not a good time for anyone to come to Pakistan. Especially Lahore.”

“What’s the situation?”

The van headed toward the airport exit. In addition to the driver, Mohammed had one other man in front, and he passed loaded Beretta 9-millimeter pistols out to the Americans as he talked. “It is getting worse by the hour. There are nearly ten million people here, and anyone who can get out of town is doing just that. We are only ten miles from the border, and the public fully expects an invasion by India. There are reports already of artillery crossing in both directions.

“The PDF has moved armor into the town, you will see for yourselves. There are police and military checkpoints going up even now amid rumors of foreign agents in the city, but we will not have any problems passing.”

“Anything to those rumors about Indian spies?”

“Maybe so. India is agitated. Understandably in this case. Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous has fomented a real international crisis, and I do not know if we can be pulled back from the brink.”

Caruso asked, “Is your government going to fall, especially now, after your bombs turned up in the hands of Dagestani terrorists?”

“The short answer, Dominic, is yes. Maybe not today or this week, but certainly very soon. Our prime minister was not strong to begin with. I expect the Army will depose him in order, they will say, to ‘save Pakistan.’”

Chavez asked, “Where is Rehan now?”

“He is in a flat in the old section of Lahore called the Walled City, near the Sunehri Mosque. He does not have a lot of men with him. We think just his assistant, Colonel Saddiq Khan, and a couple of guards.”

“Any idea what he’s up to?”

“None, unless it is to meet with Lashkar terrorists. This is an LeT stronghold, and he has been using them in operations over the border. But, honestly, Lahore seems like the last place for Rehan to be right now. The city is not a fundamentalist stronghold like Quetta or Karachi or Peshawar. I have a pair of men near his flat, so if he leaves for any reason we can try to follow him.”

Al Darkur took the Americans to a nearby apartment. They had just settled in when Chavez’s mobile phone rang.

“Go for Ding,” he said.

“Hey.” It was John Clark.

“John! Are you okay?”

“Makin’ it. Remember when you said that if I needed you, you’d come running?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Then get your ass on a plane, pronto.”

Chavez looked across the room at the two younger operators. He’d have to leave them on their own, but there was no way he wouldn’t be there for Clark. “Where am I heading?”

“Center stage.”

Fuck, thought Chavez. He just said, “The Cosmodrome?”

“’Fraid so.”

John Clark had changed into Russian camo fatigues and a heavy coat by the time he climbed out of the helicopter in the parking lot of the Sputnik Hotel. The bandaging on his hand and his head was of a professional grade, Biryukov had seen to it that an orthopedic surgeon had flown along with them from Moscow to attend to the American’s wounds.

It hurt like a bitch. John was pretty certain his hand would bother him as long as he lived, even after the God knows how many surgeries he’d require to have the bones put back together, but that was a worry for another day.

The snow fell heavily during his arrival. It was eight a.m. local time, and the Sputnik looked to Clark to be in near chaos. Different organizations of men, both uniformed and in civilian dress, had staked out tiny kingdoms both outside and inside, and there seemed to be no one in charge.

While John walked from the chopper to the hotel everyone in his path stopped and stared. Some knew he was the former commander of Rainbow, here to take control of the situation. Others knew he was John Clark, the international fugitive wanted by the United States for multiple murders. Many simply re뀀cognized the presence of the man, who walked with purpose and authority.

But everyone saw the bruised face, a dark purple jaw and black eyes, and a right hand encased in fresh white dressing.