"So do I," said Peggy. "So let's see if our friend and his beard can help." Peggy pulled a dagger from the sleeve behind her lapel and put it under the Russian's left ear. She released the leash and said in Russian, "What's your name?"

The Russian hesitated, and Peggy pressed the needlesharp tip of the blade against his superficial temporal artery. "The longer you take, the more pressure I apply," she said.

The Russian replied, "Ronash."

"All right, Ronash," said Peggy. "We're going to make sure you don't tell your friends anything in code, so say exactly what I say. Understand?"

"Da."

"Who is in charge of this operation?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Oh, come now," said Peggy.

"A spetsnaz officer," said Ronash. "I don't know him."

"All right," Pegg said, "Here's what you tell them: 'This is Ronash, and I wish to speak with the spetsnaz officer in charge.' When he gets on, give me the unit."

Ronash nodded tightly so as not to run the knife through his throat.

George glanced at her in the mirror. "What are we going to do?" he asked in English.

Peggy said, "Head for the Hermitage. We'll find a way in if we have to, but I have a better idea."

As George backed the car from the parking area, the dog stopped jumping. It just watched, its great tail wagging, as the car pulled away. Then it settled down on the grass, its big head flopping to the side and dragging the rest of its body with it.

So much for industry in the post-Cold War Russia, the Striker thought. Even the dogs don't want to do any heavy lifting.

As he swung the car toward the main thoroughfare, and then along the Obvodnyy Canal toward the Moskovsky Prospekt, George couldn't help but marvel, by contrast, at the way Peggy had executed her duties, with cool efficiency. Though he didn't like having had his mission command posture usurped, he was impressed by her style and her ability to improvise. He was also damned curious and a little excited to see where all of this would lead-- despite the fact that he was already up to his neck in waters that were definitely rising.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Tuesday, 10:07 P.M., Khabarovsk

With all the hi-tech wizardry the military had put at his disposal, Charlie Squires couldn't understand why they didn't have nonfog night-vision goggles instead of these "foggles," as the Strikers had nicknamed them. Sweat pooled on the inside bottom of the lenses, and if you covered your mouth with a muffler, as he'd tried to do, the perspiration warmed, turned to vapor, and you couldn't see. If you didn't use the muffler, your lips froze together and the tip of your nose went numb.