“I took a couple of hits.”
Hyori was wearing light body armor. Clark pulled the hoodieaway and saw two shredded holes in the fabric of his shirt and plate carrier. One hit was high, and shrapnel of some kind—either from the round or the vest—had ricocheted into his cheek and temple.
“Doesn’t look like there was penetration.”
Hyori wiped blood from his eyes. Head wounds were notoriously bloody.
Clark gingerly removed the hoodie, which no longer served a purpose, and used it to wipe away blood. “Two gashes, but neither looks deep. A couple of new scars to add to your operator mystique.”
Hyori forced a grin. “You come through okay?”
“Had no choice. I’m too old to die young.”
“Hope I can say that one day.”
“You good to go?” Clark asked.
“Let’s find out.”
Clark cleared the area around them. He saw no new threats. A few civilians who’d been wandering the lane had disappeared. He helped Hyori to his feet as the wail of sirens began rising in the distance.
“Time to get outta here.” He pulled his phone from his hip pocket and saw the screen shattered. “Shit!”
Hyori looked down at his vest and saw the remains of his own phone in a pocket in his plate carrier. It had taken a direct hit, and was probably the source of the shrapnel that had flown into his face. “What are the chances?” he said rhetorically. “Not only kills our comm, but also our nav.”
“We’ll figure it out. I remember where Nations Square is…I just need to figure out whereweare.”
“Big to small,” Hyori said.
This was a cardinal rule of tactical navigation. To establish apresent position, find a prominent reference point for orientation, and fine-tune from there.
Clark spotted the minaret of a mosque—as he recalled from his site study, the Syrian Mosque. They moved fast until the mosque was in front of them.
“Nations Square is north of here,” Clark said.
“Okay, but which way is north?”
Clark smiled. “The compass is right on front of us. All mosques are oriented to face Mecca. In Tangier, that means they face nearly due east.”
Hyori nodded, the gyro in his head having caged upright. They set out walking at a steady pace.
Eyes scanning.
Weapons concealed, but ready.
54
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
2213 Local Time
Vasin stood at something near attention. As a career GRU officer, he had undergone rudimentary military training on his initial induction into the service. But that had been decades ago when he’d been young, fit, and marginally principled. Rooted in place now before the president’s desk, he resembled an old tree after a storm. His base was uneven, his limbs crooked, and his comb-over had gone askew in the parking lot. The only thing more or less in regulation was his absolute stillness. And that had nothing to do with military composure.
“How could you let him get away!” Yermilov shouted. He threw aside the message Vasin had placed on his desk. It fluttered to the floor.
“My people did their best,” Vasin insisted. “Klaus had help—men who were highly skilled.”
