‘I recognize you, of course, Mr Walsh. It’s a privilege to meet you in person.’
‘Thank you for asking me, ma’am. Your Prime Minister and I go back a long way.’
‘No need to ma’am me, Jeff. This is a very informal evening.’
‘The 1980s, ma’am.’ Walsh grinned amiably. ‘OK. Sorry. What the hell do I call you?’
‘Steph. Or if that’s too much, go for Mrs Lucas.’
‘Right, Steph, I went across to England to support Kevin with your miners’ strike in the early 80s. He came over here when we tried to take on Reagan. So, he and I are two old-time union fighters.’
A shadow fell on the door, created by the arrival of Matt Prusak. Unlike Swain, the slight and bookish White House Chief of Staff had succeeded in forging a working relationship with Holland.
‘Come, Jeff, let’s go mix it up a bit.’ Stephanie waved at Prusak as she ushered Walsh towards the center of the room.
‘Don’t expect American body bags to be coming out of that continent when you mess it up again,’ Holland was saying.
‘It’s more than seventy years since an American soldier died on a European battlefield,’ said Slater. ‘Since then our lads and lasses have been getting killed in your pointless Middle East wars.’
Stephanie caught Prusak’s eye and suppressed a smile. If the conversation weren’t so dangerous, it could be funny. ‘Ambassador Lucas and I go back to our campus days at Georgetown University,’ said Prusak urbanely as Stephanie introduced him to Slater. ‘I am here as a friend and not as—’
‘Even so,’ interrupted Holland. ‘How is the White House in your final days?’
‘The packers are in, sir, and the property awaits you.’
Stephanie’s attention shifted again to the door where the flamboyant Federal Reserve chairman, Roy Carrol, was ushering in Karl Opokin, a Russian entrepreneur turned Chairman of the Central Bank. Stephanie knew Opokin from her days in Russia, where she had fled on advice of her father. ‘Go read those books and get yourself to university so no one controls your life but you,’ he had told her after she begged him teach her how to rig mileage, fix oil leaks, and forge documents in the used-car trade. She had.
Stephanie learned Russian and studied East European history at the London School of Economics, then headed for Moscow. With communism fractured, it was a place of half organized crime and half crumbling authority with barely a line between the two, not that different from her father’s edgy south London motor trade. Opokin had been on the fringes of her crowd of bright young friends who taught her how to buy favors and forge alliances. Opokin focused on oil and gas deals in Russia’s Far East. Stephanie headed for technology companies in Moscow and St Petersburg and had made her first million before she was twenty-five. Her business partner, who was briefly her lover, made many times that. He had argued that he needed ten to her one just to stay alive, and Stephanie let it go. It had worked for both of them. Sergey Grizlov was now Chairman of the Russian parliament. Stephanie’s previous post had been as ambassador to Moscow. And Opokin, her dinner guest, was being hailed as the modern post-Putin face of Russia. Carrol had been showing him around the Fed’s magnificent ice-white 1930s building on Constitution Avenue.
Carrol pecked Stephanie on both cheeks. ‘Good to see you, Steph.’ Carrol’s tailored suit, cufflinks, and polka-dotted bow tie far outclassed Opokin’s regular dark pinstripe suit, which could have passed him off as any mid-ranking, mid-forties Wall Street banker. Holland eyed him with surprise as if expecting the traditional bling and glitter of a Russian oligarch.
‘Thank you for having me, Madam Ambassador,’ Opokin spoke softly while taking her hand.
‘Very, very good to meet you again, Karl.’ She introduced him.
‘Prime Minister, Mr President-elect, congratulations on your election victories. I am indeed privileged to be here,’ said Opokin.
‘You need to tell your President Lagutov from me to stop messing around with Europe,’ said Holland. ‘We don’t want to have to make an enemy out of you. The last I heard—’
‘Hush, hush, Senator,’ Carrol broke in, touching Holland’s arm to correct himself. ‘Not Senator. Mr President-elect. I do apologize; I should stick to calling you one of my oldest and closest friends. Karl is a new breed, a money man, like me. We live, dream, and plan money, and it drives our friends to despair.’
‘You keep your side of the border in Europe, and you’ll do well by us,’ said Holland to Opokin.
Stephanie allowed more small talk. Opokin softened Holland. Walsh congratulated Slater on getting the top job. She took Carrol to one side to ask about his ex-wife.
‘Divorce has gone through, and we’re still talking,’ said Carrol.
‘Well done.’
‘And Harry?’
‘Better. Thanks for asking. We keep in touch.’ Harry was Stephanie’s soldier of an ex-husband. Briefly part of the Georgetown gang, he had cut out to the Iraq war, been wounded and decorated. He had just lost his seat in Congress where he had sat on several defense committees. Carrol and his then wife Lucy had been pillars of support when Stephanie’s marriage disintegrated.
Stephanie guided her guests to a compact informal dining room with a table laid for six. ‘They say the British Ambassador’s residence is a three-dimensional piece of art, the greatest diplomatic home of any country in any capital city,’ she said. ‘So, this room I keep for family, close friends, and colleagues and we’re having plain old pumpkin soup to start.’
She gestured for them to take their seats. It was then, as waiters ladled soup from silver tureens, that a Secret Service agent stepped in straight across to Prusak. His face taut, he leant down, whispering but loud enough for her to hear: ‘I’m sorry, sir. You’re needed back at the White House.’
Stephanie opened a message on her phone and a chill shivered through her. The others looked at their phones. Prusak pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘We have a problem in Alaska.’
FOUR
Little Diomede, Alaska, USA
Seven Russian helicopters stretched between the two islands like dark insects. The lone medical helicopter was coming down directly above the landing pad. Standing on the edge, flashlight in hand, guiding the pilot, Rake struggled to determine if they were here to help or attack. They might have intercepted the phone calls between Carrie and the desk sergeant at Elmendorf-Richardson. They would certainly have heard the radio traffic on Akna’s evacuation. They would know that her life was at risk, she was only fifteen, she was pregnant, her waters had broken, and that a helicopter wasn’t coming back any time soon. From the eight watchtowers along the ridge of the Russian island, they would have tracked them taking Akna down to the school. Behind that northern corner of the island, there was a small old cold war helicopter base. The commander couldn’t have authorized a rescue. But he would have kicked it upstairs and somewhere between the Bering Strait and Moscow a green light would have been given.
Rake had been on plenty of similar operations. If one guy needed to be airlifted out, they would send in a fleet of aircraft to make sure everyone’s back was covered. All of that checked out. But what didn’t was the big question – why didn’t he know? Why wasn’t his phone ringing? Why had Moscow not told Washington what was going on? Or had it, and the messages got lost in a sea of bureaucracy?
Glaring off the ice, Russian flood lamps lit the helipad. Rake used his flashlight to indicate the exact spot where the helicopter should land. The pilot came down slowly, then stopped the descent, keeping ten feet off the ground. He turned to an angle with the northerly wind, a smart move given that a gust could skew the down flap of the rotor blades. As the skids settled on the icy concrete, the draught scattered shoreline debris and tore ice off nearby buildings.
Four soldiers jumped out and took positions either side of the door. They wore medical Red Cross armbands and carried weapons. Two paramedics followed, each with green packs also marked with the Red Cross. A stretcher was passed out to them
. A doctor jumped down. The other helicopters stayed right on the unmarked maritime border.
No conversation was possible against the noise. Rake pointed towards the school. He led them through the playground. The school door opened, and Carrie stepped out, a smile across her face. Akna lay, conscious and warm, on two tables pushed together in the small dining room just inside the door.
‘Do you speak English?’ she asked as the Russian medical team swept in.
‘We do.’ The doctor stripped back his face scarf. He was about thirty with a buzz cut and a hard face.
‘Preterm premature rupture of the membrane. The mother is fifteen years old. Pregnancy thirty-five weeks.’ Carrie reeled off a list of drugs that Akna needed. ‘It’s not too late to induce the birth. Or carry out a Caesarean section.’
The doctor shone a pencil light into Akna’s eye and checked her pulse. ‘We need to be quick,’ he said.
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘It is very basic over there. But as you wish.’
The paramedics skillfully wrapped Akna, lifted her onto the stretcher, and carried her out. Carrie moved to the door to follow, but Rake stepped into her path. ‘No, Carrie,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve done all you can.’
‘She’s my patient, Rake. She needs me.’
‘You cannot go.’
‘I’m going. She needs me. I know Russians. They don’t care about life.’
Watched by villagers and the Russian medical team, Rake had a few seconds to convince Carrie to do something totally against her professional beliefs, to abandon her patient. He could not let her go onto the Russian side.
Since the cold war, this had been a closed border. Before that Eskimo families ignored the frontier, crossing back and forth as they had done for centuries. They had completely ignored the Alaska Purchase back in 1867 when America bought Alaska from a cash-strapped Tsarist Russia. Henry used to crack jokes about which country would be buying them next, whether they would all become Japanese.
Rake glanced at Henry, whose expression reflected his own thoughts. Little Diomede had been through emergencies like this before and never once had America asked for help. Nor had Russia offered. Akna needed to be saved, but something wasn’t right. As an American army officer, he couldn’t go with the military of a possible adversary and, as his fiancée, Carrie couldn’t either.
‘You need to stay here,’ he whispered.
‘She’s my patient.’
‘No!’ he countered sharply. ‘She’s now his patient. That’s what trauma doctors do, they save lives. They pass their patients on.’
‘We’ll go.’ Joan stepped forward with Henry. ‘She knows us. It will be better.’
That would work, thought Rake. Akna needed someone with her and, as Eskimos, the Russian would barely notice them. Carrie considered the proposition for a moment and agreed.
‘You got a radio?’ Rake asked Henry.
‘Channel 7. Then 5,’ said Henry.
‘Let us know if it’s a boy or a girl.’ Rake managed a smile. They embraced. Henry was firm and sure of himself. Rake felt uneasy, like he was putting his uncle in harm’s way. But if anyone was to go, it should be Henry and Joan.
As the paramedics carried Akna down, Rake led Carrie onto the terrace to watch them load her into the helicopter. They were interrupted by a command from behind them in bad English. ‘Inside, now!’
Carrie went white, gripping the railing with her glove as if to say I’m not moving. Rake surged with helpless anger. Everything in the young soldier’s voice and expression told him that his instinct had been right. This wasn’t just a medical evacuation. That was why his phone had stayed quiet. America had not been told.
‘What the fuck, Rake!’ Carrie pointed behind them to where troops were herding villagers towards the school.
‘I said inside.’ The soldier levelled his weapon at them, flipping the barrel towards the door. He was nervous. Rake could take him easily. But then what? He didn’t have the numbers to achieve much except get himself killed. Carrie too. By doing what the Russians instructed, he could at least protect her.
Down on the helipad, a soldier stopped Henry, frisked him, and took the radio.
FIVE
British Ambassador’s residence, Washington, DC
‘Never trust those fucking Russians!’ shouted Holland.
‘Whoa there!’ cautioned Prusak, heading for the door.
‘I told Swain about that border and he wouldn’t listen.’
‘Let’s try and keep a lid on things, Mr President-elect.’
Stephanie was on her feet, trying to read her Prime Minister. Kevin Slater stayed poker-faced, not a trace of reaction; impossible to tell if he was a rabbit caught in headlights or playing cards close to his chest. The news coming through might be nothing or it might be that the next few hours would define Slater’s place in history.
‘I will return to my embassy, Madam Ambassador. This must be a misunderstanding,’ said Opokin, turning to address Holland directly. ‘I know the Chukotka region and the Bering Strait well. I can assure you we do not have the resources to invade the United States from there. Nor would we fucking Russians want to.’
Holland glared at him. Carrol said, ‘I’ll give you a ride, Karl. I’m heading over to the Eccles Building.’ He folded his napkin and spoke to Prusak. ‘Matt, tell the President I’ll call a crisis meeting of the Fed for the early morning, just in case. Let’s hope we have nothing to talk about.’
‘I need to be with the President.’ Holland stood up.
Prusak glanced across sharply. ‘I’ll check, sir. I’m sure he’ll brief—’
‘Not brief, Matt. In the Situation Room, sharing the decisions. This is going to spill into my term.’
‘That might not work.’
‘Have Swain decide if he wants me by his side or wants to cut me out. If you don’t ask him, I’ll ask through the news networks.’
‘Matt, a moment.’ Stephanie touched Prusak’s elbow to guide him into the corridor and out of earshot. ‘I can help with Holland.’
‘Stay out of it, Steph. This is the presidential transition. We get sensitive.’
‘You don’t want Holland blasting all over the networks about the lame duck and the President doesn’t want this crisis as his legacy.’
‘Correct.’ Prusak scrolled his phone.
‘And you could help me, too.’
‘How so?’
‘Kevin Slater’s untested as Prime Minister. There’s a risk he’ll shoot from the hip. We can temper that by getting him to the White House, the center of power. Take Slater, myself, and Holland there. Stick us in the Roosevelt Room or somewhere.’
She had Prusak’s attention. ‘Not the Oval Office. Not the Situation Room,’ he said.
‘Exactly. Slater’s presence dilutes transition protocol. He and Holland can say they are being consulted, and Kevin can help you deliver European support.’
‘I should have married you when I had the chance,’ Prusak smiled. ‘We would have made the power couple to beat all others.’
Crises were routine to Prusak. In all the time she had known him, she had never heard him raise his voice or seen a line of tension in his face. ‘You know Russia better than most, Steph. Any idea what’s going on?’
‘Has this ever happened before – a Russian medical evacuation from Little Diomede?’
‘Never, that I know of.’
‘I’ll hit the phones.’ Stephanie sifted scenarios through her mind. Was she reading too much into it? Was it a straightforward humanitarian act? If so, why did they not inform the United States? But if it were an invasion, as the hawkish networks were claiming, what was the point? Who cared about an Eskimo village on a remote Alaskan island? Strategically, it didn’t add up. What did make sense, though, was that a potential adversary, like Russia, would test America on the eve of a new presidency. That was a given, and happened around every transition. But that didn’t mean this was what Russia was doing now. How could
it have gotten its timing so precise? To think it had conspired to have a fifteen-year-old girl’s waters break on the eve of the inauguration was in the realms of magical thinking.
But if not that, what?
After the tension of the Putin years, shortly after Stephanie’s move to Washington, the Russians had put a low-key, relatively unknown academic into the Kremlin. Viktor Lagutov was a quietly-spoken economist, and some had hailed his election as a return to reform and democracy. Stephanie didn’t buy it. She had kept in touch with old friends there, including her old business partner and lover, Sergey Grizlov. He hadn’t bought it either. Lagutov was a stopgap, a time to draw breath after Ukraine, Crimea, and Putin.
‘The Russian soul remains angry, unsettled, and searching for dignity,’ Grizlov had told her.
Back in 2007, Russian divers had planted a meter-high titanium national flag on the seabed beneath the North Pole. Sure, it was to lay claim to billions of dollars of oil and gas reserves, but it was also a statement of dignity and power, like an eighteenth-century land grab. There were energy reserves in the Bering Strait too, but hostilities there meant no one could get them out. So, what would be the point?
Which brought her back to Lagutov. Had he authorized it? If not, who? And was it a challenge to his presidency, American territory being used as a foil for a Russian coup? How many Russians would cheer to see their flag flying on territory that once belonged to the Empire, land lost in the ill-fated Alaska Purchase, when Russia was conned and America had paid a pittance? How many would hail the man who put it there as a hero? Putin had fudged, messing around in Ukraine but never having the real steel needed to restore Russian dignity. He complained but didn’t act. But here was a man confident enough to take on America face to face, the type of leader that Russia needed. If she were halfway on the right track, then the Little Diomede operation could not be happening without the involvement of Russia’s Far East Military District. Which is when it came to her. Of course – why was she being so slow? One name stood out like a razor.
Man on Ice Page 3
