by Seeley James
Ms. Sabel said, “If it were that simple, I’d have sent you after them weeks ago.”
Bianca retook center stage. “Each of you has been given access to a secure cloud folder with the contents of Pozdeeva’s drive. We’d like you to look them over. Give them some thought. See if you spot any patterns.”
She brought up another slide with some photos on it. “These are some items we find interesting. We think there’s something here, but we can’t figure out what it’s telling us. There are photographs taken over several years. Most of them do not have Mr. Pozdeeva in them. Four stand out because they do have Mr. Pozdeeva in them. The oldest—taken almost thirty years ago—shows him standing in the inner courtyard of CIA, Langley. We have no clue who cleared him to enter the building, much less why he was there. The next oldest shows him in the lobby of Sabel Industries, but our visitor logs don’t go back that far. Third, is this picture of him with an unknown woman in an office setting. The final image is Pozdeeva at the Hirshhorn Museum about a year ago. We believe he meant for these pictures to tell us something.”
Tania asked, “What a-a-about the rest of these f-f-files?”
“We have no idea. They include everyday items like bills of lading for coal, orders for office supplies, employee transfers for people like janitors. Some are from the Soviet era; others are dated a couple of months ago. There’s a bank statement from Rossiya Bank for a company we’ve never heard of. There are canceled checks, parking tickets, all kinds of junk.” Bianca turned off the presentation. “Look at them, see if you find any common threads.”
People began asking the obvious questions: Are there translations? Yes. Have they tried sequences like dates, places, alphabetical? Yes. And so on.
Mercury leaned over my shoulder, scaring me enough to make me jump. Listen up, brutha.
I whispered, Don’t sneak up on me like that.
Mercury said, Hey, I’m here to help, homie. Read the news on your phone.
He slipped to the back of the room.
The last thing I needed in my career was a used god showing up in the middle of an important, executive-filled briefing. I pulled a bottle of meds out of my pocket and rolled it around in my fingers while Bianca took more questions.
It was time to find my sanity.
Mercury squeezed my fingers, which shot the bottle from my hand. It spun across the table at the speed of light and rolled near Miguel. He scooped it up and shoved it in his pocket. My best friend from the 75th Rangers didn’t look at me—he always has my six.
Mercury said, What the fuck, dude? I tell you to read the news and all a sudden you go thinking you gotta pop some pills? Need I remind you of the good people who died the last time you were taking mind-numbing drugs? Tony was a good guy.
The ancient deity knew how to pull my guilt-chain better than a Catholic nun. Agent Tony fell to his death on my watch. I was on my meds at the time. If I’d been clean and sober—and psychotic—maybe I could’ve saved him.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and glanced at the news screen. All the major outlets had headlines: Only three days before the convention, Republican front-runner Teddy Roosevelt VII abruptly quit the race and pledged his delegates to billionaire Chuck Roche.
I looked up and discovered Ms. Sabel, phone in hand, looking at me with her piercing gray-green eyes. She could communicate an encyclopedia with those eyes. We need to talk.
The meeting broke up the way meetings do, with the self-important guy looking at his phone, announcing to the air that he had to run. Two ladies compared calendars and made a follow-up appointment. Three brown-nosers tried to get an extra minute with the boss. Ms. Sabel shook them off and headed straight for me.
“Roche told Hunter he’d do this.” She looked pale. “I didn’t believe him.”
It took me a minute to realize why she seemed unsteady. She’d never committed a crime against her country before. Not that I had. Intentionally. Bugging the President of the United States isn’t something you brag about since it could get you tossed in jail until the next ice age rolls around.
“How the hell did he pull it off?” I asked. “And, how does he think he can win after saying, ‘They’re bringing drugs, they’re bringing crime, they’re rapists?’”
“You’re too idealistic about where we are as a country.” She looked disappointed in me. “Did you notice the Major isn’t here? She was pulled over two hours ago for failing to signal a lane change. They’re searching her car.”
Ms. Sabel referred to the company’s Chief Operating Officer, a.k.a. “the Major”. A successful African-American who dared to drive a shiny Mercedes in Bethesda, Maryland.
“You should always send the limo for her.”
Mercury leaned over Ms. Sabel’s shoulder and scowled at me. Hey, dawg, here’s a thought: maybe the cops should pull over all the white people who leave their blinkers on forever and search their cars.
I said, They’d get a million lawsuits … Oh.
Mercury crossed his arms and gave me a look.
“Only the three of us know about the recordings,” Ms. Sabel said, referring to Bianca, herself, and me.
I looked back and forth to make sure no one was listening. “We should take it public.”
“President Hunter would toss us in jail in a heartbeat.”
“The recording would be like a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“Who runs the jails?” She waited until I got it. “We can’t just blunder onto the national stage with this. Hunter is cunning and ruthless. So is Roche. To take them down, we need a plan. A strategy.”
That was reassuring since she usually went to war on a whim. I thought for a minute. “You need to talk to your dad.”
“Why?” Her voice strained high.
“He knows more about politics than all three of us.”
“You’re right.” She bit her thumbnail and looked away.
Mercury said, Aw bro, why’d you go and tell her that? Sycophants are supposed to tell rich people how great they are, not, ‘hey, talk to Dad.’
I said, He’ll have a solution. Besides, I’m not a sycophant.
Mercury said, Which is why you didn’t get as big a bonus as Tania this year.
I said, Tania got shot in the head. She deserved … I’m not having this discussion again.
Mercury said, Whatever, homeboy. She’s not going to tell the Alan-Caesar-Sabel that she has a recording that’ll save the election but wreck the reputation of the multi-billion-dollar empire he built for her. It would crush him. And get her tossed in jail.
“Dad’s in Europe on an extended business trip.” She looked like she was convincing herself a delay was justified. “I’ll talk to him face-to-face when he gets back. In the meantime, we should come up with a plan to box in Roche.”
“Roche said Watson has more reason to—” An irrational fear of jinxing her by saying it out loud made me shut up.
Her eyes flashed. “They were going to ask me for a hundred million first, remember? That’s our strategy.”
“What about Watson?” I asked.
“He’s finishing up Sabel Security boot camp in a couple weeks.” She squeezed my arm. “He’ll be on your team.”
CHAPTER 5
Yuri Belenov shoved his Aeron chair back from his workstation in Stavanger, Norway. He glanced out the window to find the rainy September afternoon had grown cold and dark. He stood and stared at his order from Strangelove. Unbelievable. The general said it would be a big task. Yuri never expected anything this big, this provocative. Did Viktor Popov really give this order to Strangelove? What were either of them thinking?
The idea infuriated him. The Americans had no idea about Yuri’s annoying intrusions into their cyberspace. If they did, they would hold hearings, discuss privacy and freedoms, and drag it out for years. But they would destroy him at the snap of a president’s fingers over an operation like the one Strangelove had outlined. The Americans would call it an act of terrorism. An act of war.
He was a soldier. These were orders. He had to change his attitude. He took a deep breath and scratched his beard.
Strangelove’s instructions came over the self-erasing chat system. There would be no paper trail. Yuri sent a message to Strangelove requesting confirmation of the order. He explained his concerns about getting caught. Strangelove’s reply was instant. “Don’t get caught. If you do, do not worry. I’ll handle everything. Delete this thread immediately.”
He deleted it and thought for a moment. If Major Belenov wanted to become Colonel Belenov, executing his orders—especially the stomach-churning orders—was a matter of mental attitude. He had to get himself under control, come to terms with the mission, and then get the men on board. That is the heart of leadership.
He glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed his concerns. The men were all hard at work creating social media accounts. This week’s goal was to create twelve thousand grandmothers in the American Midwest, each connected to the friend or family member of a reporter. They were on track to hit the goal by afternoon. No sense distracting them until he had it worked out.
He rubbed his neck and announced he was going for a walk.
Down the stairs, he left the office building and walked out into the lane. He distanced himself from the business district to walk on the docks. After briskly taking the corner, he realized he was going too fast. He looked guilty. Which was understandable because he felt guilty. He slowed to stroll, like a tourist out to admire the eighteenth-century homes and offices along the wharf. Stavanger meticulously preserved its small-town feel and twelfth-century heritage by retaining ancient architecture on the outside. Inside, everything had been remodeled and modernized.
He pushed his earbuds in and selected Jumpin’ Jack by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. It put a smile on his face.
He turned up Kirkegaten—Church Street—wandering aimlessly. How should he explain the assignment? Strangelove had sent it to him in plain, unambiguous language to test him. Do this or you’re out. He could see the old man stroking his scar.
The men in his banda were modernized and westernized—and that was a problem. Working on the internet of the West every day, they had adopted values foreign to Russian military commanders. The men would not like the assignment.
Gray clouds hovered over gray cobblestones. Yuri looked at his gray reflection in a coffee shop window. He went inside, ordered a cup of American coffee and sat at a small table with a street view. Stavanger, home to Statoil and NATO’s Joint Warfare Center, had the best internet service in northern Europe. Choosing it for his special operations team was a simple decision. Its international population covered their Russian origins well. It rarely snowed, which made it ten times better than that tiny sliver of Russia stranded between Poland and Lithuania that Strangelove called home, Kaliningrad. The electricity was always on. The internet was always fast. They were in the perfect location for his career trajectory to reach its potential.
This crazy assignment could push his career into an even higher trajectory.
But if the Americans caught him, it would be a death sentence.
Don’t get caught.
None of his other assignments had been set aside. The massive database sent by Strangelove’s strutting young peacocks was the kind of assignment the banda relished. It contained more data on Americans than anyone thought possible. From their favorite foods to their political views, the information contained every fascinating detail imaginable except one: credit data. That last bit disappointed the banda. They had been successful hackers before being forced to serve the Motherland and they were always on the lookout for credit data.
“May I join you?” A sandy-haired American spoke in broken Russian and sat next to him. “My name is Brad. I’m—”
Yuri shoved his pistol into the man’s ribs discreetly behind their thick coats and spoke in perfect English. “Are you a spy handler or a queer—Brad?”
The American didn’t bat an eyelash. He stared for a calm moment, then picked up his coffee and pushed off his chair. “I’ve caught you at a bad time. My mistake. Perhaps another day.”
Yuri didn’t take his eyes off the man until he’d disappeared down Kirkegaten. The last thing he needed was a CIA agent trying to turn him.
He sipped his coffee and gazed across the street. He watched a beautiful young woman walk into the pub next door. Then it came to him: Cirkus, the pub, had a private room. He crossed the lane and made arrangements with the manager. He texted his group to join him for a celebration, an early dinner, and vodka. A few drinks would open their ears and minds to his carefully chosen words.
The banda arrived a few hours later after the workday ended.
The chilled vodka was poured. Each man raised his glass and faced Yuri.
“Tvoe zdorovie!” To your health.
Every glass turned up then slammed back to the table. Eyes filling with the first flush of the evening swept the room. Grins spread. The Cirkus manager arrived with a round of zakuski: pickled cucumber, tomato, mushroom, and pumpkin.
Lieutenant Vasili, Yuri’s second in command and the only other career soldier in the banda, poured the second round. “Vashee zdaróvye!” Your health.
The pickled vegetables disappeared moments before the Cirkus staff brought more food: smoked salmon, halibut, and salted mackerel. He hadn’t given them much time, but they had managed to find real Russian hor d’ourves.
More vodka was poured and another toast given. This time, they sipped.
“My friends,” Yuri said, “we are about to transform the balance of power in the world. Russia’s GDP has tripled—300%—since the turn of the century. How has the USA faired in those same years? They grew only 25%. Under President Vladimir Medevtin, the average Russian income has doubled. In America, only the rich get richer. Change is coming, my friends. Russia will be the twenty-first century superpower, and you will be the engineers who make it happen.”
His men looked quite proud, their faces glowing with vodka’s sheen.
“Nuclear bombs defined power in the last century.” Yuri smiled. “But no longer. To use one, even a small one, would bring the immediate dissolution of the country that deployed it. No, today’s superpower controls minds. The future belongs to those who control the truth. And we know how to shape alternative truths better than anyone.”
One of the newest men, young and fair-haired Alexi, raised his glass to offer a toast. Yuri waved him off.
“The Americans think they are in charge of the world. They have missiles and drones and armies and navies. They use their power to oppress Russia. We tried to liberate Georgia and Libya. And what do they do? Sanctions. Our diplomats are shunned. Our business leaders banned from travel. Our overseas bank accounts frozen. Our jobs are threatened by their actions. The Motherland strains under the American yoke. And who are they to impose such things? Who made the Americans masters of the galaxy?”
“The devil is not as frightening as he is painted,” Alexi said.
Yuri and Vasili shared a quick glance. Was the young man’s use of the old Russian adage aimed at Yuri or the Americans? Vasili shrugged.
A waitress darted in carrying a tray of piroshki: buns with cabbage, raisins, and meats stuffed inside. She was the same woman who drew him to the establishment earlier in the afternoon. He lost his men’s attention as the beautiful young lady put her tray on the table and then, unnerved by fifteen men staring at her like wolves, fled.
Yuri smiled and quoted the meme his men passed around soon after they covertly moved their operation to Stavanger. “The Vikings didn’t bring back the ugly ones.”
Everyone laughed and grabbed a piroshki. Yuri tasted one and found it almost as good as his mother’s.
“The American sanction is a weapon of oppression.” Yuri spoke loud enough to draw their eyes as they enjoyed their food. “Why do the Americans oppress us? Because democracy is outdated.”
“Nations are outdated,” Roman, the anarchist, called out. He, Igor, and Petr clin
ked their glasses.
Yuri ignored his comment. “Americans are bloated with conceit and entitlements.” Yuri caught their attention by bellowing. “From the poor who feel entitled to free food, to the billionaires who feel entitled to free stadiums, to the elderly who feel entitled to free retirement, they only worry about themselves. They don’t care about each other. And how do they get their entitlements? By devaluing Russia’s natural resources. They’ve flooded the market with cheap nickel, aluminum, oil, and diamonds. Those are Russia’s primary economies.” He pounded his fist on the table. “Their decadence must end.”
A round of cheers went up. A couple fists pumped in the air.
“Have you seen them?” dew-faced Alexi asked. “Even their poor people are fat.”
Yuri topped off everyone’s glass and toasted. They sipped.
“Our banda is more powerful than their nuclear missiles. We control information and disinformation inside their country. Distrust and suspicion are the most powerful weapons—the very weapons we wield. They gave it to us like a gift. Factions within the USA have been denigrating the American government for decades. The American people no longer trust their political leaders. They vote out corrupt politicians and replace them with the very billionaires who corrupted the politicians in the first place.”
A burly waiter came in with a tray of food.
“We are on the verge of ending sanctions against the Motherland.” Yuri raised his glass. “Within a few years, maybe months, we will be tugging the American leash, and it is they who will come to heel when we whistle.”
“To the Motherland!” Igor said with a distinct note of satire in his voice. Everyone sipped.
Alexi looked around the table, a little confused. “What do we have to do?”
“We have to stand together.” Yuri clenched his teeth, lowered his voice, and scowled. “We must be brave and do the things that no coward could do.”
Most of his men had served only their required time in the Russian military. They were young men who made ends meet by hacking into publicly traded American companies, reading their quarterly reports before they were officially published, and trading on the information. In the US, they would call it insider trading. To Yuri, it was simply smart business. Several members of his banda had made plenty of money.
