by Jack Arbor
Nikita Ivanov. Wasn’t her cat named Nikita? No, it was Otis. The cat she had when she was a girl. What happened to that cat? A tear slipped down her cheek. The kitty cat is dead now. Was Otis buried somewhere nice? With a little gravestone?
More words, but they faded into the distance while the doctor slowly dissolved into a white amoeba.
Had her cat been white? No, not white. Calico, perhaps? Or brown with white paws. Yes, the white paws… Like little white boots.
The fuzzy white ghost dissolved into darkness. She woke later curled on the cold ground, shivering, the vision of the cat’s white paws consuming her. When the tears flowed, her body wracked with sobs, mourning the cat she loved, until she was cried out.
Twenty
London, England
Max bounded up the Lear’s stairs and ducked to enter the cabin, stopping short when he saw a young blonde wearing an off-the-rack suit. She read a dossier through a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses while holding a glass of soda water or perhaps a gin and tonic. The remaining leather seats were empty. Something about her triggered a vague memory. “Pardon me. I must have the wrong plane.”
As he turned to depart, the door to the lavatory opened and Callum Baxter stepped out.
“Ah, Max. There you are. You’re late. The trains run on time in Her Majesty’s secret service, you know.”
“Who’s—”
Baxter brushed by him on his way to the cockpit, so Max took a seat facing forward with a clear view of the blonde. Her eyes left the folder and she smiled at him before returning to her reading. There was a flash of knowing intellect and self-assuredness behind the glasses despite the young face.
The Lear’s external door was shut and latched by Baxter before he took a seat. “Limited service on this flight, I’m afraid.” He nodded at the galley. “Fix your own refreshments. Plenty of gin and Scotch. None of that American whiskey you like. Did you forget something?”
He tossed something at Max, who caught it, relieved to see his grandfather’s lighter. He removed the inner case from the external shell, noted it was filled with lighter fluid, and reassembled it.
Baxter rubbed his nose. “Don’t worry. I didn’t muck with it.” He handed Max a thick manila envelope as the Lear sprinted down the taxiway.
Opening the envelope, Max dumped a pile of cash on his lap.
Nodding at the bundles of euros, Baxter said, “Benefits of working for MI6.”
Max stacked the bundles and flipped through them with his thumb. “Who said I was working for you? That wasn’t part of the agreement. It’s a partnership.”
Baxter chuckled. “C’s orders.”
“C?”
“The chief goes by the initial C.” Baxter shrugged.
He glanced at the blonde. “Not M?”
Baxter rolled his eyes. “No. That was Ian Fleming’s fiction.”
The blonde groaned without glancing up.
Max snickered. He read a lot of spy novels during his Western indoctrination by the KGB. “What about The Circus? Is MI6 still referred to as The Circus?”
This time the blonde’s eyebrows rose, and she nodded her head.
Baxter groaned. “A fabrication by le Carré.”
Max glanced at the blonde. “Didn’t le Carré work for MI6? Shows you what he thought of it.” The blonde concentrated on her reading.
Baxter glared at him. “You remember Cindy, don’t you?”
It came back to him. Cindy was in the van the day Baxter’s men took him captive in Cambridge. It felt like years ago, but it was only two months ago.
Cindy offered a well-manicured hand.
Max took the firm grip before catching Baxter’s eye. “What exactly does C think I’m consulting on?”
The MI6 man cleared his throat. “I didn’t specify. But let’s be clear. Officially, MI6 doesn’t kill people. We let the CIA and the Mossad do that kind of stuff. Our Savile Row suits are spotless.”
Max scrutinized Baxter’s rumpled pants and jacket. “That’s Savile Row?”
Baxter sighed. “It’s a figure of speech.”
“Officially?”
Baxter recrossed his legs. “Our culture is to never confirm nor deny, but I can tell you that in my twenty-plus years of working for the secret intelligence service, I’ve never seen nor been party to an agency-sanctioned killing. So keep your pistol in its holster while you’re on our dime. Officially.” He laughed at his own joke and glanced at Cindy, whose head was buried in the dossier.
Max thumbed through the stacks of cash again, guessed it was about twenty thousand euros, and tucked them into his inside jacket pocket. “You let consultants do it for you. Plausible deniability.”
The MI6 agent shrugged again. “We use a lot of consultants when it suits our needs, just like any agency. Surveillance, black-bag jobs, counterintelligence.”
As the plane leveled out, Max studied Cindy from the corner of his eye. Her pantsuit was a dark wool that contrasted against a snowy-white blouse with wide lapels. The neck was open, and a silver pendent hung against her pale skin. Golden hair in a modern cut ended at the shoulders and curved around her face. A complexion that suggested Scandinavian. Diamond studs in each ear. Eyes showing a hint of crinkle, putting her age at mid- to late-thirties. A bare ring finger.
She raised her head, and Max caught her eye. She grinned, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. Her smile went all the way to her eyes before she shuffled the papers and bent down to resume her task.
Baxter cleared his throat. “Cindy is one of our senior analysts over at Vauxhall Cross. Since our…ahem…first operation together, she’s led the team looking into this consortium of yours. She’s got six analysts on lockdown, and we’re not letting them out of the room until they find everything they can about the group.”
Max raised his eyebrows. “And? What have we found so far?”
“She’s here to give us a brief.”
Cindy closed the dossier she was reading, the cover of which had the words Top Secret stamped across the top in red. She stuffed it in a metal briefcase and snapped the lock closed.
Straining to hear over the Lear’s drone, Max leaned on his elbows.
Referring to another file, Cindy bent over the armrest. “When Russia annexed the Crimea back in 2014 and the conflict with Ukraine ignited, we decided we should once again pay attention to Mother Bear, as I like to call her. It’s not that we weren’t watching before, but Crimea was the first overt move since Yeltsin and the fall of the Soviet empire. The Russian president’s actions signaled a resurgence in imperialism, or at least a desire to reassert himself. That triggered a realization that the era of the left-leaning oligarchic rule, and perhaps the emergence of a freethinking democracy in Russia, had been replaced by a resurgence of the old-guard policies that we can trace all the way back to the Russian revolution and Vladimir Lenin.” She lifted her drink for a sip.
Max cocked his head. “Explain.”
Cindy adjusted the pleat on her trouser revealing a bare white ankle. “As you probably know, the Russian revolution in 1917 was a watershed. Frustrated by years of famine and hardship from Tsar Nicholas II’s participation in World War I, the country was primed for a new idea. The Bolsheviks, led by Vladimir Lenin, presented this opportunity. The Tsar was tossed out and assassinated, and Lenin and the Bolsheviks took over, eventually creating the Communist party and the Soviet Union. Lenin also created a secret police organization called Cheka back in 1917. The Cheka was responsible for quelling uprisings against the Bolsheviks, sometimes in brutal and oppressive ways. Over time, that group took more and more power, and eventually morphed into the agency that became the KGB.”
The Chekas weren’t in the history books Max studied in school. “Quelling?”
“It means to pacify,” Baxter said.
Cindy consulted a paper in her file. “Although the Soviet intelligence agency shifted and morphed over time and the term Cheka—meaning secret police—disappeared, the word chekist has come to
mean a member of the secret Russian ruling class. The KGB, as you know, evolved to become one of the largest secret police organizations known to modern man, enforcing a rabid style of repression against its own citizens that allowed the Communist party to stay in power. Some scholars say that the KGB is the true source of power behind the Soviet Union, and even now in Russia. The fact that the current Russian president—a dictator in all but name—came from the ranks of the KGB isn’t lost on anyone.”
Max grimaced. “Makes you wonder who’s really in charge in Russia. The president or the KGB.”
A bright smile from Cindy. “Now flash ahead to the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 that was tied to Gorbachev’s perestroika, or political and economic reforms—”
Max held up a finger. “I know this part.”
Cindy held up her hand. “What you may not know is that while the west and NATO celebrated a victory, there was an obscure theory going around—”
“A conspiracy theory,” Baxter said.
Cindy frowned at her boss. “Right. A conspiracy theory that the fall of the Soviet Union was a ruse concocted by the hardliners in Russia to let the West think they had won. The conspiracy theory even has a name—the Perestroika Deception.”
This wasn’t the first time Max had heard the term, but the phrase was usually accompanied by scoffs and jeers. “Big price to pay, losing thirteen colonies. Tax revenue. Control over oil and other natural resources. Seems like a stretch. Why would they do that?”
Cindy toyed with a pen and glanced at Baxter, who tapped on his Blackberry with his head down. “Some think it was to allow the chekists to regroup after the populist uprisings,” she said.
The MI6 man stopped typing. “In hindsight, seeing what’s going on in Russia now, it’s hard to argue with the theory.”
“The theory doesn’t get much play in academic circles.” Cindy crossed her ankles. “But the intelligence community agrees that certain Communist leaders wanted three things: to distract the West from communism’s true aims, to reduce the threat of NATO, and to attract Western capital to the country to rebuild its crumbling infrastructure. A little-known analyst at the CIA wrote a paper that got leaked that made over a hundred predictions about the evolution of Russia as a result of the Perestroika Deception. Almost all of his predictions have come true.”
Max glanced at Baxter. “What’s all this got to do with the consortium?”
The pen flipped around in Cindy’s hand. “Think of the chekists as a shadow government or a kind of deep state. You know what that is right?”
He nodded, although he wasn’t sure.
Her pen twirled in a blur. “It’s a group of politicians, military, or business leaders, who effectively run government functions while the outward facing politicians act as stand-ins without knowing. The intelligence community believes that Turkey has long been run by a deep state of nationalist hardliners dating back to the Ottoman Empire.”
Max sat back and studied the young analyst. “You’re going to tell me that the consortium is a Russian shadow government made up of these checkers? Callum, do you believe this?”
“Chekists.” Cindy nodded. “And yes, that’s our working theory, albeit with several complications.”
“Tell him the main one.” Baxter said.
Cindy sat back and tapped the tip of her pen against the armrest. “The consortium is made up of Russians and non-Russians, including Chinese and members from former Soviet satellite states like Ukraine and Latvia.”
Max leaned on his elbows. “Maybe their intent is to remake the Soviet Union.”
“We’re considering that theory. But the consortium is solely focused on the control of oil production, supply, and distribution, which is hardly a recipe for domination over the Russian people. One component, perhaps. But they won’t get there by simply controlling natural resources. We dove into the backgrounds of the men on the consortium, and they’re a mix of liberal oligarchs, Russian domestic and foreign intelligence types, and business men. There are only a couple members that we can trace back to chekist and KGB origins.”
Max glanced at Baxter, who was examining his nails. “You must have another theory.”
Cindy eyed Baxter, and Max caught a shake of the senior MI6 agent’s head. “We do,” she said. “The theory is tangential—”
“Well done, Cindy.” Baxter stowed his phone and handed each of them a sheaf of papers. “Shall we go over the operation in Moldova one more time? Make sure we all know our lines?”
She frowned as she accepted the papers.
What is it about the chekists Baxter doesn’t want him to know?
Twenty-One
Dubāsari, Moldova
The color of the Soviet-era van had faded to a mottled gray. It listed to the left, requiring Popov, the portly Moldovan taxi driver, to keep the wheel wrenched to the right to keep the van straight, which was more difficult because of the potholed pavement of the border town. Despite the frigid temps, perspiration coated Popov’s brow as he coaxed the vehicle to the crossing leading into Transnistria. Every few minutes, he flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror to check on his passenger. The man made him nervous.
During the hour-long drive from the private terminal at Chisinau International, the man didn’t utter a word. He traveled light—one backpack—and paid cash in advance using leu, Moldova’s local currency. His dusty black T-shirt was worn under a weathered leather jacket. Jeans, boots, and wraparound sunglasses completed his outfit. The clothing was unremarkable, except for the ball cap that was pulled low in a way that made Popov think military. Not military in the officer sense, but special-ops like he saw in the American TV shows. Didn’t Bradley Cooper wear a similar hat in that movie about the sniper?
As Popov’s eyes flickered between the passenger and the smog-choked road, he tried to place his nationality. Caucasian but darkly tanned. Maybe American, or German. High cheekbones, strong jaw, and broad shoulders. Dark eyes like obsidian. No hint of a smile. I don’t want to see this man in a dark alley, that’s for sure.
At the border crossing, the taxi driver showed his papers and waited while the agent, a bored man flanked by two Russian peacekeeping troopers, studied his passenger’s passport. He caught a flash of maroon with gold lettering that might indicate Russian or Romanian. Not Ukrainian—those passports were blue. As the border agent handed back the papers and Popov nudged the van over the cracked concrete bridge leading across the Dniester river, the unofficial border between Moldova and Transnistria, he settled on Romanian. Romanians are some bad dudes.
A tap on his shoulder and he choked back a scream. The passenger held out a wad of the pale green, yellow, and orange Moldovan currency. “Pull over here.”
As Popov swerved to miss an old man on a motor scooter while searching for a spot to stop the van, the man jumped out the sliding door and disappeared into the crowd. The driver calmed his breathing before turning the van back in the direction of Moldova.
While posing as a tourist and using his mobile phone to snap pictures of local landmarks, Max meandered through the streets of Dubāsari looking for tails. After a quick bite of a sour beef soup known as ciorba and some ravioli-like squares of pasta filled with mushrooms called burechiușe, he hailed another taxi and offered the driver enough cash to take him an hour south to the region’s capital, Tiraspol. The last driver made him nervous, causing him to make the switch.
This wasn’t Max’s first visit to the small self-proclaimed republic hewn from the collapse of the Soviet Union. Unrecognized by most of the world, the symbols of the old Soviet regime were everywhere—on signs, on buildings, and especially on the locals’ faces. The region’s flag still displayed the hammer and sickle, and imagery of Stalin was visible in murals. The republic of Transnistria was a sliver of land trapped between Moldova and Ukraine jammed with Russians and Ukrainians who wanted nothing to do with a post-Soviet world and who saw no reason Moldova should be independent.
The local Transnistrians chafed against
Moldova’s edict to recognize only the Moldovan language, and bristled at Moldova’s anti-minority, ethnocentric, and chauvinist positions that called for the Slavs, especially Russians and Ukrainians, to leave or be expelled. And so they formed their own republic. Although unofficial and unrecognized, the region had its own currency, police force, military, de facto government, and even its own elections. Max operated in this portion of Eastern Europe several times as a junior KGB agent and knew the area well. He empathized with the locals and admired their chutzpa at daring to form their own government rather than suffer at the persecution of the ethnic Moldovans. The region represented an example of the folly of a small number of governments trying to corral a high number of minorities. While Max had little sympathy for hardline Soviets, he had no patience for persecution.
Live and let live.
Apologizing for his lack of local currency, Max pressed a stack of Moldovan leu into his new driver’s hand, pulled his cap over his eyes, and pretended to doze as the sedan took off down the M4 highway.
His new partnership with MI6 was getting off to a rocky start. To monitor the operation, Baxter had insisted on a mic, a GPS transmitter, and continuous MI6 satellite coverage. At one point, he referred to protecting his investment. Max refused, not wanting to get caught with the incriminating equipment. The row got heated, with Baxter’s face blossoming to a crimson red and the venerable agent almost ripping out his goatee in frustration. Ultimately Max won the argument by threatening to leave MI6 altogether. Baxter had stormed out of the room, leaving a shaken Cindy alone with Max to finalize the operation’s details. Max was entering Tiraspol, a bastion of old Soviet hard-liners and former chekists, under a Russian identity and without any tethers to MI6. If you knew Transnistria, it was safer this way.
