Price of Duty

by Dale Brown

  The New Yorker swallowed hard. “Yes, Madam President.”

  “That’s just fine, Luke, honey,” she said, relenting slightly. “And as soon as you’ve handled all of that, I want you on a flight to Moscow.”

  “Moscow?”

  Barbeau nodded. “Get in touch with Gryzlov’s people. Arrange a private one-on-one with that smooth-talking son of a bitch. Push him, Luke. See if you can get a read on what the hell he’s planning.”

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  Major General Arkady Koshkin stood stiffly in President Gryzlov’s outer office, trying very hard not to fidget. He was uneasily aware that the continued existence of both Q Directorate’s cyberwar initiative and his own personal fate rested on the outcome of this hurriedly called meeting with Russia’s mercurial leader. While the computer viruses his specialists had crafted had done enormous damage to Romania’s Cernavodă nuclear plant, the results had fallen short of his more optimistic promises. He wished now that he had not so blithely assured Gryzlov that a total reactor meltdown and containment breach was inevitable and unstoppable.

  A droplet of sweat rolled down his high forehead and dripped onto his spectacles. Nervously, he took them off, distractedly mopping at the thick lenses with his handkerchief.

  The door to Gryzlov’s inner office swung open, held by Ivan Ulanov, the president’s private secretary. “You may go in, General,” the younger man said. There were dark bags under his eyes. Russia’s president kept late hours. “They are ready for you now.”

  Quickly stuffing the handkerchief back in the breast pocket of his suit, Koshkin hurried through the door. Ulanov closed it silently behind him.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Gennadiy Gryzlov stood by the far windows, looking out across the darkened Kremlin. Minister of State Security Viktor Kazyanov sat bolt upright in one of the two chairs set squarely in front of the president’s ultramodern desk.

  Without looking around, Gryzlov said, “Sit down, Koshkin.”

  Sweating even more heavily now, the head of the FSB’s Q Directorate did as he was ordered. Kazyanov didn’t so much as nod in his direction.

  Abruptly, Gryzlov swung round and sat down behind the desk. “I have been going over your report on the Cernavodă operation,” he said, not bothering with any of the usual pleasantries.

  Koshkin felt sick. “Mr. President, I—”

  Gryzlov waved him into silence. “You and your people did well, Arkady,” he continued.

  Caught by surprise, Koshkin could only gabble, “But . . . the reactor . . . the containment building, I mean . . .” He forced himself to slow down. “I regret that our attack was not entirely successful.”

  “Calm yourself, Arkady,” Gryzlov said patiently. “No weapon works perfectly the first time it is used.” He shrugged. “And you certainly couldn’t have anticipated that the Poles and their American mercenaries would react so quickly and so effectively to the reactor meltdown.”

  “No, sir.”

  “What matters is that we now know your new cyberweapons are as powerful as you promised,” Gryzlov said. “Which is why we’re going to use them on a much larger and grander scale.”

  “Mr. President?”

  Gryzlov bared his teeth in a quick, wolfish grin. He tapped the slick surface of the computer built into his desk. The large LED display set into the same desk lit up, revealing the first page of a document marked Top Secret and headed Operatsiya Mor, Operation Plague. “Take a careful look, Koshkin. The time for tests and experimentation is over. Now is the time to put your prized theories into practice!”

  Eyes widening, Koshkin leaned closer to the screen, rapidly skimming through the list of targets outlined in the detailed operational plan the president showed him, flipping through page after page with a flick of his finger across the display. He whistled softly in wonder.

  “Well,” Gryzlov demanded. “Can you execute this operation?”

  Still astonished by the scope of his president’s ambitions, Koshkin sat back in his chair, thinking fast. At last, he nodded cautiously. “We can, sir. Q Directorate has all of the essential cyberwarfare capabilities needed to strike these targets.” He pursed his lips. “But hitting them with the necessary precision and speed will require some additional work to fully weaponize specific computer programs.”

  Gryzlov’s expression soured.

  “It’s not a question of hardware,” Koshkin hastily explained. “Between the new supercomputer at the Perun’s Aerie complex and equipment at other sites, we have all the computing capacity needed.”

  “Go on,” Gryzlov said, through gritted teeth.

  “It’s a matter of personnel, Mr. President,” Koshkin said, sweating again. “To keep up with the proposed operational tempo after our first strikes go in, my directorate will need the services of additional special information troops. Coding is labor-intensive work and each attack demands malware individually tailored for the precise target.”

  “Very well,” Gryzlov said curtly. “Present your requirements for more komp’yutershchiks to Tarzarov on your way out. He’ll find the hackers you need.”

  “Sir.”

  “And inform me at once when you are ready to launch Mor’s first phase.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Koshkin said, already moving toward the door.

  “Oh, and Arkady?”

  The head of Q Directorate looked back toward Gryzlov. “Mr. President?”

  “Be quick about it,” Gryzlov said. “Remember, no man is irreplaceable.” His eyes conveyed all the warmth of the Siberian tundra in winter. “Do not learn that the hard way, eh?”

  When the door closed behind Koshkin, Gryzlov turned his icy gaze on his minister of state security. “You were very quiet just now, Viktor.”

  Kazyanov actually squirmed nervously in his seat, an oddly unbecoming gesture in one so tall and powerfully built. “I did not wish to interrupt, Mr. President.” He spread his hands in an embarrassed gesture. “This new cyberwar technology is not something I fully understand. At least not yet.”

  “Yes,” Gryzlov said contemptuously. “That much is all too clear. Though perhaps I should expect more from you, since Koshkin is at least nominally one of your subordinates.”

  He watched the other man’s face turn gray. Insulting poor, fearful Viktor Kazyanov really was about as dangerous as kicking a toothless puppy, Gryzlov decided. It might be enjoyable, but there really wasn’t much sport in it.

  “On the other hand,” he said. “The reports from your GRU unit outside Cernavodă were excellent.” He shot the bewildered and frightened minister of state security a cynical smile. “It was fortunate that Usenko and his team were ready and waiting to catch a glimpse of one of these Iron Wolf machines in action, was it not?”

  “You knew one of those combat robots would enter the damaged reactor building?” Kazyanov realized, unable to conceal his surprise.

  Gryzlov shrugged. “Let us say that I thought it more likely than not.”

  “What game are you—” Kazyanov stopped himself in midsentence, obviously afraid that he was crossing onto dangerous ground.

  Gryzlov let that slide. “But we still need more information about these Cybernetic Infantry Devices.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “That bitch Barbeau, for all her high-minded prattle about international cooperation, still won’t tell us all she knows about their design, their capabilities, and their weaknesses.”

  Kazyanov nodded. Every request they’d made to the Americans for more technical data on the CIDs had been shunted aside with a welter of unconvincing excuses, delays, and outright lies.

  “So the answer is obvious,” Gryzlov said. He tapped his desk. “We lure one of these machines out into the open again, this time for a closer look. Even at the cost of lives.” Seeing the confusion on his spymaster’s face, he sighed. “Think of chess, Viktor. This match is just beginning. And if we have to sacrifice a pawn or two to gain the advantage we seek, then so be it.”
<
br />   Baffled, Kazyanov decided to fall back on simple, unquestioning obedience. It was a habit that had served him well all his adult life. “What are your orders, Mr. President?” he asked.

  And then, listening closely while Gryzlov outlined the gambit he had in mind, he began to understand. Outwardly simple in its details, the younger man’s stratagem possessed a certain brutal elegance.

  SIX

  OUTSIDE GROZNY, CHECHEN REPUBLIC, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  THE NEXT DAY

  Ramshackle houses and huts dotted the steep, snow-covered hillsides above Ahmad Usmaev’s walled compound. Rifle-armed guards, bulky in heavy sheepskin coats, patrolled the walls. Their breath steamed in the frigid air. Winter came early this high up in the Caucasus.

  Inside the compound, Colonel Yevgeny Perminov held his arms out from his sides, hiding his disgust while one of the Chechen warlord’s slovenly bodyguards frisked him for concealed weapons. Service in Russia’s military intelligence arm, the GRU, often required dealing with unsavory characters. Seen in that light, the self-styled sheikh Ahmad Usmaev was not so different, although his coarseness, paranoia, and almost mindless brutality might be said to plumb new depths of depravity.

  Usmaev was one of the cold-blooded killers Russia relied on to hold down its restive Chechen Republic. He and his kinsmen ruled over a large stretch of mountainous territory outside the capital city of Grozny. In return for generous subsidies from Moscow, Usmaev stayed loyal to President Khuchiev, another warlord put in power by Russia. In exchange, the Russians turned a blind eye to the methods he employed to terrorize the villages and towns in his grip—an orgy of murder, mutilation, rape, extortion, and hostage taking.

  The bodyguard stepped back and nodded to Usmaev. “He is unarmed.”

  The warlord, a short, portly man wearing an intricately embroidered vest and a green velvet Muslim skullcap waddled forward to greet Perminov. “My friend, welcome again to my simple home! You honor me with your presence.”

  With an effort, the GRU colonel kept a straight face. Usmaev’s “simple” home was a villa stuffed full of ornate, expensive furniture, priceless tapestries and carpets, and high-priced consumer electronics—all paid for by Moscow’s largesse and the profits from his own reign of terror. He followed the Chechen into a palatial sitting area.

  Usmaev plopped down on a plush, overstuffed couch and waved Perminov into a high-backed chair trimmed in gold leaf. Another of the warlord’s guards deferentially returned the colonel’s still-locked briefcase. It had been taken away from him at the gate and then run through an X-ray machine as a precaution against explosive devices or other hidden weapons.

  After several minutes wasted enduring the customary round of utterly insincere compliments and platitudes, Perminov finally felt able to come to the point of his visit. “You have received my government’s request, Sheikh?” he asked.

  Sagely, Usmaev nodded. “I spoke to your superiors, yes.”

  “And you can provide the men we need? With the necessary weapons training?”

  “As easily as I do this!” the warlord said, snapping his fingers. He lowered his voice. “Though I understand the risks involved are, shall we say, significant?”

  Perminov nodded. “So I believe.”

  Usmaev smiled coldly. “I have a number of followers who are bored by the peace I have established here. They grow restless. And such restless men can cause a lot of trouble if they are not given the chance to act on a wider stage.”

  “That is true,” Perminov agreed cautiously. “In this instance, the audience may prove unforgiving. Perhaps lethally so.”

  “That is in Allah’s hands,” Usmaev said with a shrug. His eyes glinted. “Who knows? Perhaps he will be merciful.”

  The colonel got the distinct impression the other man would be happier if the god he worshiped decided matters the other way. And perhaps that was just as well. “You understand that we are in some haste?” he asked. “I have an aircraft standing by to ferry your men to Moscow for further briefing.”

  “Of course,” Usmaev said. He raised an eyebrow. “Assuming our other arrangements proceed smoothly, they can join you at the airport within the hour.”

  Perminov unlocked his briefcase and flipped it open so that the Chechen could see the contents. The case contained fifteen million rubles in cash, worth about two hundred thousand American dollars. “Please, Sheikh, accept this small token of our appreciation for your assistance in this matter,” he said.

  Usmaev’s smile grew even wider. He nodded to one of his bodyguards, who stepped forward to take the briefcase from Perminov. “Your visits are always a joyous occasion, Colonel. I look forward to our next meeting.”

  “As do I,” the GRU colonel said stoically. Much as he personally loathed Usmaev, there was no getting around the fact that the other man had one great virtue. Like many in this brutal, war-torn region, he would sell his own sister if the price were right. But unlike so many of his rivals, once bought, Ahmad Usmaev stayed bought.

  And that, in the end, was what truly mattered to Perminov’s masters in the Kremlin.

  IZMAILOVSKY PARK, MOSCOW

  THAT SAME TIME

  Two men, both bundled up against the cold, strolled casually together along a winding, wooded trail. They were alone.

  Izmailovsky Park, once the childhood home of the czar Peter the Great, was a favorite haunt of Muscovites in the summer and winter. During the summer, crowds sought its forest glades and ponds as a refuge from the city’s heat and humidity. And in the snowy depths of winter, they poured in with their sleds, ice skates, and cross-country skis. But few people found the park’s damp gravel paths and stands of barren, leafless trees very inviting on the dreary, gray days so common in the late fall.

  All of which made it the ideal spot for a discreet rendezvous.

  Igor Truznyev, former president of the Russian Federation, glanced down at his shorter, thinner companion. “You’re sure you were not followed?”

  The other man’s world-weary brown eyes crinkled in wry amusement. “Should I ask the same question of you, Igor?” He nodded toward the desolate stretches of woodland lining both sides of the trail. “Shall we waste our time prowling about to see if anyone is lurking behind one of those birch trees? Or hiding beneath the fallen leaves?”

  The taller man laughed softly. “A fair hit, Sergei.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “I only worry that your protégé might find these occasional discussions behind his back somewhat disconcerting.”

  “Gennadiy may be more . . . confident . . . than you assume,” Sergei Tarzarov, Gryzlov’s chief of staff replied softly.

  “He sees himself as invincible, you mean?” Truznyev asked pointedly. “As so powerful now that he is immune to betrayal from his own closest subordinates and associates?”

  “Perhaps,” the older man said. “And why not?” He turned his gaze more directly on the former president. “Some of us know how narrowly we averted disaster in our war with Poland last year, but the masses do not. They idolize Gennadiy as the leader who retook eastern Ukraine for Mother Russia and humiliated NATO in the process.”

  For a split second, Truznyev saw red. What no one else knew, most especially not Gryzlov or Tarzarov, was that he had orchestrated that war with Poland—secretly funding a band of Ukrainian terrorists in the hope of luring his hated successor into a political and military quagmire. Then, or so he had fondly imagined, Russia’s elites would see the terrible mistake they had made in backing a madman like Gryzlov. And once that sobering realization took root, they were bound to come, hats in hand, humbly begging him to reclaim their nation’s highest office.

  But his plan, brilliant though it was on paper, had backfired—foundering on human weaknesses he could never have anticipated. How could he have imagined any American president so cavalierly betraying a longtime NATO ally, let alone showing herself willing to buy Gryzlov’s restraint by ordering the deaths of her own countrymen?

  Grimly, Igor Truznyev fought to kee
p the cauldron of rage and shame boiling up inside from showing on his broad face. Why risk making Tarzarov suspicious now? If the veteran Kremlin insider saw the value of keeping in touch with those like Truznyev who were currently out of power, why rock the boat? Besides, these clandestine meetings gave him valuable insights into the otherwise secret deliberations of Gryzlov’s government.

  And if nothing else, Tarzarov’s patronage over the past few months had lined his pockets quite nicely. In the years since he’d been forced out as Russia’s leader, Truznyev had used his skills and his contacts to build a substantial business empire, including a highly competent private intelligence network. His plan there was twofold. Money was the mother’s milk of political success, especially in post-Soviet Russia. But the dirty little secrets he and his personal agents uncovered were bound to be even more useful . . . when the day of reckoning with his political enemies came.

  With that in mind, he changed the subject.

  “I see from the news out of Romania that you’ve put my guys to work, Sergei.” He winked. “I told you they were good. Maybe a bit unkempt and ill-disciplined, like so many young people these days, but still very effective, eh?”

  “So it seems,” the older man agreed tersely.

  “But their parents and boyfriends and girlfriends keep asking me where on earth you’ve stashed them,” Truznyev said, watching Gryzlov’s chief of staff closely. “Naturally, I tell them I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  A thin, utterly humorless smile flickered across Tarzarov’s narrow, lined face. “I can only imagine how much pain it causes you to offer the unvarnished truth, Igor.”

  “Very funny,” Truznyev said. He kept his eyes fixed on the other man. “Still, I hear rumors. Strange rumors. People talk of a mysterious ‘treasure cave’ being built out somewhere in the east.”

  “Do they?” Gryzlov’s chief of staff said coolly. He shrugged. “Slovo serebro. Molchaniye—zoloto. Words are silver, silence is golden.”