by Dale Brown
“That’s easy enough for you to say,” Truznyev noted acidly. “You don’t have to deal with the constant whimpers and complaints. ‘Please, sir, where is my boy Sasha? Where is my lover Ludmilla? Are they well? When will they e-mail me?’” He scowled. “The litany never ends. And frankly, it’s getting on my nerves.”
Tarzarov looked back at him without any discernible emotion. “Then you tell them all they need to know.”
“Which is?
“That their loved ones serve at the pleasure of the state, wherever the state requires,” the old man said. “And that the sensitive nature of their current work demands total seclusion—for the time being.”
“Yes, well, that won’t exactly offer their families much comfort,” Truznyev said.
“You surprise me, Igor,” Tarzarov said. “I would not have thought you so sentimental.”
“I’m not. I’m only tired of being kept in the dark.”
“Oh?” The older man raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You’ve been compensated for your assistance. In fact, richly compensated. True?”
“True,” Truznyev agreed.
“Then be content with your pay, Igor,” Tarzarov told him brutally. “And stop prying into state secrets that are no longer your concern.”
For a moment, Truznyev stood rooted in place, transfixed by anger and shame. Once, with the mere wave of a hand, he could have exiled this dry stick of a man to Siberia or had someone put a bullet in the back of his skull. Slowly, he took another deep breath. Patience, he told himself. The time would come when such insults could be avenged.
He started walking again, keeping pace with Tarzarov along the winding path. With an effort, he kept his voice level. “I presume, then, that you have a specific reason for contacting me? Some further need for my services as a private citizen and businessman?”
The other man nodded. “I need more specialists.”
Now, that was interesting, Truznyev thought. “How many exactly?”
“Perhaps thirty or forty more,” Tarzarov replied. “Of the same type and with the same skills and abilities.”
Truznyev whistled softly in surprise. “So many?” He shook his head doubtfully. “That’s a tall order, Sergei. Gifted computer hackers are in high demand, especially in the private sector.”
“The needs of various criminal enterprises do not concern me,” the older man said flatly. “Tawdry schemes to steal credit-card numbers and drain bank accounts will have to wait.”
Truznyev ignored the gibe. “So now that Gennadiy sees the damage a few lines of cunningly written code can do, he grows more ambitious, eh?”
“What the president intends is well beyond your need to know,” Tarzarov reminded him. “The question is: Can you provide the people we require?”
“It will be difficult. And expensive,” the former president warned.
“How surprising,” Tarzarov said dryly.
Truznyev shrugged. “You can’t expect iconoclasts like these komp’yuternyye botanikov, these computer nerds, no matter how patriotic, to flock to government service—especially now that the word’s gotten around that you’ve put the first batch I found you in cold storage somewhere.”
“And how do you suggest we overcome this . . . reluctance?”
“With money, of course,” Truznyev said. “You’ll have to up the signing bonuses you offer substantially.”
“Which will increase your own referral fees,” Tarzarov said tartly.
The former president shot him a vengeful smile. “Of course.” He eyed the older man narrowly. “You may also find it necessary to reimburse certain . . . businessmen . . . at least those who rely on these experts in certain extremely profitable sidelines.”
Tarzarov frowned. “You seriously expect us to pay off the Mafiya?”
“Why not?” Truznyev said bluntly. “It’s been done before. And many times.” He smiled again at Gryzlov’s chief of staff. “As you know yourself, Sergei.”
The older man frowned.
“Look, the math is simple,” Truznyev pointed out. “You can pay off the crime bosses to keep them happy. Or you can waste even more time and money on futile police raids. Because we both know the police will never find anyone the Mafiya decides to keep for itself.”
The older man sighed in exasperation. “Exactly how much is this all going to cost, Igor?”
“Well, that’s an interesting question,” Truznyev said carefully. “For a start, you’ll have to at least double the signing bonus you offer each hacker. Figuring a minimum of thirty people, that’ll mean—”
Deeply immersed in their discussion, he and Tarzarov moved farther along the walking trail, haggling over the price Russia’s government would pay for its new “special information troops.” What neither of the two men noticed was the very small, brown, birdlike shape silently swirling through in the sky above them. It was a palm-size glider, an ultralight spy drone equipped only with a sensitive microphone and a few cell-phone components serving as a communications relay.
OVER MOSCOW
THAT SAME TIME
Roughly one mile away, a Bell 407GXP light helicopter orbited slowly over the city at an altitude of one thousand feet. Private flights were ordinarily restricted to routes along the Moscow River, but this helicopter belonged to Tekhwerk, GmbH—a jointly owned German and Russian import-export company specializing in industrial and light-manufacturing equipment. Since the corporation helped the Kremlin obtain otherwise difficult-to-replicate Western high-technology machinery at reasonable prices, Russia’s law enforcement and regulatory agencies often turned a blind eye to its activities.
The larger of the two men in the Bell helicopter’s luxuriously appointed passenger cabin spoke to the pilot over the intercom. “How much longer can you give us here, Max?”
“About twenty more minutes, Herr Wernicke. I told Moscow Control that you wanted to check out some possible new factory sites from the air.”
The big, beefy man who called himself Klaus Wernicke nodded appreciatively. “Good work. Keep us posted.”
“Will do.”
Wernicke looked across the cabin at his companion. “Everything okay on your end, Davey?”
“We’ve still got a good, solid signal from the Wren,” confirmed David Jones, a much smaller and younger man than his superior. He wore earphones and clutched a small handheld controller. “With the thermals I’m picking up, I should be able to keep her aloft for another five or six minutes.”
The big man nodded. The tiny Wren glider they were monitoring was the significantly more advanced version of a miniaturized reconnaissance drone originally developed by the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory. Called the Cicada, the Wren’s predecessor was designed for deployment in mass swarms. Sown from manned aircraft or even larger drones, Cicadas were tasked with gathering intelligence on large-scale enemy troop movements using a variety of lightweight, low-bandwidth sensors. In contrast, this Wren had a much narrower and far more focused mission. It was tasked with keeping tabs on just one man, Igor Truznyev.
Although the Russians didn’t realize it, Tekhwerk was ultimately owned, through an intricate web of holding companies, by Kevin Martindale and Scion. Profits from its legitimate operations were used to fund covert action and intelligence gathering inside Russia itself. And the need for frequent travel between Tekhwerk’s dual headquarters in Moscow and Berlin and its other far-flung divisions provided invaluable cover for Scion agents masquerading as corporate executives and employees of the company.
Scion field operatives like Marcus Cartwright, for example.
Calling himself Klaus Wernicke, Cartwright had been running a surveillance operation against Truznyev for months—ever since Scion had captured and interrogated one of the agents the former Russian president used to foment last year’s brushfire war with Poland. Made aware that Truznyev, a ruthless, wildly ambitious, and dangerous man, was still very much a player on the world scene, Martindale had ordered a close watch kept on him.
; Unfortunately, it was a mission that had proved much easier to set in motion than to accomplish.
Before he became Russia’s president, Truznyev had spent years in charge of the Federal Security Service, the FSB, one of the successor agencies to the USSR’s feared KGB. When he’d been ousted from the Kremlin, many of the spy service’s veterans had joined him in private life, going to work for the consulting group he’d founded. As a result, his personal security and countersurveillance people were top-notch, generously paid, and well equipped. All of which meant that employing the usual methods—tailing Truznyev through the Moscow streets or bugging his offices or hacking into his computers—would only have tipped him off.
So far Cartwright and his Scion team had only been able to track their target’s major movements at a distance, without gaining any significant intelligence on his operations or current plans. For all the time, money, and effort they’d expended, their investigation hadn’t picked up much more about Truznyev than could have been gleaned from reading the gossip pages of any Moscow tabloid or trade journal.
It had been enormously frustrating.
Until today.
Today, Truznyev had left his personal security detail behind and ventured out alone. He’d never done that before, not even when he paid visits to his various mistresses. Cartwright had immediately seen this as a sign that something big was in the wind. And free to act at last, his surveillance team had pounced, warily tailing the Russian right up to the edge of Izmailovsky Park.
But that was as far as they dared go. Inside the park’s deserted confines, anyone who stayed close enough to tag Truznyev and his contact, let alone listen in on them, might as well paint shpion, spy, across his forehead.
That was when the Wren drone they’d launched from this helicopter had proved its worth. Floating down silently on the wind, circling slowly as it rode thermals rising from the ground, the bird-size glider had been able to intercept most of the conversation between Truznyev and his contact.
Best of all, the Russians would never know they’d been bugged.
Before the Wren ran out of altitude and airspeed, a twitch of its flight controls could send the little drone gliding away across the woods. Eventually, it would skitter down through the trees and crash-land somewhere in among piles of dead leaves. And even if someone else stumbled across it before one of Cartwright’s people got there, the palm-size drone would appear to be nothing more than some child’s cheap toy.
“Truznyev and this other fellow are saying their not-so-fond farewells now,” David Jones announced, still monitoring the signals coming through his headset. He glanced across at Cartwright with bright eyes. “I don’t know who he is yet, but I can tell you one thing for sure, he’s a big enough fish to put the fear of God himself into our friend Igor. At least for a bit.”
Cartwright bared his teeth in a hunter’s triumphant grin. Smile, Comrade Truznyev, he thought coldly. You’re on candid microphone.
SEVEN
KONTOP AIRFIELD, RUSSIAN-OCCUPIED UKRAINE
THE NEXT DAY
The four-engine Russian turboprop touched down hard on Konotop’s landing strip amid greasy puffs of black smoke from its landing gear. The aircraft rolled down the long concrete runway, decelerating fast as its pilot applied reverse thrust and braked. Similar to the American C-130, the An-12 was still the aging workhorse for Russia’s tactical air-transport command.
Propellers spinning slowly, the aircraft taxied off the runway and over to a brand-new hangar erected after last year’s surprise Polish attack had wrecked the base. It slowed to a stop and the rear clamshell door whined open.
Prodded out by a squad of armed Russian soldiers, several men emerged and gathered silently on the tarmac, blinking in the bright sunlight. Most were very young, though one gray-bearded fellow looked to be in his midforties. All of them still wore the sheepskin coats and high boots common in the Caucasus Mountains.
Spetsnaz Major Pavel Berezin strolled out from the hangar and stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, looking them over. His eyes narrowed in disgust. He turned toward his second in command, Captain Andrei Chirkash. “Well? What do you think?”
Chirkash shrugged. “They’ll do.”
“You think so?” Berezin asked skeptically.
“Any man can stop a bullet,” Chirkash pointed out.
The major laughed. “That is so, Andrei.” He shook his head. “All right, then, let’s get these bandits and sheepherders sorted out and on their way. The sooner they’re off my hands, the better I’ll feel.”
Chirkash sketched a salute and moved off to shoo the Chechens into the hangar.
Once the bearded men were inside, the guards marched them over to long, folding tables piled high with weapons, ammunition, explosive vests, other equipment, and clean, Western-style cold-weather clothing.
Berezin stepped forward. “Listen up! You were briefed on your assignment in Moscow last night. But here’s where it gets real.” He eyed the assembled Chechens. “Which of you is in charge?”
The oldest man stepped forward with a proud glint in his pale blue eyes. “I, Timur Saitiev, command this force.”
Berezin nodded. “Very well, Saitiev. Get your men changed and distribute those weapons and gear as you see fit.” He checked his watch. “Your truck will be here at any moment.”
“Yes, Major,” the gray-bearded Chechen said.
“One more thing,” Berezin told him. “Be sure to leave your personal effects here. Wallets. ID cards. Cell phones. Prayer beads. The lot.” He smiled pleasantly, lying through his teeth. “We’ll keep them safe for your return.”
Stoically, Saitiev shrugged. “As you wish.”
The Spetsnaz major had a sudden uncomfortable feeling the Chechen could read his mind and didn’t give a damn. Then again, why should he? If Saitiev and his followers were already willing to strap on suicide vests to avoid capture, they must have few illusions about the mission they were being asked to undertake.
He turned away, hiding a grimace. Aspiring martyrs always gave him the creeps. Killing for a cause was one thing. That was man’s work. But seeking out death deliberately? Berezin shook his head in disbelief. That was sheer madness.
IRON WOLF SQUADRON COMPOUND, POWIDZ, POLAND
TWO DAYS LATER
“Odarennyye komp’yuternyye khakery pol’zuyutsa sprosom,” a deep, resonant masculine voice said.
“Gifted computer hackers are in high demand,” a higher-voiced translator repeated, in English.
In silence, Brad McLanahan, his father, and the rest of the Iron Wolf command team listened carefully to the remainder of the recorded conversation sent by emergency courier from Moscow. Major Nadia Rozek, serving as President Wilk’s personal representative, sat next to Brad. He found himself aware of her every movement, her every gesture, no matter how slight or fleeting. It was both exhilarating and completely disconcerting. Never before had he felt so completely connected to another person.
Nadia’s mouth tightened as the digital recording came to an end. She turned to Kevin Martindale. “This second man? The one speaking to Truznyev? Do you know who he is?”
“My people couldn’t get close enough to take a picture of him,” the head of Scion said slowly. “But from the context and from Truznyev’s general demeanor, we’re pretty sure it was Sergei Tarzarov, Gryzlov’s right-hand man.”
“Well, it’s nice to know that we’re not totally paranoid,” Whack Macomber muttered.
Martindale glanced at him. “Major?”
“The Russians really are trying to kill us,” Macomber explained.
“Thank you for that incredibly deep strategic insight,” Martindale said wryly. He looked around the table at the others. “I admit nothing we heard was especially earthshaking or surprising, but at least this offers us a glimpse of what’s going on. And perhaps just as importantly, a sense of just who is making it happen.”
That was true, Brad thought. Still, something else in what was said had caught h
is attention. “This so-called treasure cave or whatever . . . the place Truznyev seems to think is the center for Gryzlov’s cyberwar program?” he asked. “Do we have any leads on what he’s talking about or where it could be?”
“None,” Martindale admitted. He shook his head gloomily. “Since this hit my desk last night, I’ve had Scion analysts digging around in every Kremlin database we can access.” The corners of his mouth turned down slightly. “Which isn’t nearly as many as I would like. The Russians have markedly tightened their computer security protocols over the past twelve months.”
“Yeah, and now we know why,” Brad said. He frowned. Learning that the bad guys weren’t complete idiots wasn’t especially surprising, but it still sucked.
Martindale nodded. “Indeed.” His fingers drummed softly on the tabletop. “Still, we’ve picked up a few pieces of the puzzle. Just not enough to paint any kind of accurate or even coherent picture.”
“Pieces like what, exactly?” Macomber asked.
“Orders to various military engineering battalions, putting them on standby for what are labeled ‘strenuous construction projects of the highest priority,’” the other man answered. “Along with similar orders to railroad construction units . . . and requisitions for huge amounts of reinforced concrete and other building materials.”
“And where was all that stuff supposed to go?”
Martindale grimaced. “We don’t know.” He looked frustrated. “Every message we’ve found so far ends with the same instruction: ‘Additional directives will be transmitted solely in writing or by word of mouth from the senior command authority. No further records connected to this assignment will be maintained electronically. Violation of this order in the slightest degree will be punishable by death.’”
“Gryzlov knew we’d come poking around,” Brad said grimly.
“So it seems,” Martindale agreed. He shook his head. “In a contest like this, familiarity doesn’t necessarily breed contempt. Instead, as you learn more about how your opponent thinks, you develop the ability to anticipate some of his moves. We’ve used that against Gryzlov in the past. Unluckily, though, it appears the learning curve works in both directions.”
