by Dale Brown
Igor Truznyev’s Zatmeniye Consulting Group occupied the top two floors. While he found the Dominion Tower’s name a hopeful omen for his future, the building’s other tenants were its primary attraction. Even before it opened, Moscow’s most successful information-technology start-up companies had rushed to lease office space in the new building.
Their presence served Truznyev’s purposes in two ways.
First, the need to protect their precious intellectual property made these IT start-ups incredibly security-conscious. The physical and Internet safeguards they’d added to the complex dovetailed perfectly with Zatmeniye’s armed guards, biometric locks, and the expensive, anti-eavesdropping film applied to all of its office windows.
Even better, their employees had served as an ideal pool of potential candidates when Sergei Tarzarov and his master, Gryzlov, had needed computer experts. Discreet poaching from the Dominion Tower’s other tenants had helped Truznyev fill their quotas and line his own pockets with the fees Tarzarov paid him.
But now, watching the news reports from Poland, he was beginning to regret sending so many hackers into the service of his hated successor.
“Rioting continues virtually unabated in the heart of Warsaw, Łódź, Kraków, and other major Polish cities. While it is not yet known how many people have been killed or injured in the unrest, it is clear that Polish police have made thousands of arrests. In an effort to calm the situation, government officials have stressed that the banks will reopen as soon as possible, but they have so far proved unable to offer any firm schedule. Journalists gathered outside the official residence of President Wilk report that he is in urgent consultations with—”
“Sukin syn! Son of a bitch,” Truznyev muttered, stabbing at his remote to mute the smooth, urbane tones of the BBC’s late-hour newsreader.
Moodily, he leaned back in his leather office chair, watching images of angry mobs and looting flicker across the big-screen television mounted across one wall of his sleek, futuristic office. Much as he despised the Poles and their mercenary allies, nothing he saw made him happy.
He swore again, softer this time. It was bad enough that Gryzlov had succeeded in breaking the NATO alliance last year. That was a diplomatic and foreign-policy victory that had eluded generations of wiser and saner Russian leaders. But now it appeared that this cyberwar campaign of his might actually tear Poland apart and, at the same time, destroy the new Eastern European defense pact the Poles had forged. If so, the younger man would be more popular than ever—and virtually impossible for Truzynev to unseat, whether in an election or an inner-circle Kremlin coup.
That fact that Gryzlov was achieving these victories with the aid of computer specialists he himself had provided only rubbed salt in his wounds.
Truznyev shook his head, angry with himself. Helping Sergei Tarzarov find hackers had made sense, especially considering the sums the cynical old Kremlin insider had offered. But he had been foolish to do so without learning more about Gryzlov’s plans.
Well, he thought bitterly, it was time he stopped acting out of ignorance. It was essential that he uncover more details of Gennadiy Gryzlov’s cyberwar operation, including the truth about this purported “treasure cave.” Otherwise, there was no way he could accurately judge the younger man’s chances of pulling off yet another unexpected political triumph—let alone figure out some way to discreetly sabotage the upstart president’s scheme.
He picked up his phone. “Vitaliy,” he snapped to his assistant. “I want Akulov and Ivchenko in my office. Now!”
While waiting for his two most senior subordinates to arrive, Igor Truznyev contemplated the orders he would give them. Yuri Akulov and Taras Ivchenko were veteran intelligence officers. In their youth, they had served with him in the old KGB. When the Soviet Union collapsed, they’d followed him into the FSB and later acted as his eyes and ears inside the spy agency after he became president. Faced with the choice of sucking up to the new regime when Gryzlov took power, they’d opted instead to stick with Truznyev.
He nodded to himself. Akulov and Ivchenko were hard-nosed, competent, and thoroughly reliable. Each man still maintained a wide range of personal contacts inside Russia’s intelligence services and armed forces. Both also had extensive experience in dealing with the criminal underground. Given enough time and money, he was confident they could ferret out the information he required. Equally important, he was sure they could do so without tipping off Tarzarov or Gryzlov that he was poking his nose into their precious secrets.
“Let’s just see what you’re really up to, Gennadiy, you little prick,” he muttered. “And then I will decide if it’s worth the risk of throwing a little sand into your gears.”
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE NEXT MORNING
President Stacy Anne Barbeau looked across her Oval Office desk at Edward Rauch, her national security adviser. Her professional politician’s smile stayed about as far south of her eyes as her deliberately thickened Louisiana accent was from the Mason-Dixon Line. “Just so we’re clear, Ed, I don’t want any bureaucratic bullshit. I want straight talk. If you don’t know the answer to something I ask, you fess up like a man, you hear me?”
“Yes, Madam President,” Rauch said quickly. With Luke Cohen on his way to Moscow, the slightly built, gray-haired man was in charge of the interagency working group tasked with analyzing the situation in Eastern and central Europe. From the deep dark bags under his eyes and the pallor of his skin, Barbeau judged he was taking his responsibilities seriously.
“Good,” she said, allowing a little more warmth to creep into her expression. Rauch had spent most of his working life writing dry, academic papers on U.S. defense policy for different think tanks headquartered inside the Washington Beltway. Facing the real world, where there were no simple, black-and-white answers, must be a hell of a shock to his system.
“The usual Russian huffing and puffing aside, I assume we’re pretty sure Moscow is behind this Polish banking meltdown?” she asked.
“We are,” Rauch agreed. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Nothing else makes sense. Criminals with the skills to pull off a computer hack like this would have every incentive to be subtler. They could have gone in, cleaned out a bunch of high-value accounts, and then vamoosed, leaving no one the wiser.”
Barbeau nodded grimly. Concluding that Gennadiy Gryzlov was screwing around with the Poles again wasn’t much of a stretch. What mattered most to her was how much danger the Russian president’s “virtual” aggression posed to the United States and its remaining interests in Europe.
Even with support from Martindale’s Iron Wolf and Scion mercenaries, Poland and its allies were unlikely to win any open clash with Russia. But the Poles, in her experience, had never been an especially logical people. And real wars had a way of spreading uncontrollably. Seeing the Poles, Czechs, and others batted around by Moscow was one thing. Watching the violence spread to engulf long-standing American allies like the Germans was another.
She decided to cut straight to what worried her the most. “Are there any signs this digital war is going live?”
“No, Madam President,” Rauch said decisively.
That was a surprise. Barbeau stared coldly at him. “I really hope you’re not spitting in the wind here, Ed.”
He shook his head. “Not in the least. So far, every piece of satellite imagery we’ve got and all of our NSA signals intercepts show zero unusual military activity on either side.”
“None?”
“Not a peep, Madam President. All ground forces in both sides above the battalion level are still in garrison, without any sign they’re moving to higher alert status.”
Barbeau chewed on that for several seconds. “Okay, so if there aren’t any tanks, infantry, or artillery on the move, what about Russia’s fighters and bombers? Or the Poles? Gryzlov and Piotr Wilk are both so fricking air-minded that any clash between them is sure to start with bombing raids or fighter sweeps.”
Again, Rauch shook his head. “Aside from routine air patrols, there’s nothing going on that we can detect. Neither side appears to be preparing for serious combat.”
Okay, that was weird, Barbeau thought. She didn’t like it when foreign leaders started acting unpredictably. She would have bet money that Gryzlov’s cyber attack was only the prelude to a conventional military offensive. And if not, she would have put just as much money down on the probability that Piotr Wilk would react violently to any Russian provocation.
Which left open one obvious and deeply disturbing possibility. If the Poles weren’t willing to retaliate openly, they still had other options.
“So what’s going on at Powidz?” she asked. Since learning last year that Kevin Martindale’s Scion mercenaries, high-tech drones, aircraft, and combat robots were based there, the Polish Special Forces base had become a high-priority target for U.S. intelligence. Rauch hesitated. “Spit it out, Ed,” Barbeau snapped. “I wasn’t screwing around earlier, you hear? If you’ve got any indications that clown Martindale and his merry men are planning something, I need to know. And right now! Not later, when it’s too late, and I’ve got Gennadiy Gryzlov screaming in my goddamned face.”
“It’s just that we’re not sure how to interpret the data,” Rauch told her warily. “Our satellites picked up signs of some kind of attack on Powidz a couple of days ago.”
“Before this cyberwar hack against the Polish banking system?” He nodded. “Jesus Christ,” Barbeau snarled. “And no one in your working group thought this was important enough to report to me?”
Her national security adviser winced. “Our best analysis was that this was only a pinprick raid, Madam President,” Rauch said. “Based on the photos, it looks as though someone targeted Powidz with a few heavy mortar rounds, but the damage inflicted appears to have been minor.”
She gritted her teeth, fighting down an urge to savage the pallid little man. Firing him now would only draw press and congressional interest she didn’t want or need. “Well, then, according to your best analysis, Dr. Rauch, who the hell fired those mortar rounds?”
“The NSA intercepted Polish military police transmissions indicating possible Chechen involvement,” Rauch said cautiously.
Barbeau snorted. “For Chechen, read Russian,” she said.
“In all probability,” Rauch agreed.
“So let me get this straight,” she said carefully. “First, the Russians plastered a really important Polish military base with mortar rounds and now they’ve hacked the shit out of the whole Polish banking system?” Rauch nodded. “And in response, the Poles are doing nothing?”
“Yes, Madam President. At least from what we can see.”
Stacy Anne Barbeau blinked in disbelief. “Does any of this match up with your previous analysis of probable Polish reactions to renewed aggression by Russia?”
“No, ma’am. Not to the slightest degree,” the national security adviser admitted.
“Should I be worried about that, Ed?” she asked carefully.
Rauch took a deep breath. “Oh, hell, yes, Madam President,” he said. He grimaced. “Obviously, President Gryzlov has started a new war against the Poles and their allies, but all we’re able to pick up so far are tiny flickers of flame and smoke here and there.”
“Like a coal-seam fire,” Barbeau realized. “The kind that can burn undetected underground for decades or even centuries.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Right up to the moment it explodes onto the surface. Which is precisely what worries me about this situation.” He looked back across the desk at her. “Either the Poles and their Iron Wolf auxiliaries are being uncharacteristically passive, or—”
“They’re planning something big in retaliation,” Barbeau finished for him. She shook her head in dismay. “Something really fucking big.”
UNIFICATION HALL, COTROCENI PALACE, BUCHAREST, ROMANIA
THAT SAME TIME
In Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva’s considered judgment, the setting for her private meeting with Romanian president Alexe Dumitru was impressive. A blend of ornate Venetian and French neoclassical architecture, the palace was a marvel of splendor and grace. While the nineteenth-century building had only narrowly survived the barbarism and architectural lunacy of the Ceauşescu regime, years of painstaking work had succeeded in restoring its glories, along with many of the artistic and historical treasures looted by the communists. Most of the palace was now a national museum, but one wing served as a residence for Romania’s head of state.
Cotrocenti’s Unification Hall, used for conferences with important foreign leaders and diplomats like her, was especially beautiful. White marble walls and columns bore intricate decorations in gold leaf, and a stained-glass ceiling showing scenes from Romania’s history bathed the enormous room in natural light.
In stark contrast to the ornate backdrop, however, Russia’s dark-haired chief diplomat found her host far less imposing.
Once tall and robust, Alexe Dumitru now seemed a pale and shrunken caricature of himself. The stresses and strains imposed by economic and political crisis were visibly aging him. Considered impartially, she supposed that was a shame. But it was largely Dumitru’s own fault for deciding to turn his back on Romania’s traditional ally, Russia, in favor of this half-baked coalition cobbled together by the Poles. Perhaps now he would see the error he had made and make amends to Moscow. And if not, Titeneva thought coldly, he would fall—bringing other, more sensible, men and women to power in Bucharest.
Donning a thin smile, she slid a thick document across the table toward the Romanian leader. “In light of recent events in Poland, I think you will find my government’s most recent offer a very reasonable one, Mr. President.”
Dumitru raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh?” He glanced down at the front sheet of the proposed diplomatic agreement between the Russian Federation and Romania and then handed it off to one of his aides without reading further. Warily, he looked back at her. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to summarize what President Gryzlov now demands?”
“Demands is a harsh word,” Titeneva said primly. She shrugged. “But I will not quibble over a mere matter of semantics.” Still smiling politely, she leaned forward. “Stripped to its essentials, my government’s revised proposal is very simple. We are still willing to supply your country with the natural gas it so desperately needs and to do so at a price your economy can afford—”
“If we break our agreement with the Alliance of Free Nations and instead sign a defensive pact with you,” Dumitru said impatiently.
“Of course,” Titeneva replied calmly. “Poland has made itself our enemy. Why should you tie your country’s fate to that of Piotr Wilk’s misguided regime? Will your people thank you for leading them down such a blind and dangerous path?”
“With respect, Madam Foreign Minister,” the Romanian said stiffly. “Somehow I fail to see any difference between this ‘new’ proposal of yours and the ultimatum your master tossed at my feet eight days ago.”
Titeneva shrugged again. “Why should there be any substantial change in our position? The relative balance of power between our two nations remains much the same, does it not? Without the energy supplies we alone can provide, Romania faces a bleak and unhappy winter. Warsaw cannot help you. We in Moscow can. Your choice should be an easy one.”
Seeing Dumitru’s face darken, she held up a hand. “But President Gryzlov is willing to make one additional concession, as a gesture of friendship.”
“Which is?”
“The cataclysmic collapse of the Polish banking system should make clear the danger we all face from criminal computer hackers,” Titeneva said, keeping any trace of emotion out of her voice. “Accordingly, the defense pact between our two countries would include a guarantee of aid from Russian cybersecurity specialists against this new terrorist and criminal threat.”
Privately, she thought this move by Gennadiy Gryzlov, her occasional lover, was far more likely to anger the Rom
anian president than to woo him. Although she rarely sought out details of Moscow’s illegal covert operations, only a fool could fail to draw the obvious conclusion. This was no different than having someone point a gun at your head and then offer to protect you. From himself. For a price.
But that was typical of Gryzlov, she decided. The Kremlin leader handled diplomacy the way he made love—brutally, without any attempt at subtlety or refinement. While she counted herself among those attracted by the younger man’s displays of wild, almost unhinged passion, she strongly doubted many others on the world stage shared her attitude.
Somewhat to Titeneva’s astonishment, Dumitru chose not to react with open fury to his Russian counterpart’s newest bit of thinly disguised blackmail. She could see the anger in his eyes, but very little of it sounded in his voice. If anything, he seemed more tired and disgusted than outraged.
“Tell President Gryzlov I find his candor . . . clarifying,” he said. “May I ask how long I am being given to consider your government’s proposition?”
“This is not an ultimatum, Mr. President,” Titeneva said, feigning surprise. “There is no artificial deadline.”
“How reassuring,” Dumitru said coldly.
She spread her hands. “Of course, it is also true that international events are moving with great speed. Proposed commitments of valuable resources that make sense on one day may seem unwise, or unnecessary, the next.”
The Romanian met her gaze levelly. “Naturally.”
Titeneva got to her feet. “I am expected to return to Moscow tonight.” She stared across the table challengingly. “As a matter of common sense, I would advise you not to delay too long in deciding to accept our proposals.” She smiled pleasantly, again assuming the role of an experienced diplomat rather than that of an extortionist’s go-between. “I would be truly sorry if the relationship between our two great nations suffered because of any lingering ambiguity.”
