Price of Duty

by Dale Brown

  Charlie Turlock jumped up from the tree stump she’d been sitting on while waiting for him. She grinned. “Maybe so, Whack. That’s why CIDs are so cool. You get a nice cushy ride and you let the robot do all the work.”

  “Yeah, they’re just peachy-keen,” he retorted. “Right up to that point where they drive you nuts.” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Like the general, for example.”

  Charlie’s mouth turned down. “We don’t know that yet. Not for sure.”

  Macomber shrugged. “Maybe not. But it’s for damned sure that he’s getting awfully close to the line between sane and crazy—assuming, for argument’s sake, that he’s not already way, way over it.” He looked closely at the slender woman. “You heard Piotr Wilk and most of the other AFN leaders have declared martial law, right?”

  She nodded. The news coming down from on high wasn’t good.

  No one knew how long it would take the various national computer emergency response teams and Scion’s technical specialists to flush the Russian viruses that were screwing up power transmission systems across most of Eastern and central Europe. That left Poland’s president and his counterparts in an ever-worsening bind. The longer their people were left without electricity, the colder, hungrier, and more pissed off they were likely to get. In the circumstances, deploying military units to help maintain order and distribute emergency supplies was probably the least-bad option, but it certainly wasn’t something anyone would celebrate.

  “Well, our friend Patrick out there has been pinging Wilk, Martindale, and me every few minutes, telling us we should deploy the Iron Wolf CID force to stamp out any new riots,” Macomber said grimly.

  Charlie’s eyes widened. “But that’s—”

  “Crazy, yeah,” he finished for her. “See the problem?”

  THIRTEEN

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  THAT SAME TIME

  Luke Cohen forced himself to look pleased when Gryzlov’s long-suffering secretary ushered him into the Russian president’s inner office. It took one hell of an effort. Serving as Stacy Anne Barbeau’s White House chief of staff and longtime political confidant had put calluses on both his ego and his conscience, but dealing with this mercurial son of a bitch was even tougher.

  First, Gryzlov had waited for days before replying to his repeated back-channel requests for a private meeting. Then, after Cohen flew all the way to Moscow, Russia’s leader left him cooling his heels in the American embassy, pleading “the press of urgent state business.” Now, more than a day later, he’d abruptly summoned the tall, skinny New Yorker to the Kremlin—ignoring the fact that it was already close to midnight.

  Cohen decided he was getting really tired of dominance games.

  Smiling broadly, Gryzlov crossed the room to greet him. “Mr. Cohen, as always, it is a great delight to see you.” He shrugged apologetically. “I regret, of course, both the unavoidable delay and the late hour. But, sadly, my life is not my own.”

  Irked though he was, Cohen had to admire the other man’s ability to lie his ass off without breaking a sweat. For a second, he was tempted to call Gryzlov out, just to see how the Russian would react. Instead, he settled for murmuring the usual diplomatic pleasantries while they shook hands.

  Politely, the Russian president waved him into a chair and then sat down facing him.

  “And now what can I do for you?” Gryzlov asked easily. He smiled. “Feel free to speak candidly. As you see, we are the only ones here. There are, as you would say, no inconvenient witnesses.”

  Cohen nodded, thinking fast. He’d met with Gryzlov last year, to covertly brief him on what turned out to be a disastrous attempt by U.S. Army Rangers to capture the Iron Wolf mercenaries fighting for Poland. At the time, the Russian had insisted on speaking his own language, relying on a Foreign Ministry official to translate for him. Cohen assumed that was because the Kremlin leader’s English was rustier than his CIA bio claimed. Now it was clear Gryzlov had been playing some other game instead.

  Maybe the Russian president had wanted a witness at last year’s briefing as insurance against the Americans getting cold feet and aborting their Ranger mission at the last minute. If so, the fact that he was willing to meet privately now could be a positive sign.

  The theory was worth testing, anyway. Besides, the president had ordered him to press Gryzlov hard.

  “President Barbeau is very concerned about the situation in Eastern and central Europe,” Cohen said carefully.

  “Yes, I know,” Gryzlov agreed. “She told me so at great length during our last video conference.” He shrugged. “Naturally, I share her worries. The political turmoil in this self-styled Alliance of Free Nations should trouble everyone who wishes to preserve peace and order in Europe.”

  Cohen hid a frown. If the Russian leader really wanted a frank exchange of views, what was up with all the phony-baloney platitudes? There was no way he could slink back to the White House and report he’d only heard the usual pile of diplomatic bull crap. Not if he wanted to keep his job. Not to mention his balls. Making allowances for her subordinates’ failures was not one of Stacy Anne Barbeau’s strongest suits.

  He leaned forward. “Forgive me for speaking bluntly, Mr. President, but while that’s a nice sentiment, it rings kind of hollow just now. Because you and I both know that Russian hackers are behind this wave of cyberwar attacks.”

  “Is this an official accusation by your government, Mr. Cohen?” Gryzlov asked. His expression was veiled.

  Cohen shook his head. “No, sir. If it were, you’d be hearing it from President Barbeau herself.” He looked the Russian leader squarely in the face. “But at this juncture, she would rather avoid unnecessarily increasing the tension between our two countries.”

  Gryzlov nodded in appreciation. “She is a sensible woman.”

  “Which isn’t the same thing as someone who will turn a blind eye to what you’re doing,” Cohen said firmly. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. President. One that could easily spark a new war between Russia and Poland and its allies. Or create a terrible humanitarian crisis as governments and other civil institutions collapse across Eastern and central Europe.”

  The Russian reacted with an amused chuckle. “Your talent for melodrama is remarkable, Mr. Cohen.” He shook his head. “As it happens, Russia is playing no such game.”

  “Our intelligence analysts say otherwise,” Cohen shot back. “They say some of the malware used in these attacks bears clear signs of Russian origin. Apparently, the techniques the hackers use are like a set of digital fingerprints.”

  “Every country has its own criminals,” Gryzlov said, with a shrug. “Mine, alas, is no exception.” He smiled. “Perhaps your intelligence analysts should learn to discern between state action and criminal conduct.”

  “You can’t seriously claim that a few crooks with computers just took down most of the electrical grid in eight separate countries?” Cohen said in disbelief.

  Gryzlov shrugged again. “How should I know what criminals are capable of?” He spread his hands. “Or it may be that this catastrophe is only evidence of criminal negligence by those in authority. Perhaps these power companies were skimping on necessary maintenance and now it has caught up with them. Widespread electrical outages are not uncommon, after all, even in more advanced nations.”

  Cohen snorted.

  “You think that unlikely?” the Russian asked, raising an eyebrow. He looked speculative. “There is one other possibility, of course.”

  “Like what?” Cohen asked.

  “That this power transmission crisis was deliberately orchestrated by Piotr Wilk and his puppets,” Gryzlov said calmly.

  For a moment, Cohen just stared at him, unable to believe he’d heard the other man correctly. “With respect, Mr. President,” he said at last. “That is absolutely and totally crazy.”

  “Is it?” Gryzlov asked, with a cynical smile. “After all, these governments are under considerable pressure from their own peo
ple, who are unhappy at being dragooned into a war pact led by Wilk and his mercenaries. But now these blackouts have given the Poles and the others an excuse to declare martial law, have they not?”

  He snapped his fingers. “So much for dissent or political protests now, eh? With the push of a few buttons and the stroke of a pen, these fascists have gained the ability to crush all opposition to their plans. In a day or so, the lights will come back on . . . but I strongly suspect you will see their soldiers and tanks still patrolling the streets.”

  Cohen didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The Russian leader was either off his rocker or, far more likely, just toying with him. Like most of those close to Stacy Anne Barbeau, he had no particular fondness for Piotr Wilk or Kevin Martindale, but he also knew they weren’t idiots. Trying to pull off a Machiavellian maneuver like that was only a recipe for disaster, and both men were smart enough to know it.

  For several more minutes, he sparred with Gryzlov, trying his level best to make the Russian leader understand the U.S. knew what he was doing and strongly disapproved. In the end, he came to the dispiriting realization that Gryzlov honestly didn’t give a damn.

  “Cheer up, Mr. Cohen,” Gryzlov told him at last. “Nothing that happens in these tiny, troublemaking countries should have any lasting effect on the relationship between Russia and the United States. President Barbeau and I have worked hard to rebuild the ties of friendship and close cooperation damaged by past leaders.” His eyes were cold. “Surely, neither of us would be foolish enough to jeopardize this progress. Not for the sake of a few minor countries so utterly inconsequential to your own great nation’s genuine interests.” There was a knock at the door. “Come!” Gryzlov snapped.

  His private secretary came in, looking apologetic. “Mr. Cohen’s embassy car is downstairs, Mr. President.”

  Gryzlov raised an eyebrow, obviously pretending to be surprised. “So soon?” He glanced at his watch. “Ah, I see. It’s well past midnight. Where does the time go?”

  The Russian president got to his feet, forcing Cohen to do the same. “While I regret that we were not able to come to a full meeting of minds tonight,” he said, “I am certain that, eventually, you and President Barbeau will come to share my perspective on these regrettable, but relatively unimportant events.”

  He put his hand on the American’s shoulder, gently but unmistakably guiding him toward the door. “Please, allow me to walk you to your car.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Cohen said tersely. Being given the bum’s rush was bad enough. Seeing Gryzlov standing on the steps of the Kremlin’s Senate Building waving a not-so-fond farewell as he drove off would only add insult to injury.

  “Oh no,” the Russian said, with a quick, slashing grin. “I insist. It will give me great pleasure.”

  It was an ambush.

  Luke Cohen figured that out as soon as he and Gryzlov walked outside into the frigid night air. Oh, his car from the American embassy was there all right. But it was surrounded by television news crews and other journalists. Bright klieg lights snapped on, spotlighting them. Cameras flashed in the darkness.

  “Oh, shit,” Cohen muttered.

  “Courage, Mr. Cohen,” Gryzlov said quietly, still wearing his practiced politician’s smile. He gestured toward the crowd of waiting reporters. “It appears that someone leaked the news of our meeting to the press. I hope it was not one of your people. If it was one of mine, you may be sure he will get what he deserves.” He shrugged. “In the meantime, we shall just have to make the best of it, true?” Helplessly, Cohen nodded. “Excellent,” Gryzlov said. With the American still in tow, he stepped up to a bank of microphones.

  “While I am surprised to see you all here tonight, perhaps it is for the best,” the Russian leader began, favoring the assembled journalists with a dazzling smile. “First, let me say that the news of these terrible blackouts affecting our closest neighbors to the west is deeply unsettling. While Russia has justifiable grievances against a few political leaders in these countries, no civilized person can view the suffering of so many tens of millions of innocent people with anything but compassion.”

  He paused briefly for dramatic effect and then went on. “Accordingly, I wish to make it clear that Russia is ready to offer immediate economic aid and technical assistance to those in distress. For the time being, we are willing to set aside any disagreements we might have with their governments.” Sighing, he shook his head. “At a time of such tragedy, petty political disputes must obviously give way to simple human decency.”

  Listening to Gryzlov’s obviously prepared and practiced litany of falsehoods, Cohen tried desperately to keep the anger and humiliation he felt from showing on his face. Sure, this was a setup, but now that he was boxed in, all he could do was hope to get out without further compromising the United States.

  “Is this offer of aid and assistance something you and Mr. Cohen discussed tonight?” one of the reporters asked.

  Gryzlov glanced quickly at the American standing beside him and then turned back to the assembled press. “You must realize that I cannot answer such a question,” he said with the hint of a smile. “Mr. Cohen is President Barbeau’s White House chief of staff, and her personal representative to me in all matters concerning this sudden crisis. Our meeting this evening was entirely off-the-record. So it would be highly improper for me to reveal any of the substance of our private conversation. All I can tell you is that we had a very full and frank exchange of views on a number of issues.”

  “Including this sudden wave of cyberwar attacks on Poland and the other Eastern European countries?” a voice called out from the middle of the press gaggle. “The ones some say are the work of computer hackers paid by your government?”

  Cohen recognized the skeptical face of Simon Turner, the BBC’s longtime Moscow correspondent. He darted a glance at Gryzlov, half expecting to see the Russian leader irritated by this impudent, but extremely pertinent question.

  Instead, Gryzlov laughed. He wagged a finger in mock reproof. “You have been visiting too many conspiracy-theory websites, Mr. Turner.” He smiled broadly. “You should remember that Russia has long sought an international arms-control treaty to ban this form of warfare. My country’s only interest in cyberweapons is purely defensive. Our energies and our resources are entirely devoted to safeguarding our computer networks against attack by others—not to inflicting harm on innocents.”

  The veteran BBC reporter wasn’t quite ready to yield, however. “Those are fine sentiments, President Gryzlov, but they seem a bit out of touch with current events. A number of independent experts have verified that—”

  “Anyone with access to a computer can write anything they wish,” Gryzlov interrupted with a sly smile. He made a careful show of not looking in Cohen’s direction before he continued. “But if it comes to making wild accusations, I should remind you that only one great power currently has a military unit specifically dedicated to creating such weapons. And the last time I looked, my government had no control over the Pentagon’s Cyber Command.”

  Cohen felt his face flush angrily.

  “Are you suggesting that the Americans are responsible for these attacks?” Turner asked incredulously.

  “Not at all,” Gryzlov said in mock surprise. “I merely point out the dangers of casting aspersions without facts.”

  With that, he turned away from the microphones and nodded to someone standing off in the shadows.

  Cohen recognized Sergei Tarzarov, his Russian counterpart. Expressionlessly, the old man nodded back at Gryzlov, and then spoke a single word into his cell phone.

  In moments, a small army of plainclothes Kremlin security officers poured out into the courtyard. Politely, but firmly, they shooed the TV crews and other reporters away.

  When the journalists were all safely out of earshot, Gryzlov turned to Cohen. “I regret this awkward incident,” he said perfunctorily, scarcely bothering to hide his amusement. “But I am afraid the impertinence and
intrusiveness of the press is a cross that must be borne by all of us who live in truly free societies.”

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “That rat fucker!” President Stacy Anne Barbeau snarled, watching the footage from Gryzlov’s “impromptu” press conference play across the big screen in the Situation Room.

  When it finished, she spun around in her chair to glower down the length of the long table at her national security team. “Well, that tears it,” she said bitterly. “Gennadiy Gryzlov may be a lying sack of shit, but he’s also fricking clever. And right now he’s running rings around us.”

  “How so, Madam President?” CIA director James Nash asked, plainly confused. “Nobody with any sense will buy the idea that we’re behind the cyberwar attacks in Europe.”

  “Of course not!” Barbeau snapped. “But that’s not the point, Jimmy.” Nash looked hurt. She sighed, fighting for patience. After all, she was the one who’d opted for loyalty, not brains, in picking the former senator to head the CIA. It was hardly fair to expect brilliance from a man whose principal strengths were looking good on television and knowing how to read persuasively from a teleprompter.

  “Look,” she said, trying to speak calmly. “You’re right that most European leaders will pin the blame on the Russians—right where it belongs. But this media ambush he just pulled on Luke still screws us over.”

  Barbeau saw Ed Rauch nodding slowly.

  Good, she thought, at least one of these clowns gets it. But some of the others still looked unsure. “Follow the timing, people,” she said flatly. “First, Poland’s banking system gets trashed. Then hackers fry the electrical grid in most of Eastern Europe. And now Gryzlov ‘accidentally’ reveals that we’ve been holding secret talks with the Kremlin the whole time. What do you suppose that will suggest to those with suspicious minds, like Piotr Wilk and his gang?”