by Dale Brown
“So, yes, you are a traitor, Igor Ivanovich,” the voice said, now sounding disgusted. “A vile, stinking, and evil traitor. A traitor willing to betray his own people for sordid profit and the deluded hope of personal political gain.”
Increasingly terrified, Truznyev retched, tasting the sour, acid taste of bile. “Where is my advocate?” he demanded feebly. “You cannot hold me incommunicado like this. Under the constitution, I have rights! I am entitled to a defense lawyer.”
“You have no such rights, Igor Ivanovich,” the voice said implacably. “Nor are you entitled to counsel. Your trial is concluded. You have been found guilty, and the sentence is death.”
“No! That is not possible!” Truznyev protested shrilly, more afraid than ever. His voice cracked. “This is a farce! I am a former president of the Russian Federation! I am no traitor! I am a loyal servant of the state. I demand to speak to Sergei Tarzarov! Or to President Gryzlov himself!”
With a squealing, grinding sound, a view port slid open on the cell door. There, framed in the narrow opening, Truznyev saw Gennadiy Gryzlov staring in at him with a stern, unblinking expression. His breath caught in his throat. “Mr. President,” he pleaded, reduced to babbling brokenly, almost incoherently, as his terror mounted. “Gennadiy. You are the son of my old friend and comrade Anatoly. Please, I beg you—”
Without speaking, the younger man turned away. The view port slid shut.
“Your appeal has been heard. And denied,” the voice behind the blinding lights said tersely. “By order of the president, your sentence will be carried out without further delay.”
The lights went out.
In the darkness, Truznyev felt a powerful hand grip his arm, followed by the sharp prick of a needle. He began screaming hoarsely, frantically writhing against the straps that bound him to the metal table. He was still screaming when the world fell out from under him and he lost consciousness.
THE WOODS
SOMETIME LATER
Again, Igor Truznyev swam groggily up out of blackness. His hands and feet were no longer bound. He staggered upright, forcing himself off his knees. Woozily, he spun slowly through a half circle, trying to make sense of his surroundings. What was this place? Branches laden with pine needles brushed past his face. All color seemed to have been leached from the world, leaving only shades of black and white and gray.
He was in a forest, he realized. It was night and he was somewhere deep in a forest choked by snow. An icy wind whipped right through his threadbare prison clothes, stabbing deeply. His feet were numb. His teeth chattered, rattling so hard that he could not keep his mouth closed.
“You have gone far enough, dead man,” a harsh voice said from behind him.
Dazed and barely conscious, Truznyev turned slowly.
The blue-tinted halogen headlights of an automobile flicked on. Silhouetted against their glare, he could make out three men in heavy military overcoats. They cradled assault rifles.
Oh God, no, he thought.
“Make ready!” the voice snapped.
Their assault rifles came up, aiming straight at his chest.
“No! Please! No!” Truznyev screamed, overwhelmed by panic. He dropped to his knees in the snow with his arms spread wide. “Don’t kill me! Not like this!” he begged.
But then, suddenly, an enormous black-and-gray shape lunged out of the forest. It raced into the midst of his would-be executioners in a blur of lethal precision and speed—trailing a whirlwind of snow and splintered branches. In what seemed a single blurred instant of murderously efficient motion, the machine slaughtered them. Bodies went flying in all directions. Bright red blood sprayed across the snow.
Truznyev stayed frozen, his eyes wide in horror.
Towering above the broken corpses of the men it had just butchered, the robot stood motionless for a moment. Then its six-sided head swiveled through an arc, as though it were a wolf sniffing the air for the scent of new prey.
With a soft, hydraulic whine, the huge machine turned in his direction, reaching out with large, articulated metal fingers. “You are Igor Truznyev,” it said in an eerie, inhuman voice. “And I have come for you.”
Terrified out of his wits, Igor Truznyev passed out.
OUTSIDE THE CID TRAINING SIMULATOR, IRON WOLF SQUADRON SECURE HANGAR, POWIDZ, POLAND
THAT SAME TIME
A large opaque dome occupied the center of the cavernous hangar. It looked oddly like one of the inflatable, portable planetariums used to bring astronomy shows to schoolchildren around the world. Power and fiber-optic cables snaked across the cold concrete floor, connecting the dome to an array of monitors and computers. Environmental systems hummed softly. Technicians moved quietly from machine to machine, checking various systems and adjusting controls as needed.
The dome contained a haptic interface module and a series of three-dimensional projectors, all tied into a sophisticated virtual-reality setup. Ordinarily the simulator was used to give prospective CID pilots a taste of what piloting one of the fighting machines was like—without risking damage to one of the hugely expensive robots at the hands of a rookie. Pilot candidates could run through a whole series of mock battle and training scenarios that would look, sound, and even feel real, thanks to the haptic interface.
But now the simulator had been reconfigured for a very different purpose.
Brad McLanahan stood next to Kevin Martindale, watching the Scion techs work in hushed silence. “You really think this scheme of yours is going to work?” he asked skeptically, eyeing the jury-rigged mass of cabling.
Martindale shrugged. “I certainly hope so,” he said. Pointedly, he nodded toward the large digital clock mounted on one wall of the hangar. “Given the time constraints we face, the other means of . . . persuasion . . . available to us seemed even less likely to achieve results.”
“Not to mention being even more ethically suspect,” Brad said wryly.
“Indeed,” Martindale agreed, without batting an eyelash. “So let’s pray this succeeds, shall we? Because I am prepared to do whatever is necessary to get the information we need.”
Brad nodded slowly. Not for the first time, he decided that Martindale was a very dangerous man. For now, the head of Scion was on the side of the angels, but the ease with which he contemplated cutting moral and ethical corners in pursuit of his goals was daunting. What was that line from Nietzsche he’d read in some philosophy class? Something about staring into the abyss too long and one day finding the abyss staring back at you? Well, Kevin Martindale had been dancing on the edge of the abyss for a long, long time.
“Excuse me, Mr. Martindale,” one of the technicians said, coming up to report. “The subject has just lost conscious, as expected. We’ve started sedating him again.”
“Very well,” Martindale said. He looked up at the clock again. “Initiate the final phase of Program Lubyanka.” Seeing the wry look on Brad’s face, he murmured. “It seemed an appropriate title.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Brad replied tightly. “I’ll go make sure Captain Schofield’s guys are set. And then I’ll suit up.”
He turned and walked away, wondering if a day was going to come when he and Martindale crossed swords. For both their sakes, he hoped not.
OVER POLAND
SOMETIME LATER
Igor Truznyev woke up again, this time feeling more rested and far more in control of his faculties. He felt warm, almost comfortable. That seemed . . . wrong, somehow.
He opened his eyes. Wrapped in blankets, he was strapped loosely to a stretcher. An IV tube was attached to his arm. A uniformed medic with a Red Cross armband finished checking his pulse, gave him a quick thumbs-up sign, and then sat back.
Truznyev lifted his head slightly, studying his surroundings. From the noise and vibration, he judged that he was in the troop compartment of some kind of military aircraft. Grim-faced men and women in snow camouflage uniforms sat in fold-down seats that ran down the length of the cabin. Both their uniforms and their wea
pons were unfamiliar.
His eyes widened when he saw the large, spindly-limbed combat machine squatting near the aircraft’s sealed rear ramp door. Memories of the slaughter he’d witnessed suddenly crowded his mind. He started to shiver. He was in the hands of the Poles and their Iron Wolf mercenaries.
With a jolt, the aircraft touched down, bounced slightly, and then settled firmly. The roar of its engines diminished fast, spooling down into silence. At the same time, the ramp door whined open, revealing a barren stretch of tarmac and snow-dusted trees in the distance.
With that same startling grace he’d witnessed earlier, the tall robot unfolded itself and strode away with amazing speed. The snow-camouflaged troops followed it out, assembling in squads on the tarmac and then marching away at the double.
Once the ramp was clear, a medical team darted inside, lifted up his stretcher, and carried him outside. As they left, Truznyev got a better look at the aircraft, a large tilt-rotor emblazoned with a metal gray, red-eyed robotic wolf’s head.
The medics set his stretcher down on the tarmac.
A well-dressed man with long gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard sauntered over and looked down at him. “Welcome to Poland, President Truznyev,” the man said smoothly.
Truznyev recognized Kevin Martindale at once. Intelligence reports, rumors, and pure speculation about the former American president and his private military corporation occupied substantial space in official Russian intelligence databases and in those belonging to his own private consulting group.
He swallowed hard. “You—” he said hesitantly, not sure quite how to proceed.
“Extracted you from a rather nasty situation of your own making?” Martindale finished for him.
Wordlessly, Truznyev nodded, feeling humiliated. First, Gryzlov and now this American. How many others had uncovered the secrets he thought so carefully buried?
“Yes, we did,” Martindale said flatly. “And at considerable risk and expense to ourselves.” Coldly, he stared down at the Russian. “You know who I am, Igor,” he said. “So you know that I am not a particularly charitable or forgiving man.”
Again, Truznyev nodded.
“Good. Because you put yourself into this mess. And now you’re going to have to buy your way out of it,” Martindale told him. His expression hardened. “And if you can’t, my people will dump you back across the border so that Gryzlov’s killers can finish the work we so rudely interrupted. Is that clear?” Truznyev winced. He felt the color drain from his face. “Good,” Martindale said, sounding satisfied, not waiting for a verbal response. He signaled the waiting medic. They lifted Truznyev’s stretcher again and moved toward a waiting ambulance.
Martindale kept pace. “You’re going to a pleasant, comfortable, and extremely well-guarded military hospital, Igor,” he said with a slight smile. “And on the way, you and I are going to have a really thorough and very detailed chat about the cyberwar complex you folks call Perun’s Aerie.”
TWENTY-NINE
THE KREMLIN
THAT SAME TIME
Sergei Tarzarov maintained a small office just down the hall from Gennadiy Gryzlov’s more extensive suite. Unlike the president’s elaborately furnished chambers, the chief of staff’s working space was plain, almost Spartan in its simplicity. He made do with a metal desk, a single chair, an old-fashioned desktop computer, and a secure phone with direct links to the president and other major key players in the government. There were no decorations, no knickknacks, mementos, or personal photographs—nothing that might suggest he had any hobbies or interests beyond work or any weaknesses that potential rivals could exploit.
Now he sat alone at his desk, with the door firmly closed, moodily contemplating the mystery of Igor Truznyev’s sudden disappearance. When the first police report of the bomb attack on the former president’s limousine came in, he’d assumed Truznyev was dead, killed with his bodyguards. That had prompted him to order an immediate high-priority investigation by the FSB’s counterterrorism section. He’d also embargoed all news accounts of the incident. Until it was clearer why someone had murdered Truznyev, there was no point in feeding a speculative frenzy by domestic and foreign journalists.
But now it was clear that Igor Truznyev had not been inside his S-Class Mercedes when it was blown to hell. Surveillance camera footage retrieved from his office-tower garage showed him being accosted by a woman in uniform. After a brief conversation, he’d left the building in her car, followed moments later by his own bodyguards in the Mercedes.
Unfortunately, the security cameras weren’t equipped to record audio—apparently the result of a deliberate specification by Truznyev himself, as part of his own anti-eavesdropping precautions. Nor had the FSB’s lip-reading experts been able to piece together anything useful from the footage. The angles were wrong, they said. The intelligence service’s photo-interpretation experts were more certain they could extract information from the one grainy screen capture they’d made of an ID card shown to Truznyev by the mysterious woman. They were methodically working on the project, digitally enhancing the image over and over until it was clean enough to make out details.
Privately, Tarzarov doubted that would help much, if at all.
Preliminary searches through every Russian military- and intelligence-service database had failed to turn up a match. Whoever she really was, she was not on the books for any government agency. And the license plates on her sedan were faked. While the sequence of numbers and letters on them matched those reserved for official cars, that particular number had never been issued. Effectively, barring some lucky break, the FSB’s investigative team had reached a dead end.
In the meantime, Truznyev himself had vanished completely. Checks at every airport, train station, and border crossing point were still in progress, but so far no sign of him had turned up. It was as though he’d been snatched off the surface of the earth by aliens.
Damn the man, Tarzarov thought. Was this disappearing act part of one of Truznyev’s private spy games? The murder of his bodyguards made that seem unlikely.
Was it possible that he’d finally pushed one of his shadier rivals or even a onetime business partner too far? His Zatmeniye consulting firm certainly had its fingers in any number of different enterprises—many of which were not even remotely legal. And Russia’s organized-crime syndicates were even more violent and unforgiving than their Sicilian or North American counterparts. If so, it was unlikely anyone would ever see Truznyev again, alive or dead. Permanently disposing of an inconvenient corpse was no great challenge for the Russian Mafiya, with its ready access to factory blast furnaces, cement mixers and construction sites, and vast stretches of empty wilderness.
Sergei Tarzarov’s high forehead furrowed in sudden worry as he contemplated a far less appealing prospect. Truznyev dead was no great loss. Yes, the former president’s services, political and diplomatic advice, and occasional tidbits of intelligence had been useful, but they were not vital. But what if he were still alive? And not only alive, but somewhere outside Russia—either as a prisoner or, more probably, a defector?
He grimaced. Truznyev dead might not be a problem. But Truznyev alive and spilling his guts was a potential time bomb. At their last rendezvous, the former president had made it abundantly clear that he knew far more than he should about Russia’s top-secret cyberwar operations and infrastructure. And it was no secret that he hated and despised Gryzlov, the man who’d replaced him as president. What if he had decided to disappear, leave Russia, and then sell his information to the highest bidder?
Tarzarov’s frown deepened. If that was the other man’s plan, he would find no shortage of buyers with very deep pockets—ranging from the Poles to the Americans to the Chinese. Could Truznyev have arranged the murder of his own bodyguards to make it look as though he’d been kidnapped? It was perfectly possible, the older man decided. No man in Russia rose to such heights without being willing to sacrifice even his most loyal subordinates if necessary.
But then his hand drew back.
Think carefully before you leap into the unknown, Sergei, he thought. Decades spent up to his neck in Kremlin intrigue had imparted a very basic lesson: bearers of bad tidings were rarely rewarded. There were other considerations too. Briefing Gryzlov would necessarily entail revealing more than might be wise about his dealings with Truznyev. Russia’s president, while supremely self-confident, was also deeply paranoid. How would he react to learning that his trusted chief of staff and closest confidant had been holding clandestine meetings with the man he’d deposed? Would he see the value derived from maintaining such contacts? Or would he see them as evidence that Tarzarov might be plotting against him?
Without hard evidence of Truznyev’s real fate, it made no sense to take such a risk now, he decided. If allegations made by the former Russian president started showing up in the Western press, they could easily be dismissed as the disgruntled ravings of a failed leader. In time, any effects on international opinion they produced would fade—buried by the news of some pop star’s drug overdose or another petty scandal.
The chance that Truznyev’s information might be used for military purposes was a more serious threat. If the former president really had defected, he certainly knew enough to allow his new masters to pinpoint Russia’s buried cyberwar complex. But even with that information, could anyone really hope to launch a successful attack so deep into the Motherland’s territory? It seemed unlikely to Tarzarov. Not unless they were willing to send so large a strike force that it would represent an open declaration of all-out war against Russia. And not even the Poles were that crazy.
