“So what can we do?” Chris Collins asked.
“Whatever we need to do. Sophisticated crisis forecasting, management and staff retraining, and on a physical basis, heighted surveillance measures and the installation of defensive parameters. Altogether, it means we’re going to rewrite our security plan starting today!”
5
NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
1994
After the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of Communist rule in the German Democratic Republic, Nikolai Gorshkov publicly resigned from the KGB. Publicly, but not officially. Soon after, he was recalled to Russia and assigned to Novosibirsk, the third largest city in Russia and the most populated city in the Asian region of Russia. He moved his wife and two children in with his parents and accepted a post in Novosibirsk State University’s sociology department. At least this was his latest cover story. He reported to the university vice rector and also to Moscow, recruiting moles and spying on students. In his own words he was “a KGB officer under the roof.” The university post also allowed him to study his internal enemies’ weaknesses and test his political future. It paid off.
A year later, he left the KGB to work with Russia’s new wave of democratic reformers. This brought him closer to the power base in the waning years of the Soviet government. He accepted a new job, Deputy Mayor of Novosibirsk, serving in the administration of the first openly elected mayor in the city.
During his term, Gorshkov intervened for the mayor with political rivals in the legislature. Through his efforts, he earned more political currency in the reconstructed Russia.
He cashed some in after the dissolution of the Soviet Union on December 26, 1991. Gorshkov headed a committee to bring new businesses to Novosibirsk. Situated in south central Russia on the banks of the Ob River, near the Novosibirsk Hydro Power Plant, he saw opportunity to attract, spend, and make money. Accordingly, Nikolai Gorshkov worked all sides of his deals for years.
By 1994 he had accumulated immense wealth and power. This allowed him to have a public persona, but he also continued to lurk in the shadows. That’s where he always chose to meet and conspire with his former KGB lieutenant, Andre Miklos.
The five years since Miklos had worked under Gorshkov in Potsdam had hardened the young man. He had been assigned “liquid affairs” by the KGB and its short-lived successor the Federal Counterintelligence Service, FSK. His specific duties, keyed to his unique skills and training, included abductions and assassinations, all under the directive to clean up squishy internal loose ends.
Gorshkov and Miklos now met on one of those loose ends, though not for the state. They discussed a personal mission.
“Do you foresee any difficulty?” Gorshkov asked in the basement of a warehouse outside of the city.
Through his contacts, Gorshkov had access to such places; secure and guarded. But still, he never met his protégé twice in the same place, and never with anyone else around.
“None,” Miklos responded. “It will be a terrible accident. But in those last moments he will recognize me and think of you before he dies. He’ll remember Potsdam. But he won’t have time to apologize to his wife and family. No time even for a last prayer. Only a terrified instant for guilt and regret. I’ll see it on his face.”
Neither man mentioned the name. It had been ingrained in their minds for five years: Stanislav Popov.
6
TOKYO, JAPAN
PRESENT DAY
A week after meeting in Chicago, Alan Cannon returned to Tokyo on the invitation from his Naichō contact, Genji Takahiro.
From the airport, Cannon proceeded directly to Naichō headquarters on the sixth floor of the cabinet office building. The intelligence agency, Japan’s equivalent of America’s CIA, was still smarting from ongoing political scrutiny.
In January 2008 a Naichō official had been accused of spying for the Russians. Though the Kremlin denied the charge, Genji Takahiro and others who had public faces took great care with what they said.
Takahiro wore a light grey suit that hung loosely to cover the handgun on his belt. He delivered his greeting warmly, but with little inflection. The 52-year-old agent offered to unofficially cooperate with Cannon. However, because of the 2008 scandal, Cannon figured he’d get some information, but not everything. Still, he thought, Takahiro had invited him.
“I have something for you to see,” Takahiro said. “Come with me.”
This was already more than Cannon expected.
Takahiro walked the American to a standalone computer in a small room. Cannon observed that the desktop was not tied into Naichō’s mainframe. This would prevent anyone who used it from “inadvertently” uploading any content or downloading any viruses.
“Everything you need to see is on this USB drive,” Takahiro said. “Please sit.”
Takahiro leaned over and inserted the thumb drive. The contents were password protected, requiring Japanese characters to open. He typed them in, then pointed to a freeze-frame now on the screen.
“We’ve reviewed more than fifty CCTV cameras in the surrounding streets. They include cameras from the Metro police, businesses, ATMs, and others.” He didn’t explain what others meant. “We put the footage together into a video, which I have for you to watch.”
“What will be I looking for?”
“The same thing that prompted my call to you.”
“Mr. Takahiro,” Alan Cannon began, “we’re both busy and considering the urgency—”
“Please. I need your opinion.”
“On what?”
Takahiro struggled for the English word. “A … hunch.”
There were roughly twenty minutes of city surveillance footage on the thumb drive. Cannon gave it one full screening, starting, stopping, and logging each shot on paper with the visible running time code and a description. This pass took sixty minutes. When he finished, he looked at his list and rated the shots: wide, medium, close; sharp to blurry; bright to dark. Overall, Cannon recognized that Takahiro wanted him to get familiar with the geography and the character of the streets immediately after the attack.
Cannon turned around to speak to Takahiro, but he was gone. So instead he addressed himself to the computer screen. “All right. Talk to me.” He began a second pass, this time watching more closely and disregarding shots that, to his mind, revealed nothing. He also looked for people who appeared in multiple camera views. This took another forty-five minutes.
Cannon stood up and stretched. Takahiro had returned with a cup of coffee.
“I thought you might need this,” he said.
Cannon looked at the cup. The hot liquid was light brown. Takahiro then handed him precisely one sugar.
“Thank you. You know what I like.”
“Of course. We’re in the intelligence business.”
It was both humorous and a reminder that Naichō had eyes and ears around the world.
“Any opinions?” Takahiro asked.
“Not yet. Still due diligence.”
Cannon got back to screening. The third pass was more strategic. He found the computer icon for the snipping tool function and made some still frames, which he saved on the desktop. After finishing this process he examined key frames, deleting all but three: one wide from a street corner Metropolitan Police camera, another from an Instagram posting by someone running away from the scene, and a third from a street-facing store security camera. They all covered the same area at one minute and forty-three seconds following the first blast.
What was most noteworthy, seen through his own well-trained eyes, was that everyone was running away as quickly as possible. Everyone but one man.
7
CHICAGO, IL
“Where are we today?” Reilly asked. He had tasked Brenda Sheldon with scheduling the experts they had chosen for the new Kensington Royal defense committee.
“Like herding cats,” she explained. “We had solid dates on the calendar at the end of the month. Okay for you, Alan and Chris, and
almost everyone else locked. But in the last three hours it’s fallen apart.”
“Ask different candidates then. I don’t want time to get away from us without getting together,” Reilly replied.
“I don’t think we have to start from scratch. Maybe some encouragement from you,” Brenda proposed. “You’re persuasive. Turn up the juice.”
“You’re right. Line ’em up.”
“Will do. In the meantime, you’re going to want call Raul Bustamante. He’s nervous about the hurricane.”
“I’ve been following it. Looks bad.”
Brenda knew Reilly well enough to be prepared. “Your travel suitcase is in your closet complete with a charged sat phone. A new tube of toothpaste, too.”
“Always one step ahead.”
“It keeps my kids clothed and well fed.”
“Then get me Bustamante and book me a flight.”
“Oh, that’s already done. You’re out at four this afternoon, connecting in Mexico City, and I have a private jet as a backup in Mexico in case the Delta flight is canceled.”
Reilly looked at his watch and calculated he only had two hours to make calls from his office. He could do more on the ride to O’Hare.
Brenda had Raul Bustamante on the phone from Mazatlán by the time Reilly reached his desk.
The call with the Kensington Royal hotel general manager confirmed the danger and underscored the need for Reilly to make the flight. Mazatlán was an important property. But more to the point, there were more than 150 American guests who had probably never endured a Category 4 or 5 hurricane.
Reilly made four more calls to the counterterrorism experts they’d identified as consultants. Two fell out completely and needed to be replaced. Another good prospect, an independent international security agent, a mercenary, wanted more money and was using the calendar as a bargaining chip. He solved the problem with the mercenary the fastest way possible—with more money.
“Okay, I’m out of here, Brenda,” he said, suitcase in hand and a leather backpack over his shoulder. “Car?”
“Downstairs waiting,” she said. “With a turkey sandwich.”
“Thank you. I love you.”
“Sure you do,” Brenda said jokingly. “Just be careful.”
8
THE ITALIAN ALPS
1994
Stanislav Popov and his wife had intended it as their last big drive before the twins, Nadia and Elina, left for school. In three weeks the girls were to begin international studies at Lomonosov Moscow State University. With this road trip, they could check off their thirteenth annual thrilling mountain ride, one for each year since the children were four. The girls had wonderful memories of these summer vacations, with photo albums chronicling every one.
They got an early start as planned—early enough to avoid the traffic and enjoy the hairpin turns along Torri di Fraele Pass, a full 1,941 meters (or 6,368 feet) above sea level.
The fully paved road began a few kilometers west of Bormio, Italy, led up from Premadio, and progressed through two tunnels carved into the edge of the Italian Alps, along a river, and past a dam. All beautiful.
At its highest point, one could stop to take photographs of the Towers of Fraele, two Roman stone outposts constructed in 1391 to guard a frontier pass. It was the site of a 1635 battle where two thousand warriors were killed. Seventy years ago the structure had served as a World War II communication base. The vista also took in the majestic mountains of Lombardy, Fraise Lake, and snowcapped peaks stretching in every direction. But most people braved the 25.9 kilometer drive to experience the thrill of driving one of Europe’s most dangerous roads.
The family reached the summit at 8:15 a.m. They took pictures and picnicked on bruschetta, mascarpone, and pears bought that morning in Bormio. After one last family photograph, it was time to head down—a little faster and a little more confidently—along Torri di Fraele Pass and its eighteen hairpin turns.
In most places the road was barely wider than a single car. Guardrails periodically appeared, particularly at the switchbacks, but they were only two feet high and really there to show where the road stopped and open air began. Bicycles and impatient drivers made it even more dangerous. One of the latter was on the family’s tail now.
Stanislav Popov saw the Nuova BMW X1 catch up to them. He noted that it accelerated to within two car lengths—two car lengths too close. It hung close for two kilometers, and then, when the road widened, began to pass. But instead of completing the maneuver, the driver stayed parallel.
Stanislav stuck his left hand out the window and waved the driver ahead. There was room to pass. But the BMW stayed with him. Stanislav honked and motioned again. The driver held his position. Stanislav slowed down, and the BMW did the same.
Stanislav swore. His wife gripped his thigh and his daughter Elina in the seat behind him raised her camera.
Ahead, the next critical turn. Stanislav Popov honked hard again, yelling “Spostare stronzo!” in acceptable Italian. “Move asshole!” Then he took his eyes off the road, and in that single moment he saw a cruel smile on the driver’s face. A familiar face? His mind raced. KGB? Yes. Moscow? No. Where? All this in two seconds. Then a memory. Germany. German Democratic Republic. Potsdam. Gorshkov’s man.
Stanislav didn’t hear his wife’s scream or feel her fingernails digging into his leg. He didn’t hear his daughter Nadia’s cries or the clicking of Elina’s camera. And he didn’t have room to maneuver his rented Fiat when the larger, heavier BMW nudged his car to the right.
There was no shoulder to pull off onto. No room to stop before the turn ahead. No time to do anything other than to tell his family he was sorry.
Elina Popov was still taking pictures on her Minolta when the car launched from Torri di Fraele Pass at the 1,550 meter mark.
9
BEIJING, CHINA
PRESENT DAY
The Russian delegation was in its third day of meetings hosted by the Shanghai Cooperation Organization. At the top of the agenda was reinforcing Russia’s intentions to support the partner trade nations, comprised of China, Russia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan. The group was formed to mediate border disputes, but more recently sought to fight ethnic and religious insurgents.
Anton Nechayev, the minister of energy for Russia, represented Moscow’s interests. Across the bargaining table, the Chinese delegation was led by Minister of the National Energy Administration (NEA) Lee Kang. Nechayev maintained an air of bravado and urgency in the official sessions. He carried the same impolitic tone later through dinner conversations at Da Dong, one of Beijing’s famed five-star restaurants. For Russia, it was all business, all the time.
Nechayev was in his forties and in some ways resembled a fast-talking Wall Street broker. His job: sell his plan to improve Russia’s oil relationships with China beyond the current 2030 agreement. He promised increased oil trade, favorable co-ventures, and border security in return for China renewing its loan agreements to Moscow.
The notion of border security made Lee Kang especially curious.
“Do we not have such an accord in place?” the 63-year-old Kang asked, leaning back in his chair at the restaurant. His body language said convince me.
Nechayev knew Kang was much more than just a trade envoy and quite capable of ending the discussion at any moment.
China and Russia already had a twenty-year agreement signed in 2001, the Treaty of Good-Neighborliness and Friendly Cooperation. The relationship had been reinforced when the Chinese president made a state visit to Moscow.
“Our agreements recognize and honor our shared border,” Nechayev acknowledged. He slid his plate of Peking duck to the side and leaned in to his companion. It was a very Russian, un-Chinese move. But Nechayev wanted his message to be completely understood.
“You have growing territorial issues with Japan,” he continued, referring to the island-building China was aggressively pursuing in the disputed China Sea. These were important transportation routes thr
ough which 39 percent of Chinese non-Russian oil imports passed.
“Yes,” Kang replied quietly.
“We have concern on our Western frontier,” Nechayev said.
“Nations friendly to the Russian Federation?”
“Beyond those borders,” Nechayev whispered.
The two men sat eye to eye. Kang, schooled in international affairs with a degree in Russian history, grasped Nechayev’s intent. There was much more at stake. He heard exactly what was left unsaid. The issue was NATO. It had been years since the two nations operated under the post-World War II Sino-Soviet mutual defense agreements—agreements that contributed to the West’s fear of Communism. It was time to renew.
“I understand,” Kang replied.
“Then I trust you will bring the initiative to your president, a good friend of the Russian Federation,” Minister Nechayev implored.
“I will.”
“Well then, let us toast,” said a pleased Nechayev, raising his glass of Chateau Hansen, a more than passable Chinese red blend.
“To our mutual benefit,” the Russian proposed.
“Our mutual benefit,” Kang echoed.
As they sipped and smiled, the Chinese minister considered the ultimate implications of the pact, if formalized. This went well beyond oil and trade. If, for some reason, Russia’s Western oil markets were shut off, the ever-expanding Chinese need could prevent economic disaster in the Russian Federation. But, he reasoned, Gorshkov wants more: A backdoor national security pact with China to make NATO rethink its posture.
Kang lowered the glass, and in time-honored Chinese tradition, he decided to negotiate further.
“China is already your nation’s top trade partner,” he began. “We certainly would invite more. But, unless I’m misinformed, 80 percent of your oil exports and 70 percent of your gas exports go to European market nations. Can your output support more?”
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