He looked around. The White House entrance foyer was as grand and elaborate as anything he had seen in Hollywood movies, far more decedent than his communist upbringing would allow him to appreciate. He had been born in the late 60s, towards the end of dark years when Russia was still counting the dead and assessing the damage from Hitler’s suicidal assault on the mother land. His father had been part of the 1st Belarusian front for the last half of the Great Patriotic War, under the command of the renowned Georgy Zhukov, he and his comrades had been one of the first units to fight its way to the centre of Berlin, or so he had been told; His father would only talk about the war after a few vodkas and even then, only ever to other veterans.
Things were done differently in Russia. There were no veteran’s associations, no welfare for the injured, his father had been shot twice in Poland and hit by shrapnel in Berlin but six days after returning home, he was back at work in the sawmill. His father had never hated the Americans the way that Demetri did – perhaps it was the differences in the world they had been raised in - he had always said that the US helped Russia win the war and although the Soviet Union paid the heaviest price by far for victory over the Nazis, his father was happy to admit that it would have been much harder – maybe impossible – for Russia to have survived without the help of the US and Great Britain. Demetri’s schoolteacher had suggested his father was a traitor when he had repeated such nonsense in class.
He could never bring himself to agree with his teachers’ assessment of his father’s character, but a strict communist education during the height of the cold war and seen him level much worse accusations against other men for doing far less. He had found his way into the KGB at an early age, he had aimed for the army – like his father – but a decent education and an aptitude for languages had seen him pulled out of basic training and enrolled in the Russian intelligence agency.
He had risen steadily through the ranks until the late 1980s when the Soviet Union started to collapse around him. He had been in East Berlin at the time, moving between one field office and another – what the US would have called ‘safe houses’ - and had watched from a window on Schutzenstrasse, about 100 yards from Checkpoint Charlie, as piece by piece, the wall – and the soviet union with it - was pulled down in front of him.
Somehow, a few years later, he had found himself working for the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, in the diplomatic arm of the ministry, of all places. Apparently, former spies with experience in back room dealings and late night meetings in dark alleys were a valuable commodity for the new regime, especially ones who were good with languages and so he had spent the last 30 odd years doing exactly what he was in the White House to do today: having a shady, off-the-books meeting with a member of a foreign government and make sure his country got what they wanted. After two decades with the service, he had been posted to the Russian Consulate in Washington DC and had remained there ever since.
The irony of his location wasn’t lost on him. A member of the KGB – or KG used-to B as the Americans joked – sat in the entrance to the seat of American capitalist power. He wondered briefly how many of his former comrades had lost their lives trying to gain access to the very building he had just strolled into. The White House, The Pentagon, Langley, Norad in Colorado Springs and every missile silo and military base on the continent had been prime targets for espionage missions when he had been with the KGB and not one of them had been successful, at least not successful enough to make a difference, yet here he was, a few decades later, and all it took was a fake ID and a signature.
He had memorised the interior layout of the building; more specifically, he had memorised the parts of the building that were relevant to his mission, he didn’t give a shit where the Lincoln bedroom was. His tour guide – an unattractive woman in her fifties – hadn’t given Demetri and his flawless German accent more than a second glance when he melted in with the tour group as they meandered through the various rooms of the ground floor; the blue room, the green room the other-devoid-of-imagination-named room until he reached the part of the tour he had been waiting for.
Tucked away in an alcove in Cross Hall walls, just to the right of the State Dining room, was an old servants’ entrance to the usher’s room and a disused set of stairs leading to the kitchens in the basement. It had been sealed years ago, during the Obama administration, then painted over to the point that it was almost invisible unless you knew what to look for. An old man, leaning on his arms against a wall – apparently trying to catch his breath – while the rest of the tour group stared at some painting with a faux air of cultural awareness looked like the most natural thing in the world. A closer inspection would have highlighted the intricate movements of his hands as he slipped a long-forgotten key into a long-forgotten lock, turned it, pressed his weight backwards until the door gave way and disappeared inside. Whoever formed the Secret Service would have been turning in his grave.
“What the Fuck took you so long?” A whispered voice hissed in the darkness, “I’ve been waiting here for fifteen minutes! Do you know how hard it is for me to disappear for fifteen fucking minutes?”
“Relax…” Demetri calmly said back, making no attempt to lower his voice, “…there are stairs over there that lead down to the main kitchen. If anyone sees us, just say you went to make yourself a sandwich with an old mentor…” even in the darkness he could make out the raised eyebrow and stupid expression. “You can’t make a sandwich, can you?” he sighed
“errr…”
“… fucking Americans…” Demetri muttered to himself. “… you know what a sandwich is, right? Two pieces of bread, some edible shit in the middle, cut it in half and eat it… you are aware of the concept…”
“Yes, Jesus!” the whispered voice tried to sound offended. “I know what a fucking sandwich is, I’ve just never made one is all, that is what the help is for!”
The fact that this guy was in charge of anything was a testament to the stupidity and ignorance – at the very least, the gullibility - of the American people. In the old country, this man would have been lynched for half the shit that came out of his mouth and wouldn’t have been left alone with his own dick, let alone anything important. Say what you will about communism, but they promoted on merit.
Shaking his head at the semi-retarded man, he turned to his right and found the stairs almost immediately. He stopped on the top step, guessing what was coming next; the idiot missed the step completely and started to fall, letting out a pathetic yelp before falling into the back of the Russian agent and regaining his footing. “Do you need to be reminded how stairs work as well?”
“Fuck off! It’s dark in here!”
It was nothing short of a god-damned miracle that they made it to the bottom of the stairs without further incident. Another forgotten and painted-closed door blocked their way into the hallway between the main kitchen area and the Refrigeration room, Demetri extracted another long-forgotten key from his pocket – he would love to know how the consulate got their hands on those – and opened the door. The door swung inwards, which was another stroke of luck as the corridor on the other side was blocked off by catering trolleys, quickly moving them out of the way, he stepped into the light of the hallway, dragged the nervous looking idiot out of the stairway and pulled the door shut. David Turnbull Jr blinked at him a few times before Demetri led them quietly into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, as Demetri made the sandwiches, they were finally able to get down to the business he had come here for. “So, he goes before the UN in two weeks…” Turnbull started before immediately losing the ability to finish a sentence.
“He wouldn’t have been going anywhere if you and your incompetent advisors had done their job properly.” Demetri replied, managing to sound both casual and annoyed at the same time.
“Look, the cabin was…”
“A fuck up of the greatest magnitude imaginable!” Demetri interrupted. “when you told us about these ‘Spartans’ we were intrigued,
sceptical – you do have a fleeting relationship with the truth – but intrigued. We had no intel on Marcus or his creations aside from what you had told us and not even you seemed sure, so when you let them escape from Kentucky, we assumed you would make every conceivable effort to find him and get that technology into our hands, either that or you were exaggerating. But you fucked that up as well.”
“That’s not what happened! We couldn’t…”
“And then…” Demetri spoke over the President as if he was a disobedient schoolboy, “… Marcus turns up on an Island in the middle of the Atlantic - an island we cannot do anything about without starting another world war – so we assumed that you would handle it, the island is literally next door to Florida after all… but no, you fucked up yet again. Actually, to be fair, you didn’t fuck that up, that would imply you actually did something, you just sat on your hands like the impotent fool that you are and allowed Marcus to build the most powerful army the world has ever seen… either way, he still retained control of his technology, and now a whole new county.
“Then… after no action whatsoever for years, all hell breaks loose in the Congo, the very nation that supplies the US with more than half of its Cobalt supplies, more than enough reason to get involved, but, again, you did nothing. Marcus – ever the pragmatist – does your dirty work for you, but instead of saying he was working against US interests, against the legitimate government or anything else that would justify US involvement and the accompanying opportunity to deal with Marcus – even launching an assault on Atlantia while the army was away - you did nothing. To be fair, we finally understood what you were so excited about, but we still had to watch while technology that should have already been in our hands, was showcased on international television.
“Now he is coming to New York, under diplomatic protection to make a speech to the UN, after which, every single nation opposed to either of us will prostitute their own mothers to get him on board; Europe especially will request some form of military alliance. Marcus will agree to their terms, only an idiot wouldn’t – and even you can agree that Marcus is no idiot – and suddenly we are looking at a new superpower with the military capabilities to stop our plans.
“it won’t come to that.” Turnbull said weakly.
“yes, it will. But you are going to fix your mistake.” Demetri’s eyes bore down onto the President
“I don’t understand.”
“I know... So, I am going to tell you what to do.” Demetri said coldly. “You are going to meet with Marcus as part of the negotiations – you’re a part of the security council so he won’t be able to say no – and you will demand access to his technology under threat of war! If – or when – he refuses, you are going to follow through on that threat!”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am very serious, so you’d better listen to me, you pathetic little shit!” Demetri snapped, this time ensuring his voice couldn’t be heard by anyone else. “The Russian government and President Ivanov got your idiot father elected for a reason; he was a fucking moron but at least he knew when to do as he was god-damned told! You wanted to get into the White House, and we made it happen… again, now it’s time to pay for our assistance. This is not a request; this is a fucking order from your superior! Alexi Ivanov is the power behind the US throne and you will do as you are damned-well told! We both know what will happen if you refuse. Is there any part of that you are unclear about?”
Turnbull shook his head.
“Are you sure? You are not known for your intelligence!”
“I understand.” Turnbull replied, trying in vain to put some strength into his voice.
“Now, as I was saying. If – when - Marcus refuses to hand over his technology, you will invade. Moscow couldn’t care less about American casualties; we just need you to keep him busy while we move on our own targets. Europe has defied the Russian will for long enough, we once owned more than half of the continent but had to give it up when the wall fell. Well, now it’s time to reclaim what is ours!
“When the dust settles, Russia will control everything the East of the German-French boarder, what is left will come begging America for protection and will agree to any conditions you ask. As far as the world will be concerned, it will be the start of a new cold war, the people will start their usual sheep mentality and will buy whatever the hell they can to maintain some semblance of normality and our economies will go through the roof, that will satisfy the ruling elites and bring them on board. Once we have dealt with China, we will control the entire planet between us, East verses West, or at least that’s how it will seem to the people. In reality, we can start moving this fucking planet forward in a direction we can control!
“It’s a bold plan.” Turnbull nodded, “Please tell President Ivanov that I said that.”
Demetri rolled his eyes so hard he could almost hear them. “The President doesn’t want your platitudes; he wants your obedience. Now, show me that you understand.”
“I will demand that Atlantia hand over all technologies designed in the US,” Turnbull stated with an air of something approaching confidence, “I will say he stole it – my secretary of state says that will make the demands sound legitimate…” Demetri nodded, he didn’t know if that had been considered in Moscow, but it was a good plan. Of course, Demetri would imply that it was his idea. “…If he refuses, I will order military operations to begin immediately. That should keep the Atlantians occupied for long enough for Russia to invade Eastern Europe.”
“Good.” Demetri tried to give the American a reassuring smile, he used to be good at that back in the old days. “Remember, Atlantia’s Spartans are the only variable in this. If they join up with the Europeans, especially Germany, Poland or any of the other major players in the East - let alone their new grand army - the plan is sunk; we all seen what they are capable of in Africa. It is your job to make sure that doesn’t happen, and if it does, it is your job to keep the Atlantians out of Russia’s way! Make this happen and you will be the most powerful President in US history, you will be the man who rescued Western Europe and they will love you for it… but if you fail…”
“I understand.”
“Ok. Now, timing is everything here. If Atlantia agrees to form an alliance with Europe, it will take a few weeks to draw up, sign and ratify the treaty, you must attack before they get chance; if the Atlantians are allowed time to station Spartans in Europe the whole mission will be over before it begins. They sent 75,000 Spartans to Africa, so – accounting for a force to be left on Atlantia – we estimate no more than 150,000 soldiers in their army. Attacking Atlantia directly will keep those troops there, not in Europe. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, you’ve been gone long enough. Get back upstairs and make sure they see your sandwich.” Demetri handed Turnbull a plate. “I will see you in New York, David.”
“Thank you, Mr Krustov.” With that, the US President scurried out of the room towards the main kitchen entrance and disappeared from sight, Demetri finished off the last mouthful of his sandwich and headed in the opposite direction back towards the hidden door. Ten minutes later, he was back with the tour group. They had taken twenty minutes to move thirty feet from where he had left them, in comparison, he had conducted a meeting which would reshape the world map. It was amazing what you could do with time, if you had the right motivations.
Alice and I watched the grainy, wide angled footage on Charlottes laptop in stunned silence as she sat and waited. The younger of the two men was immediately recognisable as the US President and it took Alice only a few minutes to identify the older Demetri Krustov. Years of movies and books had given me an expectation of subtlety and finesse in those kinds of secret meetings, but Turnbull’s orders – and the manner he was given them – had about as much subtlety as your average nuclear detonation.
“I never even considered monitoring the service areas of the White House,” Alice conceded in a tone akin to nervo
usness. “I always assumed that the President would do all of his important business in the oval office or one of the other formal rooms.”
“Back room diplomacy does require a back room.” Charlotte replied, the smile still missing from her face. “MI-6 has been watching the entire White House since the Second Korean War, we had assumed that some kind of meeting like this had taken place with Turnbull Snr but never had evidence. Now it looks like Russia are trying to pull strings again, but this time, it is Europe in the firing line.”
Neither Alice nor I said anything as the gravity of the situation sank in, the two men in the footage were literally planning the start of the next world war and dividing up the spoils ahead of time. Suddenly things started to click into place; The Australian minister’s request for military aid – for example, if Russia went to war then Korea would either follow them, or at least use it as an opportunity to launch an attack of their own. If information really was shared through the diplomatic community then he would have been aware of the Russian threat.
“So, all my cards are on the table.” Charlotte interrupted my thoughts, “You have seen the evidence and the stakes go without saying. We received that file from MI-6 about 10 days ago and have shared it with some of our allies; as you can imagine, there are some very nervous people out there. We have convinced some of our more ‘boisterous’ counterparts to resist the urge to declare war immediately and instead, we have started working on defence plans. The European army has been secretly moved closer to the Russian border area to counter any attack under the guise of military exercises, but I doubt Russia believes that rouse for a second, especially when those divisions don’t return to base.”
The Rise of the Speaker Page 41
