by Tim Tigner
“I like the sound of it, but there is one problem with that,” Achilles said. “Covert operations rarely go according to plan.”
Chapter 12
The Gap
Washington D.C.
ACHILLES WATCHED the video from Collins' flash drive for a second time, while processing the summary report he’d just read. He was intrigued, disturbed, and certain the ghost of George Orwell was laughing at that very moment.
Foxley was still working his phone regarding some private affair.
They’d holed up in a hotel suite with a bag of Honeycrisp apples and a pot of strong coffee to knock out a plan. Foxley had some prior business to wrap up, but Achilles had dived right into the CIA station chief’s report.
“I’m done with the summary,” he said, grabbing an apple.
Foxley set his phone on the table, face down. “What’s your conclusion?”
The wiry veteran had warmed up a bit since their first encounter in Collins' guest bedroom, which was to say he was only mildly hostile. He was still finding the second fiddle role a hard pill to swallow, even after Collins' references to Achilles’ undocumented accomplishments had sucked the puff out of his chest.
Achilles closed the laptop and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “McArthur did his job. His analysis was thorough, his tactical instincts are spot-on, and his logic is tight.”
“So he did find a gap in Korovin’s security?”
Achilles waggled his hand. “More like an opportunity.”
“Why don’t you give me a summary,” Foxley suggested, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Then we’ll sleep on it.”
Checking his watch, Achilles saw that it was 3:00 a.m. Not a bad plan. Referencing the English translation of Kremlin, he said, “Korovin literally lives and works in a castle. When he spends the night in his Moscow home rather than the official Kremlin residence, he flies to and from work in a helicopter equipped with countermeasures capable of defeating guided missiles. When he drives, his motorcade includes a shell game of six armed and armored specialty vehicles — in addition to a police escort. The only other place he visits regularly is his weekend home on the Black Sea. McArthur says it was designed with defense in mind, and suggests that given its remote location, it’s even more secure than the Kremlin.”
“What about past attempts?” Foxley asked.
“There have been a dozen serious assassination attempts over the years. All targeted him at pre-announced events or en route thereto. None came close to succeeding. The problem is, you can’t get within a kilometer of him. As you noted earlier, a 3,000-person FSO security detail makes for a pretty tight net.”
Foxley leaned forward. “But McArthur found a gap.”
Achilles nodded. “Korovin stole a move from Shakespeare’s King Henry. On occasion, he slips his own security, dons a disguise, and goes out into the Moscow night.”
“How’s he getting out?”
“He exits the Kremlin through the employee entrance.”
“Then what?”
“Then he wanders around like thousands of tourists and tens of thousands of Muscovites do every day, exploring the beehive of activity surrounding Red Square. It’s like he’s on a two-hour pass from his gilded cage.”
“How often?”
Achilles took a big bite of apple, then gestured with it while he chewed. “There’s the rub. They only have two data points, and they’re nine weeks apart.”
“So it might not be a habit. And it’s not predictable.”
“Exactly.”
“How’d they discover it?”
Achilles opened his laptop and hit play while turning the screen so Foxley could see it too. “That’s the cool part. They found him using a sophisticated identification system that essentially works like fingerprint analysis, identifying the existence and relative position of mappable features. But instead of inspecting a static image, it analyzes a video. And rather than loops and whirls, it measures bone lengths and motion corridors.”
The video, obviously a zoom from a distant fixed location, showed the Kremlin employee entrance. As figures came and went, the computer drew stick figure skeletons atop them, then it populated the figures with bone lengths, motion arcs, and relative angles. When it found Korovin, his photo popped up, as did a grid comparing measurement points and a conclusion: 99.99 percent probability.
Foxley looked pleased for the first time. “Gait analysis. I’m familiar with it. It’s a new program, but we’ve already got cameras trained on hundreds of points of interest.”
“How do you know that, given your lack of official status?” Achilles asked, stroking Foxley’s ego.
“When your job’s procurement, you need to know what’s available to procure. And I’m well connected.”
Achilles nodded. “Why do you think Korovin risks it?”
Foxley pulled a blade from his sleeve and began spinning it on the table top. “You tell me. You’re the boss.”
Achilles didn’t demur. “As the whole world knows, Korovin’s got no shortage of testosterone. He does it for the thrill of defying authority — the only authority he ever has to listen to. And for the rush of risk. You and I know that primal pull all too well.”
Foxley began dipping his finger in and out of the spinning blade’s path. “But he’s got so much to lose. Give me ultimate power and I’m not going to risk losing it over something stupid.”
Foxley’s naïveté surprised Achilles. “He’s not thinking about what he has to lose, any more than you do picking up a gun, or I do climbing a cliff, or a politician does unzipping his fly. He’s not thinking at all, he’s feeling. The rush is immediate, and guaranteed, whereas the risk is theoretical, and remote.”
Foxley nodded without looking up.
“You have any ideas, beyond spending the next couple of months waiting to get lucky?” Achilles asked.
Foxley brought a finger down atop his knife’s grip, halting the rotation with the tip pointed in Achilles’ direction. “Nope. You?”
Achilles tossed his apple core into the air, then snatched Foxley’s blade and flicked it up hard enough to pin the core to the ceiling. “I’ve got one, but it’s risky.”
Chapter 13
The Question
Black Sea Coast, Russia
ARM-IN-ARM and all of ten-seconds betrothed, Max and Zoya walked through the double doors and into the largest sitting room either had ever seen. A presidential parlor. Whatever awaited them there, they would face it as a couple.
A billboard-sized window dead ahead in the southern wall pulled their gaze. The picturesque gardens it framed were backed by the white-capped waters of the Black Sea, creating a living masterpiece. Walking toward the window as if drawn by a string, they passed plush furnishings and enormous vases flush with fragrant flowers. “When money is no object,” Max whispered.
A familiar voice boomed behind them, ending their momentary reprieve. “Ever see an eagle kill a bear?”
They whirled around to see one of the most recognizable faces on the planet. Russian President Vladimir Korovin was walking toward them from a back corner of the room.
For a split second Max wondered why Korovin hadn’t begun with introductions, but then realized how silly that would be. They obviously knew him, and he obviously knew them. The fact that they’d never met was irrelevant.
“I’ll take your silence as a no,” Korovin continued. “It’s hard to imagine, right? Big eagles weigh five kilos, whereas small bears weigh fifty. Eagles have beaks and talons, but bears have teeth and claws. Any ideas?” Korovin gestured toward a welcoming set of armchairs encircling a radiant coffee table. Looking closer, Max saw that it appeared to be made entirely of amber.
Korovin struck Max as being even more charismatic in person than on a flat screen. His cornflower-blue eyes telegraphed an intelligence that was captivating, if not cooling. By contrast, the inner energy he radiated like bottled sunshine gave him a politician’s trademark warmth.
“Tools,” Max said, answering Korovin’s question instinctively. Whenever he faced long odds in the field, he looked for leverage, he looked for a tool.
Korovin locked his eyes on Max's. “Good answer. Can you elaborate?”
“The eagle finds a means of leveraging an advantage.”
“And what advantage is that?”
Even with the eyes of the world’s most powerful man boring into his, Max could ponder, process, and analyze with the best of them. Perhaps that was why he was so good as a spy.
He tackled the question without a discernible pause. Eagles had better eyesight. A broader perspective. And they were faster. None of those felt sufficient, however, so Max went with his first instinct. “They can fly.”
“Very good. Morozov was right about you,” Korovin said, referring to the head of the SVR. “But you’ve only supplied half the answer…”
Zoya fidgeted in her chair. This wasn’t her venue, but she knew people and was a master of distilling situations. Like Max, she sensed that he was thinking for their lives.
In Max's experience, solving puzzles often involved a change of viewpoint. A sideways glance, a zoom in, or a zoom out. In his mind, he stepped back from the problem, broadening his perspective. From a distance, the puzzle proposed by Korovin didn’t look like an eagle against a bear, but rather small against big. When could small beat big?
He didn’t know enough about the habits of eagles and bears to get specific, but then perhaps he didn’t have to. “Eagles pick an advantageous time and place. They look for circumstances that will magnify their ability to inflict damage while flying.”
“Yes,” Korovin said, his gleaming eyes reflecting light from the window. “To kill a bear, an eagle will wait for it to wander near the edge of a cliff. Then the eagle will swoop in, grab the bear by a hind leg, and drag it over.”
“And you need us to drag a bear off a cliff,” Max said.
“Because our English gives us the ability to fly undetected,” Zoya said, surprising all with her first words. “And you need a couple.”
Korovin studied Zoya for a long moment, perceptibly pleased by her conclusion.“You’re half right.”
Chapter 14
The Cliff
Black Sea Coast, Russia
PRESIDENT KOROVIN gave Zoya an appraising glance that didn’t sit well with Max. Then again, despite the five-star treatment, nothing about their unplanned diversion had been comfortable. Funny that. They’d been met by a private helicopter, then given a chauffeured limo ride — to a palace. Yet they hadn’t enjoyed a minute of it. Apparently, perspective could control one’s enjoyment of just about anything. Max would remember that, the next time he was looking into the abyss.
“By the way,” Korovin said, his eyes still locked on Zoya. “I’m a great admirer of your work. I thought your performance in Wayward Days was magnificent. Speaking of eagles, you should have won the golden one.”
While Zoya accepted the compliment with characteristic grace, Max’s thoughts returned to Korovin’s prior comment. He wondered which half of Zoya’s guess was right; the need for English, or the need for a couple?
Korovin returned to business without clarifying that point. Speaking with a touch of pride and a dramatic flair, he said, “Nobody knows you’re here. The men who met you at the airport didn’t know where the helicopter was going. The pilot and driver were instructed to avoid learning your identities. The security personnel here at Seaside don’t exist outside these walls. Meanwhile another couple has taken your place in Sochi, and will spend most of the next three weeks in your suite, eating room service and making love behind closed doors.”
Korovin spread his hands with a flourish. “There’s a reason for all that skullduggery, of course. Russia has a delicate problem you can help me solve.” He brought his hands back together in a forceful clap.
“You’re too young to remember what it was like when Russia and the U.S. were both superpowers, with the world split between us. But I do. I’ve vowed to return Russia to its former glory before I leave this world, and I’m hoping you can help me make it so.”
As Korovin paused to let that sink in, Max couldn’t help but note that Korovin had implicitly confirmed the widely held suspicion that he intended to cling to power for the rest of his life.
“As everyone is well aware, and my popularity ratings signify, I have been very busy restoring Russia’s former glory. Our wealth, prestige, and territory are all growing. We’re back at the big table again. But, since we’re still far from the head, I’ve decided to broaden my tactics.” He looked from Max to Zoya and back to Max again.
“In addition to raising Russia, I’ve decided to bring our rivals down.” He pounded fist to palm forcefully enough to make Zoya jump.
“Since our defense budget is one-tenth the size of America’s, we have to attack like an eagle with a bear. And of course the attack must be both invisible, and untraceable. I could never speak or even hint at our involvement, either before or after such an event — either publicly or privately. To do so would be the equivalent of locking an eagle in a low ceilinged room with an angry bear.” Again his arms went wide, as if he considered himself a maestro conducting their emotions. “Thus the unconventional nature of your summons.”
Max and Zoya nodded their understanding. It was perfectly logical. No trouble at all. They were happy to be there.
“If you want great rewards, you have to take great risks. I’m considering risking everything . . . on you.” Korovin paused there, inviting comment.
Max wanted to ask why Zoya was there, rather than a female SVR agent. But that would be crossing the line between asking a question, and questioning Korovin’s plan. He had no illusions about his status. He was interviewing for a job. Either he would get it — or he’d be killed. Korovin had told them little, but he’d said too much to let them walk away.
Max looked over Korovin’s shoulder and out the window for a second. He pictured the helicopter flying them home, and wondered whether there were sharks in those windswept waters. Then he refocused on his host, and asked an appropriate question. “Surely the Americans will be able to figure out who masterminded their misfortune?”
Korovin was ready for it. “These days, the list of suspects will be long. It will include both nation states and terrorist networks.” He cracked a thin smile. “But I’m not relying on obfuscation. Instead, I’ve made provisions to put the Chinese at the top of that list.”
Zoya jumped back into the conversation. “How?”
“The Government of China will fund Operation Sunset. Chinese operatives working undercover in America will assemble the tool using components sourced from China, and then those same Chinese operatives will install it. We’ll talk more about the specifics later.”
“Why China?” Max asked.
Korovin nodded his approval of the question. “America is heavily dependent on the Chinese for everything from currency loans to cheap goods to 1.4 billion consumers. Driving a wedge between Beijing and Washington will cause tremendous collateral damage. A priceless bonus, so to speak.”
Whatever you thought of Korovin, Max reflected, you couldn’t deny that he was a master strategist. “What’s our tool?”
“I’m glad you asked. Actually, if you break it down, Operation Sunset has two. The talons and the cliff, so to speak. The talons come in the form of electronic devices the size of smart phones.”
“And the cliff?” Max asked on cue.
“We’re going to use the same cliff that made Bin Laden so effective. We are going to drag America over a cliff of fear.”
Chapter 15
SDI
Black Sea Coast, Russia
AFTER DROPPING his big revelation on them, President Korovin directed his gaze toward the back of the room. Looking over his shoulder, Max saw a short bald man with big ears and a bushy mustache moving toward them like he’d been launched from a battleship.
“Zoya Zolotova, and Max Aristov, allow me to introd
uce Ignaty Filippov.”
“Good afternoon,” the new arrival said, his tone clipped and efficient. He shook their hands brusquely, then canted his head back toward the door and added, “You’re with me, Max.”
Max's first thought wasn’t to question what this no-nonsense guy wanted. He assumed Ignaty would be briefing him on the details of Operation Sunset. His first thought was that he’d be leaving Zoya alone with a man known for his wandering eyes and boundless virility.
Max wasn’t the jealous type. If he had been, he would never have gotten involved with Zoya. Anyone dating a woman so beautiful and famous would have to anticipate tremendous competitive attention. Married or single, young or old, Max knew that every man whose plumbing still worked would dream of testing her pipes. But he trusted Zoya to faithfully dismiss their solicitations, and he managed to leave it at that. President Korovin, however, was a different species of beast.
Feeling powerless as he met Zoya’s eye, Max squeezed her shoulder as he rose to dutifully follow Ignaty. They passed half a dozen statues of Greco-Roman athletes in combative, contemplative, or victorious poses, before Ignaty led him into another sitting room. Much smaller than the grand parlor they’d vacated, this one resembled a gentleman’s club, with dark wood paneled walls, a pub-style bar in the corner, and heavy ashtrays on the coffee tables. The room smelled of cigar smoke, but only mildly. Clearly the palace’s ventilation system was first rate.
“Feel like a Punch?” Ignaty asked deadpan before lifting a box of the famous cigars. No doubt this wasn’t his first time using the double entendre.
