by Brad Taylor
A little melancholy leaking out, Kurt said, “This place was just hitting its stride. What a waste. Fucking Guy George.”
Halfway out the door, George Wolffe sat back down, seeing the strain the last few years had brought his friend. Having walked the tightrope of clandestine operations, eschewing the very oversight rules he had once championed, George saw that Kurt felt responsible for the debacle they were now in. Before it had always been for the greater good. Now Kurt Hale could no longer make that claim.
George said, “Hey, cut that out right now. Guy wasn’t your fault. You did what you could. At the end of the day, he was right. The real heat came because of that asshat Billings. You tried to save him, tried to do the right thing, and it’s going to cost us. But it isn’t a done deal yet.”
Kurt tapped his hands on the steering wheel and said, “I hope you’re right, because I don’t think I can go shine a seat in the Pentagon for real. Pretending to do it is bad enough.” He turned and looked at his longtime friend and ally. “What will you do? I mean, if worse comes to worst?”
“Go back to the CIA, I guess. Although I’ve burned most of my bridges there. Probably end up as a reports officer in one of the new Mission Centers looking at climate change.”
Kurt laughed and said, “Well, at least they know where we stand.”
George pushed open the door a second time and said, “That’s true. Nobody on the Oversight Council can say you play politics. Even if that briefing may have been one of your last.”
Project Prometheus was decidedly unique, operating outside the normal intelligence community and defense establishments, which is to say, it operated outside the view of just about anyone in the United States government who usually oversaw such activity. A polite way of saying it was an illegal organization, albeit one sanctioned by the president of the United States. But it wasn’t completely autonomous.
A panel of thirteen individuals, each handpicked by the president from both the government and the private sector, approved all phases of operations. They required quarterly briefings on all activity, and Kurt and George had just come from one such update. One that had been less about counterterrorism operations and more about damage control.
It had been brief and brutal, but Kurt Hale, for all his tactical acumen at special operations, understood the reasons why. Four months ago a Taskforce Operator named Guy George had gone rogue, applying his lethal skills on a personal vendetta and killing three members of the government of Qatar. The officials had provided financial support to the nascent growth of the Islamic State in Afghanistan, and part of that support had caused the death of his brother.
And Guy’s unilateral response had precipitated the death of the United States secretary of state, Jonathan Billings.
It was a killing that had been splashed throughout the world stage, with the subsequent investigation one would expect. All that would have been fine and good, except Kurt Hale had launched a Taskforce team to prevent the killing, without sanction, and the fallout was threatening to expose the extralegal force, along with a possible jail cell for every member of the Oversight Council.
Kurt had tried to start the meeting off by asking for authority to continue surveillance of a suspected financier in Mali, and had learned how naïvely optimistic he had been.
The president himself, Peyton Warren, had cut him off, saying, “Kurt, come on. We’re nowhere near ready to continue with operations. Get to the heart of this meeting. What’s the state of play with the motorcycle rentals in Norway?”
Kurt had absorbed the rebuke, and saw that everyone in the room was hanging on the answer. Afraid for the skin they had in the game.
“Sir, there’s been no change from the last update, and honestly, there won’t be a change. The bikes were rented under aliases with credit cards that end in a PO box in Sacramento, California. We had four cutouts before that. There is no way to find a link between who rented the bikes and who was riding them.”
Alexander Palmer, the president’s national security advisor, said, “Yeah, but that in itself looks strange. It looks like an intelligence operation, which is something the Taskforce said would never happen.”
Kurt said, “Whoa. Wait. We can ensure we get out clean before an operation, but that statement is predicated on our operational footprint. A slow burn to build the infrastructure and accomplish the mission. This was a hostage rescue—something we don’t do. Secretary Billings put his own life in danger, and I had the assets to attempt saving his life.”
He paused a beat and saw his words were having no effect. Exasperated, he said, “It didn’t work out, and now you want to accuse me of not preparing? Maybe I should have just sat on the sidelines. Let the suicide bomber destroy the peace talks. At least then I wouldn’t be having this conversation while letting other terrorists go free.”
3
President Warren held his hand up and said, “Okay, okay, calm down. Nobody’s faulting the effort, but the fallout is something different. We’ve officially entered the silly season of a presidential election, and the questions arising from Billings’s death are almost overpowering. I can only shrug so long before it looks like I’m hiding something.”
Left unsaid was that the shrug was tainting his vice president, Philip Hannister, the man who’d recently picked up the proverbial election staff and was running for the president’s seat. Forget about the opposition—he was now getting hammered by his own party as ineffectual and/or a liar.
Kurt said, “Sir, it’s the best we can do. There’s no way to crack what happened. No way the Taskforce will be exposed, but those questions are going to remain. All we can do is shrug. Deny. Hell, ask them to look. They won’t find anything.”
Palmer shook his head at the pat answer and said, “What about the diplomatic security guys? The ones protecting Billings? They saw Taskforce activity.”
Kurt was incredulous. “You’re asking me to explain that? I don’t own them. You do. Who’s the next SECSTATE? Who’s the acting now? Read them on and start getting control of your own house.”
And in the facial expressions of the Council he saw how far the fear had seeped. How little power he actually held.
President Warren said, “I’ve got a man I’m thinking of. Woman, actually, but I’m not reading her on to Project Prometheus. The last two nominees got hammered hard enough at the confirmation hearings until they quit, and honestly, I’m not that confident on this one. I don’t see the need to expand the circle at this stage. Anyway, by the time she gets through the confirmation process—if she gets through—it won’t matter.”
Won’t matter? Why? The answer was clear, even as he asked it. The president was saying, We’re shutting this experiment down.
Kurt tried one more time. “Sir, what happened in Norway shouldn’t stop us from continuing. We have a couple of targets that pose a clear and present danger to US interests. I’m just asking for Alpha authority. Asking to explore.”
President Warren said, “No. I’m not even putting it to a vote. Jonathan Billings’s death has caused a firestorm, and like it or not, your attempt to prevent it is wrapped up in that. If we’re exposed, it’ll be catastrophic. You’re still on stand-down.”
“Sir . . . did you see the reports of Russian ex-KGB trying to sell uranium to terrorists in Moldova? This is not the time to stop Taskforce activities. If anything, we’ve become more necessary.”
Palmer scoffed and said, “Come on. The FBI caught them. We found them through traditional channels. The world is returning to level, where traditional means matter more than Taskforce efforts. We didn’t have the Taskforce during the Cold War, and we did okay.”
Kurt chose his words carefully, not wanting to antagonize a Council member. “Maybe. Maybe not. The FBI broke up a one-time plot, but the shitheads were then put into the host country’s justice system. Ex-KGB. How hard do you think that was? They’re going to be relea
sed in months, if they’re not out already, and we got no intelligence from it. Let me hunt those guys and we’ll do some real good.”
Kurt waited on someone from the Oversight Council to back him up, but no one did, preferring to stare at their hands or the tabletop. The silence stretched out for a beat, then was broken by President Warren. “You may have a point, but at this stage we just can’t risk it. Too many people are curious and looking into our activities. They haven’t found anything yet, but they might, and I can’t give them another thread to start chasing. What happens if something goes wrong on the next operation?”
“Sir, it won’t.”
“And you can promise that? You did, in fact, recruit and train Guy George, did you not?”
Kurt had no answer to that, because there was none. The unit, which had begun as an idea in a presidential candidate’s head, had come full circle. President Warren no longer believed.
After an uncomfortable silence, Kurt said, “Sir, whatever Guy did, at the end of the day, he was right. Secretary Billings is dead because he was stupid, not because Guy George was wrong. Let’s not forget that had he not done what he did, the peace meetings would have been destroyed, and Billings would still be dead. The only reason the Taskforce could react was because of Guy.”
The words held no sway, and Kurt quit trying, spending the rest of the meeting answering multiple questions about the death of Secretary Billings and the status of various cover organizations that might be exposed. After the meeting, he’d walked down the granite steps of the Old Executive Office Building, in the shadow of the White House, feeling like he’d failed his men.
Driving back to their office, he’d all but mentally given up, but now, entering Blaisdell Consulting, he felt a newborn drive for the unit he’d helped create. A gnawing desire to save it from destruction.
He exited the car, seeing that George had already keyed entry and was holding open the door. George said, “Hurry up. I don’t want to explain an alarm because I was acting like a gentleman.”
Kurt slid through the door, walked across the atrium, and pushed the elevator button. When George reached him, he said, “The hardest thing is going to be telling the men. I have a team waiting on an EXORD for a simple bugging operation, and I have to tell them no. They aren’t stupid. They’re going to understand something’s not right.”
George barked a laugh and said, “If you mean Johnny’s team, I’m sure his stint in Jamaica isn’t going to cause any angst. All that means is he gets another day of poolside fun.”
“I was thinking about Pike. The active-duty guys can take care of themselves, but Pike and Jennifer deserve an answer with enough time to prepare. If the Oversight Council turns off the tap, everyone else can go back to where they came from. Pike and Jennifer are going to be hung out to dry.”
The elevator doors opened and George said, “You going to tell him today?”
“I hope to. He’s up here doing some sort of business development for his company. I asked if we could meet, but I don’t know if I’m going to make it now. Too much crap going on.”
George keyed the access panel, then pressed the button for the third floor. He said, “I wouldn’t worry about Pike landing on his feet. He’ll figure something out—if it’s even necessary.”
They rode in silence for a moment, then Kurt said, “You remember all that studying we both did on the Office of Strategic Services? Not wanting to repeat any mistakes they made when we stood up the Taskforce?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you think it’s ironic that in the end, we’re going to end up just like them? Disbanded and thrown to the wolves because the threat is deemed not worthy?”
The car came to a halt and the elevator doors opened. George exited and said, “We aren’t there yet. There’s a lot of time before the election, and something may happen to alter any calculations of our worth.”
Kurt simply nodded, exiting the elevator. George caught his arm, made sure nobody else was in the hallway, then said, “You believe that, right?”
“Of course I do. I just don’t know if it will matter in the end. Politics trumps security every time.”
George let the doors close behind him and said, “Until security drives the politics. Remember, there are a lot of assholes out there who need killing, and only one organization designed to do that.”
4
The sun was still above the horizon, fighting to remain, but had started its inexorable dip, the Black Sea below the helicopter reflecting its light, lending a spectacular flare of orange and red hues to the imposing grandeur of the palace perched on the cliff above it.
The helicopter went feet dry and swept inland, directly over the top of what could only be described as a work of architectural excess. A massive, ostentatious structure of granite and stone that sprawled over 160 acres, from the air it looked like something created from the botched memories of Marie Antoinette and the Mad Hatter. Or from a man who was fervently attempting to reconstruct the power of tsars of old. Springing out of the thick woods on the Russian coast, the building had an opulence that reflected an earlier time, when money and influence were meant to be displayed.
The AugustaWestland AW139 crested the eastern facade, flew over the top of a courtyard large enough to host the World Cup, then zeroed in on four helipads five hundred meters away.
Sitting in his leather seat, the chill fading from the untouched glass of vodka in his hand, Simon Migunov took one look at the mansion and realized whom they were going to meet.
He had never been to the Black Sea Estate, but of course he’d heard about it. Everyone in Russia had, but only a select few were allowed to actually visit, and for good reason: It was where any decisions were made that fell outside of the official records of Russian history. Which was a misleading distinction, as the true history of modern Russia was precisely decided here, outside of any official organ, at a place that not even the Russian press would admit existed, even though it could be seen from satellites as clearly as the Great Wall of China.
Any sordid event that threatened to sully the rarefied air of the State Duma was discussed and decided here, under the canopy of a mansion that itself had been built using pilfered and hidden funds from the state. The stone construct, in fact, was the perfect embodiment of modern Russia.
The thought was unsettling to Simon, as were the two security men at the back of the helicopter, looking bored even as their jackets bulged with potential death.
Simon glanced at his . . . boss? peer? friend? and nodded at the courtyard below. Viktor Markelov smiled and said, “I told you it was important.”
“You said nothing of the sort. You said we were negotiating natural gas extensions with the Baltic states.”
Viktor flashed yellow teeth, then downed yet another shot of vodka. He said, “The Baltic states are on the menu, but their representatives won’t be here. They aren’t necessary for this conversation.”
Victor Markelov was the vice president of external business development for a Russian conglomerate called Gazprom, the largest oil company on Earth. Which, while impressive, didn’t really do the organization justice. It was actually the largest company, oil or otherwise, on the planet. A quasi-state-run entity, it controlled the massive amount of natural gas flowing out of Russia and, in so doing, was a hammer used in Russian foreign policy.
To put it bluntly, Gazprom was a weapon. An enormous beast that couldn’t really be compared to any other corporation on Earth, unless one turned to fiction, where it looked more like something James Bond would fight, with Blofeld at the helm.
Part profit-driven corporation, part state-run politics, part mafia-controlled interests, its whole was something that couldn’t be adequately described. But, Simon knew, it could certainly be leveraged.
Simon represented the seedier mafia side. Viktor was on the corporate side—the money side. Noticeably absent in t
he posh helicopter was anything resembling the state.
That, Simon concluded, resided in the mansion by the sea.
The helicopter settled onto the second pad to the left, the others empty, the only thing visible a small caravan of black Mercedes. The chosen vehicle of the elite.
As the engines wound down, Simon said, “Have you been here before?”
“No. This is my first time.”
Simon flicked his head to the rear, toward the armed men, and said, “We must be careful. This meeting may be about more than gas.”
Simon’s tendency toward such vigilance was born from direct experience. A Russian Jew, when the Soviet Union disintegrated he had been barely cresting twenty years old, scraping a living out of petty crime on the streets, but with a wily intelligence and a knack for survival.
The wall fell, and Simon had plied his trade in the chaotic free fall of the Soviet state, becoming a powerhouse working for an oligarch, using whatever levers he could to crush anyone who opposed him. Eventually, he had become the powerful head of an ever-expanding organized crime syndicate, working hand in glove with the new “democracy” of the Russian Federation. Then, as if on a whim, he’d been arrested by those same men. He’d spent a hellish year in a Moscow prison when his agenda no longer fit the desires of the state. Twelve months later, with no reason given, he’d been released.
He’d learned much during that time, the most important thing being that the state was fickle and could turn from provider to punisher at any moment. He was now back on top with Gazprom, doing enough underhanded business to end up on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list, but he understood his entire life was lived on a brittle shelf of ice. The man they were to meet inside the mansion had almost had Simon executed once, and Simon felt an irrational terror that he had voluntarily given himself over for a second attempt.
Viktor smiled at the concern on Simon’s face and said, “We have nothing to fear. I told you this would be a surprise. We are about to step into history. We were invited here because of what we have done with Gazprom. You for your inroads into the true power of the states, and me for my official expansion. We’ll seize the day. Seize what is offered tonight.”
