by Stephen Moss
“Of course, Mr. President. An honor as always,” said Ayala with consummate diplomacy, and the president waved them to a seat. They sat facing Neal, and could see an apology of sorts on his face.
“OK then,” said the president, “I asked you to come by because you may be one of the few people that both fully appreciates the scale of our ‘mission’ and also has an appreciation of this new crisis.”
Ayala quirked an eyebrow at him with a genuine surprise she would normally have hidden, and in the pause that followed, Neal spoke up.
“Normally this would be a subject for the joint chiefs, but before the president goes in front of them he wanted to get our opinion. Actually, he wanted to get my opinion, but I told him that you were far more qualified to speak on this than I am.” Again the apologetic expression flashed onto his face, though without contrition, only sympathy, and he carried on, “The stalemate in Pakistan has been broken.”
Ayala felt Saul tense at his side, aware that she had done the same thing. Ever since the conflagration that had killed the four satellites, Russia had been, quite reasonably, screaming bloody murder over the launch of missiles into their airspace by Pakistan. Frantic attempts by the UN, US, UK, EU, and every other union we could wrangle had stayed their hand for a while, but apparently not for good.
“As we already knew, the government of Tajikistan had allowed some Russian troop movements in the Badom-Dara region across from Northern Pakistan. Well, at twenty-three hundred hours eastern standard time, four Russian tank divisions crossed the thin swathe of Afghani territory that separates them from Pakistan and began rolling south toward Chitral and the main roadway to Islamabad. Satellite imagery confirms that Pakistani troops moved to intercept them, and we can also confirm that three Russian armored paratroop divisions began to deploy via Russian heavy-lift just north of Islamabad. Those are the deployments we know about. We also have unsubstantiated reports of landing craft along the coast and cruise missile launches from Russian submarines, as well as other disturbing events.
“At this point we have to assume that a full-scale invasion of Pakistan is underway, though we can have no way of knowing just how far they have gotten, or how far they intend to go.”
Ayala was stunned. The last time Russian troops had been in the region they had forcibly occupied Afghanistan for more than twenty years. How could they not have seen this coming? These kinds of decisions took months, years. How had the buildup to a decision to actually invade escaped their channels?
Peter Cusick offered up a comment, “As far as we can tell they have already secured the airport and major communications hubs around the capital, and at key points along the border. As of half an hour ago, no official information has been coming in or out of the country. That said, informal reports are still flowing, and all indications point to the beginnings of a significant occupation force.”
“Mr. President?” interjected Ayala. “I have been focused on other things, I admit, but I have been meeting weekly with the heads of more than ten of the world’s most capable intelligence agencies, including Mr. Cusick here. I simply cannot believe that this could have passed unnoticed. How could this happen? How could we not have known?”
“Actually, I had invited you here precisely because I was hoping you could help shed some light on that,” said the president with evident candor.
The director of the CIA went on, “We had reports of their troop buildup, of course, as you know. And even knew of their contingency plans for invasion. But every source we had in the Kremlin, and since the fall of the Iron Curtain we have a fairly significant number, told us that invasion was not being seriously considered. Posturing. That is what all of our sources said. Posturing. And this was confirmed at the highest possible levels in back channel conversations between our state departments.”
The room was silent for a moment until a new voice interjected meekly, “May I ask something?” said Saul Moskowitz, in his heavy Israeli accent.
He took the room’s silence as consent, and went on, “What have our assets in Moscow been saying since the attack?”
Peter shook his head, “We have not had time to contact them via the usual paths since the attack. We should know more from them soon.” He appeared comfortable with the statement, but both Ayala and Saul saw the twitch as he said ‘soon.’ He was not comfortable with the silence and they knew it. Come to think of it, neither was Saul.
The old Jew spoke again with deference, “Umm, surely the news has spread in Moscow far faster than it has here. Shouldn’t we have heard something from them by now? Shouldn’t at least some of them have initiated contact?”
It was what he would have done. Unless he perceived he was in danger. Or he was already dead.
The president looked at the director, who sighed and ground his jaw a bit, staring intensely at a point on the floor as he considered his response.
“Under ordinary circumstances I would say yes, but this is so unprecedented that I have to believe that our sources are as surprised as we are.” But he did not seem convinced, and neither was anyone else.
Ayala looked at Saul, then at Neal, and then spoke, “I think we should consider another factor in our calculations here. I am not sure how it plays into this, but this is, as you say, Peter, unprecedented, and I can’t help but draw a parallel.”
The room waited and she went on, “Not that any of us could easily forget it, but there are still three Agents out there. One of whom was last seen vanishing into the Siberian mountains. In view of the unexpected nature of this move, I don’t think we should discount the possibility that Mr. Kovalenko is somehow involved.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. The president’s secretary poked her head in, “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. President, but the secretary of state is on line two and requests to speak with you urgently.”
She was well aware of the seriousness of the meeting the president was in, but equally aware of how to prioritize his calls. Appreciating the urgency with which the secretary must have pressed to force the interruption, the president nodded and stepped to his desk.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment.” It was not a request they could deny, and they went to stand but he waved them back into their seats as he picked up the phone on his desk.
They all pretended not to listen, except Neal, who openly stared at the president as he frowned into the phone, nodding and grunting his understanding occasionally.
“I think you should get over here as soon as you can, Judy. And please have your staff prepare a brief on this immediately. I’ll need you to give an update in the SitRoom ASAP.”
He bid her farewell and hung up.
“Well, it appears that our contacts have been even more remiss than we thought, gentlemen,” said the president with evident concern, his eyes glazed as he tried to bring new information into focus. Ayala did not comment on the mild slight at having been referred to as one of the ‘gentlemen’ by the clearly disconcerted president as he continued, “We have received a formal dispatch from the president of Russia saying that in response to ‘hostile attacks’ on the sovereign republic of Russia, they have taken ‘defensive measures’ against their attackers.”
He delivered the final blow with greater intensity, “The message came from the office of President Svidrigaïlov.” The room reacted to the name, just as the president had when he had heard it. Svidrigaïlov was one of the few remaining true hard-liners in the Russian leadership, but he had been perceived as marginalized and virtually bankrupt of real power in the Kremlin.
Apparently they had been wrong about more than just the Russian’s intentions in Pakistan. If this message was correct, and Svidrigaïlov had somehow grabbed power, then they were not only facing the collapse of the Pakistani government, but an inestimably greater threat. If this message was correct, then in one illfated evening a fifth of the world’s nuclear weapons had just fallen into the hands of a red-blooded, hard-line communist to rival Kryuchkov and Yanayev
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- - -
Emilia drove just within city speed limits in order to avoid arousing suspicion. Something was very wrong, and she had get away from Borodino immediately. It had started with a muted call from an old colleague. No words, just a silent line and three distinct taps from the other end. It was a standard signal, and it meant only one thing: get out, and get out now. Without hesitation she had switched off her cell phone and removed the battery, hidden them both behind some books in the library, and exited by a side door.
Stepping away from the old stone building, she had walked down a side street, not even trusting her own car as she headed for the trolley stop nearby. She had hesitated then. Wondering if she was being paranoid. It was all or nothing in these types of situations. You either went completely off the grid and bolted, potentially blowing any cover you had managed to build, or you stayed put. With all the tension of the last few weeks, was it possible she had just been rattled by the strange call?
Outside the library, with the day’s grey light darkening to twilight, she had thought about abandoning her fears altogether and stepping back inside. But the sudden sight of four black Zil sedans approaching the library from different directions had banished her doubts.
After stepping into a nearby store to let the Zils pass by, she had headed for the trolley stop once more. The trolley had taken her away from the scene, she had not even looked where it was going, and after ten minutes of rumbling through the suburbs of Moscow, she had gotten off. Finding an appropriately inconspicuous and dilapidated Lada amongst the sea of old Russian cars that covered the city, she had broken its meager security and headed off into Moscow, seeking a way into the British embassy, and an escape from whoever was pursuing her.
- - -
The British embassy in Moscow sits in the middle of the Moskva River, on an island known as the Balchug, formed by one of the many canals that parallel the main river along its winding path. There are countless bridges going to and from the long island from either side, but its north shore faces onto the Kremlin itself, and Emilia had no intention of veering near there. So it was dark by the time her circuitous route took her to a spot south of the river.
Leaving the car in a side street, she began to weave her way toward the embassy, alert for anyone watching as she went. She knew that if they were looking for her, they would probably post some kind of lookout near the embassy. It would be their job to stop her from getting to the gates. If she got inside she was, by all intents and purposes, as safe as if she was back home in Yorkshire, or such was the theory.
Coming up from the south, she strolled over one of the smaller, less used bridges, and began her long walk east along the island to the embassy. She could sense tension in the air and knew that something was wrong. People were nervous, no one was making eye contact.
She saw the flashing blue and red lights reflected in office building windows before she saw the cars themselves. At first her heart began to race with fear at the sight of the flashing lights. And then it sank when she saw where they were coming from. Parked in a dense circle near the entrance to the British embassy was a gaggle of police cars and bicycles. A van was unloading more officers. Amongst them she could see some men in suits arguing loudly. It was against countless international treaties to block the entrance to an embassy, but as she looked on surreptitiously, she saw these policemen were not guarding the entrance but surrounding a body.
The words started to filter through. The suited men were from the British consulate. The person lying in a congealing pool of their own blood had been shot. From the enraged voices of the embassy personnel, it was clear that whoever it was had been trying to reach the embassy’s gates. A feeling of peering over a great precipice came over Emilia, and she suppressed a sense of nausea. This could not be a coincidence. Something terrible was afoot, and she needed to disappear.
Turning to walk away, she tried to think of options. An exit strategy. Her Russian was excellent, naturally, so maybe she should try to flee to one of the countless satellite towns and cities around Moscow. Mozhaysk, where she had been living up until two hours ago, was out of the question, but there were more than ten million people living in and around the Russian capital, and surely she could lose herself amongst them. Walking north so as not to retrace her steps, Emilia came upon the banks of the Moskva.
A momentary glance across the river to the Kremlin revealed tanks and troop carriers in Red Square, and the pieces started to come together. It was clear that this was much larger than her. Red Army in the city, foreign operatives being rounded up, maybe even killed, if that had indeed been one of her colleagues leaking life into the cement in front of the embassy. These things could only mean a coup.
She set aside thoughts of who might have attempted such a thing, focusing instead on how she might avoid joining her colleagues in the grave, or worse, in the dark basements of Lubyanka.
She did not sense the eyes looking down on her from a high rooftop behind her, nor did she see the figure leap silently from that lofty height to the smaller block to her right. A minute later some part of her mind registered a dull thud around the corner ahead of her, and her eyes flashed in that direction. Her pace remaining steady even as adrenalin pumped into her veins.
As she rounded the corner, she saw a lone man walking toward her. Behind him she could see a set of concentric cracks in the pavement circling from what looked a very shallow crater. The man was looking at her as they approached each other. She resisted the urge to run. That would be futile. If she did, he would only alert his colleagues who were no doubt nearby, and they would seal the bridges. If she ran she was as good as dead. Slipping her left hand into her pocket she grasped her keys in her fist. The loose chain that bound them allowed her to arrange the three keys so they were pointing out from the gaps between the fingers of her bunched fist, turning her hand into a makeshift maul.
As they came abreast of each other, he stepped into her path and she slipped her hand from her pocket, her training kicking in. Without hesitation, she thrust her hand in an upward curl to connect with the soft tissue of his throat, hoping the keys would make it a short fight. Her eyes were locked on his, looking for the telltale signs of his repost, but she saw only blackness as he walked calmly into her blow. Sensing the coming impact, she pushed upward from her waist, hoping to drive her fist home, but instead felt her hand impact solidity. The man did not flinch. Her hand drove into his chin and she felt the keys twist in her fingers as they met the immovability of his synthetic skin. Instead of driving her metal keys into his throat, she felt as they stopped dead and her fist’s momentum drove the metal back down into her palm.
A moment later she was kneeling on the floor, clutching her left wrist as she stared at the impossible pain of the keys driven backward into her flesh. Blood spilled out from where the three shards of bronze had cut deep gashes back along the inside of her hand and stuck out of her palm, as burning agony screamed up her arm. She was dizzy with the pain, as though hot, noxious fumes of hurt were coming off of her wound to cloud her vision.
She did not see the fist coming down on the back of her neck, nor did she have time to sense the rush of air before it crashed down upon her. Her head snapped downward, snapping the life from her body as it did so, and she slumped to the ground. Without opening his lips, the strange man used a handheld radio to tell FSB personnel nearby that another of the foreign agents had been spotted. He gave them the location of Emilia’s body and, after flexing his powerful legs, catapulted himself up onto the tower block’s roof once more, and from there back out into the Moscow night.
It had been a long day, and it would probably be a long night. After he had helped decapitate the elected Russian government, he had spent the evening covertly coordinating the FSB’s movements. The FSB operatives, many of whom still remembered when they were known as the KGB, had been sent on a string of missions to track down ‘dissenters’ and ‘terrorists,’ guided by an unseen voice to the bulk of the West’s a
gents in the city. They had all but finished cutting out the Alliance’s eyes and ears in Russia. Now it was just a case of tracking down the few who, like Emilia, had escaped the net thrown out by the FSB forces loyal to Svidrigaïlov.
With an ally like Mikhail in their midst, it would not be a fair fight. Tonight would be a manhunt, pockmarked with quick slaughters across the city’s dark streets.
Chapter 17: Fine Tuning
The gentle notes of a grand piano swam in the air of the laboratory. It was long before dawn, and Birgit reveled in the serenity of having the huge space to herself. Behind her was the original resonance manipulator, long since superseded by its ever more powerful successors, but still useful for the smaller experiments the teams were working on.
Birgit’s head swayed gently back and forth ever so slightly with the pianissimo tap of the music, as an unknown virtuoso in a long-forgotten studio slid seamlessly through Beethoven’s twelfth piano sonata. The lonesome notes echoed through the darkened laboratory as Birgit worked, sometimes solemn, sometimes forte, but always pensive, focusing Birgit’s thoughts as she, in turn, tapped away on one of the powerful PCs that dotted the room. The only light in the vaulting space was the desk lamp illuminating Birgit’s dashing fingers, the big overhead fluorescent bulbs dimmed for the night.
Every now and then she would break from her annotations to grasp a plastic stylus and brush deftly across the pad to her right, spinning and delving into complex diagrams in front of her as she worked on her latest schematic.
Over the two months since her recruitment, she had become an artist. No longer slaving over theoretical sciences, no more straining within the suffocating confines of penny-pinching university budgets. Freed from the limitations of humanity’s embryonic mechanical expertise, she had taken the resonance manipulator and surged outward to the very bounds of her imagination.
She had long ago left behind even the most ambitious dreams of her forbears. The facility she now worked in, buried deep in the secret stone fortress that had become her home, was powered by a reactor the size of a football. It took in air and a tiny amount of distilled water, parsing them for the ingredients it needed, and exhausting only helium and an isotopic charge similar to that of an air ionizer. That and more power than a conventional coal power plant consuming more than five hundred tons of coal per day.
