by Tom Clancy
“The SVR chairman?”
“Affirmative. A car similar to his has exploded in Dzerzhinskiy Square, and this is the time he usually goes to work.”
“Confidence?” the disembodied male voice asked. It would be a middle-grade officer, probably military, holding down the eleven-to-seven watch. Probably Air Force. “Confidence” was one of their institutional buzzwords.
“We’re taking this off police radios-the Moscow Militia, that is. We have lots of voice traffic, and it sounds excited, my operator tells me.”
“Okay, can you upload it to us?”
“Affirmative,” Lieutenant Wilson replied.
“Okay, let’s do that. Thanks for the heads-up, we’ll take it from here.”
Okay, Station Moscow out,” heard Major Bob Teeters. He was new in his job at NSA. Formerly a rated pilot who had twenty-one hundred hours in command of C-5s and C-17s, he’d injured his left elbow in a motorcycle accident eight months before, and the loss of mobility there had ended his flying career, much to his disgust. Now he was reborn as a spook, which was somewhat more interesting in an intellectual sense, but not exactly a happy exchange for an aviator. He waved to an enlisted man, a Navy petty officer first-class, to pick up on the active line from Moscow. This the sailor did, donning headphones and lighting up the word-processing program on his desktop computer. This sailor was a Russian linguist in addition to being a yeoman, and thus competent to drive the computer. He typed, translating as he listened in to the pirated Russian police radios, and his script came up on Major Teeters’s computer screen.
I HAVE THE LICENSE NUMBER, CHECKING NOW, the first line read.
GOOD, QUICK AS YOU CAN.
WORKING ON IT, COMRADE. (TAPPING IN THE BACKGROUND, DO THE RUSSKIES HAVE COMPUTERS FOR THIS STUFF NOW?)
I HAVE IT, WHITE MERCEDES BENZ, REGISTERED TO G. F. AVSYENKO (NOT SURE OF SPELLING), 677 PROTOPOPOV PROSPEKT, FLAT 18A.
HIM? I KNOW THAT NAME!
Which was good for somebody, Major Teeters thought, but not all that great for Avsyenko. Okay, what next? The senior watch officer was another squid, Rear Admiral Tom Porter, probably drinking coffee in his office over in the main building and watching TV, maybe. Time to change that. He called the proper number.
“Admiral Porter.”
“Sir, this is Major Teeters down in the watch center. We have some breaking news in Moscow.”
“What’s that, Major?” a tired voice asked.
“Station Moscow initially thought that somebody might have killed Chairman Golovko of the KG-the SVR, I mean.”
“What was that, Major?” a somewhat more alert voice inquired.
“Turns out it probably wasn’t him, sir. Somebody named Avsyenko-” Teeters spelled it out. “We’re getting the intercepts off their police radio bands. I haven’t run the name yet.”
“What else?”
“Sir, that’s all I have right now.”
By this time, a CIA field officer named Tom Barlow was in the loop at the embassy. The third-ranking spook in the current scheme of things, he didn’t want to drive over to Dzerzhinskiy Square himself, but he did the next best thing. Barlow called the CNN office, the direct line to a friend.
“Mike Evans.”
“Mike, this is Jimmy,” Tom Barlow said, initiating a prearranged and much-used lie. “Dzerzhinskiy Square, the murder of somebody in a Mercedes. Sounds messy and kinda spectacular.”
“Okay,” the reporter said, making a brief note. “We’re on it.”
At his desk, Barlow checked his watch: 8:52 local time. Evans was a hustling reporter for a hustling news service. Barlow figured there’d be a mini-cam there in twenty minutes. The truck would have its own Ku-band uplink to a satellite, down from there to CNN headquarters in Atlanta, and the same signal would be pirated by the DoD downlink at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and spread around from there on government-owned satellites to interested parties. An attempt on the life of Chairman Golovko made it interesting as hell to a lot of people. Next he lit up his desktop Compaq computer and opened the file for Russian names that were known to CIA.
Aduplicate of that file resided in any number of CIA computers at Langley, Virginia, and on one of those in the CIA Operations Room on the 7th floor of the Old Headquarters Building, a set of fingers typed A-V S-Y E-N-K-O … and came up with nothing other than:
ENTIRE FILE SEARCHED. THE SEARCH ITEM WAS NOT FOUND.
That evoked a grumble from the person on the computer. So, it wasn’t spelled properly.
“Why does this name sound familiar?” he asked. “But the machine says no-hit.”
“Let’s see…” a co-worker said, leaning over and respelling the name. “Try this …” Again a no-hit. A third variation was tried.
“Bingo! Thanks, Beverly,” the watch officer said. “Oh, yeah, we know who this guy is. Rasputin. Low-life bastard-sure as hell, look what happened when he went straight,” the officer chuckled.
Rasputin?” Golovko asked. “Nekulturniy swine, eh?” He allowed himself a brief smile. “But who would wish him dead?” he asked his security chief, who, if anything, was taking the matter even more seriously than the Chairman. His job had just become far more complicated. For starters, he had to tell Sergey Nikolay’ch that the white Mercedes was no longer his personal conveyance. Too ostentatious. His next task of the day was to ask the armed sentries who posted the corners of the building’s roof why they hadn’t spotted a man in the load area of a dump truck with an RPG-within three hundred meters of the building they were supposed to guard! And not so much as a warning over their portable radios until the Mercedes of Gregoriy Filipovich Avseyenko had been blown to bits. He’d sworn many oaths already on this day, and there would be more to come.
“How long has he been out of the service?” Golovko asked next.
“Since ‘93, Comrade Chairman,” Major Anatoliy Ivan’ch Shelepin said, having just asked the same question and received the answer seconds earlier.
The first big reduction-in-force, Golovko thought, but it would seem that the pimp had made the transition to private enterprise well. Well enough to own a Mercedes Benz S-600 … and well enough to be killed by enemies he’d made along the way … unless he’d unknowingly sacrificed his own life for that of another. That question still needed answering. The Chairman had recovered his self-control by this point, enough at any rate for his mind to begin functioning. Golovko was too bright a man to ask Why would anyone wish to end my life? He knew better than that. Men in positions like his made enemies, some of them deadly ones … but most of them were too smart to make such an attempt. Vendettas were dangerous things to begin at his level, and for that reason, they never happened. The business of international intelligence was remarkably sedate and civilized. People still died. Anyone caught spying for a foreign government against Mother Russia was in the deepest of trouble, new regime or not-state treason was still state treason-but those killings followed … what did the Americans call it? Due process of law. Yes, that was it. The Americans and their lawyers. If their lawyers approved of something, then it was civilized.
“Who else was in the car?” Golovko asked.
“His driver. We have the name, a former militiaman. And one of his women, it would seem, no name for her yet.”
“What do we know of Gregoriy’s routine? Why was he there this morning?”
“Not known at this time, Comrade,” Major Shelepin replied. “The militia are working on it.”
“Who is running the case?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Shablikov, Comrade Chairman.”
“Yefim Konstantinovich-yes, I know him. Good man,” Golovko allowed. “I suppose he’ll need his time, eh?”
“It does require time,” Shelepin agreed.
More than it took for Rasputin to meet his end, Golovko thought. Life was such a strange thing, so permanent when one had it, so fleeting when it was lost-and those who lost it could never tell you what it was like, could they? Not unless you believed in ghosts or God or an after
life, things which had somehow been overlooked in Golovko’s childhood. So, yet another great mystery, the spymaster told himself. It had come so close, for the first time in his life. It was disquieting, but on reflection, not so frightening as he would have imagined. The Chairman wondered if this was something he might call courage. He’d never thought of himself as a brave man, for the simple reason that he’d never faced immediate physical danger. It was not that he had avoided it, only that it had never come close until today, and after the outrage had passed, he found himself not so much bemused as curious. Why had this happened? Who had done it? Those were the questions he had to answer, lest it happen again. To be courageous once was enough, Golovko thought.
Dr. Benjamin Goodley arrived at Langley at 5:40, five minutes earlier than his customary time. His job largely denied him much of a social life, which hardly seemed fair to the National Intelligence Officer. Was he not of marriageable age, possessed of good looks, a man with good prospects both in the professional and business sense? Perhaps not the latter, Goodley thought, parking his car in a VIP slot by the cement canopy of the Old Headquarters Building. He drove a Ford Explorer because it was a nice car for driving in the snow, and there would be snow soon. At least winter was coming, and winter in the D.C. area was wholly unpredictable, especially now that some of the econuts were saying that global warming would cause an unusually cold winter this year. The logic of that escaped him. Maybe he’d have a chat with the President’s Science Adviser to see if that made any sense talking with someone who could explain things. The new one was pretty good, and knew how to use single-syllable words.
Goodley made his way through the pass-gate and into the elevator. He walked into the Operations Room at 5:50 A.M.
“Hey, Ben,” one said.
“Morning, Charlie. Anything interesting happening?”
“You’re gonna love this one, Ben,” Charlie Roberts promised. “A big day in Mother Russia.”
“Oh?” Narrowed eyes. Goodley had his worries about Russia, and so did his boss. “What’s that?”
“No big deal. Just somebody tried to whack Sergey Nikolay’ch.”
His head snapped around like an owl’s. “What?”
“You heard me, Ben, but they hit the wrong car with the RPG and took out somebody else we know-well, used to know,” Roberts corrected himself.
“Start from the beginning.”
“Peggy, roll the videotape,” Roberts commanded his watch officer with a theatrical wave of the arm.
“Whoa!” Goodley said after the first five seconds. “So, who was it really?”
“Would you believe Gregoriy Filipovich Avseyenko?”
“I don’t know that name,” Goodley admitted.
“Here.” The watch officer handed over a manila folder. “What we had on the guy when he was KGB. A real sweet-heart,” she observed, in the woman’s neutral voice of distaste.
“Rasputin?” Goodley said, scanning the first page. “Oh, okay, I have heard something about this one.”
“So has the Boss, I bet.”
“I’ll know in two hours,” Goodley imagined aloud. “What’s Station Moscow saying?”
“The station chief is in St. Pete’s for a trade conference, part of his cover duties. What we have is from his XO. The best bet to this point is that either Avseyenko made a big enemy in the Russian Mafia, or maybe Golovko was the real target, and they hit the wrong car. No telling which at this point.” Followed by the usual NIO damned-if-I-know shrug.
“Who would want to take Golovko out?”
“Their Mafia? Somebody got himself an RPG, and they don’t sell them in hardware stores, do they? So, that means somebody deeply into their criminal empire, probably, made the hit-but who was the real target? Avseyenko must have had some serious enemies along the way, but Golovko must have enemies or rivals, too.” She shrugged again. “You pays your money and you takes your choice.”
“The Boss likes to have better information,” Goodley warned.
“So do I, Ben,” Peggy Hunter replied. “But that’s all I got, and even the fuckin’ Russians don’t have better at this point.”
“Any way we can look into their investigation?”
“The Legal Attaché, Mike Reilly, is supposed to be pretty tight with their cops. He got a bunch of them admitted to the FBI’s National Academy post-grad cop courses down at Quantico.”
“Maybe have the FBI tell him to nose around?”
Mrs. Hunter shrugged again. “Can’t hurt. Worst thing anybody can say is no, and we’re already there, right?”
Goodley nodded. “Okay, I’ll recommend that.” He got up. “Well,” he observed on his way out the door, “the Boss won’t bitch about how boring the world is today.” He took the CNN tape with him and headed back to his SUV.
The sun was struggling to rise now. Traffic on the George Washington Parkway was picking up with eager-beaver types heading into their desks early, probably Pentagon people, most of them, Goodley thought, as he crossed over the Key Bridge, past Teddy Roosevelt Island. The Potomac was calm and flat, almost oily, like the pond behind a mill dam. The outside temperature, his dashboard said, was forty-four, and the forecast for the day was a high in the upper fifties, a few clouds, and calm winds. An altogether pleasant day for late fall, though he’d be stuck in his office for all of it, pleasant or not.
Things were starting early at The House, he saw on pulling in. The Blackhawk helicopter was just lifting off as he pulled into his reserved parking place, and the motorcade had already formed up at the West Entrance. It was enough to make him check his watch. No, he wasn’t late. He hustled out of his car, bundling the papers and cassette into his arms as he hurried inside.
“Morning, Dr. Goodley,” a uniformed guard said in greeting.
“Hi, Chuck.” Regular or not, he had to pass through the metal detector. The papers and cassette were inspected by hand-as though he’d try to bring a gun in, Ben thought in passing irritation. Well, there had been a few scares, hadn’t there? And these people were trained not to trust anybody.
Having passed the daily security test, he turned left, sprinted up the stairs, then left again to his office, where some helpful soul-he didn’t know if it was one of the clerical staff or maybe one of the Service people-had his office coffee machine turning out some Gloria Jean’s French Hazelnut. He poured himself a cup and sat down at his desk to organize his papers and his thoughts. He managed to down half of the cup before bundling it all up again for the ninety-foot walk. The Boss was already there.
“Morning, Ben.”
“Good morning, Mr. President,” replied the National Security Adviser.
“Okay, what’s new in the world?” POTUS asked.
“It looks as though somebody might have tried to assassinate Sergey Golovko this morning.”
“Oh?” President Ryan asked, looking up from his coffee. Goodley filled him in, then inserted the cassette in the Oval Office VCR and punched PLAY.
“Jeez,” Ryan observed. What had been an expensive car was now fit only for the crushing machine. “Who’d they get instead?”
“One Gregoriy Filipovich Avseyenko, age fifty-two-”
“I know that name. Where from?”
“He’s more widely known as Rasputin. He used to run the KGB Sparrow School.”
Ryan’s eyes went a little wider. “That cocksucker! Okay, what’s the story on him?”
“He got RIF’d back in ’93 or so, and evidently set himself up in the same business, and it would seem he’s made some money at it, judging by his car, anyway. There was evidently a young woman in with him when he was killed, plus a driver. They were all killed.”
Ryan nodded. The Sparrow School had been where for years the Soviets had trained attractive young women to be prostitutes in the service of their country both at home and abroad, because, since time immemorial, men with a certain weakness for women had often found their tongues loosened by the right sort of lubrication. Not a few secrets had been conveyed to th
e KGB by this method, and the women had also been useful in recruiting various foreign nationals for the KGB officers to exploit. So, on having his official office shut down, Rasputin-so called by the Soviets for his ability to get women to bend to his will-had simply plied his trade in the new free-enterprise environment.
“So, Avseyenko might have had ‘business’ enemies angry enough to take him out, and Golovko might not have been the target at all?”
“Correct, Mr. President. The possibility exists, but we don’t have any supporting data one way or the other.”
“How do we get it?”
“The Legal Attaché at the embassy is well connected with the Russian police,” the National Security Adviser offered.
“Okay, call Dan Murray at FBI and have his man nose around,” Ryan said. He’d already considered calling Golovko directly-they’d known each other for more than ten years, though one of their initial contacts had involved Golovko’s pistol right in Jack’s face on one of the runways of Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport-and decided against it. He couldn’t show that much immediate interest, though later, if they had a private moment together, he’d be able to ask a casual question about the incident. “Same for Ed and MP at CIA.”
“Right.” Goodley made a note.
“Next?”
Goodley turned the page. “Indonesia is doing some naval exercises that have the Aussies a little interested….” Ben went on with the morning briefing for twenty more minutes, mainly covering political rather than military matters, because that’s what national security had become in recent years. Even the international arms trade had diminished to the point that quite a few countries were treating their national military establishments as boutiques rather than serious instruments of statecraft.
“So, the world’s in good shape today?” the President summarized.
“Except for the pothole in Moscow, it would seem so, sir.”
The National Security Adviser departed, and Ryan looked at his schedule for the day. As usual, he had very little in the way of free time. About the only moments on his plan-of-the-day without someone in the office with him were those in which he’d have to read over briefing documents for the next meeting, many of which were planned literally weeks in advance. He took off his reading glasses-he hated them-and rubbed his eyes, already anticipating the morning headache that would come in about thirty minutes. A quick re-scan of the page showed no light moments today. No troop of Eagle Scouts from Wyoming, nor current World Series champs, nor Miss Plum Tomato from California’s Imperial Valley to give him something to smile about. No. Today would be all work.
