by Ward Larsen
As a lifelong military officer, he’d served the Russian Federation for twenty-five good and honorable years. Yet his most recent assignment, working directly for the president, fell outside the usual chain of command. No, he corrected, it fell outside any relationship whatsoever with the Russian army. In private moments he sometimes wished he still reported to a general. Wished that his only worries involved fitness reports and jockeying for the next promotion.
At some point in recent months, Zhukov realized, he had crossed a line of sorts. This new mission was something dark and unpredictable, yet it wasn’t without perks. Petrov’s unashamed attempts to procure his loyalty had at first surprised him. The dacha was comfortable, even if he’d done nothing to earn it. So too the sporty Jaguar that had shown up in front of his house one day, key fob and registration papers, already written in his name, dropped through the front door mail slot like a holiday greeting card. It seemed superfluous for a colonel in the Russian army who was simply serving its commander in chief, albeit in an uncharacteristically direct manner. Zhukov had tried to write it all off, reckoning that was how things were done in these halls.
The problem he saw was in defining a path forward. He could envision a scenario in which he was made a general next week. Another where he was forced into retirement. Many of his peers had already hung up their boots, moving to Cyprus or the Black Sea, places where pensions went further and where finding one’s feet in the sand guaranteed a view of the sea. A few were hanging on, battling for promotions the old-fashioned way. Zhukov, by no design of his own, had found himself on a third course. And one that increasingly occupied his thoughts.
The president had alluded to his future with more than a dash of palace intrigue: A man of your talents, Colonel … you could do well in business. I am always on the lookout for dependable individuals, steady hands who can run things. An oil company, perhaps. Or a platinum mine or rail line. Success breeds success. It had been broached in a decidedly offhand manner, both men on horseback during a long weekend in the Urals. Zhukov was sure it had not been mentioned carelessly. The rest of his exchange with Petrov had reflected so many others. Never lies, but never quite the truth—always an oily middle ground.
He’d done his best to not dwell on the idea, but Zhukov increasingly found himself consumed. And if such implausible suggestions were fulfilled? He realized it would make him no different from the men he’d been assigned to oversee—the ones so integral to his assigned mission. On the other hand, he saw a chance to leave behind the cutthroat army promotion ladder for something of far greater potential. In the end, Zhukov relented to one certainty—his future now depended on the man on the other side of this door.
His musings ended abruptly when Olga reappeared and ushered him inside.
* * *
The president of the Russian Federation was seated behind his desk. Sergey Petrov was not a large man, but short-boned and sturdy, like the pit bull that he was. Of course, behind the most important desk in Russia, physical stature was irrelevant. His background was KGB, as was that of most of his governing clique. Spies who’d gone imperial and become their own masters.
Olga disappeared, closing the doors behind her, and Zhukov stepped smartly across the room. His boots thumped together when he reached the desk, and he stood neatly at attention. He resisted an urge to salute. Petrov had set him straight on that during their first meeting—the president had grown weary of such customs, and Zhukov was to render them only if cameras were nearby.
Petrov seemed to ignore him for a time. He straightened papers on his desk, and scribbled a note on a pad. Then, with the slightest of hand gestures, he directed Zhukov to take one of the two chairs opposite the wide desk. There would be no small talk about sports or the weather. The latter would have been natural—the first Arctic gust of winter was at that moment flogging Moscow with a vengeance—but nothing Petrov did was designed to make a man feel at home.
“Have you uncovered any new information regarding the death of Pyotr Ivanovic?” the president asked.
“No sir, nothing since we last spoke. I think your suggestion of a professional assassin is right on the mark. Unfortunately, such individuals are necessarily elusive.”
Petrov nodded understandingly. “I realize you are a busy man, and I know I have asked a great deal of you. With that in mind, I yesterday ordered the FSB and SVR to make identifying this killer their highest priority.”
He was referring to Russia’s internal and foreign intelligence services. Zhukov recoiled at the idea of Russia’s two most feared intelligence agencies interlacing with his own work. “Have they made any progress?” he asked cautiously.
“I received an initial briefing only this morning,” the president continued. “They originally came up with four killers-for-hire who could have had a hand in something like this.” He referenced a paper on his desk. “One was a Venezuelan, a man who hasn’t been seen in years. As it turns out, we discovered he was recently made a guest of the state in Guatemala—something about putting a bullet in the president’s mistress. There was a South African, but he is getting old and is rumored to have gone to New Zealand for cancer treatment. Then there was a Belgian, a very gifted marksman. An SVR man was dispatched to track him down and found him quite easily in Amsterdam, drunk and in the company of two prostitutes. Not completely disqualifying in the matter of Ivanovic’s death, but by all accounts the man is tireless in his pursuits and has been in Holland for some time.”
Here Petrov paused, and Zhukov was obliged to fill the silence. “Which leaves but one remaining suspect. Of course, one has to consider the chance that—”
“I know what you are thinking,” Petrov said unnervingly. “Our mafia here at home can be troublesome. Yet I find such a scenario unlikely. Any attack on Ivanovic is effectively an attack on me. No one in the brotherhood would be so foolish.”
“So then … who is it we are concentrating on?”
“They say he is Israeli, although a few claim him to be Swedish. His name is David Slaton, although even that seems uncertain. He once worked for Mossad, but is rumored to have gone rogue, perhaps even become a hired gun. Whoever he is, his exploits are legendary.”
“I think I’ve heard the name,” said Zhukov. “But was he not killed a few years ago in Geneva?”
“And more recently in Lebanon. He’s been implicated in assassinations across the continents, going back over a decade. The man seems an apparition, yet comes to life with startling regularity.”
“Assuming he exists, do we know where he might be or who he could be working for?”
“Not yet. But we are watching closely. We’ve quietly shared our suspicions with the Italian police, not that they’ll make any progress. It’s rather like giving eyeglasses to a blind man.” Petrov curled the fingers of one hand as if to inspect his fingernails. “But enough of that—it’s something for the intelligence services to worry about. Tell me about our little mission.”
Zhukov undertook a mental shifting of gears. “The ships remain on schedule, and our assets in the region are planning accordingly.”
“Good. And the proceedings in Morocco?”
“According to Tikhonov, the testing has been mostly successful.”
Petrov’s chin lifted ever so slightly. Tikhonov was the project’s chief engineer.
“He tells me it is nothing unexpected—especially given the accelerated timetable and logistical complications.” They both knew this was the most precarious part of the plan. Critical work was being done by civilians far from the security umbrella of the Russian state—and correspondingly far from Petrov’s oversight. Yet it was that very remoteness, the combination of location and deniability, that demanded its inclusion.
“You should take another trip there,” said the president. “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Actually … let my people take care of your travel. Anything I can do to ease your burden.” Petrov loo
ked at Zhukov pensively. “I should mention something about Ivanovic … as it turns out, he owned a majority stake in Primatek. Those shares will have to be reallocated.”
“To his heirs?” Zhukov said, trying to recall what Primatek was. Natural gas, he decided tentatively.
Petrov chuckled. “Heirs? If Pyotr had any children they are certainly not legitimate.” He locked his dead eyes on Zhukov.
The man was ruthless in his lack of expression, and the descriptive tag that had come to Zhukov on their first meeting remained intact—he was looking at the world’s most accomplished gambler. How many men had received similar inducements? he wondered. How many had abandoned their principles from the very chair in which he now sat?
Petrov said, “You have done well, Viktor. Very well. See this mission through, and we will all be better for it.”
Zhukov said that he would, and for five minutes more he briefed the president on the specifics of the three ships owned by MIR Enterprises. The next meeting was arranged, and with business concluded, Petrov averted his attention without comment to the papers on his desk. As an officer who’d stared death in the eye on battlefields across Asia and the Middle East, Zhukov was not easily unsettled. Even so, it was with no small relief that he beat a hasty retreat.
When he reached the hall again, a corridor where Stalin and Lenin had once roamed, he breathed more freely. Olga was nowhere in sight, but he was sure he could find his way out. Navigating the baroque passages, Zhukov had a great deal on his mind, yet one curious thought rose to the front: it occurred to him that the true history of this place was likely far different from what he had learned as a schoolboy.
In the office he’d just departed, the president didn’t look up until long after the door was closed. Alone after a busy morning, Petrov pushed away the papers on his blotter and spun his chair to face the window. He took in a panoramic view of Red Square under a dark pewter sky. Through wind-spun flurries he saw Lenin’s Tomb, and in the distance the Moscow River. The river appeared unseasonably bleak and lethargic, well ahead of schedule to its ice-clad winter stillness.
His eyes drifted across the city, and everywhere he saw light and motion. The streets were full of cars and delivery trucks, and office buildings blazed bright in the dim morning light. But for how long? he wondered.
The spring had not been bad, energy prices holding up nicely in expectation of robust summer demand. Then things settled in Nigeria and Venezuela, and the Americans had gone back to their shale fields. By August the forecast was damning. Oil and natural gas prices, Russia’s lifeblood, were in full-scale retreat. He’d been down this road before: shaving pensions, postponing road work, shorting long-neglected military accounts. Stopgaps at every turn to buy time. As long-term policy, he knew, it was entirely unsustainable.
His ministries were doing their best to spin news feeds and block troublesome internet sites, and the FSB cracked down unrelentingly at any hint of coordinated protest. For a time distractions had been useful. The campaigns in Ukraine and Syria had brought a resurgence of nationalism, fleeting as it was. Yet Petrov’s drumbeat of renewed Russian greatness was losing its cadence, faltering on the disharmonies of food shortages, stunted health care, and aging demographics. Unless something changed in that refrain, his greatest fear might soon be realized.
Petrov had long understood that no one person, nor even any small group, could threaten his hold on power. Pockets of resistance would always exist, and there would be scandals to tamp down, the odd whistleblower to eliminate. Yet he knew that ultimately there was but one real threat to his endless grip: the collective will of the Russian people.
It had nearly come to pass once before, after the last election he’d so painstakingly controlled. The protests had nearly gotten out of hand. Petrov knew a revolution when he saw one, and he’d issued the necessary orders. The FSB had clamped down, rounding up protesters and threatening activist leaders. The most troublesome were shunted to labor camps. That had kept the opposition off balance, but just, and in those days the economy had been in far better shape. Oil and gas prices had been more than twice what they were now. More unnervingly, twice what they were projected to be in coming years.
And without those revenues to support so many budgetary demands …
Unsustainable.
His attention still outside, Petrov wondered how many eyes were at that moment looking the other way, gazing up at the most important window in Russia. The pane was constructed from special glass, proofed against bullets and eavesdropping and whatever other incursions might be attempted. He supposed it was all necessary, and he was glad to have it. More so each day.
And if this new scheme didn’t work out?
Then the glass before him, Petrov knew, would not be enough.
SEVENTEEN
On that same morning, as an awakening winter was lashing the Moscow River, Slaton sat in the courtyard of the Rome embassy enjoying an early coffee with Christine. A lifting sun bathed the veranda in warm light, and they watched as Davy played in the grass with Bella’s three-year-old grandson.
Their idyllic moment was ruined when Sorensen appeared.
“We’ve found something you should see,” she said, her eyes on Slaton.
He deferred to Christine for guidance. Her face was tense, but she nodded all the same. “It’s all right, go ahead.”
Slaton followed Sorensen to a small, simply furnished office he’d not seen before. She removed a photo from an attaché and set it on the desk. Slaton saw an overhead picture of what looked like a freighter. It was making passage through a narrow canal between strips of tan desert.
“It’s a boat,” he said.
Sorensen frowned.
“Suez Canal?”
“Yes. Her name is Argos. My team in Langley were able to build one solid link between Ivanovic, Romanov, and Ovechkin. About four months ago they formed a corporation named MIR Enterprises. It’s a classic series of shell companies, but we were able to unravel enough to figure out that they bought three ships. Argos is one of them.”
“Okay. So three really rich guys put together a shady company and bought some old freighters. I don’t mean to invalidate your team’s work, but what could be more in character? That’s what guys like that do.”
“We have concrete evidence linking these men to the Russian president.”
“No. You have one photograph of them with a colonel who’s on the president’s A-list.” Slaton waited for Sorensen’s counter. Whatever it was, he guessed she’d already made the same argument unsuccessfully with her superiors back in Langley. When nothing came, he felt a twinge of sympathy.
“Any idea where this ship is going?” he asked.
“No. We know she left Sebastopol seven days ago, en route to Mumbai.”
Slaton stood straight and conjured a mental map in his head. “When was this photo taken?” he asked.
“A few hours ago.”
He paused to make calculations. “Did she make any stops since leaving Crimea?”
“None that we know of, but we’ve just figured this out. Why do you ask?”
“You’re telling me she took seven days to get from Sebastopol to the canal. That’s what … maybe a thousand nautical miles? I’d say she either stopped along the way, or she’s moving at minimum speed.”
“You’re right,” Sorensen said. “That’s good. It’s something we can dig into.”
“You said they bought three ships. Can I assume you’re looking for the others?”
“We are. There’s commercially available satellite data on virtually every merchant ship these days. The ones that don’t participate we’re pretty good at isolating and tracking.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Right—I guess you’ve seen that firsthand. Anyway, we think one called Tasman Sea departed Cam Ranh Bay last week, a westbound course. The other ship owned by MIR is named Cirrus, but we’re having trouble locating her. All are of the same general class and configuration—dry goods car
riers, around two thousand deadweight tons. Between two and three hundred feet in length, they’re basically coastal freighters. And it might be a coincidence, but each ship is fitted with a deck crane like this one.” She pointed to the picture of Argos, and he saw a loading crane mounted amidships.
Slaton rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “And let me guess—you’ve run this all by Langley, but it didn’t change anyone’s mind. Still no backing.”
“They’ll come around. What else should we look for?”
Slaton regarded her closely. “You know, I’ve got to admit, Anna, in terms of sheer tenacity—you may have even me beat.”
She kept staring at him.
“Any idea what kind of load they’re carrying?”
“I’ve got my team looking into it. We watch the Black Sea ports and Cam Ranh pretty closely, but it takes time to access the files and sort through.”
“Okay. And if you get images, I’m assuming the CIA can analyze what’s been loaded onto a freighter?”
“We have a few tricks. Even after it’s loaded we can sometimes tell the general class of what’s being carried. Only—”
“Only the assets that do it are either aircraft or satellite-based, which makes them very expensive. Not having high priority, you don’t get access.”
“Not yet.”
He looked away and worked through her problem. “Crews. Try to find out if they hired new crews.”
“Why?”
“You’re operating on the assumption that they’re doing something illicit, and you know these boats have new owners. If they interviewed new crews, it implies a long-term venture. If they kept whoever was on board, it suggests they’re in a hurry. That would be good to know in the near term.”
“Good—we’ll work on that.”
“It should keep you busy for a while.”
“Definitely. And thanks for your input.”
“Anytime.”
Slaton turned to go.
“David,” Sorensen said, forestalling his departure, “I know what you’re thinking—that this probably all amounts to nothing.”
