The Russian

by Saul Herzog

  She glanced at the guards.

  They offered no clues.

  She kept walking toward the enormous round window at the far end of the hall, the only sound the click of her heels on the parquet.

  The chandeliers above were supplemented with candelabras that made the shadows around her move like ghouls. She looked back at the guards at the security post, then ahead at the round window, and felt like she was making a journey that could only be one-way.

  And then, from a massive wooden door almost at the end of the hallway, Medvedev emerged. He was wearing a black silk gown, strangely feminine, something a geisha might wear, and silk slippers with the president’s gold seal sewn into them. In his hand was a long, leather bullwhip, something that looked truly capable of bringing someone to their death, and on his face was the most lascivious smile Svetlana had ever seen.

  A sickening feeling came over her, that some horrible things were about to happen.

  “I’ve been waiting for you all day, my dear,” he said.

  She felt a knot form in her throat that prevented her from responding.

  “Did you bring the toys,” he said.

  Her stomach turned as she nodded her head.

  “Then don’t be shy,” he said, ushering her through the doorway he’d emerged from. “Come along. Everything’s ready.”

  She walked through the door, her skin crawling as she passed him, and found herself in another grand hallway. While the last one had been lined with heavy wooden doors, the rooms off this one were open, and she could look into them. They walked past antique statues, and she saw into a magnificent library, it’s leather-bound tomes lit up by a chandelier that must have been the size of a small car.

  “I have a very well appointed suite,” Medvedev said, scuttling ahead of her in his slippers and gown.

  Svetlana was genuinely terrified. She’d been through a lot with Medvedev, things she’d never imagined she’d allow happen to her body, he’d violated her in ways she wouldn’t have been able to imagine were possible, but this was going to be different.

  She’d heard of men who fantasized about death, who craved the moment when the life left the body of a woman. She knew Medvedev took his pleasure from her suffering. The more she feared him, the more he revolted her, the greater his excitement. But up until this point, he’d never sought to express that lust in actual physical torture.

  Something told her that was about to change.

  As they arrived at the door to his suite, carved in mahogany with the presidential seal embossed at its center, her heart pounded in her chest as she realized she was entering a room she might never come back out of.

  “After you,” he said, standing behind her.

  Other than the guards, she hadn’t seen a single soul other than Medvedev in the palace. She wondered if anyone else was there. Any women? The president?

  Would Medvedev be permitted to kill in a place like this?

  “I…,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.

  “You?” Medvedev said playfully, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  She began to cry. It wasn’t an act, a pretense. It was a spontaneous outpouring, like the tears of a child.

  “I want to go home,” she said quietly through her tears.

  Medvedev laughed, a hearty, fulsome sound that came from the depths of his enormous chest as if from a barrel.

  “Don’t be stupid, my dear. You just got here.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  She realized she was about to put everything at risk, to jeopardize the mission. Lance was inside the compound, relying on her to play her part. But she couldn’t go through with it. Her body rebelled. It refused to comply.

  She turned around and faced Medvedev.

  “It’s too late to change your mind now, you stupid slut,” he said. “You’re a fly in a web. A rat in a cage. There’s no escape.”

  She didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Her mind went blank, her vision dimmed, and the only thing she became aware of was a set of doors at the far side of the bed.

  Acting purely on instinct, she ran for them. She had to climb across the enormous bed, past the flames of a stone fireplace, and without knowing if Medvedev was behind her or not, she grasped the brass handle on the doors and pulled them open.

  They led to a curved staircase, and she fled up the steps, not knowing where they led.

  Behind her, she could hear Medvedev down in the room, still laughing.

  “You can’t get away from me here,” he roared.

  Svetlana kept fleeing. At the top of the stairway was another door, leading to yet another hall. She ran past door after door, all identical, all with the same seal carved into the paneling. At the end of the corridor were two palace guards, standing in front of draped Russian flags, and as they watched her run toward them, they remained as motionless as if made of stone.

  Svetlana lost her shoes. She’d dropped her bag. She was running, stumbling, and when she looked back, she saw Medvedev’s lumbering hulk emerge from the stairway. He was lumbering after her with surprising speed, like a freight train gaining momentum, and she realized there was nowhere for her to run.

  The end of the hallway bore down on her. As if suddenly brought to life, the two guards stepped forward to stop her reaching the enormous, gold-plated doors behind them.

  “Help me,” Svetlana screamed as she approached. “Help me.”

  In the final steps, she fell to the floor in front of them and slid forward. They grabbed her, their cold, lifeless faces showing not the slightest hint of emotion or surprise that she was there.

  “Help me,” she screamed. “He’s going to kill me.”

  The guards pulled her to her feet. Their fingers gripped into her flesh. Their hands were as cold as ice. She already knew they were going to hand her back to Medvedev.

  “Give her to me,” Medvedev barked at them, breathless from the pursuit. “She’s mine.”

  “No,” Svetlana cried. “You can’t.”

  The guards brought her forward toward him. She struggled in their grip, pounding her fists against them, but it was as if they didn’t feel her punches, didn’t hear her pleas.

  Medvedev reached out and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her toward him. She hit his chest and fell to the ground.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” he snarled.

  And then, as if by some miracle the sun was rising early, light flooded into the corridor.

  Svetlana turned. Behind the guards, the gold doors drew slowly open like the gates of a castle.

  They revealed a man, standing in front of the bright light of the room behind him, and as Svetlana’s eyes adjusted, she made out the silhouette of a muscular but short figure. He seemed to be holding a crystal tumbler in one hand and a cigar in the other, and his arms were slightly outstretched.

  He wasn’t tall, his build was stocky, but his pose, the light behind him, the way the guards bowed their heads gave him an aura that bordered on the messianic.

  Svetlana knew immediately it was the Russian president.

  “What is the meaning of all this?” he said, his voice neither quiet nor loud.

  “Mr. President,” Medvedev started, but then stopped.

  The president took one look at him, at Svetlana on the ground by his feet, and said, “Medvedev, you are a guest. You were not brought here to shit. You were brought here to wait. Your presence is not welcomed, it is tolerated, and not for very much longer.”

  Svetlana looked from the president back to Medvedev. She didn’t understand what was happening. The president shut his doors, and Medvedev turned, walking back in the direction from which he’d come.

  The guards pulled Svetlana to her feet and began walking her back toward the entrance.

  “Not a word of what you saw here tonight,” one of them said as they handed her over to the guards on the lower level. “What happens in the palace, stays in the palace, understood?”

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  Lance watched through his scope as two guards escorted Svetlana out of the palace. She’d been crying but appeared unharmed. A military vehicle pulled up, and she climbed into it. It brought her all the way to the main security gate.

  That was good. If she’d figured out a way of getting herself ejected, it was a smart move. It meant she was out of harm’s way.

  Lance was the only one of them still inside the compound, which meant he was the only one who had to get back out. And if for some reason he couldn’t make it, Larissa and Svetlana would have each other. With the identification papers and cash he’d left them, their chances of getting out of the country were as good as he could have hoped.

  Svetlana had come out of the east wing of the building, and Lance scanned it, searching for signs of Medvedev’s presence. From the schematics, Lance knew that was where the guest suites were located.

  He slung the strap of the rifle over his shoulder and began making his way closer to the palace. It was dark, but he had to be very cautious. The entire area was under heavy surveillance, and his heat signature would show up under even the most cursory scan.

  He reached a stone-tiled patio that contained a long swimming pool. The pool had been emptied for the winter and covered. Beyond it was a gravel path that surrounded the palace itself. Apart from some sparse shrubs and a few lawn ornaments, there was nothing else between him and the palace’s exterior walls.

  He checked his ammunition and silencers and took a few final items from the canvas bag.

  If he got much closer to the palace, his movements were likely to trigger a motion sensor that would flood the area with light from high-powered floodlights attached to the roof. The sensors weren’t perfect. He’d read reports of them being tripped so frequently by critters, or an errant security guard, that they were often turned off.

  That wasn’t a chance he could afford to take, though.

  A steel case on the roof contained the electronics for the system. It was located on the corner of the palace, was about two feet by four feet, and was painted white. Lance could see it from his position and knew it was one of four such boxes required to keep the security system operational.

  Taking it out would alert the guards that they had an intruder, it would cause the evacuation protocol to be initiated, and would leave Lance with mere minutes before helicopters started landing on the lawn.

  But it would also mean the security forces were blind until the security system had time to reboot. That would give him about five minutes when sensors and cameras were offline.

  He lay down on the stone patio and set up the M82 for a shot. It was the right tool for the job, a long-range anti-materiel gun with a five-inch, .50 caliber slug.

  It was loaded with silver-tipped, armor-piercing incendiary rounds, and Lance aimed carefully, then exhaled as he pulled the trigger. It was a simple shot, and the sound rang out so loudly that every man, woman, and child within five miles would have heard it.

  The floodlights came on with an audible hum, as power surged through the system. They bathed the entire compound in so much light it was brighter than it would have been in full daylight.

  Lance remained on the ground, motionless.

  He heard barking dogs in the direction of the main gate, and from a tower above the palace came the high-pitched wail of a manually activated air raid alarm.

  Somewhere close by, military forces were being mustered, including evacuation helicopters and air superiority craft.

  Everyone within the compound knew there was a breach, but until the sensors rebooted, they would have no idea where it was.

  Lance counted to ten, then, leaving the rifle where it was, took some rope, grappling hooks, and the silenced handguns on a dash for the palace wall.

  He was outside the east wing and swung the grappling hooks for a second-story window ledge.

  The first try missed, and as he swung for a second throw, the glass in a nearby window smashed, and the bullet narrowly missed him. Lance turned and put two bullets in the head of the guard who’d taken the shot.

  Then he swung the grappling hook, and this time it caught the ledge.

  He climbed the rope and broke the window with his elbow before climbing in.

  He was in a long corridor lined with thick mahogany doors, each bearing the Russian president’s seal.

  To his left were two guards, running toward him, and to his right, at the far end of the corridor, were the gold inlaid doors that led to the presidential suite. From that direction, another pair of guards prepared to open fire.

  Lance dove into the corridor and rolled forward, dodging multiple bullets. He fired twice, and the two guards to his left fell to the ground. In front of him was a set of wooden doors, and he crashed through them, finding himself in what appeared to be an enormous dressing room. Black leather shoes, suit jackets, shirts, and ties, filled the shelves. Countless mirrors lined the walls, and they began to crash and collapse as gunfire from the corridor followed Lance into the room.

  Lance ducked behind a thick wooden bench that extended along the center of the room as bullets flew everywhere, sending shards of glass and splinters of wood in all directions.

  From behind the bench, Lance returned fire, killing two guards as they entered the room.

  Someone threw a smoke grenade from the corridor, and it arched in the air, leaving a trail of gas, before landing on the floor at Lance’s feet.

  Lance held his breath and ran for the door, taking quick aim at two more guards in the corridor who came into his field of view.

  In minutes, the entire corridor would be overrun with soldiers, but for now, apart from the men he’d killed, it was empty.

  He looked up and down. The corridor was enormous. There were dozens of doors leading to rooms, staircases, more corridors. There was no way he was going to find Medvedev in time.

  There was only one chance.

  He needed leverage.

  He made a dash for the presidential suite and threw himself against the enormous golden doors. They burst open, and Lance crashed into a room built entirely of marble.

  Ahead of him was an enormous fireplace, a log fire raging in the hearth, and all around were the treasures of the Tsars, plundered and kept hidden by generations of Russian oligarchs.

  A man stood by the fire, and when Lance looked, he realized it was the president. In his hand, pointed at Lance, was a gun that glimmered as if made of silver.

  In Lance’s hand was a gun of his own, pointed at the president.

  On the president’s face was a strangely contented smile, almost like he was glad of the intrusion.

  “What have we got here?” he said.

  “Tell me where Medvedev is, and I won’t kill you,” Lance said.

  The president let out a mirthless laugh. “Maybe if you weren’t flat on your face, I’d be more worried.”

  “Oh, you should be very worried,” Lance said, getting to his feet.

  He scanned the room. They were at the corner of the building with windows facing west and south.

  He was running out of time, but he needed to know where Medvedev was before he left the room. Not for a second did it cross his mind to kill the president.

  That was against the rules.

  Unwritten though they were, the rules were so deeply ingrained on both sides that they would not be set aside even in a situation such as the present.

  The Russian president was no friend of America. He’d been a thorn in the side of US leadership for decades. He’d exceeded his term limits, refused to relinquish power, amassed one of the largest private fortunes on the planet, rearmed the Russian military, and strangled domestic opposition to his rule, with a brutality not seen since the Cold War.

  And yet, every CIA asset ever to set foot on the hallowed ground of the fabled Farm knew not to take the life of a man like him.

  It wasn’t a holdover from a bygone era of diplomacy and statesmanship.

  It wasn’t a misplaced belief in some
international moral code.

  It was an amoral calculation rooted in realpolitik.

  The cold, hard fact of the matter was that the Russian president’s finger rested on a button capable of launching enough nuclear strike power to end life on the planet.

  It was the final deterrent.

  You did not kill a man with that much power.

  For one thing, a failed attempt could trigger holocaust.

  But even if it succeeded, there was no telling whose hands would take up the mantle. Who would succeed to the power? And what temperament would that man be in if his predecessor had been taken out by an assassin?

  There was simply no scenario in which the American military could foresee an advantage from taking out the current Russian president.

  “You’re Roth’s man, aren’t you?” the president said. “Spector something.”

  “Lance Spector,” Lance said.

  “Lance Spector,” the president said, stepping forward.

  His gun was stretched out in front of him, his finger caressing the trigger.

  Lance backed away so that he couldn’t be seen from the hallway or through the windows, his gun trained on the space between the president’s two, calculating eyes.

  “Surely you must know that killing Medvedev will make no difference to anyone. It won’t bring back the lives that were lost. It won’t undo the cataclysmic blow to American prestige.”

  “This isn’t about American prestige,” Lance said.

  “Sure it is,” the president said. “Everything boils down to prestige sooner or later.”

  “This is personal,” Lance said.

  The president nodded. “Of course. I almost forgot. That’s your face on all the news channels, isn’t it? You’re the one they’re pinning all this on.”

  “As long as Medvedev’s in a coffin, I’ll be able to sleep at night.”

  “You tell yourself that,” the president said.

  The soldiers in the corridor were getting antsy.

  “Sir,” their commander called out. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Tell them to stand down,” Lance said.