Endangered Species: PART 1

by John Wayne Falbey

  “Does our ‘new friend’ have a name?”

  “Yes. His name is Maksym.”

  Chapter 10—Albuquerque, NM

  Using accrued vacation time, Christie arrived at Albuquerque’s International Sunport for the first leg of his flight to Ireland. He wished he’d used the days to spend more time with his wife and children when he’d had the chance. He tried to take his mind off the subject by studying the concourses and complementary facilities of the airport. They were a mélange of clearly separate pieces, both visually and physically pleasing. It was an embodiment of the old saw, “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts”. Its commercial aspects, like all airports great and small, mostly offered fast food, beverages, tee shirts, and other tourist memorabilia. But even there, its motif fittingly was based on the culture and tradition of the American Southwest.

  Mitch Christie was a Midwesterner by birth and disposition. He admitted that he just didn’t get the whole Southwestern thing. To him a desert was, after all, just a damn desert, a desolate and lonely pile of sand sprouting cacti and devoid of water. Still, the Sunport impressed him. It seemed surprisingly large given the size of the population of the Greater Albuquerque area. Then he remembered that it was the only major airport hub in the State of New Mexico, and serviced a far greater geographic area than Albuquerque and its environs. At the moment, the terminal was mostly deserted. Not many flights departed at midnight.

  He had checked his single suitcase with a skycap at the curb, and was killing time before his flight departed for its connection in New York City. He ducked into the only sundries shop still open at the hour. He wanted to be certain he had enough Rolaids to last for the duration of the trip, assuming he would be in a position to catch a return flight. He didn’t know much about Ireland and wasn’t sure he could find Rolaids there. He bought ten packs and stuffed them into his small briefcase. There wasn’t much else in the case except a recent thriller by his current favorite author, Lee Child. Christie wasn’t sure how well he would sleep on the long flight, given the nature of the mission, and brought the reading material in case he wasn’t able to doze off. Along with the Rolaids, he bought a copy of the Wall Street Journal and stuffed it into the briefcase also. He wasn’t sure why he bought the paper, as it was almost a full day old. He considered it to be the most relevant and accurate of any major newspaper. In that regard, he mused; he probably wasn’t very different philosophically from that super patriot Levell and his fellow members of the Society of Adam Smith. That thought stopped him in his tracks. He shook his head vigorously as if trying to dislodge the idea that he might have anything in common with Whelan.

  A woman walked past him, her heels clicking on the floor of the terminal. The sound interrupted his thoughts. His eyes automatically turned toward the sound and followed her. She was a Latina woman, and from a certain angle bore a passing resemblance to Camilla Ramirez. A feeling of guilt flushed over him.

  Three days earlier, on Saturday, they’d had their second date. Things didn’t go well. Christie shook his head again; this time the thoughts didn’t dissolve. He remembered picking her up at her place, fully expecting to spend the night there after dinner. She had suggested a small steakhouse with a cozy, intimate atmosphere. Again, tequila was their drink of choice. A lot of tequila. Christie remembered feeling relaxed and comfortable for the first time in recent memory. Maybe he was too relaxed. Over an after dinner cappuccino, she casually said, “I felt really cheap when you left without saying a word the other morning.”

  It caught him by surprise. He had thought that matter was behind them. He stammered and said, “I…I’m really sorry about that.”

  “Why,” she had said, with hurt and anger rising in her voice, “would you do such a thing?”

  That was where he’d shot himself in the foot; hell, blew his whole leg off. He’d stared at her for several moments, trying to remember what excuse he’d given her previously. Finally, he’d licked his lips and his eyes darted down and to the right as he said, “I had a report that was overdue. I had to get to work early to finish it.” Then he’d rubbed his nose. All those actions are a liar’s downfall.

  The look she had given him was still as vivid in his memory as the moment it had come over her face. Absolute rage. And betrayal. Later he’d remembered that he had originally told her he’d had an early meeting that morning, not an overdue report. There had been no more conversation in the restaurant or in the car on the ride back to her apartment. When he’d pulled to the curb, she had jumped out of his car and slammed the door forcefully behind her. He had sat and watched her storm up the walkway toward her apartment. An icy dread almost overpowered him. He was falling apart physically, and maybe more. His wife, who had been his sweetheart since college, had dumped him for another man, an Irish renegade at that. Clearly, the Bureau had little regard for him anymore. Then, just when he was beginning to feel acceptable to an attractive woman, the budding relationship suddenly crashed and burned. The feeling of loneliness and rejection – career, love life, everything – was so overwhelming, he had almost wept. The tequila hadn’t helped. He’d spent a sleepless night.

  A shiver surged through Christie at the recent, painful memories. He glanced at the clock high on a wall of the terminal. Twenty minutes to midnight. Time to board the flight to New York. If all went well in the not-always-friendly skies, he would be in Dublin in little more than twenty-two hours. Then, thanks to information provided by his unlikely new ally, Maksym, he would finally get some measure of satisfaction for all the miseries he had experienced.

  Chapter 11—The Kremlin, Moscow

  There were several kremlins in Russia. The word means fort or citadel, and the structures generally were located in the heart of a city. Kirill Federov had seen a number of kremlins in various parts of Russia, but none of them could compare with the one he was approaching now. The Moscow kremlin, or as it was more commonly called, the Kremlin, was the symbolic heart of the Russian Federation. According to legend, it had been built on the site of a hunting lodge owned by Prince Yuri Dolgorukiy. At that time, the Kievan Rus empire was disintegrating under the pressure of the invading Mongol hordes. The site was a sensible place to develop a fortification. It sat atop Borovitsky Hill overlooking the Moskva River and Red Square. Federov was aware that most Westerners ignorantly believed that the Russian government occupied the Kremlin. The Russian parliament, or Federal Assembly, consisted of two separately located chambers. State Duma, located in Central Moscow, was the lower. The 166-member Federation Council was the upper one. Its main offices were located on Bolshaya Dmitrovka Street. That, Federov knew, as did all Muscovites, was about to change. The city of Moscow was about to become 2.4 times larger by absorbing a huge wedge of the Moscow Region between the Kiev and Warsaw highways. All state agencies were being relocated to this area, and new offices would house both the legislative and executive bodies.

  The walls of the Kremlin formed a rough triangle. Within them there were five palaces, four cathedrals, together with museums and armories. The complex also served as the official residence of the President of the Russian Federation. This, Federov assumed, was the principal reason why stupid Westerners thought the Kremlin was the Russian version of Capitol Hill in the United States or Westminster in the UK. It definitely was the reason for his visit to the Kremlin today.

  Federov’s immediate superior was Gennady Vasilyev, director of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki or SVR, Russia’s primary external intelligence agency. Unlike the FSB, the SVR was responsible for intelligence and espionage activities outside the Russian Federation. Vasilyev reported directly to the president of the Russian Federation. In addition to being Federov’s boss, Vasilyev also was his mentor. The older man had handpicked Federov from the Spetsnaz Vympel unit, the elite Special Forces group formed from a merger of two KGB special units. Similar to the CIA's Special Activities Division, the unit was responsible for the most secret and sensitive covert activities, as well as counter-terrorist and counter
-sabotage operations. Gifted with extreme intelligence, physicality and nerve, Federov had risen swiftly through the ranks of covert operators to become Vasilyev’s right-hand man. His skill as a judo-ka and former Olympic marksman also had gained the admiration of the Russian president.

  Perhaps, in spite of the Laski affair, there remained a prospect for him to achieve his career goal. The Directorate KR: External Counter-Intelligence. This was the Directorate that carried out infiltration of foreign intelligence and security services and exercised surveillance over Russian citizens abroad. It was a position of power and influence. Federov had coveted it for years.

  As a UNESCO World Heritage Site, automobile traffic generally was prohibited in the Kremlin. But not all traffic. Business involving the office of the president was a different matter. The aging ZiL-41047, in which Federov was riding, rolled by St Basil's Basilica with its elaborate paint combinations and byzantine minarets at the foot of Red Square. The old car was one of the last of its line to be produced before production ceased in 2002, as Russian tastes began to favor luxury cars produced by Western nations. This one had been in service for many years, and, while hardly a luxury car, had been well maintained. Despite that, Federov was offended that Vasilyev hadn’t sent a more prestigious car for him. He suspected it was a form of message that had to do with his performance on the last mission. It had not gone well at all.

  Moments later the ZiL rolled to a stop near a side entrance to the Senate Building, official residence of the Russian president. The driver got out and opened a rear door for Federov. At last, he thought with slight satisfaction, a little respect. Federov was a big man at six two and two hundred fifteen pounds, but the two men who emerged through the side door and trotted down the steps toward him were much larger. Federov quickly sized them up as FSB, the Russian Federal Security Service or Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. It was responsible for counterintelligence, antiterrorism, and surveillance of the military. This further offended him. He wondered, had he fallen so far that he was to be escorted like a prisoner by virtual guards? He refused to accept responsibility for Chaim Laski’s fuck-ups. Between Laski and his chief Ukrainian thug, Maksym, the entire operation in America had been compromised. Laski was dead and Maksym undoubtedly was back in the Kievan ghetto that had spawned him. So where was any of that my fault, Federov wondered. Why would Vasilyev and the president punish him? He had told them on previous occasions that Laski was an arrogant, glutinous fool, more interested in his lavish life style than in the carrying through competently on his role in the operation. A brilliant man, yes, but really nothing more than a glorified paymaster who distributed funds provided by the Russian State to further its purposes in America. In any event, it wasn’t the end of the world. Certainly, Vasilyev would have had a backup plan in place for just such a situation as this.

  The two hefty FSB men escorted Federov down a very long and elaborately decorated hall. Although they were larger than he was, Federov was secure, almost to the point of arrogance, that they were not a match for him. They crossed a large chamber, which Federov recognized as the Heraldic or Ambassadorial Hall. He knew it was called by both names because its décor was dominated by the Russian coat of arms; and it also was where the Russian president received the representatives of foreign nations. Beyond it were the suite of representative rooms and chambers in the former Senate Palace, including the Small or Oval Hall. The Representative or Ceremonial Office of the Russian president was located there. Federov knew that the president’s Work Office was located elsewhere in the building. The two FSB men led Federov to the Representative Office and one of them motioned with his head for him to enter. Federov was not sure what to make of this. He knew the president used this room to meet with important foreign dignitaries. Did the fact that he was being summoned here indicate that his career was not in jeopardy, he wondered. He stepped into the room. It was elegant, yet simple. Pale green and white walls, crystal chandeliers, and a wooden floor made of several varieties of expensive wood. A large desk dominated the room, surrounded by the Russian coat of arms and flag as well as the president’s standard. The walls were adorned with portraits of past Russian leaders, civilian and military. Across the room was a large fireplace framed in black onyx, and accented by heavy, ornate bronze pieces. A large mirror, also framed in the same onyx, was centered above the mantel. Federov noticed that it was positioned in such a way that it reflected the entire suite of halls outside the Representative Office. There was a setting of very formal, but comfortable looking chairs near the fireplace.

  The president and Vasilyev were waiting for him there. Vasilyev waved him to a chair that was positioned in front of the president’s desk. He and the president continued to sit near the fireplace. The positioning of the chairs wasn’t lost on Federov. The president, a small man with a receding hairline, thin face and piercing ice-blue eyes, just stared at him. Federov was very much aware that the Russian president was a veteran of the KGB’s blackest ops apparatus. A former Russian president, Boris Yeltsin, had appointed this man as director of the FSB. There was very little that could frighten Federov, but he was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  Vasilyev skipped the usual small talk and got directly to the point of the meeting. “You are a very intelligent man, Kirill. I assume you know the purpose of this meeting?”

  Federov glanced at the president and nodded.

  “Good. As a result of the unexpected situation in America, we have suffered a setback.” Vasilyev stared at his protégé for several long moments, but didn’t say anything more.

  Federov knew better than to speak. He was being tested. To offer excuses or blame others would sound like whining and make him appear to be weak. He didn’t want any part of that. How he emerged from this meeting would depend almost entirely on how he conducted himself. He sat. Silently.

  Vasilyev looked at the president then back at Federov. “You are not on trial here, Kirill. The failure of others involved in the operation, particularly the Jew, Laski, caused our plans to become untracked.”

  Federov remained silent. The ethnic slur wasn’t lost on him. Anti-Semitism was alive and well in Russia. Always had been, always would be, he thought. Russia’s history of pogroms was notorious. He knew many dedicated and patriotic Jews who served the State skillfully, but some parts of a nation’s culture never seemed to change.

  “Yet,” Vasilyev said, “you were the ranking official onsite. You must bear some responsibility for the setback.”

  Federov nodded.

  This brought a slight smile to his mentor’s face. “There also were extenuating circumstances involved, such as the reactivation of that American special forces unit…what were they called?”

  “The Sleeping Dogs.”

  “Ah, yes, the Sleeping Dogs. A formidable addition to our opposition’s resources.” Vasilyev turned and looked at the president, who said nothing but continued to stare unblinkingly at Federov. His expression was cold, impassive. It was impossible for Federov to determine where the man stood on this issue. Was he being condemned or would he be given a second chance?

  “Fortunately, our own assets are more formidable,” Vasilyev said as he rose from his seat. He paused and placed a long, thin finger against his long, thin nose. He was tall and lean and, although he held a general’s rank, he preferred well-tailored suits to a uniform. Many considered him to be the second most powerful man in the Federation, and feared him accordingly. Vasilyev also was brilliant and cunning. His highly successful career was based on a keen ability to read people accurately and manipulate them accordingly. He was always very careful not to give the president any cause to suspect that he harbored ambitious for that top office. Although it was an elective office, the current president controlled the elections and essentially was ruler for life.

  Vasilyev walked closer to Federov and sat on the edge of the president’s desk. He smiled disarmingly at Federov. “Kirill, you are quite familiar with our goals and operations in America. How would you pro
ceed from this point?”

  The question made Federov even more uncomfortable. Was this a trick? Were they testing his hubris? Or, was Vasilyev, his old friend and mentor, offering him an opportunity at redemption? He thought about the question at length then said, “I know I have disappointed you, and for that I am truly sorry. I have, however, been giving considerable thought on how we might best move forward from this setback.”

  The president spoke. His voice was low, but there was a steely tone to it. “Let us hear these thoughts of yours,” he said. The expression on his face gave nothing away.

  Federov took his time in answering. He knew he needed to parse his words carefully. “The loss of Laski was most regrettable, of course. It was not, however, fatal to our efforts. I have always believed that the deposing of that imbecile Carter by Ronald Reagan did far more damage and set us back several years. Laski can be replaced rather quickly.”

  The president said nothing. He sat very straight in his chair, legs crossed, his right elbow resting on an arm of the chair. His thumb was under his chin and the fingers rested against the side of his face. He continued to regard Federov with his heavy-lidded eyes. This must be how the serpent looks at its prey, Federov thought.

  It was Vasilyev who spoke. “Replace Laski quickly? And how would you accomplish that, Kirill?”

  “Laski’s apparatus did not die with him. It remains in place.” He paused and glanced at each of the other men then focused his attention on the president. Vasilyev may be asking the questions, but Federov had no doubts who ultimately would make the call. “Specifically, Comrade Laski was a member of, and worked with the Alliance for Geopolitical Unity, or AGU. That organization remains in place.”