The room was walled in by varnished Siberian pine. Thick wool rugs covered the floor in folkloric patterns of blue and red. Ermine, sable, and bear skins hung on the walls near triple-paned glass windows. In the center of the room sat a simple wood table over thirty feet long. A large stone hearth roared with burning fir logs. Above the table hung three chandeliers fashioned from the antlers of Siberian elk. The oily black wicks of fat cylindrical candles burned messily. Like the hearth, the candles were merely decorative. A large on-site generator provided power and heat for the isolated compound.
Ten men dressed in tailored suits stood silently in the spacious room. Like Marshal Aleksakov, the only other high-ranking military godfather had left his uniform behind. Some of the men were used to corporate boardrooms and banks. Another more familiar with the media. Others with railroads, warehouses, shipyards, and airports. Others with computers and energy production. These were the top ten krestnii otets: the godfathers of the big Russian mafiya. Half were well-known business personalities seen on television and in the newspapers. The others were so powerful they were not known publicly at all. Each man kept as much distance from the others as possible. Their faces alone revealed similarity; creased with the perpetual anxiety and distrust caused by lifetimes of disreputable activities, the threat of discovery, imprisonment, death. The Russian people referred to them differently over time: apparatchiki, kleptocrats, oligarchs, mafiya godfathers. They had thrived under Yeltsin, suffered minor setbacks and a reshuffling under the SVR/FSB rule of Puzhnin, but fought a losing war against Orlov. They needed an ally.
Stares followed Molotok as he descended the wooden staircase in silence. He waited until Ulianov and Aleksakov entered the room before he greeted each of the men with a firm handshake, some earning a full bear hug.
“Tovarishi,” he announced in a loud voice. “Welcome!”
Except for the military krestnii otet, the men disregarded the un-uniformed Aleksakov, whom they did not know, and focused on Molotok. Him they knew. Him they feared despite their own power. Him they trusted. They also concentrated on Ulianov. Most of them had engaged in some form of battle with him and his Volki during the past few years. All were mindful of the power Ulianov, his Volki, and their collective new master wielded. They had learned of Molotok from rumors, at first. Then through lucrative business dealings. Little by little, Molotok and Ulianov had scrupulously whittled down the list of krestnii otet candidates for their Russkost strike group. Most of the godfathers were unreliable. Others had been greedy. Others did not want to join Molotok or Ulianov, much less the two combined. Or to obey orders. As the saying went, there was little honor among thieves, which is what all of them were. They were simply too highly placed for the label to apply officially. So the list shrank from nearly two hundred to the ten men in the room.
Although allied with the godfathers in Molotok’s plan, Ulianov and his Volki were a dramatic contrast to these men. The Volki killed, extorted, bribed, and corrupted to finance an ideological movement, Russkost. To the godfathers who basically had no ideal other than wealth, sex, and Western comforts, the synergy of Molotok and Ulianov, Russkost and the Volki, was intimidating.
Molotok gazed at the face of each man in the room silently. ”I know it was difficult for you to come here, all together. I assure you, you are quite safe. If you have not already done so, it is now time to put your disagreements and competition behind you. Molotok paused, stared at his audience. A familiar fire began to burn in his breast.
He pointed a finger at the small crowd. “You are already the most influential men in Russia. You have more influence than all the marshals. More influence than all the members of the Duma. Under communism, most of you ruled Russia as apparatchiki .” He made a fist. “Today you have influence over everyday life in Russia as the people have come to know it. Over the media and finance. Over criminal activity. Over communications. Over energy and transportation. Over government agencies. Even over parts of the military. You could control Russia.” He opened and closed his huge right fist. “But you have only influence. Not power. You can push and pressure people in power to do things, but you can’t order them to do anything. Not officially. You don’t have power because you are fragmented.” He paused. “Why?”
The men’s faces showed their displeasure at the insult. Particularly because it was true.
“Why?” Molotok leaned forward and squinted at each individual’s face. “Because you no longer control the government as you did under communism. Sooner or later, Orlov’s reformist government and the West will destroy your operations. How is it that you men who strike fear in the hearts of all Russia bow to the weak, corrupt, mindless bureaucracy?” He wanted to shout and rant and rave, but these were not people one could shout at, not even Molotok, the Hammer.
“Because you are disorganized. Each of you is organized. Yes. But you do not work as a team. And why not? Why not put the pieces of a machine together and have it accomplish something instead of just sucking the rodina and the narod dry?”
He paused and continued to stare at the godfathers. Finally, he grinned broadly. “Now it has ended. Because we have joined as one, as Russkost, to take back control. You are not here by accident. Each of you has been selected. Over time, each of you has been tested. Your organization, your leadership. We wanted others to join us. But they were weak. There is no room for weakness in Russkost.
“Although we have dealt with one another one by one, never before have we joined together at the same time and in the same place. I congratulate you for your courage to do so.” He clapped with his large hands.
“Now that we are here all together, I can give you the outline of the entire plan, not merely the individual plans we discussed one by one. The course of action we will follow is simple. Russkost will pay you to amass an arsenal. For men like you, this will be child’s play.” He smiled. “Once the arsenal is complete, the men in your respective organizations will join our ranks: the Volki, the members of the armed forces loyal to Russkost, and the Russkost political party. Each of you already knows his own responsibility.
“The rebirth of Holy Mother Russia finally is possible because we are united. There will be no battles. No bloody revolution. The days of Lenin and Stalin are over. Bloodshed is unnecessary.”
He lied, but the godfathers preferred to believe the lie rather than Russia’s history. No one had ever taken control of Russia without bloodshed, apparent or hidden. The godfathers looked at one another. It had been difficult for Molotok to band them together. But Molotok had made sure none of the ten controlled similar business interests. Each of the godfathers was brilliant, tough as nails. Successful. But they lacked vision beyond their respective spheres of control. The famous man who controlled the media—few thought of him as a godfather, though he was—cared only about total control of the media. The godfather who controlled the gas industry cared nothing about arms sales. And so on. They were too busy keeping their monopolies over their respective industries and activities and fighting, corrupting, and influencing the government to think bolder thoughts. It had taken Molotok’s boldness and political organization, Ulianov’s discipline and Volki strike force to open their eyes to the vision of unity.
“With your control of energy, transportation, production, and banking, media, weapons, and troops, this revolution will be simple. We will grind production to a halt. We will stop food transportation. We will cut off gas supplies. Oil. Electricity. We will shut down the airports. The railroads. The fields. The media will broadcast an image of Orlov resigning and appointing our candidate as acting president. Once he takes office, we will be in control. The narod will beg us to put everything back in order. We will do what the narod asks. Then we will be in full control. Total control. Whatever power you now have will increase tenfold. What wealth you have, likewise.
“If the people are happy, who will dare stop us? The army? They are already on our side. They are tired of a weak Russia. They want strength and glory. The bureaucrats?
They will finally be paid regularly. The Amerikanskii? They will want to avoid an international incident and poor diplomatic relations. Besides, this will not be an international matter. There will not be bloodshed as in Chechnya. This will only be an internal Russian matter. Neither the Amerikanskii nor the European Union will interfere. But control is only the beginning. After control will come the reason for control: the rebirth of the empire.”
Molotok’s hulking arms traced sweeping arcs. “We will rearm and revitalize our military. We will take over the enterprises controlled by the foreigners. We will reclaim our lost territories. We will...”
Molotok’s list was long.
At CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, Pink was pleased by the interruption caused by the daily mail. He sifted through the small pile of letters and magazines, hopeful for something that would change his ideas for a few moments. Company policy dictated against receiving personal correspondence at the office, so Pink rarely received interesting mail at work. Mostly internal mail he had nicknamed ’infernal’ mail. Bo-ring. Then he saw something bright sticking out from the latest issue of the Washington Lawyer. He pulled it out and smiled. It was a postcard of a nubile young woman wearing barely anything other than a tan. He turned it over.
Mr. Pink:
I knew this would get your attention.
PC
PC? Who’s P—? Must be that Pat Carlton. He was about to throw the card away, but decided to pin it up on his cork board instead. She could keep him company while he finished his project for Randall Forbes. Not really Company policy, but he had a private office, not a cubicle, so the postcard couldn’t be seen by other workers. One had to be careful with such things in offices these days. He returned to the Russian diamond production figures in front of him, but the postcard had derailed his concentration.
Why would Carlton send a postcard when Pink had agreed to check his information? Especially a postcard without any message. It didn’t make sense. He took the card down, turned it over. There was nothing else written on it, but Pink noticed a small white tape that melted into the rest of the white card. He peeled it off and, sure enough, found the information Carlton had given him over the phone.
“What a psycho,” he mumbled, pinning the card back onto the cork board. At least the photo was nice.
29 CONTRACT
The Kremlin
Moscow
11:12 A.M.
The gleaming black Zil limousine and its six-motorcycle escort whisked through the Kremlin gates under the watchful gaze of heavily armed guards. To Russians, the sleek Zil limousine represented Soviet automotive accomplishment. Few knew that Franklin D. Roosevelt had forced the Packard Car Company to transfer its moulds, dies, and tools to the Soviet Union, where they made Zils that eventually evolved into their present form.
The motorcade stopped at the base of marble steps that led to the Great Palace of the Kremlin. The three passengers who emerged from the warm comfort of the Zil winced at the icy wind that sliced into them from the north. They were pleased to pass through the massive steel and wood doors atop the marble steps.
Vasili Orlov stood inside the ornate lobby. It was rare for the Russian president to greet nongovernmental, foreign visitors at the entrance of the Kremlin, but Slythe was not just any foreign visitor. Russia needed the Waterboer contract badly.
“Welcome to Moscow, tovarishi. Mr. Slythe. We are honored by your presence.” The white-haired Russian president extended a large hand in a warm gesture, his English nearly perfect, albeit heavily accented. Orlov’s portly girth and large round face was in sharp contrast with the handsome South African’s elegant angularity.
“It is I who am honored, Mr. President.” Slythe took Orlov’s hand, gave a perfunctory smile. “Thank you for your personal reception.” Sniff.
Orlov introduced Novirsk and his other assistants.
“And if I might introduce my staff, Mr. President.” Slythe turned and motioned to each in his party. “Lester Churchman, my counsel, whom I believe you have met on a previous occasion. My personal assistant, Ian Witsrand.”
All exchanged handshakes and smiles. Ian Witsrand’s eyes made Orlov shudder.
The Russian president led the way into the executive office, flanked by four agents of the eight thousand-member Presidential Guard, the Russian counterpart to the American Secret Service. Once their charge was inside his office, the guards sank into comfortable chairs outside, lit cigarettes.
Inside Orlov’s office, Slythe was eager to conclude the business at hand. His smile was genuine, despite acute jet-lag rendered more severe by his antics the previous night.
He gazed at the Russian president and assessed his opponent.
Orlov had been lucky. Capitalist democracy had seemed to replace dictatorial Communism after the dissolution of the Soviet empire in 1991. But, as the world soon discovered, the transformation was only skin deep. Private property and a few political freedoms were established, but the painful economic reforms required to transform communism into capitalism, even socialism, were never made.
The lack of genuine economic and political reforms had made the massive infusion of foreign and international economic aid to Russia useless and ineffective. As one American adviser had commented, foreign aid to Russia had made a brief stop in Moscow before ending up in Cyprus, the Caymans, or Liechtenstein. Instead of privatizing the state-run economy fairly and evenhandedly, the former apparatchiki privatized the state-run economy by selling its crown jewels to themselves for a pittance, itself ‘loaned’ to them by siphoning off money from state banks, international lenders, and humanitarian aid. A few grew wealthier even than the former tsarist aristocracy, while the great majority of the narod lingered in post-communist limbo, amidst massive unemployment, stunningly low and often unpaid wages, with no safety net. The more it changes, the more it stays the same. In fact nothing had changed. Since communism. Since the tsars.
In the late 1990s, the mounting economic crisis came to a head. Backroom oligarchs running the kleptocracy opposed economic reforms and appropriated international aid to such an extent that not even another massive IMF/World Bank bailout could prop up the anemic Russian currency. The ruble plummeted. Communists and nationalists were increasingly elected to the Duma. A global nail-biting political turmoil ensued, with only two apparent exits: a last-ditch effort at a genuine, unpopular, and wholesale reform of the government and economy, or the adoption of popular anti-Western, despair-driven policies advocated by the nationalist-communist coalition.
Instead, the deathly ill, but still wily Russian president chose a third alternative. Resignation. Not only resignation, but resignation prior to the end of his term combined with the appointment of a successor and a full pardon for any and all crimes committed while in office. His move was melodramatic, unexpected, bold, clever. It was Russian. And at first, it succeeded.
The president’s anointed successor Yegor Puzhnin was not just another drab member of the Russian political apparatus. He was a former high-ranking KGB officer. Unlike the long succession of prime ministers chosen by the former Russian president, Puzhnin was disciplined and strong-willed. His KGB training and ties served him well in his first few months in power. He renewed the war against the mafiya and increasingly Islamist supported Chechen rebels and won, galvanizing public opinion in his favor for winning a conflict the Russian people had suffered as their second Vietnam - the first being the failed Soviet invasion of Afghanistan.
Puzhnin continued a dialogue with the West while looking to the East for new alliances with China and India and turning Central and Western Europe against the United States. To bolster his power within the elite, he began to repatriate into Russian coffers the billions in hard currency the KGB had exported to Western banks and corporations prior to the fall of the Soviet Union, including a massive diamond stockpile.
As Friedrich Engels would have predicted, the destruction came from within. This was the first time in history Russia was truly dominated by an ex-KGB o
fficer. Not like Yuri Andropov and his aged Politburo, but by a young, energetic, and loyal former KGB member who waged a steady cold purge—a pieredishka—of the rank and file, replacing the bureaucrats with members of the former KGB, renamed and somewhat split by the former president into the Federalnyii Sluzhba Bezopasnosti (Federal Security Service, or FSB) and the Sluzhba Vnutrinii Razvedtki (Internal Intelligence Service, or SVR). Soon the FSB dominated Russian politics. The inevitable infighting followed, along with institutionalized paranoia. Soon the military establishment was under attack by the FSB, for whatever reasons the ruling institution could find: espionage, corruption, any number of official sins. Opponents of the FSB-led government, such as the opposition parties and opposition media, were silenced, often by imprisonment or worse. Most of the oligarchs remained, now directed by the government, rather than vice-versa.
The forced ideology of communism and the greed-centered zeitgeist of the oligarchy became the terror-driven paranoia of the state secret organ.
Hit particularly hard was the Glavnoe Razvetskaya Upravleniye—the military Main Intelligence Directorate, or GRU. Seeing the GRU as a competitive force, the FSB leadership moved against its rival organ, resorting to nearly Stalinist arrests and other terrors. But these were not Stalinist times, and the GRU knew how to fight back. A splinter group of GRU officers, reading the Cyrillic writing on the Kremlin wall, decided it was time to reclaim Russia from the FSB. Not that they wanted freedom for the people, they wanted to reclaim power for themselves. Counting on their military family to back them up, the GRU group organized a coup by kidnapping the top ten Russian officials—among them the president. But the GRU officers miscalculated.
Knowing they would be exchanging one secret organ of repression for another, knowing real economic reforms were the only thing that would keep them well-cared for, the Russian military intervened by forcing elections and supporting a strong leader who would for the first time in Russian history impose real economic reforms.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 20
