The Persian Gamble

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “I asked him that,” Luganov said. “He told me the missile upgrades will be costly, and of course there is the small matter that the people expect some tangible benefits from the deal. They have, after all, been asked to make sacrifices for far too long.”

  “What about my people? They have sacrificed for far longer.”

  “And you know that I have been and remain committed to improving the lives of your people,” Luganov said, still outwardly pleasant, though Oleg could see the man’s patience wearing thin. “Look, I know you are reluctant. Nevertheless, I would consider it a personal favor if you would not only agree to the sale but would expedite delivery of the warheads to Iran.”

  The North Korean thought about this for several moments. “How soon would you want the transfer made?” he finally asked.

  “By the end of October—no later.”

  Again, the room was silent. Oleg looked up from his note taking. He tensed, expecting the volcano to blow. This wasn’t in reality a request. It was an order. Luganov in no way considered the North Korean a coequal partner. The man was a subordinate, and Oleg braced himself, expecting Luganov to make this abundantly clear. But either sensing impending danger or simply stumbling to the appropriate conclusion, the Dear Leader finally set down his tea and gave his answer.

  “Say no more, my friend,” he said. “Your request will be granted.”

  10

  A few minutes later, the principals broke to prepare for the press conference.

  Their advisors, however, mingled for a while, congratulating each other on the achievement of this historic alliance and complimenting one another for how carefully they had guarded the great deception of Washington, Seoul, and the rest of the world.

  Oleg felt a tap on his right shoulder. When he turned around, he found General Yoon waiting to greet him.

  “General, my friend, you look well,” Oleg said, grasping his hand and forcing himself to smile and look pleased with the horror of the morning’s events.

  “As do you, Oleg Stefanovich. It has been too long. How is Vasily?”

  “He’s well, and growing like a weed.”

  “What is he now, eight? Nine years old?”

  “No, no, a very precocious eleven,” Oleg corrected. “And arguing with his mother and me about everything from when he has to go to bed to the amount of his allowance to when he will be allowed to travel abroad by himself.”

  “He will grow up to be a lawyer, just like his father.”

  “Don’t say that, General. The last thing the world needs is another lawyer.”

  The two men laughed.

  “And Marina? Is she well?”

  The question caused a stab of pain to shoot through Oleg’s heart, though he was careful to mask it. The couple was not as close as they had once been. Not nearly so. The demands of his job, the long hours away, and the mounting geopolitical tensions had all taken their toll. Yet Oleg still loved his wife deeply. How had the great Russian poet Mikhail Lermontov put it? Love, like fire, goes out without fuel.

  “A greater mother a man could not find,” he told the general.

  “How I would like to meet her one day,” the general replied.

  “I would like that very much. But how about you? How are you and Yuna Kim?”

  “Better than we deserve,” the general replied with a modesty Oleg found rare among military men. “Indeed, we have some good news. Yuna Kim is expecting, and if all goes well, she will give birth in December.”

  The smile Oleg felt spreading across his face was genuine. Oleg knew the couple had no children. He suspected the general’s wife had had several miscarriages, though he had never asked. “I could not be more happy for you, my friend,” he said. “This is very welcome news. Marina and I will be honored to send you a gift when I get back to Moscow.”

  The general shook his head. “There is no need, Oleg Stefanovich. Just to see you in person after so many years is more than enough.”

  The two men shook hands again just as President Luganov began heading out a side door. Oleg glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to noon. The press conference was about to begin. The international media were waiting, and they were hungry.

  Hundreds of journalists crammed into the Mansudae Assembly Hall.

  Two enormous chandeliers glistened in the klieg lights as Luganov and Hyong Ja Park entered the far end and strode down a wide, plush red carpet to the table where they would sign the treaty and the podiums positioned on either side.

  In that moment, Oleg found himself crossing the Rubicon. No longer was he struggling with how to proceed. He knew what he must do. He couldn’t say exactly how the fog in his thoughts had cleared or why he felt so certain. But it had, and he did.

  Oleg would defect.

  But not yet. He would defect to the West, specifically to the United States, at his first opportunity. But first, Oleg had come to the irrevocable conviction that he must do everything in his power to stop his father-in-law from launching a war to invade and seize the Baltic nations. He couldn’t allow Luganov to put Russia at risk of nuclear war with NATO. Nor could he allow North Korea to transfer nuclear weapons to the lunatics running the Islamic Republic of Iran. He certainly couldn’t stand silently by as Luganov authorized both North Korea and Iran to launch decapitating nuclear strikes against the United States—and, no doubt, Israel as well—with such speed and surprise that retaliatory strikes might not even be possible. He had to act. That much was clear. The question was, how?

  “Today, it is my honor to join the Dear Leader in taking a bold move toward peace in the Pacific,” Oleg heard his father-in-law say to the hundreds of reporters, cameramen, and producers who had assembled to record and disseminate all the lies that would flow forth that day. “I am pleased to announce that today the Russian Federation will create a political and military alliance with the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. I pledge to come to Pyongyang’s defense if it should ever be attacked by the South or by the U.S. or by any other force. In return for coming under Russia’s umbrella of protection, the Dear Leader has agreed to completely abandon its nuclear program and turn all nuclear weapons, uranium stockpiles, and nuclear materials over to me for immediate and permanent destruction.”

  A murmur of surprise swept across the room. Cameras began clicking and flashing furiously.

  “What’s more,” Luganov continued, “the Dear Leader has agreed that all of his nuclear reactors, laboratories, and research facilities will be dismantled or destroyed. And he has agreed to invite international inspectors to observe and monitor the process, all of which will begin on or about October 15.”

  More photos. More flashes. Then the Dear Leader made news of his own.

  “Everything President Luganov has just told you is true,” he began. “And I welcome this strategic alliance with the Russian Federation and this great man of peace. And now, with the security of the DPRK assured, it is time to end the state of belligerency in our region. Therefore, I invite the president of South Korea to meet with me immediately to work out the terms of a full and comprehensive peace treaty and the denuclearization of the entire Korean Peninsula. To this end, I also invite the president of the United States, the premier of China, and of course my great friend President Luganov to attend a five-party summit to create a true partnership for world peace and prosperity.”

  Another wave of astonishment engulfed the press corps. Oleg even heard one reporter whisper to another that they should probably book their flights to Stockholm immediately, as Luganov and the Dear Leader were no doubt going to receive the Nobel Peace Prize.

  Oleg could take it no longer. With every deception broadcast live around the world, his revulsion was growing. By the time the opening statements were completed, and the time for questions had commenced, he had resolved himself to the only course of action available to him that just might be able to prevent war in Europe, war in the Pacific, and war in the Middle East. He had no other choice. It was not just an option. This was h
is solemn duty.

  Oleg Kraskin had to assassinate the president of the Russian Federation.

  11

  DOMODEDOVO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MOSCOW, RUSSIA—29 SEPTEMBER

  ONE HOUR AFTER THE RUSSIAN PRESIDENT’S ASSASSINATION

  Marcus Ryker slammed on the brakes.

  They skidded to a stop just in time. Grabbing his machine gun and kicking open the driver’s-side door, he looked back at Oleg and told him to run to the idling Gulfstream IV. The drivers behind him tried to brake. One of the police cars slid right past them and smashed into the side of the terminal. The others stopped more successfully, within twenty yards of them, and officers emerged, guns drawn.

  Marcus pivoted into the nearly blinding snowstorm and opened fire. Oleg burst out the other side of the car and bounded up the steps of the business jet as a hail of bullets erupted all around him. Marcus kept firing in short bursts as he moved around the hood of the car. He popped out a spent magazine and reloaded. Then he opened fire again—still in short bursts—as he crouched low and worked his way backward up the steps.

  Rounds pinged off the metal stairs and the fuselage. Someone fired from just over his right shoulder. Marcus turned and saw Jenny Morris. The CIA’s Moscow station chief was at the top of the stairs. She was holding a Russian-made sniper rifle and yelling for him to get in.

  Marcus scrambled up the last few stairs. Jenny fired off several more rounds and hit the switch to pull up the stairs. Together, they shut and locked the door behind them and headed for the cockpit.

  Marcus shouted to Oleg to buckle up, recline his seat all the way, and stay away from the windows as Jenny revved the engines. More rounds began hitting the side of the plane. From the copilot seat, Marcus couldn’t see who was firing. He urged Jenny to push the engines harder and get moving, away from the terminal. As she did, Marcus saw her wince, then saw blood all over her jacket and shirt.

  “You’re hit.”

  “I’m fine, Ryker. We’ll deal with it in the air.”

  But she wasn’t merely wincing now. She could barely sit upright.

  “You’re not fine,” he said.

  “Never mind,” she gasped. “Do . . . your job.” She was now having trouble breathing, as well.

  “You’re not going to be able to get us off the ground.”

  Jenny tried to protest, but she couldn’t get the words out. She began coughing up blood.

  Marcus took the controls. Ground control was screaming at them from the tower, ordering them to stop. Marcus could see flashing lights converging from all directions. The G4 was approaching the first possible runway, but every light was red, indicating an aircraft was about to land.

  Marcus looked right and saw lights in the sky at two o’clock. Oleg began shouting that the police cars heading toward them were being joined by armored personnel carriers with .50-caliber mounted machine guns.

  Marcus couldn’t wait any longer. He increased speed and eased the G4 out onto the runway, turning right, toward the approaching plane.

  “No,” Jenny whispered. “You can’t.”

  Marcus didn’t respond.

  “You’re insane. Stop.”

  An Aeroflot jumbo jet was dead ahead of them, less than a mile out, landing gear extended, on approach for the very runway they were hurtling down.

  Marcus didn’t stop. He checked the flaps. They were at the zero position. Preparing for a short takeoff, he throttled forward to full power while pressing hard on the brakes. The high-pitched whine of the dual Rolls-Royce engines filled the cockpit. When he released the brakes, they all snapped back in their seats as the Gulfstream began hurtling down the runway.

  Oleg, watching what was happening through the still-open cockpit door, was yelling at him to stop, that he was going to kill them all. Marcus didn’t respond. He was trying desperately to keep the plane centered on the runway. Yet with only a private pilot’s license and not a single hour in a business jet, he was having trouble. The plane veered to the right, then lurched left. They were picking up speed but were in danger of sliding off the icy runway.

  Marcus could see the chain-link fence at the end of the ten-thousand-foot strip. It was covered in snow and ice, and it was coming up fast. Jenny ordered Marcus to increase flaps to takeoff position. The moment he did, they reached 150 miles an hour.

  “Now!” she yelled.

  Marcus yanked back on the yoke. The instant their wheels were off the ground, he pulled even harder, creating a far steeper angle for takeoff than normal. The ground controllers were cursing at him. Marcus refused to change course.

  Alarms sounded in the G4 cockpit.

  “Caution, obstacle. Caution, obstacle.”

  The Russian plane—filled with hundreds of passengers—was coming directly at them. Despite the storm, Marcus could actually see the pilots in their cockpit, frantically waving them off. He could hear them yelling at him over the radio. Yet he kept increasing speed. They had to gain velocity and altitude if they had any chance of survival, even if that meant playing chicken with a jumbo jet.

  12

  At the last second, the Aeroflot banked hard to the right.

  The G4 cleared the Russian plane by less than fifty yards. Jenny was ashen. Neither she nor Oleg said a word. Marcus retracted the landing gear and pulled into the clouds and the freak storm bearing down on Moscow.

  “Where’s the transponder?” Marcus asked as they passed two thousand feet.

  “Why?” Morris asked, her voice thin and raspy.

  “We’ve got to go dark.”

  Jenny looked at Marcus like he needed to be institutionalized as he turned off all the external lights and all the cabin and cockpit lights as well. Only the glow of the instrumentation remained. Relenting, Jenny pointed to the transponder switch in the lower right section of the center console, then used hand gestures to indicate he should turn it three clicks to the left.

  Now they were nothing but an unidentified radar blip, heading into a storm and one of the most congested air corridors in Europe. Tracking or intercepting them wouldn’t be impossible, but it would be difficult.

  Marcus ordered Oleg to come up to the cockpit and take Jenny to one of the seats in the back. “They teach you any first aid in the army?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  “Then take care of my friend.”

  Oleg nodded and was about to pick up Jenny when Marcus grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close so she couldn’t overhear what he was about to say.

  “She doesn’t know what you just did,” he whispered, “and she’s in no shape to hear it now. Understood?”

  Oleg simply nodded. There was no time for questions. He unbuckled Jenny and carried her to the back of the plane.

  A few minutes later, they reached a cruising altitude of forty-three thousand feet. They were racing for international airspace at a speed of nearly five hundred knots—about 575 miles per hour. Marcus engaged the autopilot. According to the extraction plan he and Jenny had mapped out, they were headed for Helsinki. That was just 893 kilometers away. They’d already been in the air for twelve minutes. They had another fifty to go.

  Marcus knew they’d never make it that far.

  Mikhail Petrovsky was headed back to the war room when the call came.

  The Russian defense minister had gotten only three hours of sleep. As his driver sped toward the center of the city, he took a secure call from Nikolay Kropatkin, deputy director of the FSB.

  “Where are you?”

  “Four minutes out,” Petrovsky said in exasperation. “Can it wait?”

  “No, it cannot,” Kropatkin said. “Brace yourself, Mikhail Borisovich.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “The president, sir.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Petrovsky sat bolt upright in the backseat of the bulletproof sedan, its flashing blue lights—and those of the security cars flanking them—illuminating his face in the stormy darkness. “When? H
ow?”

  “It was Oleg Stefanovich—he shot the president and Dmitri Dmitrovich at point-blank range,” Kropatkin replied breathlessly. “They were alone in the president’s study. It all happened so quickly. But it appears that he had help. He got to the airport, where someone was waiting with a private plane.”

  “Tell me the police stopped him.”

  “There was a shoot-out, but Oleg was able to get on board a jet and take off. We were tracking it, but they’ve turned off their transponder, and for the moment, we’ve lost it.”

  Petrovsky let fly a string of expletives.

  “Scramble a dozen MiGs,” he finally said. “Find that jet and take it down.”

  13

  Marcus unbuckled his seat belt and headed back to the cabin.

  Jenny had been hit in the right shoulder, Oleg explained. The wound was serious, but there was no evidence that either of her lungs had been punctured. Upon closer examination, he said, Morris had simply bitten her tongue at some point in all the chaos. She’d been spitting out blood, not coughing it up. It was a small bit of good news, but Marcus welcomed it. Oleg gave Jenny several shots of morphine to dull the pain, then covered her with a blanket.

  There was nothing he could do for her at the moment, so Marcus excused himself and went into the lavatory. Shutting and locking the door behind him, he stared into the mirror at his unshaven face and the bloodstains all over his copilot’s uniform. His blue eyes were now exhausted and bloodshot. He had scrapes and bruises all over his body—and for all his morning runs and evenings at the gym, he’d been surprised how quickly he’d been winded that night.

  The mission had cost more than Marcus had wanted to pay. He wasn’t morally opposed to killing bad guys. He would do whatever was necessary to protect the people and country he loved. But killing anyone took its toll.

  Marcus washed the blood off his hands and face. Then he stepped out of the restroom, unlocked a storage bin in the back of the plane, and pulled out Nomex flight suits, parachutes, oxygen tanks, and related equipment.