Heads around the table nodded in agreement.
“Our chief of state has been murdered, as has his immediate successor. And as we all know, the speaker of the Duma had a stroke several weeks ago and for now has been tragically incapacitated. So, amid our searing loss and wrenching pain, we face a constitutional crisis unparalleled in the history of the Russian Federation. The painful fact is that we have no leader and no clear process for choosing one, and we are just hours away from going to war with the United States and the NATO alliance.”
19
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
McDermott cleared his throat and took yet another sip of water.
Then he laid out the chilling story for the president and his advisors.
The original plan was for Marcus Ryker and Jenny Morris, the thirty-two-year-old chief of the CIA’s Moscow station, to link up with the Raven, retrieve the thumb drive containing all the intelligence the Raven had promised to give to the Americans in return for safe passage out of the country, and then get both the Raven and the thumb drive out of Russia as quickly as possible. But it seemed the operatives had gone rogue. Morris and Ryker had apparently conspired with the Raven to assassinate Luganov and Nimkov before taking the Gulfstream jet the CIA had positioned at the airport. A jet that had now been shot down by the Russian Air Force.
President Clarke’s face and neck turned beet red. Turning to Director Stephens, he demanded an explanation. “Are you telling me that two officers of the Central Intelligence Agency executed a hit on two of the most senior leaders of the Russian Federation—an operation I never heard of, much less approved?”
“Absolutely not, Mr. President,” Stephens replied. “Neither Morris nor Ryker was ever authorized to do such a thing. They certainly never discussed, mentioned, or even hinted that they were contemplating such actions, and I would never have allowed them to, either.”
“Nevertheless, your people just committed an overtly hostile and provocative act on the eve of a war between the Russians and NATO that, as you’ve all advised me, could very well go nuclear,” countered an enraged commander in chief.
“Mr. President, please,” Stephens implored. “Let’s back this thing up a moment. First of all, Ryker doesn’t officially work for the CIA. And with respect, we don’t know if any of this is true.”
“What are you talking about? Did you hear what McDermott just told us?”
“Yes, sir, and I have no doubt our people in Moscow are picking up such reports from electronic and human sources in Moscow and beyond,” Stephens replied. “My people are highly trained professionals and are faithfully passing along what they’re hearing. I just caution that we don’t know that any of it is accurate. Is Luganov really dead? Is Nimkov? Has it been confirmed? Has it been reported in the Russian news? Or is it possible this is a ploy to distract us as war is set into motion?”
The CIA director turned to his deputy, sitting in the row of chairs behind him, and ordered him to step out of the room and get all the up-to-the-minute information Langley had. Then he said, “Mr. President, what if this is all an elaborate disinformation campaign to set up the American government to look horrible—to make us out to be the bad guy in the eyes of the world—and give Luganov the pretext he wants to go to war? Can I tell you that’s the case? No, sir, I cannot. But if that were the case—and I stress, if—then the Russian news media will very likely start reporting it soon. Such explosive reports would be immediately picked up by the international media and certainly by the American media. It might all be fake news, but it would give Luganov and his generals a serious edge.”
“That would be quite a head fake,” the SecDef said.
“It would indeed,” said the president, suddenly not clear on what to believe.
“But let’s take the other side,” the Pentagon chief said. “What if it’s true?”
“That’s crazy,” Stephens shot back. “None of my people would be engaged in anything like that.”
“Then why did the Kremlin just order that G4 and our people be shot down?” Foster asked, careful not to raise his voice.
The director of Central Intelligence had no reply.
“Your pilots flew that Gulfstream in with an airtight cover, did they not?” Foster continued.
“I believe so,” Stephens replied.
“Your people had no indication prior to takeoff that anything was wrong, did they?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Your station chief in Moscow had a solid alibi. The Russians had no idea that Marcus Ryker was back in the country. So far as the Russians knew, Ryker flew out with Senator Dayton and his delegation several days ago. We have no reason to believe the FSB or any other security service in Russia somehow knew that Ryker HALO-jumped back into Russia to link up with your station chief and the Raven, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Then we have to ask, what went wrong?” Foster said. “Why did Moscow suddenly shut down Russian airspace minutes after your G4 lifted off? Why did they scramble all those MiGs and give them orders to blow any Gulfstream business jet they found to kingdom come?”
Again, the CIA director had no answers.
Secretary Foster turned back to Clarke. “Mr. President, I don’t know what to believe yet. There simply isn’t enough factual data in front of us to warrant a conclusion. I grant that a disinformation campaign is possible, especially if Luganov is still alive and determined to go through with this attack on our NATO allies in the Baltics. But we should consider the alternative as well.”
“Which is?” the president asked.
“Assume Luganov really is dead,” Foster replied. “Nimkov, too. How could it have happened? There is absolutely no way Jenny Morris or Marcus Ryker got into or anywhere near the presidential palace. That much I’d stake my life on. It’s impossible. But what about the Raven? What do we really know about him? We don’t even know his name.”
“One hasn’t been given to me,” Stephens said.
“But we’re told he’s close to Luganov, right?” Foster asked.
“Yes.”
“Close enough to give us the war plans Luganov has been developing with his senior leadership.”
Director Stephens nodded.
“And close enough to give Ryker and Morris a treasure trove of other high-value intel, which they transmitted back to Langley several hours ago, well before they took off,” Foster continued. “That suggests—at the minimum—that they made contact with the Raven and received the thumb drive he promised. That means it’s also very likely he was on that plane when it took off.”
“What are you saying, Cal?” the president asked.
“I’m just saying someone who’s close enough to Luganov to get this kind of information is someone highly trusted by the president, his closest advisors, and very likely his security detail. We know the Raven, whoever he is, was horrified by what Luganov was doing. We know he told Ryker he was willing to lay down his life to stop Luganov from going to war with NATO. Clearly the Raven found a way to hand off the thumb drive to Ryker, the only handler he said he would work with. But what if he didn’t head directly to the airport with Ryker as planned? What if he went back to the palace—alone—to take care of unfinished business?”
“Come on, Cal, you really think this Raven person walked up to Luganov and Nimkov and popped them like something out of a gangster movie?”
“Who else would have had better access?”
“How would he have gotten a gun into the palace?”
“There are hundreds of guns in the palace,” the SecDef said. “He only needed one.”
“And then he just waltzed out, took a cab to the airport, met Ryker and Morris, and tried to fly out?” Stephens asked, incredulous.
“It’s not impossible. Something caused the Russians to shut down all civilian air traffic, scramble their fighters, hunt down this one plane, and shoot it out of the air. Now our G4 is gone, our people are dead, and we’ve got
a hundred thousand Red Army troops poised to pour into the Baltics within the next few hours. I, for one, don’t want to be caught off guard worrying about whether Luganov is dead or not if Moscow is about to take us to war.”
“I don’t either,” the president said. “Mr. Secretary, take us to DEFCON 2.”
20
SOMEWHERE ALONG HIGHWAY E18, SOUTHEAST OF VYBORG, RUSSIA
They couldn’t plow Russian back roads all day.
But Marcus hadn’t yet found an exit strategy. If he peeled away from the convoy too soon, the other drivers would get suspicious. For the moment, they were stuck clearing snow. They had already reopened access to small towns from Toksovo in the center of the peninsula to Ozerki, a rural fishing village nestled on the northeastern shores of the Gulf of Finland. Now they were working their way northwest on the main thoroughfare that connected St. Petersburg with Vyborg, the second-largest city in the region with a population of some eighty thousand.
The driver Marcus had head-butted had still not come to. But Jenny was beginning to stir. The helmet and oxygen were no longer necessary. She was able to breathe on her own, and her pulse was steady. But she was groaning in pain and shivering. All the snow Marcus had packed around her wounds had melted, and she was soaked through. When he felt her forehead, it was hot. She was developing a fever. Marcus directed Oleg to give her another shot of morphine. Oleg gave her the shot, put his own coat around her, and turned up the heater another notch. After several minutes, she quieted and drifted back to sleep.
Via the CB and the AM radio, Marcus had been trying to track the latest developments. To their bewilderment, there had been no word about the assassination of Luganov, but Radio Moscow was reporting that a business jet had gotten caught in the storm and had exploded over the Karelian Isthmus. No survivors were reported. Emergency crews were dealing with multiple fires from burning wreckage that had fallen from the sky on private homes, shops, and even an elementary school.
In a separate story, Radio Moscow reported that three suspected bank robbers were believed to be on the loose in or near St. Petersburg. The anchor said an extensive manhunt was under way, adding that all three suspects were considered armed and dangerous. Citizens were advised to stay inside and call authorities if they spotted anything suspicious. The surprise blizzard dominated the rest of the coverage, with updates every ten minutes.
Neither Marcus nor Oleg understood why the authorities in Moscow were purposefully misleading the nation. Why weren’t people being told of the assassination? Why wasn’t Oleg’s name and description being distributed in an all-points bulletin?
Oleg’s theory could be summed up in one word: pride. The leaders of the FSB and other Russian security agencies had to be mortified by what they had allowed to happen. They had to be dealing with a firestorm of outrage from cabinet members and soon would face the fury of the Duma and the public. At some point they would have to acknowledge Luganov’s death both to the nation and the world. But Oleg wasn’t sure they could actually admit it had been done by an insider, a member of the First Family, no less.
Marcus, however, was sure the story would come out soon.
“Pride cuts both ways,” he said as they kept driving. “I grant you the Kremlin doesn’t want to admit they failed to protect the two highest leaders in the country. But I can tell you from experience, the only thing more humiliating than failing to stop an assassination is the failure to arrest or kill the person or persons responsible for the crime. We may have a few hours, but that’s it. Once the Kremlin realizes we didn’t die in the G4, believe me, they’ll hunt us down with everything they have.”
For now, however, Marcus had a more urgent matter. They had to find a way to ditch this snowplow and get away from the convoy. Finally the moment he’d been looking for came.
“Get on the radio—say we need to stop for fuel,” he told Oleg, seeing a rest stop approaching and easing his foot off the accelerator.
When Oleg complied, the driver in the lead plow radioed back that they all had enough fuel to make it to Vyborg, a city still thirty minutes ahead. They would refuel there, he insisted. But Marcus told Oleg to inform his comrades he also needed a bathroom stop.
The second announcement worked like a charm. The five other trucks had just missed the exit, and none of them slowed or made a U-turn. Rather, they pressed northward while Marcus pulled off the main highway and into the parking lot of a petrol station and adjoining restaurant.
Pulling around to the back of the facility, Marcus came to a complete stop in front of a snow-covered SUV that had clearly been there for hours. He turned off the snowplow’s wipers and lights and shut down the engine. Then, telling Oleg to wait, he pulled up the collar of his leather jacket to protect himself from the elements, opened the driver’s-side door, and dropped to the ground.
21
Marcus strode across the parking lot to a service door located next to two large metal garbage bins.
The door was unlocked. Slipping inside, Marcus entered a well-lit hallway leading to the convenience mart attached to the petrol station. To his left was a restroom and a walk-in freezer. To his right was the manager’s office. Marcus knocked on the office door. There was no answer. He tried the knob. It, too, was unlocked. There was little of value inside. A large steel drop-slot safe sat in one corner. At this time of day, it was probably full of cash. Yet Marcus doubted the manager even knew the combination, and he wasn’t there to rob the place. Not exactly. He just needed a set of keys.
The rest of the cramped office contained two file cabinets, a desk strewn with piles of paperwork, a few pictures of the manager’s husband and children, and a new bottle of Stolichnaya with a pink bow wrapped around it and what looked to be several hand-drawn birthday cards. Hearing no one approaching, Marcus checked the desk drawers. They were locked, as were the file cabinets. But next to a wall calendar, he finally found what he was looking for: a hook with keys to the 2009 Jeep Compass Sport parked out back.
Outside, Marcus brushed off the beat-up SUV and revved up the stone-cold engine. Oleg helped him move Jenny from the cab of the snowplow to the backseat of the Jeep. Marcus transferred the weapons and the rest of their gear, then gave the driver one more shot of sedatives and sat him in the driver’s seat, slumped over the steering wheel. Marcus, Oleg, and Jenny were all still wearing the gloves they’d jumped with, so he didn’t have to wipe the cab down for prints. But he did toss the keys to the plow onto the seat beside the driver. Then he opened the bottle of vodka he’d swiped from the office, poured some onto the man’s face and his jacket, and set the open bottle on the seat next to the man. With that, he shut the door to the truck and slipped into the driver’s side of the Jeep.
“I know where we can go to lay low for a while, just until we can figure out our next move,” Oleg said as he cranked up the Jeep’s heater, desperate to get warm and keep Jenny warm as well.
“Where?” Marcus asked.
“Marina’s mother lives in St. Petersburg.”
“Yulia?”
“Right—I sent Marina and Vasily to stay there. I know they’d—”
Oleg wasn’t finished, but Marcus shook his head. “No. No family. No friends. We can’t take the risk.”
Oleg tried to protest, but Marcus cut him off.
“Keep thinking,” he said as he put the Jeep in gear and pulled away from the petrol station and back onto the highway. Rather than continuing north, however, he headed south on the E18. Police cars with sirens blaring were streaming southward, passing them often. Army vehicles too. Marcus and Oleg tensed each time, but so far no civilian cars were being pulled over, certainly none heading toward the site of the plane crash. Nor had they encountered any of the roadblocks or checkpoints that the radio was reporting had been set up closer to St. Petersburg.
Marcus didn’t have a plan. Not yet. He just didn’t want to be a sitting duck at the petrol station. Better to be moving. Better to be taking the initiative. But suddenly he saw Oleg pull out h
is phone and begin scrolling through his contacts.
“What are you doing?” Marcus asked, an edge in his voice. “You shouldn’t have your phone on; it can be tracked.”
“I put it on airplane mode,” the Russian replied. “Isn’t that enough?”
Marcus had no idea, but before he could say anything further, Oleg found what he had been searching for.
“I’ve got it,” he said. “Does the name Boris Igorovich Zakharov mean anything to you?”
“Sure—Luganov’s former chief of staff, right?”
“Right. Now he’s in a prison in Siberia somewhere, serving a life sentence.”
“What’d he do?”
“It’s a long story. The point is, his brother has a dacha here on the isthmus. It’s not thirty minutes from here.”
“You have the address?”
“Better than that, I’ve actually been there. He took me there once before he was arrested. We went fishing. It’s right on the Gulf of Finland.”
“How do you know his brother won’t be there?”
“No one’s ever there this time of year. Boris’s brother always spends autumn on the Black Sea. That’s why Boris and I were able to use his place. I could call if you’d like, just to make sure he’s not there.”
Marcus shook his head. “No calls. We’ll check it out. And turn your phone off all the way. We don’t want the FSB tracking you, airplane mode or no airplane mode.”
At Oleg’s direction, Marcus exited on a side road labeled Roshchinskoye Shosse. They were soon heading south, then southwest. It was slow going, as the roads they’d helped plow were being covered with fresh snow. Eventually, however, they made it to the coastal road. There they took a right, heading west toward the village of Ozerki.
The Persian Gamble Page 8
