The Lone Patriot

by JT Brannan

  In the backrooms behind the news studio, it was Krasnov’s turn to chuckle. ‘You know they will get to me before you can,’ he said, ‘but I appreciate the offer.’

  He paused as he lit a cigarette and took a long, deep drag, right into his lungs. ‘But I will do as you ask, and then make my own way out of here. Maybe I will come and visit you in America, hey? I think I would be a big hit on your news shows there.’

  ‘I bet you would,’ the old man’s voice came back from Washington. ‘Thank you, Valery. I mean it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Krasnov said, ‘I bet you do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a news show to present.’

  9

  ‘You really believe this?’

  ‘I do,’ David Keegan said, looking at Boris Manturov as he sat opposite him in a private conference room where he had been convalescing from the knife wound to his shoulder.

  Keegan knew that Manturov had wanted to return to Russia; but he had used his powers of persuasion to make him stay.

  He had convinced the man that Emelienenko wanted him dead, that the woman who had tried to kill him was a Russian assassin. He had believed it, too; he saw a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes at the mention of the name Irina Makarova.

  They had pretended that the prime minister’s injuries were worse than they were, had claimed that he couldn’t be moved, had to stay at the hospital in Athens; and during that time, Keegan had extensively debriefed him.

  There were things going on in Russia, it seemed, that Manturov didn’t agree with; and yet, despite his own president trying to have him killed, he still wouldn’t give Keegan the full drop on Project Europe.

  ‘Boris,’ he said now, ‘we know what this project is, and we need you to help stop it. Okay?’

  ‘No,’ Manturov said, ‘I will never betray my country.’

  ‘Your country – or at least your president – has betrayed you. But don’t take my word for it,’ he said, confident now that he had just spoken to Vinson. He went over to the TV, turned it on. ‘Just watch the news,’ he said. ‘And give me your answer then.’

  Dementyev sat on the sofa in the living room of his town house near Old Arbat, propped up with cushions. He was out of the hospital now, but still couldn’t face the discomfort of the desk and chair at his office in Yasenevo.

  It was, he reflected, a pleasure to be home for a short while, despite the circumstances. He hadn’t been here in quite some time, and he’d missed the place. Despite his love of work, sometimes it was nice to be home.

  He had the television tuned to Rossiya 1, waiting for Valery Krasnov’s statement, the statement that would lay the final groundwork for Russia’s invasion of Poland, along with the Baltic states.

  It was to be a blitzkrieg-style operation, especially with Latvia and her neighbors, where the military was weak, and effective opposition was unexpected. Poland would be harder, but – with hundreds of tanks and tens of thousands of ground troops massed on the Belarusian border, not to mention unlimited artillery and air support, Warsaw would be theirs within a single day. The generals had promised that it wouldn’t take longer than twelve hours, but Dementyev liked to incorporate a healthy margin of error.

  The rest of Poland would take longer of course, but probably no more than a week. The government had foolishly committed a large number of its forces to Iran – just as he’d known it would, so eager were they to impress the Americans – and they had precious little left to defend themselves with.

  There would be no help from their allies either – Mason had committed America to a non-aggression pact with Russia and China that would take a long time to get repealed through the courts, and everyone was so wrapped up in Iran, there was almost no help left for anyone else.

  He was so close to realizing his dream, the complete subjugation of Europe, with Russia as its rightful ruler. They already had Belarus and Ukraine in their Greater Russian Federation, and soon they would have four more. And with Greece becoming nothing more than a Russian protectorate, giving Moscow control of southern Europe, the next phase would include ‘inviting’ – otherwise known as ‘threatening’ – the nations that lay between Poland in the north and Greece in the south into their federation. Slovakia, Hungary, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Serbia, Kosovo, Moldova, Bulgaria, Macedonia and Albania. Hell, maybe the Czech Republic and Austria too.

  And why not? Who was going to stop them? The US and her allies would be bogged down in the Middle East for a generation.

  Yes, Dementyev thought, once the Baltic states and Poland were taken by force, it would be an easy matter to persuade the others to join; and if they refused, Russia would attack them from her new, expanded borders.

  And when Eastern and Central Europe were conquered, the Greater Russian Federation would move west, starting with Germany.

  It was a beautiful plan, a wondrous plan, and Dementyev’s heart soared whenever he thought of the end-game.

  It worried him slightly that Emelienenko hadn’t managed to leave Poland yet; the invasion order certainly wouldn’t be given while he was still in Warsaw. But he knew that it was only a matter of time.

  The president would return, blame for the assassination attempts would be apportioned, and countries would be invaded.

  It would be perfect.

  The news came on then, and Dementyev sipped at a glass of chilled vodka – purely medicinal – as he waited for Krasnov to speak.

  The show started with footage of the incident at the Palace of Science and Culture in Warsaw.

  ‘These were scenes earlier today,’ the state’s reliable mouthpiece said in his respected, professorial tones, ‘where an assassination attempt was made on the Polish president, Józef Rojek.’

  Dementyev’s heart almost stopped. What in the name of hell . . .?

  ‘This man,’ Krasnov continued, as an image of the bloody face of Ivan Gorchakov flashed up on the screen, ‘was posing as Polish intelligence officer, Bronisław Ostrawski.’ Here, a file photograph from Bureau III was seen. ‘In reality though, the man was a Russian agent named Ivan Gorchakov, a member of an elite special operations unit of the SVR.’ Another file photograph came up, this one showing a younger man, but undeniably the same one – and the file it was attached to belonged to the SVR personnel department.

  How the hell had they got that picture?

  Dementyev was starting to feel his chest tightening, feared that he would have a heart attack. He went for his phone, but couldn’t coordinate his fingers, couldn’t dial the number for the studio.

  He had to stop the man! He had to!

  There was chaos in the studio, Dementyev could see, but it wasn’t enough, the man had to be stopped!

  ‘This might be related,’ Krasnov continued, ‘to another assassination attempt, this one in Athens and involving a female SVR agent, Irina Makarova, who –’

  And then someone finally, mercifully, pulled the plug, and the screen went blank as the producers were probably having heart attacks of their own as they figured out what to do.

  ‘No,’ Dementyev moaned out loud, even though there was nobody to hear him. ‘No.’

  The plan had relied on surprise, on shock and awe, and on the arguable premise that Russia was acting in self-defense, or in the light of extreme provocation.

  Now what justification could there be?

  The government would refute the claims, of course, would deny the existence of both Gorchakov and Makarova, but he suddenly realized that Makarova was still in Athens, had not yet been extradited back to Russia, and worried about what they might do with her. Would she talk? He shook his head; the thought was too horrible to contemplate.

  The file on Gorchakov was also terribly damning, and he thought once more about where it had come from.

  He tried the phone again, finally got his fingers to work, and dialed the studio. ‘Bring the bastard in,’ he demanded, ‘bring Krasnov to Yasenevo, right now!’

  Dementyev was already on his feet, heading for the
door. Despite his condition, he would drive himself there, meet the traitor face to face, find out where that file had come from, where Krasnov’s damned information had come from.

  ‘We cannot,’ the voice of the producer said, apologetic and fearful.

  ‘Why not?’ Dementyev screamed down the phone.

  ‘Because he’s just shot himself in the head, colonel. I’m sorry.’

  Dementyev felt dizzy, put a hand out on an easy chair to steady himself, collapsed heavily into it, the phone dropping to the floor.

  It’s all falling apart, he thought helplessly.

  All of it.

  But he wasn’t beaten yet. No, he thought to himself, he wasn’t beaten yet. He hadn’t dedicated decades of his life to this project to let it be ruined by a single news report.

  But he recognized the importance of this report; it came straight from state media, which was almost as good as an admission of guilt from the Kremlin itself. Yes, they would disparage Krasnov’s character, would label him a traitor, say that he was telling lies for his western masters. But the damage was done, the word was out, and it hadn’t been the western press that had announced it, it was Rossiya 1 itself!

  Already, other newsreaders were onscreen, labeling Krasnov as mentally ill, a conspiracy theorist, a pawn of western powers, but he knew people would see through this, even the normally quite gullible Russian public.

  And it wasn’t just Krasnov, Dementyev reminded himself.

  No shot had been fired toward the president in Warsaw, it could just as easily have been an attack on the Poles. There was also the foreign agent who had been rescued from Akvadroma and – although the SVR team had failed to extract any information from the man – who knew what he might be telling the American intelligence services? They had Veronika Galushka too, he remembered. And then there was Manturov, who was still alive, who they had tried to kill, and who knew everything there was to know about Project Europe. He was still in Athens, ostensibly due to his injuries, but what if it was because of something else?

  But none of it mattered at all, he realized finally; none of it mattered.

  He stood up and strode back to the sofa, picked up his vodka and stood up, back straight, finishing it in one gulp before pouring himself another.

  No, he told himself, because the truth didn’t matter.

  Emelienenko didn’t need legitimacy.

  The facts of the situation were that Europe couldn’t defend itself, a huge US-led coalition was embedded in Iran, and Russia had already massed her forces on the new GRF border.

  Who cared if anyone believed their story about protecting themselves?

  Who cared if they had legitimacy?

  They would invade anyway, and fuck anybody who tried to stand in their way.

  He took another sip of vodka, surprised when he heard the ringing of his doorbell.

  Probably some SVR orderly, he thought, come to take him to Yasenevo.

  No rest for the wicked, he thought darkly as he approached the door.

  He put the vodka down on a side table and unlocked the large wooden door, pulling it wide open.

  He was surprised to see a woman there, hood up to cover her against the snow.

  He was more surprised to see the dead bodies of his two bodyguards, either side of the low steps.

  And he was never even given the chance to be surprised by the gun, so suddenly did it appear in the woman’s hand; and he barely registered the flash of the muzzle as two rounds hit him straight in the forehead.

  Julie Barrington looked down at the man with barely concealed satisfaction.

  It wouldn’t make up for the people she had lost, perhaps, but it was enough for now.

  She had finally managed to arrange for Navarone’s extraction back to the States, but – even though she had been offered passage with him – she had decided to defy the dangers and make her way back south to Moscow.

  Sean Drake, the CIA doctor, had traveled with Navarone, as well as the two girls that had lost their mother in the attack on the tour bus. They had looked for family members, but there was no father, and Barrington wasn’t even sure she wanted the girls to stay in Russia anyway. It was, after all, a country where an entire tour bus of civilians had been targeted, just to get at half a dozen agents, and – after sharing that intense experience with them – she couldn’t help but want better for them. Hell, she’d thought, she’d adopt them herself if she had to.

  She brought herself back to the present, to the sight of the broken body of Colonel Vladimir Dementyev – survivor of Cold War purges, head of the SVR’s notorious Directorate S, author of Proyekt Yevropy – and silently cursed his bloody corpse.

  Then she threw her pistol down onto the body, turned on her heel, and strode off through the snow-lined Moscow streets, her job done.

  10

  Boris Manturov stared at the television screen, open-mouthed.

  ‘Did I just see what I think I –’

  ‘You did,’ Keegan confirmed. ‘Russian state media just admitted to two Russian assassination attempts.’

  ‘But how –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Keegan said. ‘All that matters is that it happened.’

  Keegan was pleased; he hadn’t truly known whether Vinson’s promises that he could get something onto Rossiya 1 news were genuine or not. But the man had been as good as his word, and Russia’s favorite news channel had – for the first time in its existence – just implicated its own government.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Keegan said, pressing the man for an answer. ‘Are you in?’

  ‘Emelienenko can still do it, you know,’ the Russian prime minister said, ‘he can still go through with it.’

  ‘Go through with what?’ Keegan asked with a raised eyebrow, knowing that he had him.

  Manturov looked at the CIA agent for some time, then sighed, long and hard. ‘With Project Europe.’

  Keegan smiled, offered the Russian prime minister a cup of coffee. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

  President Emelienenko strode to the wide-bodied Ilyushin aircraft, his own private transport, as it waited for him on the runway of Warsaw Chopin.

  The snow was still falling around them, settling crisp and deep, and he knew that these winter conditions were perfect for Russian troops; they would crush the opposition that stood before them in the most favorite of their fighting conditions.

  For he still believed – despite everything – that the project was still viable.

  After all, legitimacy was good, it was desirable, but it wasn’t necessary; the assassinations had only been the icing on the cake, they weren’t the ultimate arbiter of the plan’s success.

  No, he thought as he stood tall and proud, showing the world’s media that were gathered nearby that he was undisturbed by the recent revelations, the key piece of the puzzle was the coalition’s invasion of Iran.

  It was that, and that alone, which would ensure Russia’s victory in Europe, that would guarantee minimal resistance to the coming invasion.

  He stopped on the red carpet, halfway to the airplane, looking at the news cameras. ‘I have nothing to say,’ he said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. ‘Speak to me in Moscow.’

  That was where he would accuse the Polish government of kidnapping him, he thought, of holding him against his will.

  It was, he decided, as good a pretext for an invasion as any.

  He carried on walking, surrounded by PSS bodyguards on all sides, and eventually came to the staircase of his aircraft, a couple of Polish orderlies ready to see him aboard.

  He stepped off the carpet, angry that it didn’t extend all the way to the steps, but didn’t slow down, eager to show his decorum, composure.

  But the ground between the carpet and the steps was incredibly icy, and he soon found himself struggling to stay upright. He slipped, slid, and felt his legs buckling beneath him, when one of the Polish orderlies was there, grasping him by the arm, the elbow, placing once hand on his back
to save his fall.

  That was all he damn well needed, he thought darkly, all too aware that the news cameras would have captured the entire thing; but he recovered quickly, thanked the Polish orderly politely – though through gritted teeth – and finally mounted the steps that led up to the cabin of the Ilyushin

  Goodbye, Warsaw, he thought as he turned and waved.

  The next time I see you, you will be mine.

  Cole watched the door of the Ilyushin close, then saw – several minutes later – the aircraft pull away, taxiing off down the runway; kept watching as the plane accelerated down that same runway, finally lifting off into the snow-filled winter skies.

  He smiled with satisfaction, his job done.

  He would just have to remember to return the orderly’s outfit before he got on his own plane back to Washington.

  11

  ‘Here,’ said Michiko, passing Vinson a wrapped package.

  ‘A present?’ he asked from his bed, quite amused by the prospect. ‘For me?’

  ‘I like to bring gifts for the elderly and infirm,’ Michiko said with a grin.

  ‘That’s quite enough of that,’ Vinson said sternly, although Michiko could see that a smile still played around his lips. ‘Now, let’s see what we have here, shall we?’

  He ripped open the package, laughed when the saw the box of Yorkshire Tea inside. ‘Wonderful,’ he said happily. ‘Oh, you do know me after all.’

  ‘Would you like one?’ Michiko asked, walking toward the kettle.

  ‘Oh yes, I – hang on a minute Michiko, it’s on.’

  Michiko stopped, then walked back and sat down on the chair near Vinson’s bed, looking up at the television.

  The picture was of a newsroom – an anchor on one side, Boris Manturov on the other.

  ‘Where’s this coming from?’ Michiko asked.

  ‘Cyprus,’ Vinson said. ‘We decided it was fairly neutral, big British influence, didn’t take too long to get there from Greece. Now quiet, it’s about to start.’