The Russian Affair

by Adrian D'hage

  President Petrov was now in his third term. Lean and fit, he looked ten years younger than his 63 years and he was more firmly in control of Russia than ever. He stared absentmindedly at the Moskva River and the morning traffic gridlock below, his mind on the update he’d requested on his planned expansion of Russia’s nuclear weapons and energy programs. He smiled to himself. The politicians and generals in the West were still trying to come to grips with his lightning strikes in the Crimea, Ukraine, and now Syria.

  The Kremlin came into view and the pilots began their descent. Several historic Russian cities boasted kremlins, which literally meant ‘fortress inside a city’, but throughout the world, the Moscow Kremlin was unmistakable as Russia’s seat of government. Dating back to the second century BC, the walls had been designed by Italian masters, and it had been home to Catherine the Great and the Tsars. When the Soviet government had moved to Moscow from St Petersburg, or what was then Petrograd in 1918, Lenin had lived in the Senate and Stalin had left his grisly imprint. To the east lay Red Square and St Basil’s Cathedral and as the pilots banked over the Kremlin’s red brick walls, the golden domes of Ivan the Great’s bell tower came into view. A minute later, Petrov’s chopper touched down in the Tainistky secret garden, which took its name from the secret passages beneath the Kremlin tower in the centre of the walls.

  President Petrov reached his suite of offices in the Old Senate Building, where his tall, striking and efficient personal assistant, Tatiana Brezhnev, was waiting. She was dressed in a red pantsuit and her blonde hair was combed loosely back behind her ears, revealing a pair of elegant pink diamond earrings, a gift from the president.

  Petrov’s desk matched the oak panels lining the walls. Two flags – the Russian tricolour on the right, and the presidential tricolour on the left – stood loosely furled behind his desk. A large gold double-eagle presidential seal was affixed to the wall above the flags. Jade boxes, embossed with smaller seals, held a variety of coloured pencils, and unusually, the president’s desk was in the shape of an extended ‘T’. Two chairs, upholstered with elegant gold tapestry, were positioned either side of the extension, which enabled the president to sit face to face during one-on-one meetings. At the other end of his office, a long, polished oak table facilitated larger gatherings.

  ‘Coffee?’

  Petrov nodded as he scanned the agenda for the day. ‘They’re here?’

  ‘Waiting in the cabinet room.’

  Petrov was wary of leaks, and instead of convening the full cabinet, he had restricted Dragunov’s secret nuclear briefing to his trusted inner circle on the Security Council – just the key ministers for Foreign Affairs, Defense and Internal Affairs, the Speaker of the State Duma, Petrov’s Chief of Staff and the heads of the major Russian intelligence agencies.

  ‘General Dragunov is accompanied this morning by Colonel Ilana Rabinovich,’ Tatiana added dismissively, handing the president his red folder of briefing notes.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Petrov said, draining his coffee.

  The council members rose to their feet as their president entered the imposing room. A huge crystal chandelier hung above a long oak table where there was space for ten heavy oak chairs on either side. Black marble pillars supported the ornate gold and cream ceiling and heavy beige curtains graced the large elegant windows.

  Petrov motioned the council members to sit and he took his place in front of the flags at the head of the table. ‘We are on track to restore the motherland to her rightful place as a great power. When the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991,’ he reminded them, a trace of bitterness in his voice, ‘we lost over two million square miles of our territory, including our share of Germany, as well as Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania on the Baltic, Georgia on the Black Sea and Azerbaijan on the Caspian. That’s an area twice the size of India, but all that is changing.’ Petrov’s bitterness gave way to a threatening malice. ‘Our revitalised military has executed our takeover of the Crimea without a shot being fired, and we have put NATO, Kiev and the West on notice in Ukraine. In Syria, we have now ensured the survival of the Assad regime, although that is not to say we have won.’ Petrov paused, and then continued, his voice now low and menacing. ‘ISIS remains a threat. They might be suffering defeats in Iraq and Syria, but they’re expanding into other countries, including Afghanistan. They pose a threat on our doorstep in Georgia, and we will show them absolutely no quarter.’ Petrov turned his attention to the new President of the United States. Privately, he had referred to Travers as ‘a useful idiot’.

  ‘In the United States, wars in the Middle East have cowed the American people into submission, but now they have a new president in Bedford Travers. He’s way out of his depth, and we can take advantage of this. With Travers in the White House, the traditional allies of the US are wary and whenever we can, we’ll drive a wedge between them. But that’s just the beginning,’ Petrov added forcefully. The room was silent. The members of Russia’s Security Council were absorbing their president’s every word.

  ‘There are two main factors that are critical to building our dominance over Europe and the West,’ Petrov continued. ‘The first is energy and the second is the development of a superiority in nuclear weapons. In terms of energy, where others see climate change as a threat, we will take advantage of it . . . in the Arctic.’ He nodded to General Dragunov. The General rose to his feet and strode to the briefing lectern. He flicked a remote, whereupon a video screen on the far wall of the room came to life.

  ‘This is the latest satellite imagery of the Arctic,’ Dragunov began. ‘As you’re aware, the Arctic ocean is normally covered in sea ice, reaching its maximum extent in March each year, but our data is now showing a very steep decline.’ The graphs and satellite images on the screen reflected an alarming shrinkage. ‘The Arctic is warming faster than any other place on the planet,’ Dragunov continued. ‘Each year human activity, and particularly fossil fuel consumption, pours over 40 billion tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. That raises the temperature of the earth, causing extreme weather events and —’

  ‘We know the planet is heating up, General,’ Petrov interrupted irritably. Dragunov’s ‘touchy-feely’ concern for the environment would normally have been enough for Petrov to fire him, but when it came to energy and nuclear physics, Dragunov had no peer. No one else in Russia came close, which for the moment was enough to save him. ‘Get to the point, Dragunov. I want to focus on the opportunities this presents us.’

  ‘Of course, Mr President.’ Dragunov pulled up a PowerPoint of the satellite imagery of the Arctic sea lanes. ‘As you can see,’ Dragunov said, ‘in 2007, for the first time in history, the North-West Passage became ice-free. That opened up a new shipping lane bordering Siberia and it now connects the Atlantic with the Pacific.’

  ‘We are confident we can control that route?’ Petrov directed his remarks to the Defense Minister, Yuri Gruzinsky. The swarthy Gruzinsky, known for his no-nonsense approach, wore the insignia of General of the Army – a large gold five-pointed star topped with a smaller red star enclosed in oak leaves.

  ‘Very confident, Mr President. Twenty submarines are now on station, protecting the aircraft carrier Admiral Kuznetsov, along with some 40 cruisers and destroyers. The bases under construction at Alakurtti, some 30 miles from Finland, and on the Novosibirsk and the Franz Josef archipelagos are nearing completion. Thirteen airfields are under construction and in addition to the Northern Fleet, we can mobilise over 250 aircraft and 12 000 troops, including ten early warning radar stations. The last NATO exercise in the Arctic involved only 4000 troops,’ Gruzinsky added, a note of smugness in his voice. ‘The new Mi-SAM helicopters have been fitted for arctic conditions, and there are now 50 icebreakers in service. The new nuclear-powered LK-60 design is capable of smashing ice three metres thick,’ Gruzinsky concluded. Russia possessed the largest icebreaking fleet in the world and as everyone around the table knew, the Arctic held the last great reserves of undiscovered oil.

  Pe
trov nodded approvingly. ‘The second factor that is key to wrong-footing the West is to be found in the upgrades to our nuclear arsenal. I have therefore given orders for the production of 50 more intercontinental ballistic missiles.’ Twelve hundred kilometres to the east of Moscow, the production plant in Votkinsk was operating around the clock and a batch of the 50-tonne, 20-metre-long RS-24 Yars missiles were already on their way to the 54th and 60th Missile Divisions in Teykovo and Tatishchevo to the north and south of Moscow. ‘But that too, is only the beginning. We are now working on an even more powerful missile, the Sarmat, which will carry a new suite of sophisticated nuclear warheads.’ Petrov nodded for Dragunov to continue.

  ‘At this point, Mr President, I will hand over to Colonel Rabinovich. She has been heavily involved in the research and development of our new warheads. That research has not been without its challenges, but I will let her explain.’

  Dressed in her uniform as a Spetsnaz colonel, Ilana Rabinovich took her place at the lectern. Wisps of dark hair hung tantalisingly from under her khaki cap. The president’s admiring glance was not lost on his personal assistant.

  ‘Mr President, in accordance with your directive, we have been working toward perfecting smaller but more powerful nuclear warheads. Warheads that will be small enough for 20 of them to fit in a single nose-cone of the Sarmat.’ Rabinovich flashed up a slide of the massive liquid-fuelled 100-tonne missile. The president knew well that with a range of over 10 000 kilometres, Russia’s latest missiles could easily reach any city in the United States. With a flat, ballistic trajectory and onboard decoys, the missiles had been specifically designed to penetrate American anti-ballistic missile shields and space-based infrared satellite detection systems.

  ‘As General Dragunov has indicated, the nuclear physics involved in producing what are essentially small, thermonuclear warheads with much higher yields than the current inventory is not without its challenges.’ Rabinovich’s assertion was a masterly understatement. ‘But,’ she assured the president, ‘these challenges are not insurmountable and we’ve already learned a great deal from our testing in the Arctic.’ Petrov, impressed with Rabinovich’s positive approach, listened attentively as the nuclear physicist outlined the technical problems that needed to be overcome if the new generation of warheads was to become a reality.

  The briefing lasted nearly an hour, at the conclusion of which President Petrov indicated he would see the head of the GRU, General Korablin, in his office. The Russian spy agency, one of several that had emerged from the now defunct KGB, dealt with external military intelligence.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the president said, indicating one side of the ‘T’ that jutted out in front of his desk. ‘And remind me to talk to you about Dragunov, he’s beginning to annoy me,’ Petrov added. ‘We may have to move on him – preferably when he’s out of the country.’

  ‘Of course, Mr President.’ It was not the first time the head of the GRU had been asked to deal with a potential threat to the president’s vision for Russia. Wiry and fit, Korablin was ruthless, and Petrov had personally promoted him over more senior generals to head the aggressive armed forces spy agency.

  ‘Now . . . in the last report I read on the development of these new warheads,’ Petrov continued, getting straight down to the purpose of the meeting, ‘I saw the US was making more progress than we are, but the source couldn’t be verified. Do we have an update?’

  ‘We’re working very hard on that, Mr President, but ever since that contractor to the United States National Security Agency, Edward Snowden, released his tranche of classified documents, the US has tightened up on security.’

  Petrov smiled thinly. Few things pleased him more than activities that embarrassed the United States. In Petrov’s view, allowing a low-grade contractor carte-blanche access to top-secret material was rank stupidity.

  ‘As a result,’ General Korablin continued, ‘we’re having trouble getting anyone inside their nuclear development programs. We’ll keep trying, but if we can get the right agent, there is another option with the Israeli program . . . they’re reportedly working on the same mini-nuclear devices as the Americans and ourselves,’ he said. ‘As you’re aware, we already have one of our people inside the Mossad, but the Israelis have their nuclear capabilities in a very tight compartment. Very few in the military, and even fewer politicians, know what is going on at Dimona . . . it would take an outstanding agent to get anywhere near the place.’

  Petrov was thoughtful. The Israelis, he knew, had been going to extraordinary levels to protect their nuclear program for a very long time. In 1961, President Kennedy had put enormous pressure on the then Israeli Prime Minister, David Ben Gurion, to allow the IAEA – the International Atomic Energy Agency – to inspect the Israeli nuclear facility located near Dimona, out in the deserts of the Negev. But the Israelis would not countenance the IAEA going anywhere near the place. Faced with isolation from the US, Ben Gurion finally allowed an American team to inspect their reactor, but only after a false control room, complete with fake control panels had been constructed over the real one to give the Americans the impression the reactor was linked to providing energy for an agricultural irrigation program. The amount of heavy water alone that was stored at Dimona, to which the Americans were denied access on ‘safety grounds’, would have given a clear indication that the Israeli nuclear program was headed in a very different direction than cultivating carrots.

  ‘Do we have that sort of agent?’ President Petrov demanded.

  ‘We’ve already given that some thought, Mr President,’ Korablin replied. ‘The only scenario we’ve come up with that might stand a chance of success would be to convince the Israelis that a nuclear physicist of international standing was fleeing Russia because of persecution, but for an asylum-seeking nuclear scientist’s preferred destination to be Israel, there would have to be a Jewish connection . . . and even then, it would take some time before the Israelis might trust that scientist enough to work for them.’

  ‘But not impossible?’

  ‘Nothing is impossible, Mr President, but as yet we don’t have a suitable candidate.’

  ‘What about Colonel Rabinovich?’

  ‘We looked at her, Mr President. There is no doubt she is a brilliant nuclear physicist of international standing, but she is also most decidedly Russian. Absolutely dedicated to the motherland.’

  ‘Which is a very desirable quality in any of our agents,’ the president observed with a wry smile. ‘Could she be given a Jewish background?’

  General Korablin raised a thoughtful eyebrow. ‘Let me look into that, Mr President. I’m sure we can come up with a cover story but it would have to be watertight. Rabinovich is highly intelligent, so absorbing Jewish culture won’t be a problem, and her special forces background would also be useful in getting her up to speed as an agent,’ Korablin added. ‘I’ll call Rabinovich in to gauge her willingness, and we’ll get back to you.’

  ‘I think the suggestion for Rabinovich to spy for us in Israel would be better coming from me. If she knows it has my backing, then I’m sure she will agree to the mission.’ Petrov turned to his personal assistant. ‘I’ll interview Rabinovich at the Black Sea dacha . . . make arrangements for her to be there this weekend.’

  Brezhnev quietly controlled her fury.

  Ilana Rabinovich wished the guard a good evening as she cleared the boom gate of the secret laboratory complex. Heavy snowflakes drifted onto the windscreen and she switched to high beam. The Cree LED on her Jeep Grand Cherokee picked out the drifts on the road as if it were daylight. To her left, the Vichkinza River meandered past tortured icy stalagmites that had formed on the snow-covered rocks protruding from the riverbed. Rabinovich crossed the river and took the road that led to the closed city of Sarov.

  The sign at the barbed wire perimeter fence surrounding Sarov was in both Russian and a quaint version of English: Entrance of the foreign citizens is strictly prohibited without special permission. Often referred to a
s a ‘forbidden city’, Sarov was closed even to ordinary Russians. Ilana slowed as she approached the next checkpoint and she smiled at the young guard as he waved her through. Her deep blue Jeep SUV was well known and the envy of the Russian soldiers.

  When she reached the front door of her two-storey red brick duplex apartment on Ulitsa Pavlika Morozova, she was immedi-ately on alert. The human hair she habitually left in the doorjamb was missing. Rabinovich placed her shoulder bag on the path, drew her pistol and quietly pushed the door.

  ‘You can put your pistol away, Colonel.’

  Ilana forced herself to stay calm. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, maintaining her aim.

  ‘FSB. This is Ivanov and I am Bazanov.’ The two polkovniks – colonels in the Federal Security Service – were dressed in civilian clothes and they had arrogantly seated themselves in Rabinovich’s lounge chairs.

  ‘Chto, chert voz’mi, ty delayesh’ v moyem dome! What the hell are you doing in my house?’ Angry now, Rabinovich glared first at Bazanov and then at his silent accomplice.

  ‘Your house is provided by the state, Colonel, but leaving that aside,’ said Bazanov, holstering his own pistol inside the tailored jacket of his suit, ‘President Petrov has an assignment for you. You will be his guest for the weekend at his dacha on the Black Sea where you will be given your orders. Our helicopter leaves at first light, so I suggest you put the pistol away and go and pack.’ Bazanov got to his feet. ‘There will be a car here at 6.30 a.m. to take you to the helipad.’

  Bazanov’s command had an edge to it, and Rabinovich took an instant dislike to both FSB colonels. She glared at Bazanov, retrieved her shoulder bag and stormed up the stairs to her bedroom, hiding her delight at being summoned by the president of her beloved Russia.