“I agree fully with your passion and your anger, young Pavel, but how little you know of politics or how to prosecute a war,” Zhurbenko said, trying to keep the tone of his voice lighthearted. Kazakov took an angry gulp of whiskey. Zhurbenko certainly did not want to get on this man's evil side, he thought as he tried to appear as understanding and sympathetic as he could. “It takes time, planning, and most important, money, to execute an operation such as that.”
“My father invaded Pristina with less than twelve hours' notice, with troops that were barely qualified to do the job.”
“Yes, he did,” Zhurbenko had to admit, although it was not the city of Pristina, just the little regional airport. “Your father was a true leader of men, a risk taker, a born warrior in the tradition of the Slavic kings.” That seemed to placate Kazakov.
But in the intervening silence, Zhurbenko turned over the question in his mind. Go into Kosovo with a bngade? It would take months, perhaps half a year, to mobilize twenty thousand troops to do anything, and the entire world would know about it long before the first regiment was loaded up. No. It was silly. Kosovo was a lose-lose situation. The murder of Colonel Kazakov and sixteen other soldiers in Kosovo only reinforced what Zhurbenko already knew—Russia needed to get out of Kosovo. Kazakov was certainly a brilliant businessman and engineer, but he knew nothing of the simplest mechanisms of modem warfare.
But perhaps a smaller force, one or two light armored battalions, even a Spetsnaz airborne regiment. Pavel Kazakov’s father had parachuted in an infantry company right onto Pristina Airport, right under NATO’s nose, and caught the world off guard. It hadn’t been a shock force, just a regular infantry unit—Zhurbenko was sure all its members hadn’t even been jump-qualified at the time. A well-trained Spetsnaz unit of similar size, perhaps reinforced by air, would be ten times more effective. Why couldn’t they do it again? NATO’s presence in Kosovo was only a bit smaller than it was in 1999, but now they were deeply entrenched in their own little sectors, in secure little compounds, not daring to roam around too much. The Kosovo Liberation Army had free rein. But they weren’t regulars—they were guerrilla fighters. Dangerous, even deadly in the right situation, but no match for a Russian special forces team on a search-and-destroy mission.
The general noticed something that he had almost missed in his effort not to anger this young industrialist: Pavel Kazakov was passionate about something—the welfare of Russian soldiers in Kosovo, the ones his murdered father had commanded. He spoke about “our” soldiers, as if he really cared about them. Was it just because his father had been one? Did he now feel some sort of kinship with the soldiers killed in Kosovo? Whatever it was, it was a sudden glimpse behind the eyes of one of the most inscrutable personalities in the world.
“This is very interesting, Pavel, very interesting,” Zhurbenko said. “You would advocate a much stronger, more forceful role in Kosovo?”
“Kosovo is just the beginning, General,” Kazakov replied acidly. “Chechnya was a good example of a conflict well fought—bomb the rebels into submission. Destroy their homes, their places of business, their mosques, their meeting places. Since when does the Russian government condone independence movements within the Federation? Never.
“Russia has interests outside our borders that need protecting as well,” Kazakov went on. Zhurbenko was fully attentive now—because he had been thinking along the very same lines. “The Americans are investing billions of dollars into developing pipelines to ship our oil, oil discovered and developed by Russian engineers, to the West. What do we get out of it? Nothing. A few rubles in transshipment fees, a fraction of what we’re entitled to. Why is this allowed to happen? Because we allowed Azerbaijan and Georgia to become independent. The same would have happened in Chechnya if we allowed it to happen.”
“But what about the West? Don’t we need their investment capital, their coordination, the cooperation of their oil industry?”
“Ridiculous. The Western world condemned our actions against Chechnya because it is politically popular to oppose Russia. The Americans are as two-faced as they can be. They condemned our antiterrorist security actions against one of our own republics, but NATO, a military alliance, attacks Serbia, a sovereign country and close ally, without a declaration of war, and ignores the indignation of the entire world!”
“But we did nothing because we needed Western financial aid. Western investments—”
“Rubbish,” Kazakov said, taking an angry gulp of whiskey. “We went along with NATO’s aggression against Serbia, remaining silent while our Slav brothers were being bombed, all to try to show support for the West. We were buffaloed into espousing the same rhetoric they were feeding the rest of the world—that opposing Slobodan Milosevic and so-called Serb ethnic cleansing would be more in line with the sentiment of the world community. So we remained silent and then joined the United Nations ‘peacekeeping’ efforts.
“So what has the West done for us in return? Nothing! They think of different reasons not to provide us assistance or restructure government loans to suit their own political agenda. First they blamed our actions in Chechnya, then they blamed the election of President Sen’kov and the formation of a coalition government with a few Communists in it, then they blamed so-called human rights abuses, then weapons sales to countries unfriendly to America, then drug dealers and organized crime. The fact is, they just want us to heel. They want us pliable, soft, and nonthreatening. They don’t want to invest in us.”
“You sound very much like your father, do you know that?” Zhurbenko said, nodding to his aide to refill the young man’s glass. Pavel Kazakov nodded and smiled slightly, the whiskey starting to warm his granite-hard features a bit. He still looked evil and dangerous, but now more like a satisfied crocodile with a fat duck in his mouth than a cobra ready to strike.
In fact, General Zhurbenko knew, Colonel Gregor Kazakov had never made a political comment in his entire life. He’d been a soldier, first, foremost, and ever. No one—very definitely including Zhurbenko—knew what the elder Kazakov’s opinions of his government or their policies had been, because he’d never volunteered his thoughts, no matter how casual the surroundings. But the fiction seemed to work, and the younger Kazakov seemed more animated than ever.
“So what do we do, Pavel?” Zhurbenko asked. “Attack? Resist? Ally with Germany? What can we do?”
Zhurbenko could see Kazakov’s mind racing furiously, lubricated and uninhibited by the alcohol. He even smiled a mischievous, somewhat malevolent grin. But then he shook his head. “No ... no. General. I am not a military man. I have no idea what can be done. I cannot speak for the government or the president.”
“You’re speaking to me, Pavel,” Zhurbenko urged him. “No one else around to listen. What you say is not treasonous—in fact, it might be considered patriotic. And you may not be a military man, but your background in international finance and commerce combined with your brilliance and intelligence— not to mention your commendable upbringing as the son of a national military hero—certainly qualifies you to express an educated opinion. What would you do, Pavel Gregorievich? Bomb Kosovo? Bomb Albania? Invade the Balkans?”
“I am not a politician, General,” Kazakov repeated. “I’m just a businessman. But as a businessman, I believe this: a leader, whether a military commander, president, or company chairman, is supposed to take charge and be a leader, not a follower. Our government, our military commanders, must lead. Never let anyone dictate terms. Not the West, not rebels, no one”
“No one can argue with that, Pavel,” Zhurbenko said. “But what would you have us do? Avenge your father’s death? Tear Kosovo, possibly Albania, apart looking for his murderers? Or don’t you care who the murderers are? Just avenge yourself on any available Muslims?”
“Damn you, General, why are you taunting me like this?” Kazakov asked. “Are you enjoying this?”
“I am trying to get through to you, young Gregorievich, that it is easy to point fingers and be t
he angry young man— what is hard is to come up with solutions, with answers,” Zhurbenko said. “Do you think it was easy for Secretary Yejsk and Deputy Minister Lianov to have to retreat to their cars without grieving with the families? Those men, the entire Kremlin, the entire high command, are suffering just as badly as you, as badly as your mother. Except the anguish you feel now is the anguish that we have been feeling for years, as we watch our great nation slip into disarray, powerless to do anything about it.”
“What would you have me say, General?” Kazakov asked. “Start a nuclear war? Go back to a communist empire? Engage the West in another Cold War? No. The world is much different now. Russia is different.”
“Different. How?”
“We have allowed our friends, our former client states, our former protectorates, to break away from us. We built those little republics into nations. We didn’t have to let them go. Now they turn on us and turn toward the West.” Kazakov sat silently for a moment, sipping whiskey, then said, “They voted for independence—let us compel them to join the Commonwealth again.”
“Now we are getting somewhere, Pavel Gregorievich,” Zhurbenko said. “Compel them—how?”
“Carrot and the stick—then plorno o plata, lead or gold,” Kazakov said.
“Explain yourself.”
“Oil,” Kazakov said. “Look at all we have built over the years, all the places the Soviet Union invested to try to gain a foothold in Western commerce, only to lose it all. Oil terminals and refineries in Ukraine, Moldova, Bulgaria, Georgia. We gave billions to Yugoslavia to help build terminals and refineries and pipelines in Macedonia, Montenegro, Kosovo, and Serbia. They are all going to waste, or they are going to bloodsucking Western conglomerates.”
“What are you talking about, Pavel?”
“General, I agreed with our participation, my father’s participation, in Kosovo, because I believe Russia has a vested interest in the Balkans—namely, to help bring Russian oil west.”
“What oil?”
“Caspian Sea oil,” Kazakov said.
“How much oil?”
“In ten years, with the proper infrastructure in place and under firm political and military control—five million barrels,” Kazakov said proudly. ‘Two and a half billion rubles—about one hundred and fifty million dollars’ worth.” Zhurbenko didn’t seem too impressed. He took another sip of whiskey— looking bored, until Kazakov added, “A day, General. One hundred and fifty million dollars a day, every day, for the next fifty years. And we pay not one ruble to anyone in duties, taxes, fees, or tariffs. The money is all ours.”
Zhurbenko nearly choked on the Jim Beam. He looked at Kazakov in complete shock, a dribble of whiskey running down his cheek. “Wha ... how is that possible?” he gasped. “I didn’t know we had that kind of oil reserves anywhere, not even in the Persian Gulf.”
“General, there is oil in the Caspian Sea that hasn’t even been discovered yet—perhaps a hundred times more than we have discovered in the past twenty years,” Kazakov said. “It could be equivalent to the oil reserves in Siberia or the South China Sea. The problem is, it doesn’t all belong to Russia. Russia owns only one-fifth of the known reserves. Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and Iran own the rest. But Russian workers and Russian capital built most of those other nations’ petroleum industries, General. Now, we pay outlandish prices for limited leases from those same countries—so they can use our equipment and our know-how to pump oil that Russia discovered. We must pay millions in bribes and fees, plus a duty for every barrel we ship out of the country. We pay huge salaries for unskilled foreign laborers while Russian men, educated oilmen, and their families starve right here at home. We do this because Russia didn’t have the balls to hold on to what was rightfully theirs all along—the Soviet republics.”
“One hundred fifty million dollars .. . per day,” was all Zhurbenko could murmur.
“Instead of pumping oil, refining it, shipping it to the greedy West, and taking our rightful place as the world’s greatest nation,” Kazakov said, draining his glass, “we are welcoming bur heroes home in caskets draped with the flag of a dying, gutless government. No wonder my mother wanted that flag off her husband’s casket. It is a disgrace. Tell that to the president when you see him.”
They fell silent for several minutes after that, with Zhurbenko exchanging only a few whispered words with his aide and Kazakov sipping on a couple more shots of whiskey until the bottle was empty. The limousine soon pulled up before an apartment building about ten blocks from the Kremlin, with unmarked security cars parked at each comer and across from the entrance. A security guard and a receptionist could be seen through the thick front windows.
Zhurbenko easily maneuvered around Kazakov and exited the limousine. "My driver will take you wherever you would like to go, Pavel,” the commander of the Russian Federation’s ground forces said. He extended a hand, and Kazakov took it. "Again, my deepest condolences for your loss. I will visit your mother in the morning, if she will see me.”
"I will see to it that she receives you, Colonel-General.”
“Good.” He placed his left hand over Pavel’s right, pulling the young man closer as if speaking in confidence. "And we must keep in touch, Pavel. Your ideas have much merit. I would like to hear more.”
"Perhaps, General.”
The limousine drove off and had gone for a couple blocks before Pavel realized the general’s aide was still in the car. "So,” Kazakov said, "what is your name ... Colonel?”
“Major,” the woman replied. "Major Ivana Vasilyev, deputy chief of the general’s staff.” She shifted over to the general’s seat, then produced another bottle of Jim Beam and a glass. "May I pour you something more to drink?”
"No. But you may help yourself. I assume you are officially off duty now.”
"I am never really off-duty, but the colonel-general has dismissed me for the night.” Instead, she put the bottle and the glass away, then turned to face him. "Is there anything else I can offer you, Mr. Kazakov?” Pavel let his eyes roam across her body, and she reciprocated. Vasilyev smiled invitingly. "Anything at all?”
Kazakov chuckled, shaking his head. "The old bastard wants something from me, doesn’t he, Major?”
Vasilyev unbuttoned her tunic, revealing the swell of round, firm breasts beneath her white uniform blouse. "My orders were to escort you home and see to it that any wishes you have are taken care of immediately, Mr. Kazakov,” she said. She removed her neck tab and unbuttoned her blouse, and Kazakov noticed she wore a very unmilitary sheer black lace brassiere. “The general is interested in your ideas and suggestions, and he has ordered me to act as his liaison. I have been ordered to provide you with anything you wish—data, information, resources, assistance—anything;’ She knelt before him on the rich blue carpeting, reached out to him, and began to stroke him through his pants. “If he wants something specific from you, he has not told me what it is.”
“So he orders you to undress before a strange man in his car, and you do it without question?”
“This was my idea, Mr. Kazakov,” she said, with a mischievous smile. ‘The general gives me a great deal of latitude in how I might carry out his orders.”
Kazakov smiled, reached to her, and expertly removed the front clasp from her brassiere with one hand. “I see,” he said.
She smiled in return, closed her eyes as his hands explored her breasts, and then said as she reached for his zipper, “I consider this one of the perquisites of my duties.”
The White House Oval Office, Washington, D.C.
The next morning
“Mr. President, I know you meant to shake things up in Washington—but I’m afraid this bombshell is surely going to explode in your face when it gets out.”
President Thomas Thom stopped typing into his computer and swiveled around to face his newly ratified Secretary of Defense, Robert G. Goff, who had marched into the Oval Office almost at a trot. Along with Goff was the Secretary of State, Edward F.
Kercheval; the Vice President, Lester R. Busick, and Douglas R. Morgan, the Director of Central Intelligence. “Read the final draft of the executive order, did you, Bob?”
Goff held up his copy of the document in question as if it were covered in blood. “Read it? I’ve done nothing else but go over it for the past eighteen hours. I’ve been up all night, and I’ve kept most of my staff up all night, too, trying to find out if this is legal, feasible, or even right. This is completely astounding, Thomas.”
Robert Goff was known throughout Washington as a straight-talking, no-nonsense man. A retired U.S. Army veteran, three-term congressman from Arizona, and acknowledged military expert, at age fifty-one Goff was one of the new lions in Washington, not afraid to stir things up. But the President’s plan made even him gape in astonishment. Next to Goff was the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Air Force General Richard W. Venti. Tall, thin, and young-looking for a four-star general, Venti was a veteran fighter pilot and the former commander of U.S. Air Forces in Europe before being appointed to the Joint Chiefs of Staff Unlike Goff, Venti preferred to keep his emotions and his thoughts to himself.
Noticeably absent from the meeting was the President’s Special Advisor on National Security Affairs, known as the National Security Advisor—because President Thomas N. Thorn hadn’t appointed one. It was part of a major shakeup in the Executive Branch, a drastic downsizing that was designed to make Cabinet officials more responsive and responsible, both to the public and to the President. So far in the new Thom administration, over three hundred White House and executive branch personnel slots had been eliminated simply because the President and his staff had refused to fill them. The functions of several White House offices, such as Drug Control Policy, Management and Budget, and several political liaison offices, would be reassigned to other departments or simply eliminated.
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