The Last Option

by Alex Lukeman

  Vysotsky and Valentina stood together on one side of the room while a man wearing a white doctor's coat prepared to interrogate the prisoner. Vysotsky introduced him as the doctor.

  The only other person in the room was the acting director of the FSB, Vitya Timurovich. Timurovich was a bureaucrat out of his depth. He'd been appointed by Orlov but answered to Vysotsky, who now controlled the entire security apparatus of the Federation. He was of average height, overweight. His suit was ill fitting and his gut pushed out against his shirt. He watched the man called the doctor with unease, the way you'd watch a dog that might bite you. He adjusted his tie and ran his finger nervously under his collar.

  Ever since Ivan the Terrible there had been someone like the doctor to encourage enemies of the state to reveal their innermost secrets.

  There were mythic stories about men and women who had withstood the most severe torture, but that was all they were – stories. No one could withstand the kind of pain a skilled interrogator could inflict. Sooner or later, everyone talked. It was true that sometimes a subject fooled his torturer, but the only way to escape telling the truth was death. Even that was no longer much of an option. Modern drugs kept the subject alive and increased pain levels.

  The chair where Akhmadov sat was the gateway to hell. He watched the preparations for his interrogation and began to sweat.

  The doctor began laying out instruments on a metal trolley. Some of them shone brightly, the overhead lights glinting on their razor-sharp steel surfaces. Others looked like they belonged in a mechanic's toolbox. A separate tray with a white towel displayed a row of five syringes, each containing a different drug.

  "Do we have to do it this way?" Timurovich asked.

  Vysotsky gave him a cold look.

  "You are concerned about this piece of dung?"

  "He's a human being. Won't the drugs be enough?"

  "They might be," Vysotsky said. "But that would be too easy for him. Do you know who he is? What he's done?"

  "I know he's responsible for the club bombing."

  Valentina suppressed an uneasy feeling in her stomach and wished that Vysotsky had not asked her to attend the interrogation. She'd learned long ago never to appear weak in front of him. It would have been useless to argue with him about how to question Akhmadov. She steeled herself for what was coming

  Always the threats and the knives and the blood. Why do I do this? Valentina thought. I'm sick of this.

  "That's the least of what he's done," Vysotsky said. "This man did terrible things to our soldiers in Chechnya. Now some terrible things will be done to him. Unless, of course, he decides to tell us what he knows. Somehow I don't think he's going to do that without persuasion."

  "We could do what the Americans do. We could water board him. It's effective."

  Vysotsky sighed in frustration. "It is possible to defeat that technique."

  Timurovich started to say something and thought better of it.

  "General, I am ready to begin," the doctor said.

  "Proceed."

  Akhmadov's eyes moved wildly from side to side.

  "What are you going to do?"

  The doctor leaned close and smiled.

  "Do? Why, I'm going to hurt you."

  "You can't make me talk."

  There was desperation in Akhmadov's voice.

  The doctor held up a gleaming scalpel.

  "Oh, but I can."

  After five minutes, Timurovich vomited and left the room. Valentina wished she could follow him. She tried to close her ears to the screams. Half an hour later, Akhmadov was babbling away his secrets.

  "Wait," Vysotsky said. "What's he saying?"

  Akhmadov was almost incoherent, his breath quick and rasping, his words difficult to understand.

  Vysotsky went over to the doctor.

  "I need to know what he's saying. Give him something to clear his mind."

  "It may kill him."

  "That is unimportant. I need to know what he was saying just now. About a naval officer."

  "As you wish, General."

  The doctor picked up a syringe from his tray and injected a pale liquid into Akhmadov's arm. They waited for the drug to take effect. In less than a minute, the harsh breathing steadied. He raised his head and looked at his tormentors, his pupils wide, black.

  "Listen to me," Vysotsky said. "Tell me what I want to know and this will be over. We will give you something for the pain. I'll get you a doctor. But you need to tell me about this naval officer. You understand?"

  "Yes. Understand."

  Akhmadov spoke slowly.

  "Good. What is his name?"

  "Denisovitch. Andrei Denisovitch. He is...Captain Lieutenant..."

  "How do you know this?"

  "He had ID in his wallet. We searched him."

  "What were you doing with him?"

  "Water, please."

  Vysotsky nodded. The doctor held water to Akhmadov's lips. Most of it ran down onto his bloody chest. Vysotsky repeated the question.

  "What were you doing with him?"

  "He... brought money, gave us money. For guns. Gave us explosives. Like...before."

  Vysotsky and Valentina looked at each other.

  "Explosives. Like you used at the market? The club?"

  "Yes. He told me...attack...city. Make lots of casualties."

  "Is he Muslim, like you?"

  "No. Infidel. At first we didn't...trust him. But his money saved his life."

  "What else do you know about him?"

  "Nothing...except...he was...delivery boy."

  "Delivery boy? Who..."

  Akhmadov spasmed against the straps holding him in the chair. His muscles stood out in cords. His lips pulled away from his teeth, bared in agony, his eyes wide. Ugly, choking sounds came out of his mouth. He went slack and his head slumped forward. Vysotsky lifted it by the hair. The eyes were open, staring at nothing. The doctor touched the side of his throat, feeling for a pulse.

  "He's dead. I warned you."

  "You can't bring him back?"

  "I can try."

  "Do it."

  The doctor bent down and brought out a device with electrical paddles, the kind used in hospitals to try and restart the heart.

  "Stand clear," he said.

  He applied a jolt of electricity to the body. Nothing happened. He increased the charge and did it again. He did it a third time. Ahkmadov stayed dead.

  "Sorry, General. He's not coming back."

  "Very well. You will say nothing of what has occurred here. You will not repeat anything that was said. Not to anyone. You understand?"

  "Yes, General."

  Vysotsky gestured at the body. "Dispose of this."

  He turned away. "Come, Valentina. You will ride back to headquarters with me. We will talk about this there."

  Vysotsky was silent on the ride back. Valentina knew better than to say anything, although her mind was filled with questions. When they reached Vysotsky's office, he closed the door. Without saying anything, he reached into a desk drawer, took out a small black box, and placed it on his desk. Valentina had seen it before. It was a device that ensured no one could hear what was being said in the room.

  On the top of the box, a green light began blinking.

  Vysotsky opened another drawer and took out the bottle of vodka. This time he produced a second glass for Valentina. He poured, raised the glass and drank it.

  "Now we can talk." He poured another glass. "Well? What do you think?"

  "I think he was telling the truth," Valentina said.

  "So do I. This opens a can of worms."

  "A serving officer supplying terrorists with money and explosives. Orlov isn't going to like this."

  "We will arrest Denisovitch and interrogate him. But what does it mean? I can see someone betraying our country for money, but the terrorists didn't pay him. On the contrary, he gave them funds. A Captain Lieutenant might be able to steal explosives, but where would he get the kind of money
needed to finance these terror operations?"

  "Akhmadov called him a delivery boy. He's a go-between, an intermediary. Someone is behind him."

  "If he's a serving officer, I can access his record."

  "Maybe he's not an officer," Valentina said. "Maybe he was impersonating one."

  "Let's find out."

  Vysotsky picked up his phone, gave Denisovitch's name and rank, and ordered his records to be brought to him. The order was passed to Directorate I, SVR's computer service. Directorate I was similar to the American NSA, in that it collected, analyzed, and evaluated various sources of electronic intelligence. Information on every Russian citizen was somewhere in the vast databanks of the SVR computers.

  Captain Lieutenant Denisovitch's records printed out less than a minute after the request had been entered. A runner was sent with the printout to Vysotsky's office on the fourth floor.

  What Vysotsky didn't know was that Denisovitch's name was tagged with an unofficial line of code. The request for information about him was instantly forwarded to another computer, far to the east of Moscow.

  A few minutes after Vysotsky's call, there was a knock on the door.

  "Enter."

  A young Lieutenant entered, carrying the printout in a folder. He halted in front of Vysotsky's desk, came to attention, and saluted.

  "The material you requested, sir."

  Vysotsky took it. "Dismissed."

  The officer saluted again, turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  "At least we know Denisovitch is real," Valentina said.

  Vysotsky opened the folder. Inside were several pages, including a picture of the Captain Lieutenant. He was in his thirties, blonde haired, blue-eyed. He wasn't smiling.

  "He's with the Pacific Fleet. Stationed in Vladivostok." Vysotsky turned a page. "Excellent record. No disciplinary action – ah, this is not good."

  "What's the matter?"

  "He's serving as personal aide to Admiral Petroff. Petroff is Admiral of the Fleet."

  "Isn't that position usually reserved for a higher rank?"

  "Yes."

  "I wonder why Petroff chose him?

  "Akhmadov said that Denisovitch was acting for someone else."

  "You don't think Petroff is involved," Valentina said. "Do you?"

  "I don't know."

  "I don't want to believe that an Admiral of the Fleet is a traitor."

  "If he is, he may have made a mistake. If he has, I will find it."

  "How will you begin?"

  "I can only think of four things that could motivate someone in high position to become a traitor." Vysotsky ticked them off on his fingers. "Ideology, money, pathology, or revenge. I know who Petroff is. He has an impeccable record of service. He wouldn't be where he is if his political record was less than perfect. There has never been any indication he was a secret opponent of the regime. He's not religious, so that's not a reason. By the same token, if the man was pathological, I don't think he could have risen to his present position. He's been under observation ever since he joined the service. The discipline required to rise to high command would likely preclude overt pathology."

  "That leaves money and revenge," Valentina said.

  "Yes. If he's getting paid to betray us, he can't hide it from me."

  "And revenge?"

  "I want you to study this man carefully, Valentina. Look into his family, his background, his service records. See if you can find anything that would indicate revenge as a motive."

  "What are you going to tell Orlov?"

  "I have to tell him about Denisovitch. Our president was once KGB and will understand why I want to question Admiral Petroff. But I need his permission."

  "What if he doesn't give it?"

  "Then we will have to be happy with the Captain Lieutenant. I'm certain that the doctor can convince him to give us the information we require. And then? Who knows what will be discovered?"

  CHAPTER 35

  In Virginia, Elizabeth had just settled in behind her desk when her phone signaled a call from Clarence Hood.

  "Morning, Elizabeth."

  "Good morning, Clarence. Something tells me you're about to make my day more complicated."

  "I'm afraid so. I just got a heads up from Cortland over at Fort Meade. PRISM intercepted a series of messages between Pacific Fleet HQ at Vladivostok and the Ministry of Defense."

  Lieutenant General Edward Cortland was the current director of the National Security Agency. PRISM was a surveillance program of futuristic power that had superseded a previous program codenamed ECHELON. PRISM captured every electronic communication anywhere in the world. Phone calls, emails, credit card purchases, radio transmissions, Internet activity, bank records, travel itineraries, medical records – all of it was captured and stored in the agency databanks.

  Communications with the Russian Ministry of Defense and within the Federation's military services were routinely monitored and flagged for analysis. All sensitive Federation communications were encrypted, with the codes changing on a daily or weekly basis.

  "Those are always coded," Elizabeth said.

  "Someone screwed up," Hood said. "These were sent using an encryption sequence we cracked weeks ago."

  "And?"

  "And, it looks like the Federation is getting ready to go to war."

  "With us?"

  "Yes."

  "You really know how to make someone's day, don't you?"

  "I talked to Adamski over at the Pentagon. He's called an emergency meeting of the Chiefs for later today."

  "Did you tell him about our suspicions regarding President Reynolds?"

  "I did. He was not receptive. He listened to me because he's an old friend and I'm the DCI, but it was clear he didn't believe Reynolds could possibly be a traitor. As far as he's concerned, we don't have enough evidence."

  "I didn't think you had much of a chance to convince him. It's hard to swallow an idea like that, and besides, he's right. We don't have enough evidence."

  Elizabeth could almost hear Hood shrug over the phone.

  "It was worth a try. Reynolds and Palmer may make a mistake. If they do, I might be able to change Adamski's mind."

  "What do you think the Chiefs will do about the intercept?"

  "They'll argue about the validity of the intelligence, but in the end they'll recommend the president raise the defense level. It's the only prudent course of action."

  "This dovetails with our concern about Status 6. It confirms Kolkov's message."

  "Adamski knows about Kolkov. There's not much else I can do."

  "That's the problem, isn't it?" Elizabeth said.

  "What is?"

  "That how it all turns out isn't up to us. We're in the hands of people who may or may not make the right decisions. If they make the wrong ones, the consequences don't bear thinking about."

  "Sometimes we can influence those decisions. That's better than nothing."

  "If I didn't believe that, I couldn't keep doing this job."

  After she'd disconnected, Elizabeth thought about what she'd just said. Better than nothing was a lousy reason to do something. In the past she'd felt good about what she was doing, certain she was playing an important role in keeping the nation safe. But things had changed. She thought about Reynolds, and Palmer, and all the other inept and corrupt politicians who seemed incapable or unwilling to do the job they'd been elected for. It was beyond discouraging.

  She was tired of dealing with incompetent politicians who couldn't see past the next election.

  Maybe it's time to quit, she thought.

  CHAPTER 36

  Stephanie came into Elizabeth's office carrying a folder, looking annoyed. She sat down across from Elizabeth.

  "What's up, Steph?"

  "I've been working with Freddie to sort through events leading up to the crash."

  "Yes?"

  "First I looked at what happened in the weeks before. Large amounts of capital were mo
ved out of key funds that stabilize the market. I wondered who'd done that and where the money had gone."

  "That sounds logical. What did you discover?"

  "There were three key players. Charles Morgan we know about. The bank in Germany he used to handle the transactions is run by a man named Hans Beck. It turns out Beck is a real Machiavelli, a key player behind the scenes with the ECB. A lot of money has flowed through his hands. He acted as middleman between the ECB and various governments to negotiate bond purchases and loans. He was the man behind the austerity programs that pushed Portugal and Ireland to the brink. Once he had them by the short hairs, he recommended the loans be approved. In essence, he told the ECB that the loans were a good investment."

  "I think I see where this is going. Who's the third player?"

  "A Levantine banker named al-Nazari. He's one of the world's richest men. He disrupted the European and Middle Eastern exchanges with strategic withdrawals and manipulation of the funds he controls. Aside from his questionable banking practices, Nazari is a nasty piece of work. He's considered the king of sex trafficking in the Middle East. Every time somebody starts to get curious about his activities, they either disappear or the investigation gets dropped. He has them killed or bribes them. Whatever works."

  "An unholy Trinity," Elizabeth said.

  "I'm convinced the three of them are responsible for the crash. Each one of them made sure he was protected. They'll clean up because of this. Just like the American robber barons in the past."

  Stephanie, please tell Director Harker about Senator Palmer.

  Stephanie snapped at the computer. "I was just going to do that, Freddie. Don't be so pushy."

  I do not understand pushy in this context.

  Stephanie ignored him.

  "What about Senator Palmer?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Palmer cashed out everything he had before the market collapsed and bought gold. Not gold stocks, bullion. The money is in a bank in Argentina. This was during the week before everything went south."