Hazardous Duty pa-8

by W. E. B Griffin

Office of the First Director

  The Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki

  Yasenevo 11, Kolpachny

  Moscow, Russia

  1710 8 June 2007

  General Sergei Murov had known when, in February, he had been relieved of his duties as cultural counselor of the embassy of the Russian Federation in Washington, D.C., and ordered home that he stood a very good chance of being summarily executed.

  His family has been intelligence officers serving the motherland for more than three hundred years, starting with Ivan the Terrible’s Special Section, and then in the Cheka, the OGPU, the NKVD, the KGB, and finally the SVR. He knew the price of failure, even when that failure was not due to something one did wrong.

  It was presumed that if there was a failure, and if it wasn’t due to someone doing something wrong, it was because someone had not done what should have been done.

  General — then-Colonel — Murov’s failure had nothing to do with culture. He had been the SVR’s man, the rezident, in Washington. His cultural counselor title had been his cover. It had been no secret to the FBI or the CIA, or even to some members of the Washington Press Corps, that he been the ranking member of the SVR in the United States. A. Franklin Lammelle, then the deputy director for operations of the CIA, had met his Aeroflot flight from Moscow at Dulles, greeted him warmly, and told him he thought it appropriate he greet the new rezident in person, as they would be “working together.”

  Murov knew he was more than likely going to be held responsible for not doing what should have been done to prevent the failure of several of the most important kinds of operations, defined as those conceived and ordered executed by Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin himself.

  Those operations had turned out disastrously. The first was intended to show the world, and, perhaps more importantly, the SVR itself, that Putin was back running the SVR and that the SVR was to be feared. It called for the assassination of people — a police official in Argentina; a CIA asset in Vienna; and a journalist in Germany — who had gotten in the way of the SVR in one way or another, followed by the assassinations of the publisher and the owner of the Tages Zeitung newspaper chain.

  The latter was so important to Putin that he ordered the Berlin rezident to take personal control of the action.

  Only the CIA asset and the journalist lost their lives. The Berlin rezident and his sister, who had been the Copenhagen rezident, not only defected but tipped off the Americans to a secret biological warfare operation run by the SVR in the Congo. The Americans promptly bombed the Congo operation into oblivion. The Vienna rezident responsible for the CIA asset elimination was found garroted to death outside the American embassy in Vienna.

  In an attempt to double down, Putin then ordered General Vladimir Sirinov of the SVR to exchange a small quantity of the biological warfare substance, dubbed Congo-X, for the two rezidents who had defected, and the American intelligence officer who had aided their defection.

  That, too, had turned out to be a disaster for him. The American intelligence officer who was supposed to have been kidnapped and taken to Russia, instead staged a raid on a Venezuelan island where Sirinov was waiting. He left the island in the highly secret Tupolev Tu-934A airplane Sirinov had flown from Russia, taking with him the Congo-X and Sirinov. On landing in Washington, General Sirinov, whom Putin expected to commit suicide under such conditions, instead placed himself under the protection of the CIA and began to sing, as the Americans so aptly put it, like a lovesick canary.

  Colonel Sergei Murov was responsible for nothing that caused the multiple disasters. But he had done nothing, either, that might have caused the disasters not to happen.

  That was enough, in his really solemn judgment, to earn him a bullet behind the ear in the basement of that infamous building on Lubyanka Square. Or at least an extended stay in Siberia cutting down trees and feasting on bean soup twice a day.

  But that hadn’t happened.

  General Vladimir Sirinov’s treason had been Murov’s salvation. Vladimir Vladimirovich had sent for Murov the day after he returned to Moscow, greeted him like an old friend — which in fact he was — and told him that he was going to “have to pick up the pieces and get what has to be done finally done.”

  Murov was appointed to replace Sirinov as first director of the SVR, and his promotion to general came through the day he actually moved into Sirinov’s old office.

  Vladimir Vladimirovich didn’t have to tell him specifically what he wanted; Murov knew. Vladimir Vladimirovich wanted former SVR Polkovnik Dmitri Berezovsky; his sister, former SVR Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva, and Lieutenant Colonel Carlos G. Castillo, USA, Retired, in one of the rooms in the basement of the building on Lubyanka Square. He would be barely satisfied to hear they were dead, even if they were disposed of with great imagination — for example, skinned alive and then roasted while hanging head down over a small fire.

  Vladimir Vladimirovich wanted them alive.

  Murov didn’t think getting all three in the bag was going to be that difficult. He thought the negatives involved were outweighed by the positives.

  The negatives were that none of the three were naïve about the SVR. They knew its capabilities and would be prepared for them. The “extended families”—Aleksandr Pevsner and Nicolai Tarasov in the case of Berezovsky and Alekseeva; Castillo’s former associates in the American intelligence community — would have to be dealt with, of course. That wouldn’t be easy. Both Pevsner and Tarasov were former colonels in the KGB, which had evolved into the SVR. Pevsner had what amounted not only to a private army but a private army of former KGB people and Spetsnaz officers and soldiers of unquestioned loyalty to him.

  Murov not only had no one inside Pevsner’s estate in Bariloche, his home outside Buenos Aires, or even in the Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort in Mexico, or for that matter on any of the vessels of his fleet of cruise ships, he had little hope of getting someone inside Pevsner’s organization. All attempts to get people inside, which dated from the earliest days, had resulted in dead operatives.

  Only once, when a former FBI agent in Pevsner’s employ had been turned by the offer of a great deal of money, had there been even a suggestion of success in that area. Pevsner’s assassination had been set up but had failed when the American, Castillo, got wind of it and ambushed the ambushers. The former FBI agent had been slowly beaten to death, possibly by Aleksandr Pevsner himself, in the Conrad, a gambling resort in Punta del Este, Uruguay.

  Getting at any of them when they were traveling was made next to impossible, as they traveled only by aircraft owned by Pevsner or Tarasov. Or, in the case of Castillo, on aircraft he owned or were owned by Panamanian Executive Aircraft, which he controlled, the crews of which were all former members of the USAF Special Operations Command—“Air Commandos”—or the U.S. Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.

  On the other hand, there were some things that almost certainly were going to make things easier. The most significant of these was the incredible stupidity of Lieutenant Colonel Castillo. He fancied himself to be in love with former SVR Podpolkovnik Alekseeva.

  When he’d first heard that, Murov had had a hard time believing it. Getting emotionally involved with someone with whom one was professionally involved was something an intelligence officer — and giving the devil his due, Colonel Castillo was an extraordinarily good intelligence officer — simply did not do.

  But it was true. The fool actually wanted to marry her. The proof was there. The Widow Alekseeva had gone to the head of the Orthodox Church Outside Russia and asked for permission to marry. He in turn had gone to the Patriarch of Moscow. Murov had people there, and Murov had learned of it immediately.

  Very conscious that he himself had an emotional, as well as a professional, interest in the players involved — he had known Svetlana and Dmitri Berezovsky since childhood; had in fact had a schoolboy’s crush on Svetlana when he was fourteen, and had been a guest at her wedding when she married Evgeny Alekseev, another chi
ldhood friend — Murov had proceeded very cautiously.

  He had informed His Beatitude that the circumstances of the death of Evgeny Alekseev — which, of course, had made Svetlana the Widow Alekseeva and freed her to marry — were suspicious. That put the marriage on hold.

  The bodies of Lavrenti Tarasov and Evgeny Alekseev had been found near the airport in Buenos Aires. Murov didn’t know the facts. It was possible that they had been killed by the Argentine policeman Liam Duffy as revenge for the failed attempt to assassinate him and his family. Duffy was known to have terminated on the spot individuals he apprehended moving drugs through Argentina. That interference with the SVR operation that funded many operations in South America had been the reason Vladimir Vladimirovich had ordered his termination.

  It was also possible that Svetlana or her brother had been involved in the death of her husband. They both knew that the only way Evgeny could have redeemed his own SVR career after her defection was to find and terminate her. The unwritten rule was that if an SVR officer could not control his own wife, how could he control others? So when he had appeared in Argentina, her brother had decided — or she had, or they had — that Evgeny had to go.

  That was credible, but Murov thought the most likely scenario was that Colonel Castillo had taken out Evgeny. Doing so would not only have protected Svetlana from Evgeny but make her eligible as a widow to marry him in the church.

  Whatever the actuality, Murov’s whispered word in the ear of His Beatitude had resulted in a report from Murov’s people at the wonderfully named Aeropuerto Internacional Teniente Luis Candelaria in Bariloche that His Eminence Archbishop Valentin, the head of ROCOR, and his deputy, the Archimandrite Boris, had flown in there, nonstop from Chicago, in a Gulfstream V aircraft belonging to Chilean Sea Foods, which Murov knew was yet another business formed by Aleksandr Pevsner from the profits of hiding the SVR’s money.

  Murov believed that His Eminence would decide there was nothing to the rumors that Svetlana had been involved in the termination of her husband, and the marriage could take place. For one thing, Aleksandr Pevsner’s generosity to ROCOR was well known. For another, Colonel Castillo could credibly say that he had never had the privilege of the acquaintance of his fiancée’s late husband. And if nothing else worked, Dmitri Berezovsky would confess that he had taken out Evgeny to protect his little sister.

  All of these factors came together to convince General Murov that his best opportunity to deal with the problem was during the wedding.

  It would not be easy, of course. He could not personally go to Bariloche, running the risk of being seen by any of the players, all of whom knew him.

  And the team would have to be able to blend, so to speak, into the woodwork, which meant Spanish-speaking terminators would be needed. There were people available in Argentina, Paraguay, and Uruguay, but Liam Duffy would know who they were and have an eye on them.

  That left Cuba and Venezuela. The successor to Hugo Chávez, whom Murov thought of privately as something of a joke, would be more than willing to do what he could for the SVR, but his people were, compared to the Cuban Dirección General de Inteligencia, bumbling amateurs.

  Furthermore, earlier on Colonel Castillo had taken out Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the DGI in Uruguay. That was something the Cubans, in particular Fidel’s little brother, Raúl — who before he took over from Fidel had run the DGI — had never forgotten and would love to avenge.

  General Murov picked up his telephone and ordered that five seats on the next Aeroflot flight to Havana be reserved for him and his security detail.

  He hung up and then picked up the telephone again.

  “When you pack me for the Havana trip,” he ordered, “put a case of Kubanskaya with my luggage.”

  Not only was Kubanskaya one of the better Russian vodkas — and ol’ Raúl really liked a taste a couple times a day — but he liked to let visiting American progressives read the label and get the idea it was made right there in Cuba.

  [FIVE]

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  2135 8 June 2007

  “Mr. President,” Supervisory Secret Service Agent Robert J. Mulligan announced, “the secretary of State and the DCI are here.”

  “Let them wait five minutes and then escort them in,” President Clendennen ordered.

  After consulting his watch, presidential spokesperson Robin Hoboken announced, “That will be at nine-forty, plus a few seconds, Agent Mulligan.”

  “Good evening, Mr. President,” Secretary Cohen said, five minutes and seven seconds later.

  “What’s he doing here?” the President asked, indicating DCI Lammelle.

  “The DCI was with me, Mr. President, when Lieutenant Colonel Naylor’s message was delivered to me. I suggested he come with me in case he might be helpful.”

  “Let’s see the message,” the President said.

  She handed it to him and he read it, and then passed it to Robin Hoboken.

  TOP SECRET

  URGENT

  DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN

  TO: POTUS

  SUBJECT: CGC

  VIA SECRETARY OF STATE

  MAKE AVAILABLE (EYES ONLY) TO:

  DIRECTOR, CIA

  SECRETARY OF DEFENSE

  DIRECTOR OF NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE

  C IN C CENTRAL COMMAND

  SITREP #2

  US EMBASSY MONTEVIDEO 2230 ZULU 8 JUNE 2007

  1-FACE-TO-FACE CONTACT ESTABLISHED WITH CGC 2010 ZULU 8 JUNE

  2-CGC AMENABLE TO CALL TO EXTENDED HAZARDOUS DUTY UNDER FOLLOWING CONDITIONS:

  A-PERIOD OF DUTY SHALL NOT EXCEED NINETY (90) DAYS.

  B-POTUS WILL PROVIDE THE FOLLOWING SUPPORT

  — 1- A SUPPORT TEAM OF EIGHT TO TEN TECHNICIANS ON A CONTRACT BASIS FROM SPARKLING WATER DUE DILIGENCE, INC.

  — 2- A GULFSTREAM V AIRCRAFT WITH CREW FROM PANAMANIAN EXECUTIVE AIRCRAFT, INC., PANAMA CITY, PANAMA

  — 3- IN LIEU OF MILITARY PER DIEM, ALL ACTUAL LIVING COSTS WILL BE ON A REIMBURSABLE BASIS, TO BE PAID IN CASH, IT BEING UNDERSTOOD THAT ALL ACCOMMODATIONS FOR ALL CONCERNED WILL BE IN FIVE-STAR HOTELS, WHEN AVAILABLE.

  — 4- REPORTING TO POTUS WILL BE ON AN IRREGULAR BASIS AS INTELLIGENCE IS DEVELOPED, BUT NOT LESS THAN ONCE EVERY TWO WEEKS.

  3-CGC REQUESTS ACCEPTANCE VIA UNDERSIGNED AT US EMBASSY, MONTEVIDEO, WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR (24) HOURS AS CGC MUST CANCEL GSTAAD, SWITZERLAND, SKI RESERVATIONS WITHIN FORTY-EIGHT (48) HOURS OR LOSE HIS DEPOSIT THEREON.

  NAYLOR, LTC

  TOP SECRET

  “Who the hell does he think he is?” the President snapped. “Telling me his conditions?”

  He looked at Robin Hoboken in expectation of an answer to his rhetorical question.

  When none was forthcoming, the President asked, “What the hell is Sparkling Water?”

  “It’s what some people call soda water, Mr. President,” Supervisory Secret Service Agent Mulligan replied. “You know, sir, like scotch and soda.”

  In the split second before he was to say something both unkind and rude, the President realized Mulligan had not seen the message.

  He turned to DCI Lammelle and said, “You’re the DCI, Lammelle. You’re supposed to know everything. What the hell is Sparkling Water?”

  “It’s a contracting firm, sir, one of the better ones.”

  “It sounds as if Colonel Castillo wants to build a garage, or put in a swimming pool,” Robin said thoughtfully, “and wants the U.S. government to pay for it. That’s outrageous!”

  “Mr. President,” the secretary of State said, “as I’m sure you know, from time to time it is in the best interests of the government, for any number of reasons, not to use a governmental agency, or government employees, to accomplish a specific mission, but rather to turn to the private sector and contract for their services—”

  “In other words,” the President interrupted, “Sparkling Water is one of those Rent-a-
Spook outfits, right?”

  “Yes, sir. You could put it that way,” the secretary said.

  “Renting a spook, a good one, that’s pretty expensive, right?” the President asked.

  “You get what you pay for, sir,” Lammelle said.

  “And this airplane he wants us to rent for him in Panama, that’s going to cost a bundle, too, am I right?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. President,” Lammelle said.

  “And those five-star hotels he wants everybody to stay in,” Robin Hoboken chimed in. “That’s really going to cost a fortune, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t say a fortune,” the secretary of State said. “But it will be very expensive.”

  “Not a problem,” the President said. “Since this is an intelligence-gathering project, I’ll send the bills to ol’ Truman C. Ellsworth. The director of National Intelligence can figure out who’s going to pay for it — the CIA, the DIA, the FBI, anybody just so it doesn’t come out of the White House budget.”

  “Good thinking, Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken said.

  “But there are a couple of tiny tweaks to the deal I want to make. First, Colonel Castillo will send me a report not less than once every two days, not less than once every two weeks. And second, tell him he’s going to have to find a seat on that expensive airplane ol’ Truman’s going to rent for him for ol’ Roscoe J. Danton.”

  “Excuse me?” the secretary of State asked.

  “Wither Castillo goeth, so goeth Roscoe,” the President said. “I made a deal — the nature of which is none of your business — with Danton.” He paused. “You can show these nice people out now, Mulligan.”

  [SIX]

  Estancia Shangri-La

  Tacuarembó Provincia

  Republic Orientale de Uruguay

  1015 9 June 2007

  A Chrysler van, bearing diplomatic license plates, pulled up before the veranda of the big house, and C. Gregory Damon, who was the chief security officer of the United States embassy in Montevideo, got out. Mr. Damon, who was forty-four years old and a very black-skinned man of African heritage, stood six feet three inches tall and weighed 225 pounds.