by Allan Topol
Praise for the Masterful Thrillers
from the Mind of Allan Topol
China Gambit
“The China Gambit is a choice pick for those who love high end military plots, very much recommended.”
Midwest Book Review
Spy Dance
“It’s a smooth and exciting ride. You’ll want to see these characters take on another problem or two. Yep, I was sorry the story stopped.”
Carnegie Mellon Magazine
“The story takes off at warp speed.”
Washington Magazine
“Spy Dance is a must-read for fans of espionage thrillers, and deserves a place on the bookshelf alongside the works of Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, and even John LeCarre.”
Hadassah Magazine
“This is a superb first novel…”
Newt Gingrich
Enemy of My Enemy
“Topol’s turf is the old-fashioned novel of international intrigue. His scene shifts constantly from trendy clubs in Moscow to three-star restaurants in Paris to strip joints in Montreal to Cabinet-level confrontations in the Oval Office.”
The Washington Post
Dark Ambition
“Topol might be the most riveting spy-adventure writer in America today… I found myself solidly immersed in Topol’s multi-faceted conspiracy and am eagerly anticipating his next work.”
Newt Gingrich
“Unlike most other members of the lawyer-novelist fraternity, Topol turns out good old-fashioned spy stories that leave the corridors of big law firm business far behind in favor of the broader stage of foreign affairs, political intrigue, and the murky recesses of human desire.”
“In this tightly written novel, Topol captures well the quiet neighborhoods of Washington, D.C., and the occasional ruthlessness of its people.”
Legal Times
“John Grisham and Richard North Patterson may have a new successor in Topol…”
Publishers Weekly
Conspiracy
“Seethes with political intrigue, a cast of shady characters, and enough deception, smart dialogue, and behind-closed-doors deals to keep readers hooked until the final.”
Publishers Weekly
“An entertaining and suspenseful thriller with a well-crafted plot…”
Stephen Frey, New York Times best-selling author of Silent Partner
“Conspiracy is a perfectly executed combination of the best elements of legal and political thrillers. With a lightning-fast pace, a compelling story, and an insider look at Washington, Topol takes his readers on a memorable thrill ride. Find a comfortable chair and plan to stay up late. Highly recommended.”
Sheldon Siegel, New York Times best-selling author of Final Verdict
“[Topol has] managed to weave a convincing conspiracy theory into near worldwide conflict. And it’s done with the extreme finesse that keeps us guessing all the way, also hankering for more of Topol’s penetrating portrayal of inside-the-Beltway deceptions.”
The Sanford Herald
“A paranoia-inducing thriller… The action scenes and telling details linger long after you have finished the book.”
Legal Times
“This Washington, D.C.-set thriller from Topol (Dark Ambition) seethes with political intrigue, a cast of shady characters and enough deception, smart dialogue and behind-closed-doors deals to keep readers hooked until the final scene.”
Publishers Weekly
A Woman of Valor
“Few novels have kept me as involved as this one.”
South Bend Tribune
“Topol has written an evenly paced story, introducing his characters slowly so that each has a chance to come alive before the plot takes off on a convoluting and deftly interwoven path leading to the climax.”
The Free Lance-Star
The Fourth of July War
“The book is remarkably reflective of contemporary affairs.”
Chicago Tribune
“Topol creates believable characters with real problems and emotions; he constructs a tight, suspenseful plot that has us flipping pages as fast as we can find out what happens while we root 100% for a hero we don’t altogether like.”
The Los Angeles Times
“Topol’s scenario for this fast-paced, gripping novel has the ring of inevitability… Should be a best seller.”
Houston Chronicle
“It’s a screamer of a novel… So real it makes you believe it could happen.”
Natchez Democrat
Also by Allan Topol
FICTION
The Fourth of July War
A Woman of Valor
Spy Dance
Dark Ambition
Conspiracy
Enemy of My Enemy
The China Gambit
The Spanish Revenge
NON-FICTION
Superfund Law and Procedure (co-author)
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations within cities, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events and locales or persons described, either living or deceased, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Allan Topol
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.
This edition is published by SelectBooks, Inc.
For information address SelectBooks, Inc., New York, New York.
First Edition
ISBN 978-1-59079-999-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Topol, Allan.
The Russian endgame / Allan Topol. – First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-59079-999-4 (paperback : alk. paper)
I. Title.
PS3570.O64R87 2013
813’.54–dc23
2013006688
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedicated to my wife, Barbara, my partner for all nine novels.
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank my agent, Pam Ahearn, who helped me develop all three books in this trilogy, The China Gambit, The Spanish Revenge, and now, The Russian Endgame, with great wisdom and tremendous insight. It has been a pleasure working the people at SelectBooks. I very much appreciate Kenzi Sugihara’s enthusiasm for the project from our first discussion. Nancy Sugihara and Molly Stern did an outstanding job of editing, and I’d like to thank Kenichi Sugihara for his work as the marketing director.
Thanks to my wife, Barbara, for her enormous assistance. She read each draft and offered valuable suggestions. She helped me shape the characters, and shared the fun of visiting the places in this book.
PROLOGUE
November, Six Months Ago
Moscow
Enraged, Dimitri Orlov stood in Red Square at noon watching Russian President Fyodor Kuznov’s motorcade leave the Kremlin through Savior Gate and race past. Heavy snow was falling. Orlov paid no attention to the flakes caking in his blonde hair, the water running down his face past the scar on his right cheek, the result of a knife wound in a battle with a Chechnya terrorist. At six foot two, and powerfully built, standing tall in his military coat, which he had found in the back of his closet, and staring at the Kremlin, Orlov was a forbidding presence. People crossed the street to avoid him. Orlov ignored them.
Orlove vowed never to take “no” for an answer. He had always been this way. That was part of the reason for his meteoric rise to Major in the Soviet Army and then to section h
ead in the KGB in the good old days of the Soviet Union. “Yes I can” was his creed. “Yes I can” was his answer to any question. For example, “Orlov, can you break though the defense lines of the Chechnya rebels?” Or, “Orlov, can you force the American spy to tell us whom he’s working with?”
After the breakup of the Soviet Union, which would never have happened but for that self-aggrandizing coward Gorbachev and that worthless drunk Yeltsin, Orlov moved on. He took his can-do approach to Vasily “The Venal” Sukalov, an oligarch in the new Russia who became incredibly wealthy, five billion dollars’ worth, as a result of stealing the telecom monopoly from the State. After ten years of being Vasily’s enforcer while skimming twenty million euros he socked away in a Swiss bank, Orlov severed his relationship with Vasily. He was now ready to serve Mother Russia. And he knew exactly how.
Orlov had only one problem: he needed a meeting with President Kuznov, and he hadn’t been able to get through Kuznov’s layers of bureaucrats to schedule it. Orlov even knew Kuznov from his KGB days when Orlov played a minor role in a Kuznov operation to spread disinformation to the Americans in Germany. He was confident Kuznov would remember him.
Though Orlov explained this to the secretary to Kuznov’s secretary, he received the stock answer given to any lunatic who tried to approach the president’s suite in the Kremlin. “Submit your request in writing. You will receive an answer in six to eight weeks.” Unfortunately, using Vasily to gain access to Kuznov wasn’t an option. Those two hated each other. Vasily was even worried Kuznov might issue an order for his arrest for theft of State property.
Submitting a request in writing wasn’t an option. What Orlov had to say to the Russian president couldn’t be put in a letter. Besides, he guessed all those letters were routinely dumped, unread, into a trash can. So he had only one choice: to force his way past Kuznov’s layers of protection. That would be next to impossible to do if Kuznov was in the Kremlin. But today was Friday and two days ago when Orlov sat cooling his heels for the fifth time in the office of the secretary to the secretary, he overheard the fat, redheaded swine say in a phone conversation, “President Kuznov will be leaving for his country home Friday afternoon.”
Orlov decided that must be where the presidential motorcade was now headed. He zipped up his black leather jacket, climbed on his Harley, and sped off, following the motorcade but hanging back just far enough to avoid attracting suspicion.
As he rode, Orlov thought about Kuznov. The Russian president, like Orlov, had been a distinguished army officer who was recruited by the KGB. But unlike Orlov, who fought against the changes convulsing the Soviet Union with the rise of the so-called Democratic Movement, Kuznov, with loyalty to no one, manipulated the new system for his own advancement. He became the Director of the FSB, the KGB’s domestic successor, then Mayor of Moscow, and finally president of Russia. In his early contact with Kuznov, Orlov found the man impressive. Yes, but president of Russia? Orlov would never have imagined it.
Orlov had to admire Kuznov. Somehow, he was now in a presidential motorcade while Orlov, binoculars pressed against his eyes, stopped to stretch out on the snowy ground on the crest of a hill, literally freezing his dick, while watching the motorcade pass the guardhouse at a break in the twelve foot high stonewall that surrounded Kuznov’s country estate on three sides. On the fourth, it bordered a circular lake roughly two kilometers in diameter.
Orlov focused on the guardhouse. Four men were inside, all armed with machine guns. He considered his options. Forcing his way through the guardhouse would be tough. It meant killing or incapacitating the four guards. They would no doubt sound an alarm and bring every other security man on the property. And no doubt there were plenty of them. Scaling the wall under the cover of darkness was more likely to succeed, but if he was spotted at or near the top, he’d be a sitting duck.
He didn’t like either option. Then it hit him. He had a third way.
Orlov rode back into the center of Moscow to gather what he needed.
Orlov had always been a student of history. It was his favorite subject in school. Even while in the KGB he was a voracious reader of history books about each area in which he operated. He was convinced that people shaped world events. Not just leaders. But others. Those with courage and daring. The assassin of the Austrian Archduke in Sarajevo was responsible for the outbreak of the First World War. Then there was Philbrick and his colleagues who spied on England for Russia and the American scientists who beat Germany in the race to develop the atomic bomb.
Orlov had always dreamt that one day he would be someone who influenced world events. In that way, he would achieve immortality. That was why he had joined the KGB.
So far, he hadn’t affected the course of the world. He had merely been a low-level agent. Now, finally, his time had come. He was
determined to take advantage of it. And something else was motivating
Orlov as he prepared for this evening’s encounter with Kuznov. He had money, but he sought power. He wanted to be the head of a new, revitalized, and even more dreaded KGB, making him the second most powerful person in Russia. If he accomplished this mission for Kuznov and delivered what he was promising, a grateful Kuznov would readily accede to Orlov’s request.
At eleven thirty that evening, with the sliver of a moon concealed by thick clouds, he rode his motorcycle back to a park across the lake from Kuznov’s estate. The snow had stopped. Orlov parked the bike in a thick clump of trees and pulled out the materials he’d packed in the side bags. First the black wetsuit, mask, and flippers. Then the Glock, knife, and rope in a watertight container, which he tied around his waist. Orlov donned the wetsuit over his slacks and shirt and dove in. He swam on a straight line toward Kuznov’s house with smooth strokes. No splashes to alert anyone to his presence in the water.
As he approached the other side, Orlov saw two guards, sitting on lawn chairs facing the house, their backs to him. They were each holding a bottle and talking loudly. They had to be drunk, he decided, from the sounds of their voices.
He pulled the Glock from the pouch at his waist. All I want to do is knock them out, Orlov decided. No need to kill the fools. But I can’t give them a chance to call for help.
On the toes of his feet, gripping the gun by the barrel, he advanced stealthily across the wet grass. He was right behind them. Neither man had turned in his direction. The man on the right looked larger and tougher. Orlov decided to attack him first. In a single swift motion, he swung the gun and smashed it against the side of the man’s head. Before he passed out, the cry of “Ah… ah…” came out of his mouth. Enough to alert his colleague, who shot to his feet and wheeled around to face Orlov.
“Who the hell…”
Before the startled man could finish the sentence, Orlov slammed a fist into his stomach, doubling him up. He followed that with a viscous kick to the balls. The guard dropped to the ground. Orlov fell on top of him, raising his pistol to smash against the man’s head and finish the job. Before he had a chance, the man lunged for Orlov’s face, scratching and punching, going for his eyes. The gun fell from his hand. Momentarily stunned, Orlov recovered quickly and fought back. They rolled on the muddy ground. Orlov ended up on top. The guard was trying to force him off, but Orlov had his hands around the man’s thick neck. He was squeezing tightly. Squeezing and squeezing until the man stopped moving. Still squeezing until the man stopped breathing.
Orlov stood up and peeled off his wetsuit. He tossed it on the dead man’s body, recovered his gun, rope, and knife, and looked at the house. No one was at any of the rear windows. Chances were no one had seen or heard what happened. Orlov breathed a sigh of relief. He studied the house some more. Undoubtedly, Kuznov’s bedroom suite faced the back. That way he’d have a view of the lake. Lights were on in only one room facing that direction. It had to be Kuznov’s. The Russian president was well known to be an insomniac.
With the knife in one hand, gun in the other, and rope over his shoulder, Orlov snuc
k to the back door. He could pick most locks with a knife, but maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe he’d get lucky.
He turned the doorknob slowly and the door opened, without creaking, leading into the kitchen. The house was quiet. He saw a young woman in her twenties dressed in a pink flannel robe leaning into the refrigerator, her back to the door. She must have heard him because she suddenly turned around. Orlov saw she was preparing to scream. He lifted his right hand with the gun and pointed it at her. At the same time, he raised the forefinger of his other hand to his lips, signaling her to be quiet. She stood mute, frozen to the spot.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“One of the maids.”
“If you tell me what room President Kuznov is in, I won’t harm you.”
She pointed to the ceiling confirming what he suspected. The room faced the back.
“How do I get there?”
She gestured toward a closed door in a corner of the kitchen, “A staircase behind the door,” she stammered in a frightened whisper. “Will you kill him?”
“That’s none of your business. I’m going to tie you up.”
She nodded. He used the rope to tie her torso to a chair, legs and arms as well. He grabbed a kitchen towel and tied it around her mouth.
Then he opened the door, concealing the wooden staircase. Climbing the stairs, Orlov heard the sound of a television. A movie was playing in English. He had read that Kuznov liked Americana movies.
When Orlov reached the second floor landing he saw five closed doors in a dimly lit corridor. On the tips of his toes, he walked softly toward the room in which the television was playing.
Gun raised, Orlov twisted the doorknob, kicked open the door, and looked inside. He saw Kuznov leaning back on a sofa. With him was a gorgeous, busty, blonde woman, half Kuznov’s age at best. Definitely not the frumpy Mrs. Kuznov. The Russian president’s pants were unzipped and she had his dick in her mouth. The Manchurian Candidate was playing. The Russian president pushed aside the blonde, grabbed a cell phone from the table, and shot to his feet.
