by Allan Topol
Kuznov was not a dominating physical presence, Orlov recalled from their prior meetings. He was thin with a receding hair line. No more than five foot eight. A contrast to the strapping Orlov. But Kuznov did have those hard, cold, black eyes. And they were boring in on Orlov while the blonde raced behind the sofa to hide.
“All I have to do is press one button on the phone,” Kuznov said, in a steely cold voice, devoid of emotion and fear, “and four armed guards will come. You’ll be a dead man.”
“I’m not here to harm you.”
“Who the hell are you? And what do you want?”
Orlov realized Kuznov was staring at him, the president’s face showing partial recognition.
“Dimitri Orlov. We were…”
Kuznov completed the sentence. “In the KGB together. You worked for me on a disinformation project in Berlin involving the Americans.”
“You have a good memory.”
“You did an outstanding job. And now you’ve become insane, breaking in like this.”
“I didn’t have a choice. I was desperate to talk to you about something extremely important and confidential. Those morons who guard access to you refused to schedule me. I had to take matters into my own hands.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Orlov handed the gun to Kuznov. The former KGB operative kept the knife in his hand. If he thought Kuznov intended to shoot him, Orlov planned to open the knife blade and hurl it at the Russian president.
Orlov held his breath for a long minute while Kuznov stared at his surprise visitor and moved the gun around his hand.
Finally, Kuznov looked behind the sofa and called to the blonde, “Wait for me in the bedroom and don’t tell anyone about this.”
She practically flew out of the room.
Kuznov pointed to a chair. When Orlov sat down, Kuznov settled into the sofa facing him. He rested the gun on the end table where it could be easily reached. Now confident of the outcome, Orlov put the knife in his pocket.
“Are you still working with Vasily Sukalov?” Kuznov asked.
“I quit two months ago.”
“Good for you. Sukalov’s a gangster. A criminal. Since then?”
“I’m freelancing.”
“Who sent you to talk to me?”
“Nobody. This was my idea.”
“It better be good.”
“It is.”
“Start talking.”
Orlov took a deep breath and began. “Most Russians believe that the events of 1991, culminating in the collapse of the Soviet Union, were a tragedy. Even that spineless Gorbachev, who is referred to in the media as Jell-O, has conceded that the Soviet Union could have and should have been preserved. Yeltsin, after him, was a disaster for Russia.”
“You’re here to give me a history lesson.”
Orlov ignored the sarcasm and continued. “Under Putin, Medvedev, and now you, our economy has prospered. We are once again an economic force in the world, thanks in part to our energy resources, but also because of the drive of our top businessmen. The State has created stability in the country, which is key. Every recent survey shows that the Russian people don’t want democracy or human rights. They want order and stability. The FSB, while not as effective as the KGB in our day, has solidified domestic control.”
“So you’re telling me that Putin, Medvedev, and I have been
successful. We’ve given the people the order that they want as well as economic growth.”
“That’s true, but…”
Orlov paused for a minute and looked at the Russian president. He was confident Kuznov wanted to hear what was coming next.
“But,” Orlov continued, now treading carefully because his views could be considered criticism and Kuznov was thin-skinned, “we are still viewed as a joke militarily. The sick man of Europe.”
“Are you aware that I have been quietly rebuilding our army, navy, and air force?” Kuznov sounded defensive.
“Of course. But no one in Washington regards Russia as a resurging superpower prepared to compete with the United States and China.”
“American arrogance is unbelievable. They view themselves as the dominant superpower. The world’s judge and police. All this from a country whose own government is dysfunctional.”
“I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I’m here. I have a plan to restore Russia to its prior greatness before Afghanistan, Gorbachev, and the fall of the Berlin Wall while, at the same time, inflicting a mighty blow to the U.S. The Russian people will revere you for doing this. Most look back longingly and yearn for the good old days when we were a world force.”
Kuznov walked over to the credenza, poured two glasses of vodka, and handed one to Orlov. They each took a gulp. Kuznov said, “That’s an extremely ambition objective. How do you propose to do this?”
It was a lob up to the net. Orlov was ready with his response. “We form an alliance with China. Then in a joint operation, we strike at the United States and Europe.”
Kuznov was shaking his head. “I’ll be very frank with you, Dimitri. I’ve met Chinese President Li twice. I’ve never been able to develop a relationship with the man. He’s gutless and two-faced. An alliance with China is out of the question.”
“Change is in the wind in Beijing. A beneficial change for us. Li will not be the president of China much longer. He will be succeeded by General Zhou.”
“You’re wrong. Zhou was exiled.”
“Respectfully, I hate to disagree with you. Zhou will be back in Beijing sometime next year. And he will become the next Chinese president.”
Kuznov looked skeptical. He finished his vodka. “How do you know all this?”
“My sister Androshka is General Zhou’s mistress living with him in Paris. Though I’m ten years older, we always had a close relationship, in part because our father died when Androshka was only a year old.”
“I’ve heard of your father. He was well respected as a high-ranking Communist Party official.”
“Thank you. Well, anyhow, I had a secret meeting with Androshka last March in the south of France. She told me precisely what I told you about General Zhou’s plans to become the next Chinese president. She also told me that General Zhou hates the United States.”
While Kuznov paced with one hand on his chin, undoubtedly assessing what he had just heard, Orlov recalled that meeting with Androshka.
He hadn’t seen or heard from her in two years and he hadn’t been able to locate her. It was as if she had vanished from the face of the earth. The last he heard, she was in a relationship with Mikail Ivanoff, another Russian oligarch. Word had reached Orlov that Androshka had stolen money from Ivanoff and fled the country and that Ivanoff wanted to find and kill her. None of that made sense to Orlov, who had plenty of money to give to Androshka. All she had to do was ask.
Then out of the blue, she called and asked him to meet her in the south of France. “I’m staying at the house of Chinese General Zhou. He’s away for a few days. Come now. Please.”
So Orlov took the first plane to Paris where he connected to Nice. It was a huge estate with a swimming pool and a red clay tennis court in the hills above the town of Cap d’Antibes. Androshka, with tears running down her cheeks, told him how, back in Moscow, Mikail had beaten her when he was drunk. One night it was too much for her. While he slept, she gathered up the money he had in the house and fled to Paris. There she had no choice. She had to earn money the way good-looking women have since the beginning of time.
“You were a prostitute?” Orlov said horrified.
“I had no choice. But I had good luck. I met General Zhou. He’s been good to me.”
“You should have called me,” Orlov said angrily.
“I didn’t want to make trouble for you. I know that Vasily and Mikail were friends.”
“They were. Now they hate each other. But why did you call me now?”
“Thanks to General Zhou, Mikail is dead.”
Orlov stopped thinking about his meeting with An
droshka and looked at Kuznov, who was staring at him.
“Alright,” the Russian president said. “I’m willing to accept everything you’ve told me about General Zhou and his hatred for the Americans. If and when he becomes president of China, I would like to meet with him. Here in Moscow. But I can’t arrange that meeting myself. And it can’t be a public meeting. That would raise suspicions around the world. Feed paranoia. Particularly in Washington. They’ll see it as Stalin and Hitler joining forces and take strong action. We have to form our alliance secretly. Do you understand?”
These words were music to Orlov’s ears. “Absolutely. That’s where I can help you,” Orlov added.
“How?”
“Androshka promised to get me access to General Zhou—as your representative of course. As soon as he becomes China’s president I’ll call her and arrange to visit Beijing to meet with Zhou and invite him to Moscow. If that’s what you want.”
Orlov was trying to sound deferential.
Now Kuznov was smiling. And he almost never smiles, Orlov thought.
“I like that plan. Good you came to see me. I promise you won’t have trouble getting in the next time. By the way, how many of my guards did you kill to get his meeting with me tonight?”
“One dead. One unconscious. Both on the back lawn.”
They were just the beginning as far as Orlov was concerned. He was prepared to kill more—as many as necessary to fulfill his mission and make himself the second most powerful man in Russia.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part One
Paris
Madrid
Bali
Madrid and Skies over the Ocean
Broome, Australia, and Bali
Beijing
Paris
Moscow
Bali
Corsica
Bali and Beijing
Corsica and Paris
Moscow and Beijing
Paris and Moscow
Part Two
Beijing
Moscow
Paris and Berlin
Islamabad and Moscow
New York and Pennsylvania
Paris
Washington
Manassas, Virginia
paris
Beijing
Paris
Beijing
Washington
Moscow
Beijing
Part Three
Washington
Washington
Los Angeles
Islamabad
Los Angeles
Beijing
Great Falls, Maryland
Washington
Gaithersburg, Maryland
Dulles Airport
Gaithersburg, Maryland
Paris
Washington and Los Angeles
Washington
Washington and Gaithersburg
Beijing
Part Four
Las Vegas
Paris
Washington
Beijing
Washington
Monte Carlo
Beijing
Paris
Washington
Prague
Prague and Czech Republic
Moscow
Beijing and Paris
Moscow
Washington
PART ONE
* * *
April, the Present
Paris
Craig Page, Director of the EU Counterterrorism Agency, leaned back in the chair in his Paris office and closed his eyes. It had only been ten days since his successful defense of the Vatican and the battle for Southern Spain, and he was still emotionally strung out.
He realized that he had plenty to be pleased about. He had thwarted the daring plan of Musa Ben Abdil to launch a rocket attack on the Pope and the Vatican on Easter morning, while at the same time creating a Muslim enclave in Southern Spain. Many had perished in that lunatic’s march across Southern Spain to the Alhambra, but Musa Ben Abdil and his lieutenant Omar had died rather than surrender, which the remains of his ragtag army were all too happy to do to save their lives. The Alhambra had been spared damage. And Craig had managed to rescue Elizabeth from her captivity unharmed.
Despite all of that, for Craig, it was a bittersweet victory. The ruthless General Zhou, whom Craig was convinced was the brains behind Mohammad Ben Abdil’s plans, had managed to escape, along with his mistress, Androshka. A year and a half before these attacks, General Zhou had planned the murder of Craig’s daughter, Francesca, his only child. All Craig could think about was gaining revenge over Zhou. After these separate encounters, Craig’s animosity toward General Zhou had reached gargantuan proportions. No matter what he did, he kept thinking about it.
Last night, in bed in their apartment in Montmarte, Elizabeth had held him and said, “General Zhou is becoming an obsession with you. Believe me, I want to get him as much as you do. I was his prisoner, but we don’t even know where he is. He’s probably back in China where we can’t reach him. We can’t let him destroy us.”
“I know that, but…”
She had pulled away and sat up, wrapping a sheet around her naked body. “I feel so bad. It’s all my fault that Zhou got away. If I hadn’t been so stupid and let myself get caught…”
“That’s not fair. You can’t blame yourself.”
But he knew she did. And he did as well. She should have been suspicious that they were trying to trap her in Paris.
He wouldn’t tell her that. He didn’t want to hurt her. So instead he said, “I’ll try to move on.”
But he knew it was futile. As time passed, it would be more difficult to get at General Zhou. He needed something damn soon.
Finally, this morning, he caught a break. When Craig had ridden in the back of the car with Androshka, taking her to the exchange for Elizabeth in Gibraltar, he had secretly slipped a tiny, but powerful tracking device into her bag. He had enlisted the aid of his friend Betty Richards at the CIA in Langley to use American satellites to pinpoint Androshka’s location. No doubt she was with General Zhou. But that had taken time because Norris, the CIA Director, despised Craig. So Betty had to work surreptitiously. For several days, General Zhou and Androshka had been on the move, undoubtedly to give the slip to anyone trying to pursue. This morning Betty called on an encrypted phone with precise coordinates. General Zhou was in Bali. Craig now had his exact location.
That left Craig with a dilemma: how to get at General Zhou in Bali? While Craig’s title was impressive: Director of the EU Counterterrorism Agency, the reality was he had no legal authority to seek extradition. Nor did he have any military or security personnel at his disposal. Quite the opposite, the EU resolution creating his office specifically provided that he was dependent upon member nations for legal and military support. That wasn’t surprising. The EU member nations, particularly Germany and France, had a strong prejudice against relinquishing any of their sovereignty.
Now that he had General Zhou’s location, if Craig built an ironclad case against the Chinese General, he could take his evidence to Spanish President Zahara. Craig was confident that Zahara would authorize the Spanish Justice Minister to seek General Zhou’s extradition from the Indonesian government. Then the Spanish government could try him for the murder of the Spanish people who died on the Easter morning attack in Southern Spain. The prosecutor’s theory would be simple: General Zhou wasn’t there with a gun. But he was the mastermind. In legal terms, a co-conspirator.
The idea was a good one, Craig was convinced. But how to build the case?
The Spanish government had directed and was holding in prison the remnants of Musa Ben Abdil’s army, which had surrendered at the Alhambra. Craig could interrogate them to determine whether any of them had seen or heard General Zhou involved in planning the attack. Craig was convinced that would be futile. At the time of the Alhambra surrender, Craig had spoken informally to a number of Musa’s troops. H
e was convinced that other than Omar, who was dead, none of them had knowledge of the planning of the operation.
A better possibility, Craig decided, was Elizabeth. When she had been captured and taken to Musa Ben Abdil’s house in Marbella, she had heard conversations between General Zhou and Musa. Her testimony might be enough to persuade the Spanish Justice Minister to seek extradition. Even to obtain a conviction of General Zhou.
Buzzing on the intercom brought Craig back to reality. His secretary said, “Time for you to leave for lunch with Elizabeth.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. He had totally forgotten that she had called an hour ago and said, “I have good news. I’m buying lunch.”
Craig stood up and headed toward the door. It was a gorgeous spring day in Paris. He would have preferred to walk, but he’d never make it in time from his office in La Defense to the excellent little restaurant, Arome, off the Rue St. Honore, close to Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. They both liked it and the restaurant was equidistant between his office and hers at the International Herald, where she worked as a reporter. So he took a couple of gulps of outdoor air and climbed into the back of his waiting car. When he entered the restaurant, he saw Elizabeth seated at a corner table, looking radiant, dressed in a simple Chloe sheath. Though they never drank at lunch, she was sipping champagne. After he kissed her, she signaled the waiter who brought a glass for him.
“Guess what happened?”
“I’ll bet it has to do with your book.”
“Correct.”
“The publisher has no more revisions to the first part?”
“We’re not there yet. However,” she was dropping the words like pearls, “I received an email from Harold, my agent in New York. He sold French rights for 200,000 euros and they love my title: ‘Heads in the Sand: Europe Ignores Islamic Threat.’”
He whistled. “Wow. What great news. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re definitely paying for lunch. Even though you know where I think their heads are.”
“Very funny.”
They had a wonderful lunch with Elizabeth talking about some of the things she’d do with the money. She wanted to finance a long overdue vacation for them. Renovate the apartment. Send money to her father in New York. As she talked, sounding excited, Craig tried to be fully engaged with her. But he was only half there. Despite his best efforts, he could never block General Zhou from his mind.
