The Russian Endgame

by Allan Topol

  Kuznov paused to sip his drink.

  “And?” Orlov asked anxiously.

  “In that chopper, I felt incredibly vulnerable. We were flying over woods and sparsely populated areas. Someone with a rocket on the ground could have easily hit us. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Absolutely, President Kuznov.”

  “But you can’t be on the ground firing the rocket. And it can’t be anyone else who’s a Russian.”

  “That’s not a problem,” Orlov said, now sounding excited. “I have intelligence contacts around the world. So many people hate the United States. I’ll be able to find someone.”

  “Good. I’ll put a plane and pilot at your disposal, but remember one thing,” Kuznov raised his hand and pointed a finger at Orlov. “Your shooter can’t survive the assassination. He has to die as well. Dead men don’t talk.”

  “For sure. We have the perfect model. The assassination of President Kennedy.”

  “Exactly. The precisely conceived operation. Even after fifty years, Americans can’t be sure who was responsible for the death of their

  president. And one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dalton’s assassination can’t be attributed to Russia.”

  Orlov recalled Zhou telling him that the Chinese government couldn’t be involved in any way. Both Zhou and Kuznov were setting him up. And if the mission went to hell, they’d want him to swing alone. But he wouldn’t let that happen.

  Paris and Berlin

  Craig was in his office at ten in the morning when his cell phone rang. He checked caller ID. It was Betty, at five am Washington time.

  “I’m calling from home,” she said. “I’ll talk fast. Less chance of our conversation being picked up.”

  “What do you have?”

  “I just spoke to Wayne Nelson, our station chief in Beijing. He succeeded your friend Peter Emery.”

  “Don’t remind me about that bastard.”

  “Well anyhow, Wayne and I go way back. I asked him to call and tell me about anything unusual President Zhou did.”

  Craig was pressing the phone tight against his ear as if that could give him the information faster. “And?”

  “He told me that two days ago Zhou had a meeting one-on-one with a Russian, Dimitri Orlov.”

  “How’d Nelson learn about it?”

  “That I better not put over the airwaves. Even on an encrypted phone. Don’t worry. It’s reliable information.”

  Craig was tearing his memory, trying for any recollection of Dimitri Orlov. He came up empty. “Who the hell is Dimitri Orlov?”

  “I ran him through our database. Nothing.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. This could be valuable.”

  “That’s what I figured. Definitely worth chancing the call, but keep the guestroom free in your apartment. If Norris finds out I’m funneling information to you, I’ll need a place to lay low.”

  “It’s yours any time. We’ll even let you smoke on the patio.”

  Craig hung up the phone, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. As he told Betty, this could be valuable information. One month into his Presidency, Zhou had to be a busy man, his time limited. Yet, he had a meeting with an unknown Russian.

  Dimitri Orlov had to be an emissary of President Kuznov. That was the only explanation.

  Craig had to find out who Dimitri Orlov was.

  Kuznov had been powerful in the KGB. Chances were he’d have selected one of his former KGB cronies to send off to Beijing on a mission. By checking KGB files in Moscow, it was likely Craig would locate Dimitri Orlov. Not an option.

  Second choice was Germany. Most KGB operatives spent some time in East Germany where the Stasi, the secret police, kept meticulous records. If Dimitri Orlov had been in East Germany, Stasi would have recorded that fact and information about him. Those Stasi files ended up in the German Intelligence Agency files in Berlin after unification.

  Craig called Kurt Dieter, the Director of German Intelligence, to arrange a late afternoon meeting. Then he booked a flight to Berlin.

  Kurt Dieter was a short man with a small, bald head and one of the most brilliant minds of anyone Craig had ever met. And Dieter was one of the relatively few sixty year olds who had a total mastery of computers and other technology. Unlike Craig, who relied on technological assistants like Marie known as techies, Dieter did his own work.

  Dieter’s office was on the top floor of a starkly modern, twelve-story glass and steel structure constructed a year ago.

  Craig was only half way through the explanation of what he wanted when Dieter interrupted. “Okay. I’ve got it.”

  Dieter turned ninety degrees in his chair to his computer and began pushing buttons.

  “I thought we’d be down in a dusty file room searching through crumbling documents,” Craig said.

  Dieter gave a deep belly laugh. “You underestimate our technological capability. All the files have been scanned and entered into our computer data base. Even those of the Stasi. We’re light years ahead of others in the EU, and I won’t even talk about Washington.”

  After two minutes, Dieter looked up from the computer. “Dimitri Orlov was in East Germany for about six months when Kuznov was there. In fact, he did an operation for Kuznov, something about disinformation with the Americans.”

  Dieter hit a couple more buttons and the printer spit out four pages. Dieter handed them to Craig. A picture and a three page bio.

  “Here’s your man.”

  Craig began reading Orlov’s bio. He stopped on the second

  paragraph entitled “family background.” The words “holy shit” came out of Craig’s mouth.

  “Is that a Russian or a French intelligence term?” Dieter asked, while laughing.

  But Craig wasn’t paying attention to Dieter. He had just learned that Orlov had a sister Androshka. He stopped reading and turned to the photo. The longer he studied Orlov’s picture, the more convinced he became that Orlov and President Zhou’s Androshka bore a striking physical resemblance.

  Craig was certain he’d hit pay dirt. Orlov had to be the emissary of his old KGB boss, Kuznov. He was perfect for the role because of Androshka.

  But what were they discussing in their Beijing meeting? President Zhou and Orlov?

  Knowing Zhou and his hatred for the United States, Craig would have bet anything that Zhou wanted to use Orlov in some action against Washington. He realized this was a leap based on the little he knew, but Craig’s instincts rarely let him down in matters like this.

  “Can I keep these?” Craig asked Dieter while clutching the photo and bio.

  “Of course. I can print additional copies of you’d like.”

  “No, these are enough. Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”

  “How about dinner this evening?”

  “I’d like to, but I have to be back in Paris.”

  Dieter was shaking his head. “Unfortunately, you’re still more American than European. I give Paris another year to corrupt you.”

  Craig took an evening flight back to Paris and went right to his office. There he called Norris, the CIA Director, on a secure line.

  Before he had a chance to tell Norris what he wanted, the CIA Director tore into him. “I’m really pissed at you for going over my head to President Dalton when you wanted U.S. Air Force help to save the Pope and the Vatican.”

  Craig had no intention of taking this crap from Norris. “To be honest, if I’d have gone to you, the Pope would be dead and there’d be a hole in the side of St. Peter’s Basilica large enough to drive a train through.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We always cooperate with the EU, and I always work with you. I just need evidence to support what you want to do.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you a chance to prove that.”

  “What happened now?”

  Craig explained everything he had learned about Orlov’s visit to Beijing and that Orlov was the
brother of Zhou’s mistress, Androshka. “I’ll send you Dimitri Orlov’s photo and bio. I want you to distribute them to all INS agents at U.S. international airports and border points. If he tries to enter the country, arrest him for questioning and call me. I’ll come over.”

  “What am I arresting him for?” Norris sounded skeptical

  “I believe he’s planning some type of attack against the U.S. If

  he enters the country, then the attack will almost certainly be within the U.S.”

  “And exactly what evidence do you have to back this up?”

  “I’ve told you everything I know. My knowledge of President Zhou is a critical component. If you have Orlov in custody, we’ll be able to learn more.”

  “In other words, you don’t have a damn thing.”

  “C’mon, you know intelligence work isn’t a precise science. With our experience and instincts, we save lives.”

  “And you’re asking me to trample on this man’s rights if he comes to the U.S.” Norris sounded hostile.

  “Now you’re concerned about the rights of a former KGB agent.” Craig was raising his voice. “And a Russian mobster. That’s absurd.”

  “Why does every conversation with you turn into a shouting match?”

  Craig was past the boiling point. “Because you’re an asshole.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Do you want Orlov’s photo and the bio, or not?”

  “You can stick them up your ass.”

  Norris slammed down the phone.

  Craig would have to find a way around the CIA Director.

  Islamabad and Moscow

  Orlov decided to call Colonel Khan before flying to Islamabad. Now that the Colonel had been promoted to Director of ISI, the Pakistan military intelligence agency, Orlov wasn’t sure he’d be willing to talk to an old Russian crony. Orlov knew that lots of Pakistanis hated the Russians because of the way they cut and ran, tail between their legs, from Afghanistan, ceding the territory to the Americans.

  After Orlov gave his name to the Colonel’s assistant, he held his breath. A minute later, the Colonel was on the phone speaking English, which they had used in the old days. “Well, well, Dimitri Orlov, a name from my past,” the Colonel said in an ebullient voice.

  “Your present and future as well, I hope. Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “It’s a thankless job.”

  “But somebody has to do it.”

  They both laughed.

  “What are you doing now?” the Colonel asked.

  “A little of this and a little of that. I’d like to come and talk to you.”

  Orlov guessed the Colonel wouldn’t ask the subject over the phone—what prompted this call out of the blue. The Pakistanis were convinced that the Americans monitored calls in and out of the ISI. Even if he had, Orlov wouldn’t have provided any information on the phone.

  “When?” the Colonel asked.

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Call my assistant with an ETA. I’ll have my car and driver meet you at the airport.”

  In the plane to Islamabad, Orlov thought about his prior dealings with Khan when the Pakistani was only a Captain in the ISI. The Russian army was bogged down in a quagmire in Afghanistan. It was a mind numbingly stupid war in a country referred to as the graveyard of empires because it had decimated powerful armies from the Greeks to the British, just as it was chewing up the Russian army.

  It was never clear whether the Pakistanis were on the side of the Taliban trying to seize control of Afghanistan or the Russians. Orlov was convinced they were working with both sides, taking payoffs from whoever offered them with the objective of ending up with a weak Afghanistan that Pakistan could control.

  Orlov’s assignment was to obtain intelligence on the Taliban from Khan. Dollars and Johnny Walker Blue Label would grease the skids.

  As the plane descended through the clouds into Islamabad, Orlov fully anticipated that Khan would be playing exactly the same game with the Americans and the Taliban. Only the uniforms of the foreign army had changed.

  The one thing Orlov had never been able to determine was where in the world Khan stored all that cash. He’d learned never to underestimate Khan. The man was, in addition to being venal, incredibly savvy with an instinct for survival.

  The dirty gray Toyota sedan with Orlov in the back was mired in heavy traffic on the way to the ISI headquarters. The car was a change. In the old days, the Director of ISI’s car was a shiny new Jaguar. The Colonel must have decided it was too attractive a target for terrorists.

  What hadn’t changed was that Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan, was the same hellhole that Orlov remembered—dusty side streets, open food stands attracting a myriad of flies in the heat, and beggars accosting tourists. Mosques dominated the skyline. And everywhere swarms of people and more people.

  Orlov was relieved to enter the cinderblock ISI headquarters. An armed guard in a military uniform met him at the door and rode up with him in the elevator to the top floor. The fourth.

  In the reception area, the guard pointed to a cheap plastic chair. When Orlov sat in it, keeping his briefcase between his feet, the guard took a chair across the room facing Orlov.

  A woman was sitting behind a desk. Orlov wondered what she was thinking about her visitors, but he had no way of knowing. Her face was covered in black, except for her eyes, hazel brown eyes, Orlov noticed when she stared at him, but then looked away.

  As Orlov expected, he had to wait until the Colonel deigned to see him. Obviously a power play. Khan had to show he was in charge. Not too long today. Only half an hour.

  When Orlov was summoned, he picked up his briefcase and headed toward the open door. The armed guard remained behind.

  Orlov thought the fifty-eight-year-old Colonel had aged markedly since they had last been together. His neatly trimmed black mustache was sprinkled with gray as was the hair on his head. His face was etched with deep creases. The rakish smile Orlov remembered was gone. His black eyes were sunk deep into the sockets. He looked wary.

  While the Colonel remained seated at his desk, the receptionist clad in black shut the door. Orlov was now alone with the Colonel, who pointed to a chair in front of his desk. Then the Colonel picked up a gadget resembling a remote. He pushed a button. Orlov heard the lock on the office door click shut.

  “Well, talk,” the Colonel said impatiently.

  “First, let me congratulate you,” Orlov said, “on your promotion.”

  “I have the Americans to thank for it.”

  “The Americans. How?”

  “Heads rolled after they killed Osama Bin Laden. The General searched for someone who couldn’t be tagged with complicity. I had the good fortune of being at our border with India at the time.”

  “Luck is a valuable ally.”

  “You want something from me. You Russians always do.”

  This won’t be easy, Orlov thought. He reached into the briefcase at his feet, removed a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label, and put it on the desk.

  “Beware of Russians bringing gifts,” the Colonel said.

  “Actually, it was Greeks.”

  The Colonel ignored the correction. He rose, gun holstered at his hip, walked over to the credenza, and extracted two glasses. He poured them each a good measure of scotch and locked up the bottle.

  While Orlov sipped, he watched the Colonel savoring the scotch.

  “It’s becoming extremely difficult to get scotch into this country,” the Colonel said. “The Fundamentalists are exerting more and more control.”

  “A shame. They’ll make life intolerable.”

  The Colonel nodded. “Now tell me what you want.”

  Orlov reached into his bag again. This time with both hands. He removed a pile of euros. A million in total, placed them onto the desk, and slid them forward as a poker player might do with his chips at a casino.

  The Colonel didn’t reach for the money. He just stared at it. Then he l
ooked up. Orlov had center stage.

  “Once, when we spent a long evening together…” Orlov began, recalling a night in Kabul when he and the Colonel, sitting alone together, had consumed so much scotch that the Colonel finally passed out. Orlov had had to revive him and lead him back to his room. “You told me that your government had planted sleepers in the United States.”

  “I don’t recall that.”

  Orlov was convinced the Colonel was lying. He ignored the response and continued. “I want the identity and location of one of those sleepers.”

  The Colonel raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think the Russians carried out terrorist attacks in the United States any longer. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, I thought Russia became a nation of pussies. Racing to get out of the way of the Americans.”

  Orlov felt the bile rising in his body. He kept his anger in check, refusing to succumb to the Colonel’s taunts.

  All business, he responded. “I want a name and an address.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “You don’t have to know.”

  “A sleeper is a valuable asset. I have to receive something in return. A quid pro quo.”

  Orlov pointed to the pile of euros. The Colonel scooped them up, carried them over to the credenza, and locked them up.

  The Colonel smoothed down the ends of his mustache. “Now we’ll talk about compensation.”

  “You greedy bastard.”

  “You Russians taught me how to negotiate. What’s mine is mine. What’s yours is negotiable. One of your generals once told me: negotiations are like cutting salami. You slice some off, take it for yourself, then return to the salami and start over. You keep doing this each time until you have the entire salami.”

  “I’m familiar with the concept. You have the cash. Now tell me what else you want.”

  “Engineering assistance. The Americans are terrified that our nuclear weapons will fall into the hands of people they can’t control. As a result, our military is afraid the Americans will one day swoop in and seize our nuclear weapons just as they killed Osama Bin Laden.”