by Marc Cameron
“We believe?” Ryan asked, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper.
“Cameroonian forces destroyed the satellite antennas and appear to be blocking cell transmissions. We’re trying to reestablish communications now.”
Ryan considered everything that had been said in the past few minutes. He looked hard from Forrestal to Adler. “There was some miscommunication about a situation with a video when you first came in. What video were you talking about?”
The secretary of state spoke next. “A video of you, Mr. President. You and General Mbida of the Cameroonian Army.”
Ryan nodded. “Mbida was in Washington three months ago, looking at colleges for his eldest daughter. We spoke briefly at an event . . . I can’t even remember where.”
“Kennedy Center,” Adler said. “You were both at the same performance of Rigoletto.”
“That’s right.” Ryan groaned. “Cathy’s doing. I just spoke with him for a few moments during intermission.”
“It goes without saying that the video is not real, but in it, you are seen assuring General Mbida that you will back him in a coup against President Njaya.”
“All right,” Ryan said. “Let’s get the rest of the principals in here.” By that, he meant the principal members of the National Security Council. Those already present in the Oval were principal attendees, but an incident like this called for the chairman of the joint chiefs, D/CIA, and, at the very least, White House counsel. He looked at Foley. “Deepfake? That’s what you called it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ryan tapped the pencil on his knee again, working through the possibilities. “Two of these videos coming to light in a matter of hours can’t be a coincidence. There’s a state actor behind this—and I’m betting it’s not Cameroon.”
13
It seemed like a great deal of commotion for one man to go fishing.
A phalanx of black ZiL sedans and BMW motorcycles painted militia white and blue, blocked each end of Bol’shoy Kamenny and Bol’shoy Moskvoretsky—bridges crossing into the center of Moscow—snarling already horrendous traffic by forcing afternoon traffic to detour to the Ulitsa Krymsky to the west or Ustyinsky to the east. Apart from roving members of the Presidential Security Service, vehicles were now nonexistent in the uppermost arc of the Moskva River south of the Kremlin. Snipers armed with modern Orsis T-5000 precision rifles parked themselves behind powerful scopes on either bridge, scanning the river and adjacent buildings as if their own lives depended on their vigilance. Militia patrol boats to the east and west halted all maritime traffic.
A gaggle of heavily vetted journalists stood with their cameras and recorders on the other side of a rope line, a hundred feet to the east along the concrete embankment. Russians in general thought it foolish to smile for no reason, but these men and women approached the assignment of watching the president of Russia with all the gusto of a press that was free to write exactly what it was told to write. Most of them smoked or drank strong tea from metal thermoses, paying only rudimentary attention to the two fishermen.
Maksim Dudko stood on the bottom of the concrete steps leading down from the Sofiyskaya Embankment, and cast his line with an expert flick of his wrist. He began to reel immediately, drawing a sideways glance from President Nikita Yermilov, who considered himself a purist with his eight-hundred-dollar Orvis fly rod.
Dudko found himself ever in the shadow of his former cohort at the KGB—but the shadow of the most powerful man in Russia could be a very comfortable place. For one, he got to go fishing within sight of the Archangel cathedral’s golden domes without having to fight for a spot with some idiot with a stick and piece of string. Dudko retrieved his lure, checked over his shoulder to make certain he didn’t hook a roving security man, and then flicked another cast into the foamy brown water. He stopped reeling long enough to dab at his eyes with a tissue. The winds were from the south this afternoon, bringing the sour stench of sulfur dioxide and something that smelled a good deal like burned popcorn from the Gazprom Refinery a scant ten kilometers away inside the Moscow Ring Road.
Yermilov stripped out a few feet more from his reel and began to flick his rod, placing the fly exactly in the center of the eddying current seven or so meters upstream. Purist or not, one had to admit that the president was extremely good at the artistic side of fly fishing. Unfortunately for everyone, that did not mean he could catch fish.
“What are you using today, Gospodin President?”
Yermilov flicked the tip of his rod, whipping it back and forward and back and forward. He let the fly settle on the water for only a few seconds each time—certainly not enough time for a fish to even notice the thing. “My favorite violet leech,” he said. “A certain winner at this time of year.”
“Excellent,” Dudko said, hooking his third perch of the afternoon. The president gave him a withering stare and then glanced quickly at the gaggle of press. They appeared to animate slightly each time a fish was landed.
“And you?” Yermilov said. “A spinning rod, of all things. With what monstrosity are you flailing the water today?”
Dudko smiled. He hadn’t survived this long without understanding the president’s veiled meanings. They were so deep sometimes as to be positively subterranean. He gave an embarrassed shrug. “I am using a vibrating spoon. In truth, it is not altogether sporting.” He continued to reel, pausing for a beat as if mulling something over. “To be honest,” he said, “I would not mind giving that violet leech a try . . . if I might trouble you, my old friend.” He held out the spinning rod, silver spoon dangling, dripping water—and the tiny jawbone of his last catch.
Yermilov passed him the fly rod without reeling in the line, causing no small amount of concern in Dudko that he might accidentally hook something before the president got the spinner in the water. It turned out to be a nonissue.
Yermilov roared with glee at each fish he reeled in, even going so far as to school Dudko on the proper way to land each bream or roach. “Excellent, Maksim Timofeyevich. I must use this vibrating spoon in Irkutsk in July. The cisco fishing there is superb this year.”
“With the added benefit that you can eat the fish,” Dudko said.
Yermilov darkened. “What do you mean by that?”
“The PCBs, Gospodin President,” Dudko said, wide-eyed now. “Mercury, other toxins. Any fish caught from the Moskva would be full of dangerous chemicals.”
“That is nonsense and you know it,” Yermilov scoffed, adding to the toxins in the water with a ball of spit he hawked from this throat. “It is perfectly safe to eat fish caught in any waters in Russia.”
Dudko gave the bobbing nod of the impotent. “I am sure it is, Gospodin President.” He had accompanied Yermilov on his annual fishing trip to Irkutsk to fish in Lake Baikal for the past eight years. It was inexplicable that he would not be invited again this year—but if the president was going to issue an invitation, this would have been the perfect opportunity. And then Dudko had had to make the incautious remark about eating fish from the Moscow River. How stupid of him. He knew Yermilov prided himself on the perfection of Mother Russia—even her toxic fish.
A murmur rose from the press gaggle, giving Dudko a moment’s respite from the president’s glare. A few of them looked at their mobile phones. Some took calls, nodding sternly, pretending that there was nothing even remotely as interesting in the world as watching the president of the Russian Federation catch fish that he was never going to eat.
Yermilov reeled in another fish, this one a sickly-looking bream with a misshapen dorsal fin. He gave a toss of his head toward the press line. “What are they going on about?”
The security officer nearest the journalists spoke to a woman behind a camera for a few moments, and then turned to stride quickly toward a more mature officer, the man in charge of the president’s detail. This one wore a dark suit and buzzed hair that showed the rolls of pink scal
p above his ears. Dudko had never seen someone with muscles in their head like Yermilov’s lead agent. The elder security man listened intently, still scanning the area while the young man spoke in his ear, and then turned to approach Yermilov. He stopped some ten feet away until the president let go of the rod long enough with one hand to motion him closer. The security man passed him a mobile phone, whispered a few short words, and then took a step back.
Yermilov held the phone as far away from his eyes as possible with his free hand, turning away so the press could not get footage of him squinting. He continued to fish with the other free hand. A smile spread slowly across his face—no small thing for someone who believed smiles were generally the product of a weak mind. At length, he passed the spinning rod to the security man and turned to Dudko.
“Let us walk.”
Dudko complied at once, passing the president’s Orvis to the same security man, who promptly handed off both rods to the junior member of his team.
Yermilov showed the phone screen to Dudko as they walked west along the embankment toward Kamenny Bridge. “What do you make of this?”
Dudko scrolled through the article, waiting for the president to say what he made of the situation before chiming in. He might be able to recover from one slip, but not two.
“There is a lot going on with the United States,” Yermilov said.
Dudko offered to return the phone, but the president had read enough. Dudko slipped it into his vest. “President Ryan certainly has his hands full at the moment.”
Yermilov stopped and gazed across the river, eyes half closed, the way he did when he was coming to some conclusion.
“Operation ANIVA,” he said.
“This is a large step forward, Gospodin President,” Dudko said. He knew he had to tread carefully here, but the man did keep him around to offer some modicum of advice.
“Nonsense,” Yermilov said, turning to walk back toward the security team and the press gaggle, making it clear that there would be little more in the way of discussion. Dudko had said exactly the wrong thing.
“Think of it,” Yermilov said. “Floods, disease, an embassy under siege, and citizens who are finally aware of the great Jack Ryan’s duplicitous ways. One of his own senators has accused him of going after political rivals. He is much too busy to bother with a little military exercise, even if it happens to involve Ukraine. And what can anyone do once we have control? It is rightfully ours in any case. We have our Russian citizens there to think of.”
“This is true,” Dudko said.
Yermilov stopped, peering directly into Dudko’s eyes. “You believe me responsible, don’t you?”
As far as Yermilov was concerned, “me” and the Rodina—Mother Russia—were one and the same.
“It is not my place to think of such things,” Dudko stammered, almost hearing the doors to Lefortovo Prison slam shut behind him.
“No,” Yermilov said, offering slightly more shoulder as he walked. “It is not. I will tell you this, though, our Black Sea bots would make short work of Ryan’s reputation. Whether it is us or not, I am more than happy to take advantage of the situation.”
Already drowning, Dudko threw away any flotation he had. “But President Ryan, sir, he already suspects our activities on the Internet.”
Yermilov wagged his head from side to side. “Jack Ryan will do what Jack Ryan will do . . .”
Had the army of Russian Internet bots, run out of various warehouse locations around the Black Sea, been involved, Yermilov would surely know about it, for there was little that went on inside or outside Russia of which he was not aware.
“Byla ne byla.” Yermilov shrugged. Literally, “there was, there was not,” the proverb more figuratively meant “Let the chips fall where they may.” It was a brash sentiment for the most powerful man in Russian, but had worked well for him up to this point. “Besides, his own citizens are questioning his so-called Ryan Doctrine for what it is—state-sponsored murder.”
They walked slowly along the river, reaching the security men again. Former KGB mongrel that he was, Yermilov was still a political animal. He took a moment to wave at the press before taking back his own fly rod.
“I think there is a fish on there, Gospodin President,” the young security officer said as he handed it off.
“No,” Yermilov said smugly. “I am quite certain there is not.” A moment later he began to fight a fish. “Look,” he said to Dudko, ignoring the security man completely. “I have caught another. Sorry to say it will have to be the last. I have much to take care of.”
“Of course,” Dudko said for at least the hundredth time in the past hour. “That is a nice catch there, sir.”
“You take the fish,” Yermilov said, holding the stringer up and foisting it on his aide so the media could see his generosity as well as his faith in the Moscow River. “You can tell me how they tasted tomorrow.”
“I will make some calls,” Dudko said.
Yermilov leaned away. “To whom?”
“The generals,” Dudko said. “To begin Operation ANIVA.”
Yermilov waved away the thought. “Do not trouble yourself, Maksim Timofeyevich. Colonel Grokin will contact the necessary players.”
“I . . .” Dudko paused, looking helplessly at the wall of stone that Yermilov’s face had become. He bobbed his head again. “Of course, Gospodin President.”
Dudko’s guts twisted. The muscles in his face began to twitch and he had to move his jaw to make them stop. And just like that, he was on the outside looking in, with that fool Colonel Grokin contacting the necessary players. And now the wily old yes-man would probably get an invitation to go fishing in Irkutsk as well. Dudko had to do something. A grand strategy that would bring him back into good standing. He was good at strategy—a master, really. That’s why Yermilov had kept him around, wasn’t it? He’d had a dry spell. That was all. But what to do now? This thing with the American President had some promise. There were Russian fingerprints all over it, though the Americans who hated Ryan had certainly kept the ball rolling, so to speak. Yes, this might provide a way back into Yermilov’s good graces if Dudko played his hand correctly. By the time they climbed the concrete steps up the Sofiyskaya Embankment to Yermilov’s waiting ZiL, Dudko had begun to see the way before him. The armored sedan was set up in vis-à-vis fashion and he started to climb into the rear-facing seats across from the president.
Yermilov stopped him. “You must take home your catch,” he said. “One of my men will give you a ride.”
Yermilov gave a flick of his hand, like a cavalry officer signaling forward, and the motorcade sped away. Dudko found himself standing on the sidewalk with a plastic bucket full of fish and a lone member of Yermilov’s security team.
“Your residence, Comrade Dudko?” the young man asked.
“Yes, of course,” Dudko mumbled, preoccupied in the fog of his nascent plan that swirled in his head.
This could work. He would make the call as soon as he dropped off the poison fish and returned to his office. One of the benefits of being in the inner circle for so long was that he knew things about people.
Elizaveta Bobkova would not be happy about his proposal. No, she would yowl like a cat over a bathtub, trying everything to scratch and claw her way out. But what could she do? He knew too much about her, and as chief SVR officer of Washington Station, she had far too much to lose.
14
President Ryan decided on a preliminary briefing while he waited for the rest of the NSC principals to arrive. Still in the Oval, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, pulling up the image of West Africa. He’d always had a knack for geography, but the deployment of more and more American troops to join the hunt for Boko Haram terrorists had drawn lines in his mind that were crystal clear. Cameroon had more than its share of violence and corruption, not to mention a president who had done away with term
limits and declared himself the winner of each election over the last two decades. But they were still ostensibly U.S. allies in the region.
“How many people do we have in the embassy?”
“They’re slotted for fifty-one direct hires,” the secretary of state said. “Some of those are bound to be off at conferences or out of country on home leave. Many of the diplomatic corps live nearby so some of them might even have gone home for lunch. Without communication with the embassy, I’m still trying to find out how many families are in country. I will know more on that before lunchtime here.”
“Make it an hour,” Ryan said.
Adler folded his hands in front of his belt. “I will, sir.” There was no I’ll do my best. That was a given. The prodding meant he could pass along to foreign service officers who worked for him that the President of the United States put their people, their families, as a top priority.
Ryan groaned. “All right. Let’s have it all, Robby.”
The deputy national security adviser referred to his notes, making certain to get the facts straight in his bottom-line-up-front brief.
“At 1258 hours local time, State Department Ops received a call from one of the administrative staff at our embassy in Yaounde, stating that they were under siege by Cameroonian military forces. The connection was lost after approximately forty-five seconds. The deputy chief of mission’s wife—her name is Sarah Porter—was at home a few blocks away. She was apparently taken hostage by the military forces involved. Her condition or whereabouts is, as of yet, unknown. Apparently General Mbida fled pursuing troops through the embassy gate along with at least one of his daughters. Six armored Cameroonian military vehicles arrived just moments behind them but remained outside the fence. That is all the information we got before contact was broken. Efforts to reestablish communication with anyone inside the embassy compound have proven fruitless to this point.”
