by Marc Cameron
Sassani nodded. “I will expect an answer in twelve hours, th—”
She cut him off. “Do you read?”
“Of course I read.”
“It is a fair enough question,” she said, hiding behind a seemingly genuine smile. “I meant to ask not if you know how to read but if you do. You are a busy man. Imagine a book where all the words are written on transparent paper and then stacked one on top of the other, the letters mixed and superimposed. That is what the DNA will look like at that point in the process. We have equipment that will sieve out the . . . bits of DNA according to size. This will allow me to analyze the data and provide you with your answer.”
“All right, all right,” Sassani said, growing exhausted. “I only need the man’s ethnicity for now.”
“I only like the center of a cake,” she said. “But I must bake the entire cake to get it.”
“You would do well to guard your attitude, Doctor,” Sassani said. “Remember that I hold the keys to Evin Prison.”
“And I hold the keys to the morgue.”
“I will expect a call the moment you have the information.” He turned to leave but stopped and spun on his heels. “Or you will not need a key to gain entry into this place.”
30
The president of the Russian Federation took a long, contemplative breath and looked deeply into the eyes of each of the five generals seated in front of him. Where the American White House had a quaint Oval Office with cozy furnishings conducive to comfortable fireside chats and quiet conversation, Yermilov’s Kremlin office was large, rectangular—as a proper room should be—and furnished with a proper oak conference table meant for getting things done.
For all practical purposes, a large swath of Eastern Ukraine was already Russia. It was certainly Russian. All the good citizens there needed to know was that the Kremlin would back their resistance to a heavy-handed Kiev. As far as Yermilov was concerned, he was merely helping freedom fighters return to the fold of their mother country as he’d already done in Crimea. It did not hurt that these regions were sitting on rich supplies of fossil fuel.
“Comrade Colonel General Gulin,” Yermilov said, waving an open hand to give the man the floor. “If you please.”
The officer stood, straightening his crisp uniform tunic, replete with medals, including the red ribbon with a gold star, the Hero of the Soviet Union medal he’d won during the campaign in Afghanistan. In his early seventies now, Colonel General Gulin had retained an erect military posture. Thick hair piled up on his head as if he’d just removed a hat. Fiercely dark eyes and caterpillar brows gave him the angry-uncle look of Comrade Brezhnev—which made him perfect to bring the rest of the generals and admirals in line for Operation ANIVA.
The general cleared his throat and then looked once more at Yermilov before beginning.
“Malware is already in place at various key locations in Ukraine’s banking system and much of her utility sector. Their Navy is little more than a fleet of rusty buckets, allowing us to increase pressure in the Sea of Azov with little resistance. Admiral Bylinkin has stationed the frigate Grigorovich in the Sea of Azov. The Black Sea Fleet frigates Essen and Makarov, along with destroyer Smetlivy, are en route from Novorossiysk. Four additional corvettes and three frigates from the Baltic Fleet are currently steaming through the Turkish Straits to take part in our exercise. Within days we will double the mechanized forces in Klintsy and Valuyki. Forces loyal to Russia, already inside Ukraine, will also take part in the exercise, pushing north and west toward Kiev. They will, no doubt, come under attack from Ukrainian forces. On your order our troops will press south across the border to intervene, acting as peacekeepers amid the ensuing violence . . .”
Yermilov’s mind drifted as this hero of the Soviet Union went over ANIVA with the rest of the staff. They were all aware of the specifics, but Yermilov wanted them all to know that he was aware—and still behind it. The Soviet action to move nuclear missiles into Cuba was called ANADYR, after a northern town on the Chukchi Sea, on the other side of the world from the coast of Florida. He’d chosen the name ANIVA for this operation, after the small village on Sakhalin Island, north of Japan—far away from Ukraine.
America’s Keyhole and other spy satellites would observe troop enhancements and naval buildup, but Yermilov didn’t fret over that. They’d been at this game for years. Yermilov was a better chess player than his predecessors were. He was already two or three moves ahead of Ryan—and with everything going on off the board, the Americans would not even know they were beaten until the game was already over.
“I realize that some of you have concerns,” Yermilov said when General Gulin finished. “But they are, I believe, unfounded. Russia has an inherent right to conduct military exercises as we see fit. They do it. We do it. Everyone is happy. Everyone is prepared. Our Russian brothers and sisters in Ukraine expect us to rescue them from the yoke of oppression. It is our duty, is it not?”
A resounding chorus of “Yes” went around the table.
Admiral Bylinkin of the Black Sea Fleet leaned back, lips pursed, as if he’d eaten a sour lemon.
Yermilov’s gaze settled on the man.
“What is it, my friend? Do you have something else?”
“No, Gospodin President,” the admiral said. “I would only point out—”
“So you do, in fact, have something else to say?” Yermilov interrupted.
The admiral slumped noticeably in his seat. “No, Gospodin President.”
“By all means, continue,” Yermilov said, now that the man was off balance.
“I realize that Ukraine is not a signatory to NATO, but considering President Ryan’s bluster and bravado, he does not seem to know this.”
“Perhaps,” Yermilov said. “Ryan certainly has the will. And he does possess the means, militarily speaking. But I do not believe he will have the time. Events on the world stage are unfolding, even as we speak, that will most certainly render Jack Ryan so busy at home that he will have no time to fret over matters abroad, to worry with a country that is not a member of NATO. His hands are full.” Yermilov smiled broadly, pushing up from the table to signal that the meeting was over. “It will not be long before he has too much to carry.”
* * *
—
At the far end of the office, seated along the wall instead of at the table, Maksim Dudko tapped a pen against the cover of his leather folio binder. The muscles under his right eye twitched with the anticipation.
You have no idea, my friend, he thought. I will yet be invited on your little fishing trip . . .
* * *
—
This conversation was far too sensitive to be held in Elizaveta Bobkova’s embassy office, even in the wee hours of the morning. Too many ears there. Too many spies, doing what spies did best.
Bobkova had worked for Russian intelligence long enough to know that spies did not customarily murder people from the opposing team, certainly not in their home country. Traitors were one thing, but this just did not happen, at least not on purpose. Still, her orders were crystal clear—follow through or be recalled to Moscow. After that? That weasel Maksim Dudko said he was in possession of kompromat—a file of compromising information in the form of photographs, bank accounts, proof that she was padding her pockets like the rest of them were doing. Stowing away a little money wasn’t a crime the president would worry over. However, if such an indiscretion were to leak, Yermilov himself would be embarrassed. In Stalin’s day, disobeying an order—or obeying one and making the boss look bad—meant long and brutal conversations with the NKVD while locked in the dungeons of Lubyanka Prison. After a short but detailed confession admitting to treason, if the bones in your legs were still intact enough to hobble, they marched you through the gates of the Communarka killing grounds. Now such matters in modern Russia were handled with a subtler, though equally brutal, hand.
There was simply no way for her to refuse the order from Dudko, no matter how insane. She would take care of this like the professional she was, and then deal with Dudko when it was over. Two could play the game of kompromat. A man like him stank with the rot of conspiracy. There would be mountains of dirt. The weasel had actually referred to her as Lizon’ka, the more familiar, diminutive form of Elizaveta. Only her grandfather got to call her that.
But to get that far, she could not be caught—and the Americans were very good at catching.
She’d gone for a long run through Glover Park near the embassy as soon as she’d ended her secure video call with Dudko. The run stilled her nerves and allowed her to work through the specifics of a plan—and choose her team.
The meeting tonight had to happen someplace neutral. A hotel she’d never used to meet another operative, or to administer a polygraph to a potential foreign agent. It had to be someplace not frequented by spies—no small task for an area like D.C., where spying was the national pastime.
Elizaveta had taken three hours to drive out of D.C., picking a random Hampton Inn off Interstate 81 north of Winchester after a meandering journey to Front Royal and through the Shenandoah forest that was sure to scrape off the FBI agents who routinely followed her. There were several who rotated through, but she called them Bullwinkle and Rocky, no matter who they happened to be at the moment.
* * *
—
Once she’d chosen the Hampton Inn, she used a prepaid phone to call and inform her two most trusted men of the location. She’d made no specific plans in advance, so the Americans would have nothing to intercept and no idea where to plant listening devices in advance of her meeting. Even so, she spoke in code, using a one-time pad so only her men could understand. The only way the FBI would have the single-use codebook is if one of these two men had turned. If that was the case, she was lost anyway. Once she was in the hotel room, mobile phones would go in the mini-fridge and all appliances would be unplugged.
If it had been possible to conduct the meeting on the surface of the moon, she would have done so. This assignment was beyond sensitive.
It was madness.
Bobkova had no moral qualms against killing. Some would say she had neither morals nor qualms. She had no problem at all giving some pesky reporter a shove or inducing a toxic reaction in a traitor, but one fact of espionage was so bold as to be outlined in crimson in the operational training manual: Murder of the opposing team was bad business. There was nothing like losing one of their own that galvanized either side into hunting moles and rooting out spies. The FBI would devote hundreds, even thousands, of agents to find the culprit. Smert shpionam—Stalin’s NKVD motto of “Death to spies”—became an all-too-real possibility. Notions of righteous vengeance gave everyone itchy trigger fingers. Beyond that, the real work would grind to a halt. The added scrutiny after a killing would make intelligence gathering next to impossible. Even if Bobkova was somehow able to hide her involvement in an assassination, expulsion was a foregone conclusion for anyone remotely suspected—and she did not want to leave the West. Capitalism was the “main enemy,” but it provided for a comfortable apartment and fresh fruit all year round.
There were ways to stay, but they were unthinkable. Were they not?
She looked at the two men across from her in the dim hotel lighting and slid a sheet of thin onionskin paper across the faux-leather ottoman before leaning back in the rolling desk chair. The men would take a moment to read the instructions. She was ninety-nine percent sure that there were no listening devices in the room, but one percent was enough to blow up in her face, so she remained careful. The fewer words they spoke out loud regarding the actual plan the better.
The men smelled of heavily scented Russian soap and a shellacking of American cologne. The combination might have worked in other circumstances, but the tight confines of the hotel room had quickly taken on the assaultive odor of an airport duty-free shop. They both had mild crushes on Bobkova, and she assumed the cologne was for her benefit. It did not matter. They wouldn’t be here long. And Bobkova did not plan to get any closer to either of these men than she already was. Maybe Gorev. He was young and muscular and knew how to shave his ears. But that would have to be later. To do anything now would show favoritism, which would just piss off Pugin. Even he was not entirely unpleasant to look at, not handsome, but he would have been okay with a little grooming.
Both were fit, battle-hardened, and wise to the ways of the street. Experienced intelligence operatives, possessed of the added brutish edge that made them valuable for this type of idiotic mission. She would beat the shit out of that fool Dudko for forcing her into this. If he got her sent back to Russia, she would kill him. Perhaps she would kill him anyway.
Gorev rose from his stool and walked to the bathroom without speaking. He had buzz-cut blond hair and a sad smile that belied his thuggish skills. She heard him flush the toilet. There was hardly any need. The flimsy paper would disintegrate the moment it touched moisture of any kind. Even the humid air of Washington, D.C., would render it unreadable mush in a matter of days. Gorev came into the short hall and leaned against the wall and waited for his partner to finish reading over his own briefing paper for the second time. At forty, Viktor Pugin was older than Gorev by ten years, with dark eyes on a pie-pan face. Far too many black hairs sprouted from his ears for Elizaveta’s taste, but his extra years had brought with them a certain contemplative nature that she respected. He was quick and careful, with just the right measure of each.
She leaned back and folded her arms across her chest, looking at each man in turn, studying them to gauge their mood.
“An interesting choice of objectives,” Gorev said, idly bouncing his head softly against the frame of the bathroom door.
Pugin peered at her over the top of his paper, putting a finer point on the matter. “The plan is workable, but the objective is insanity. May I ask where this work order came from?”
Bobkova used her feet to swivel the hotel desk chair while she considered how much to tell them.
“This comes from the highest level,” she said.
Pugin gave a soft chuckle. “The highest level always has deniability.”
She wanted to take a comb to the man’s wild eyebrows, but his directness was refreshing. Gone were the days of the Soviet assassin, ready to blindly march out and do wet work for the Rodina with no questions asked, dutifully waiting for some other Soviet assassin to come along and do the same to him if he messed up—or even if he did not. Had killing someone become more difficult? No, that was not it. But getting caught was certainly easier these days.
“It comes from high enough,” she said.
31
“Not very subtle.” President Ryan tossed a pile of eight-by-ten photographs on the desk and rubbed exhausted eyes. He wore a pair of faded jeans and the gray T-shirt he’d been sleeping in, under a dark blue jacket with the presidential seal on the chest.
Bob Burgess, Mary Pat, Scott Adler, and Arnie van Damm were also present in the Oval. The rest of the National Security Council principals were already scheduled to arrive at the middle-of-the-night meeting, but Burgess had gotten Ryan up early to brief him on developments in Russia.
“They don’t have to be,” the SecDef said. “It’s no great secret that Eastern Ukraine is de facto Russian territory. Crimea gave Moscow fifty percent more claimed coastline on the Sea of Azov, and more of an excuse to patrol it. Yermilov loyalists run a couple of false-flag operations against Russian citizens and he can send in his troops to protect them.”
“That makes sense,” Scott Adler said. “The Ministry of Defense issued a statement this morning describing this as a combination military exercise and peacekeeping force. I spoke to Foreign Minister Zubov this morning. He assures me there is nothing to worry about.”
Burgess scoffed. “I’m sure he did.”
Ryan flipped thr
ough the satellite photos in front of him again. Russian troops had been on the border with Ukraine for years, but thousands more had arrived in the past ten hours, along with attendant armored personnel carriers and mechanized artillery units. Numerous destroyers and frigates had convoyed off the coast in the Sea of Azov while more appeared to be en route. One photo alone showed the missile cruiser Moskva, the destroyer Priazovye, and the reconnaissance ship Panteleyev of the Mediterranean Fleet moving through the Turkish Straits into the Black Sea.
“How about HUMINT?” Ryan asked, dropping the photos and looking directly at Foley.
“Boots on the ground suggest the same scenario that Bob does. Mercenaries loyal to Russia—”
“Spetsnaz troops out of uniform, dressed as little green men,” Burgess said.
“Yep,” Foley said, giving the SecDef a side eye for the interruption. “Anyway, these mercenary little green men will likely start moving west and north, taking over radio and police stations until these installations can be ‘liberated’ by Russian troops. Yermilov’s peacekeepers can come in and protect the populace—and, if they are so inclined, see to rigged elections that would certainly show the lion’s share of the population wishes they could run back into the loving arms of Mother Russia. Odesa Station hasn’t seen any movement yet, but they’re hearing plenty of chatter.”
“Mr. President,” Burgess said. “Yermilov believes we are too distracted to intervene. It is not out of the realm of possibility that Russian troops will roll through Kiev by week’s end. These videos, Internet bots, it all points to Yermilov.”
