Stalin's Final Sting

by Andrew Turpin

  Putin sipped from a glass of water that stood on the desk in front of him. “Do not misunderstand me: I want you to not only be extremely careful but also extremely ruthless. I don’t want to hear about things going wrong or people getting in your way. Tell me—you worked in Afghanistan in the 1980s, so I’m assuming you did things we wouldn’t want to be made public now. Is that risk being managed so this deal isn’t threatened?”

  “The Afghan government knows nothing,” Severinov said. “My role in the 1980s was impactful but below the radar. And there are no records anyway.”

  The KGB files relating to his time in that country—some of which he himself had written—had all been destroyed when the Soviets withdrew in 1989.

  “Good,” Putin said. “If anyone does get in your way, you take whatever measures you need to take. We’ve got the tools. But I don’t want any more publicity like we’ve just had. Do you understand? If necessary, you can call on the SVR or our special forces to ensure things stay quiet. Got it?”

  Severinov felt his stomach flip over inside him. “Yes, sir.” He could see where this was heading.

  “If needed, we can start with a social media blitz to discredit rival bidders,” Putin went on. “That can be done at arm’s length—a disinformation campaign. But I don’t need to tell you any of that.”

  Putin glanced at Medvedev and leaned forward, eyeballing Severinov again. “While you’re here, there’s another job I also want you to think about, and that’s Andrei Fedorov, seeing as he is an old friend of yours.”

  “Yes, that’s a bad business, sir,” Severinov said.

  Putin had done his homework. Andrei Fedorov was indeed one of Severinov’s oldest friends. Fedorov was an illegal, deep-cover spy who had been operating in the United States for the previous twenty years under the guise of his day job as a translator and technical writer for an electronics company. But he had been imprisoned six months earlier in New York City after being convicted of being a handler for a number of highly placed agents in the US government and intelligence services machine. He had consistently fed back priceless information to Moscow over those two decades without detection but had ultimately fallen into a trap laid for him by the CIA after one of his agents at Langley informed on him.

  “Bad indeed,” Putin said. “And we need a solution. Fedorov is a good man and I want him back. I’m thinking in terms of a prisoner exchange. But at present, we have no bargaining chip to offer. I need ideas from somewhere, and the worthless idiots at the SVR have so far come up with nothing. You can keep that in mind.”

  “I will, sir,” Severinov said.

  “However, Fedorov would be a bonus. The main task on your plate is the oil and gas deal. And let me tell you this,” Putin said, lowering his voice a fraction. “I respect your pedigree—I always have, you know that. But if you fail, don’t take your wealth and status for granted. The SVR might take an interest too if things reflect badly on Russia—and on me.”

  Severinov grimaced. Threats from Putin were not to be taken lightly. And he knew exactly what was meant by an interest. The SVR, Russia’s intelligence agency that was successor to the KGB, might have moved on in many of its working practices but not in terms of some of the subhuman techniques used to interview and extract information from those out of favor.

  Wednesday, May 29, 2013

  Kabul

  Johnson stumbled down the narrow mahogany staircase of the three-bedroom villa he and Jayne had rented, walked into the kitchen, and flicked on the kettle. Thoughts of Rice and Severinov had been spinning around in his head since he had woken, and he needed to think everything through.

  Severinov. He had never met the Russian, but the name sent a shiver through him.

  In 1988, Johnson had come under fire from a pair of Soviet Mi-24 helicopters—dubbed Hinds by the US military and intelligence services—in an Afghan village, Hani. The raid prematurely terminated a secret meeting with a mujahideen contact whom Johnson was cultivating, Javed Hasrat.

  A few weeks later, he had again sneaked over the border, this time with his CIA colleague Vic Walter, for another covert meeting with Javed at a safe house in Jalalabad. But the meeting was similarly aborted after they were alerted to an imminent raid by the KGB.

  Both forays had been arranged by Johnson’s chief informant at that time in Pakistan’s ISI intelligence agency, Haroon Rashid. Fortunately, Johnson and Vic managed to escape safely back to Pakistan, but Haroon later discovered that Javed had been captured by the KGB in Jalalabad and thrown into the snake pit that was Pul-e-Charkhi prison.

  And both times, it had apparently been Severinov who had coordinated the raids on the Soviet side.

  So to have heard from Rice that Severinov was now an oligarch running a major Russian energy company had come as a surprise, to say the least.

  Johnson had already arranged a long overdue and much anticipated reunion for later that day with Haroon, who was flying in from Islamabad. The pair hadn’t seen each other since 1988. The plan had originally been for a casual catchup to talk about old times. Now, however, the news that Severinov was again involved in Afghanistan would add a new twist to the meeting. It would be fascinating to hear what Haroon made of it all.

  Johnson finished making his tea and walked through to the living room of the villa, a slightly run-down property with peeling green paint on the doors and the window shutters, just off Wazir Akbar Khan Road. It was less than a kilometer from the US embassy in a secure area protected by security guards and barriers at both ends of the street. It was definitely a safer and more anonymous option than staying in a hotel such as the Intercontinental or the Serena, which were both under constant threat of attack by suicide bombers or rockets launched from nearby. It was also better than the temporary accommodation pods, made from converted shipping containers, inside the embassy compound that many of the staff lived in.

  Johnson found it easy to see why long-term expatriates suffered from cabin fever during their postings to Kabul; it was compulsory to get around by armored car, even for the shortest of journeys. His favorite pastime in foreign cities—wandering around by himself on foot—was extremely risky here.

  Only the previous month, one of the US embassy staff, a woman in her mid-twenties, had been killed by a Taliban car bomb.

  Johnson turned on the television to find a national news bulletin underway on the ATN channel. He could understand most of what the newscaster was saying—his Pashto, learned while working for the CIA in Islamabad, had become rapidly less rusty, even in the brief time he’d been back in Afghanistan. He sat at the table, nursing the hot mug of tea in both hands, and listened. The segment concluded with an interview with the Silverson Renwick chief executive Lorenzo, carried out through an interpreter, about women in business.

  Just as the bulletin ended, Johnson’s phone rang. It was Sally O’Hara with the contact details for Storey that she had promised to him during the embassy party. After scribbling down the email address and phone number, Johnson asked her if the embassy had picked up any updates about the previous day’s rocket attack near the airport that he had witnessed from the airplane window.

  “We’ve had a few updates from police,” O’Hara said. “Apparently fifteen schoolchildren and a truck driver died. All Afghans.”

  “Fifteen?” Johnson said incredulously.

  “Yes. The minibus and the truck were both definitely hit by rocket-propelled grenades. That’s been confirmed. But we’re hearing that police believe they were hit accidentally and that the real target was a black Porsche owned by a Russian oligarch on his way to the airport, which got away untouched.”

  “Do you know who the Russian is?” Johnson asked.

  “I’ve not heard a name, but I was told that he was in Afghanistan in connection with the oil and gas reserves sale. I’ll let you know if we hear any more later on.”

  “Thanks, Sally, I’d appreciate that.” He ended the call.

  A Russian oligarch. There weren’t exactly going to be t
oo many Russian oligarchs in Kabul linked to the oil reserves sale, that was for sure. It had to be Severinov.

  Johnson picked up his laptop and did a Google search for Severinov, which threw up a number of references to him in the context of energy deals, links to Putin, and photographs showing a muscular-looking figure with short, graying black hair that was receding. There was nothing about his KGB background, of course.

  “You’re up early,” a voice said from the doorway. He looked up. Jayne was standing there, her white robe falling open at the bottom, showing almost all of her right thigh.

  Jayne had changed very little physically from when they had first met in Islamabad. They had both been heavily involved with their respective intelligence agencies in plotting to supply weaponry to the mujahideen rebels in their fight against the Soviet military. Their affair back then, short-lived as it was, had seemed almost inevitable. Equally inevitable, looking back on it, was the negative reaction of Johnson’s boss, the subsequently disgraced Islamabad station chief Robert Watson, who deemed it a security risk.

  Even now, Johnson had some feelings for Jayne, who occasionally accused him of not knowing what he wanted from her. Maybe she was right. But since they had started working together again, their relationship had remained professional.

  “Too much on my mind,” Johnson said. “So I got up to make some tea. Listen, I just had a chat with Sally at the embassy.”

  He told her about the Russian connection to the RPG attack and the obvious conclusion that the target was Severinov.

  Jayne walked across the room toward him. “Yes, it must be him. I still find it hard to believe how a KGB officer becomes an oligarch. That’s modern Russia, I guess. He must have made a ton of enemies on his way to the top.”

  “Yes, but likely in Russia, not Afghanistan.”

  Jayne shrugged. “Don’t know. Does the Severinov angle make you interested in Rice’s proposal?”

  “I’m interested in Severinov, not Rice’s money.”

  “But you’re looking doubtful.”

  “My old OSI boss always said never to trust a money man, because their heart’s always in the wrong place.”

  “Get Rice checked out, then.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Could be an interesting job, though,” Jayne said. “We’ve got some free time while we wait for the ICC decision. We could do it. Why don’t we chat with Haroon about it later. He might have a view.” The reunion with Haroon was due to take place over lunch.

  “Sure, we’ll chat with Haroon,” Johnson said. “But I don’t know. I also need to decide whether to stay here or head home while we’re waiting for the ICC decision.”

  As a single father with two teenagers at home in Portland, Maine, Johnson was always weighing up his responsibilities and the amount of time he spent away working. His investigation trips tended to be spaced several months apart, but they usually lasted for a few weeks. It was difficult. Jayne, almost three years younger than Johnson, had never married or had children, but she always saw his point of view. She nodded, silently communicating her understanding.

  “I do keep asking myself whether I should be here at all,” Johnson said, “let alone chasing after someone who’s been on the wrong end of an RPG attack.”

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday, May 29, 2013

  Moscow

  Severinov remained silent, deep in thought, as his driver negotiated the way back from Medvedev’s home to the Rublevo-Uspenskoye highway, the A106, that cut through the Gorki-9 area, otherwise known as Barvikha. The meeting with Medvedev and—to his horror—the president had left him in a slight state of shock. He knew exactly why he was feeling this way. It all came down to fear. Fear of losing what he had worked for: his possessions, his money, his property. His status.

  His own dacha lay about eight kilometers to the west in Gorki-8, also on the Moscow River. The property, which he had bought in 2006 for the equivalent of $30 million, was on around seventy-five hectares of land, roughly thirty soccer fields.

  It contained a house with seventeen bedrooms, a thirty-meter indoor swimming pool, a fully equipped gymnasium, and a ballroom. There were two helipads and a garage complex able to take up to sixteen cars, as well as a multilevel heated outdoor swimming pool, a man-made lake filled with water pumped from the Moscow River, a tennis court, and a golf driving range. The landscaped gardens had uninterrupted views down to the river.

  After his meeting, Severinov was tempted to head home, have a swim, and relax with a chilled vodka on his terrace.

  But he knew he needed to take action. So instead, he instructed his driver to turn left, in an easterly direction. He gave an address and then sent a quick text message to check that the person he wanted to visit was at home. He received an instant affirmative reply.

  If there was an investigation to be done, and possibly a lethal hit to follow, then he knew exactly the man to do it.

  Ten minutes later, the Maybach pulled into the driveway of another secluded property behind a tall, green-painted wall and an electric gate on Myakininskaya Ulitsa street, a quiet, potholed lane on the fringes of Moscow. The house, just a couple of hundred meters from the river, was far smaller than his previous stopping point but nevertheless luxurious by most Russian standards.

  Vasily Balagula was one of a few friends Severinov still had that dated back to his time in Afghanistan. They were both tough, uncompromising, and sometimes unscrupulous survivors. Others had died during the war there or had subsequently met untimely ends while carrying out various deeds of dubious legality in various dark corners of the globe. Two, Severinov regretted to say, were killed while carrying out jobs that he himself had paid them to do.

  Now he was about to put a proposal to Vasily. And he knew the amount of money that he was going to offer would make the job irresistible.

  The electric gate slid silently open, and the Maybach glided through before coming to a halt next to an ornamental fountain near the front door.

  Vasily emerged from the door, a large grin on his face. He always reminded Severinov of a gorilla, not just because of the thick mat of dark hair that covered his chest but also because of his physique. He had an almost perfect barrel chest and forearms to match, both of them tattooed with images of twisting pythons.

  A former Spetsnaz special forces operative during his time in Afghanistan, Vasily had also done a stint in the KGB before that, and after the withdrawal from Afghanistan, he was the ringleader on a variety of dirty jobs for the Russian military, including during the 2008 invasion of Georgia. Severinov never asked how many bodies he was responsible for; he knew it was a lot.

  Vasily had taken retirement from the regular special services after that and instead had gone freelance. Severinov was one of his main clients.

  Severinov instructed his bodyguard to remain in the car with his driver and went inside with Vasily, who poured two generous measures of neat, deeply chilled Green Mark vodka. Severinov needed a drink after his encounter in Gorki-9.

  As he started to explain why he had come, Vasily interrupted. “I know what you want.”

  “What do you mean, you know?” Severinov threw back his first vodka in one gulp and held out his glass for a refill.

  “I saw the TV news, from Kabul.”

  Mother of all evil, has this gone everywhere? Severinov thought. He tried not to roll his eyes.

  “Good guess. I need to know who carried out the rocket attack, and unless they were genuinely targeting someone else—which I am certain can’t be the case—I want them buried. Simple.” He went on to explain the nature of the ultimatum he had just received from Putin and Medvedev.

  Vasily did a double take. “You’re not joking. Putin gave you the order?” he said as he topped up Severinov’s glass.

  “Correct. Well, he actually gave me two orders.”

  “What’s the other?” Vasily asked.

  Severinov paused. “Fedorov. He wants a prisoner exchange.”

  Vasily shook h
is head. “Two easy jobs, then. Afghanistan’s a small enough place. I’m sure we can track down whoever launched the RPGs, no problem. Maybe the Americans and the British troops there will give us a hand. There’s enough of them. And as for the prisoner exchange, maybe we’ll find a couple of US spies hanging around in the coffee lounge at the Russian embassy who’ll be happy to volunteer.”

  Severinov didn’t smile. “Very funny.”

  “Seriously, though,” Vasily said, “do you have any idea who might be behind the RPG job?”

  “None. Everyone I can think of is dead. Although I do have one starting point. I have a couple of old friends, contacts, among the mujahideen who I looked after very generously during my time there. I could put them back on the payroll, so to speak.”

  Severinov told Vasily about Sandjar Hassani, whom he had met in Kabul the previous day. Hassani was a Pashtun tribesman from the village of Wazrar in the Khost-Gardez Pass whom he had cultivated during the 1980s and had turned into a prime source of top-class information about the mujahideen, the ISI, and the CIA. Hassani had consistently and profitably betrayed all of them during the Soviet occupation and had never been caught. He had made a significant contribution to Severinov’s beloved Motherland and the push to protect her interests in Afghanistan.

  The highlight had been the trapping of a mujahideen commander, Javed Hasrat, in Jalalabad. Severinov had had strong reasons for wanting to catch Hasrat and had been looking forward to torturing him in Kabul’s Pul-e-Charkhi jail.

  “So did you torture this Hasrat?” Vasily asked.

  “I gave him a beating, and so did my team. But I had planned to do a lot more. There was a mujahideen attack on the jail a couple of days later, before I could get there to finish the job properly. They were trying to get some of the prisoners out.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember it. So he died or escaped?”

  “Died, apparently, along with many others,” Severinov said. “The prison authorities said a lot of them were blown apart in their cells but that none escaped. There were so many body parts that they couldn’t identify most of them. It was a pity in some ways. I’d have enjoyed dragging out the process for a few days longer and making the bastard suffer a lot more.”