Dead Fall, page 25
With a smile on his face as he anticipated the night to come, he reached for the closet door and removed his coat. He wanted to get to the restaurant a few minutes before her. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. He also wanted to make sure everything was perfect.
He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should bring a bottle of his own wine, as he had some exceptional vintages in a locked storage room down in the basement, but decided against it. Even while Moscow was suffering under the crush of international sanctions, the White Rabbit maintained an impressive selection. He also knew that there were some very special bottles not on the wine list that the manager and sommelier had hidden away.
Certain that he hadn’t overlooked anything, he gathered up his wallet, keys, and money clip and exited his apartment.
The evening air was chilly, which was probably a good thing, as he had been perspiring.
He walked a couple of blocks and hailed a taxi. Climbing in, he told the driver to take him to Smolenskaya Square. Halfway there, his phone rang.
Removing the device from his pocket, he looked at the caller ID. It was from a blocked number. Immediately, he thought it must be Inessa, calling from the oligarch’s residence, canceling their date because Tsybulsky’s plans had changed. Taking a deep breath, he answered his phone.
It was not Inessa. It was Beglov, President Peshkov’s advisor.
“He wants to see you,” said the advisor.
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Peshkov? On a Saturday night? Grechko thought. This was the last thing he needed. Even so, he maintained his professionalism. This was the President of Russia, after all. “When would he like to get together?” he asked, hoping Beglov would suggest a time for tomorrow or maybe the day after.
“Now. Tonight. How soon can you get to the Kremlin?”
He wanted to say, “Not for several hours,” but, continuing to maintain his professionalism, replied, “Fifteen minutes.”
“Excellent,” the advisor replied. After telling him which gate to use, he was about to end the call when Grechko spoke back up.
“I am not wearing a tie,” the intelligence officer admitted.
There was a pause as Beglov covered the phone’s mouthpiece, presumably to speak to someone else in the room, and then uncovering it, said, “It’s your lucky day. The firing squad has the night off. Hurry up and get over here.”
What a prick, Grechko thought as he ended the call and gave the cabdriver his new destination.
The advisor was a prick not just for making such a tasteless joke—from inside the Kremlin no less—but for even calling him in the first place. Based on Beglov’s jocular attitude, it didn’t sound like there was a national emergency that required Grechko, of all people, to drop everything and hotfoot it over to the Kremlin. What’s more, it sounded like the advisor might have been drinking. What a night.
How the hell is this happening? Inessa had one night—tonight—available for him. And it wasn’t even the whole night. She had to be back before her “boyfriend” returned from whatever meetings he was having.
Grechko looked at his watch. There was no way he was going to make it to the White Rabbit in time for their seven o’clock reservation. He hated the idea of leaving her alone at the table, not knowing when he would arrive.
Opening his messaging app, he sent her a text: I am so very sorry. Something has come up. I cannot make our seven o’clock. Not sure how long it will take. May I text you as soon as I am out of my meeting?
He watched until he saw the bubbling dots at the bottom of his screen, indicating that she was composing her response. It didn’t take long. I understand, she replied. I will wait to hear from you. Good luck with your meeting.
Though she hadn’t said it, he knew she must have been as disappointed as he was. Being called to a meeting at the Kremlin was a pretty good excuse for missing dinner, but he had never revealed to her what he did for a living. As far as she knew, he was a banker. Though what kind of banker would have an emergency meeting on a Saturday night was something else altogether. He needed to get this meeting with Peshkov and Beglov over with as quickly as possible.
Arriving at the Kremlin, he was put through primary and secondary security screening. With the war going so poorly, Peshkov continued to be vigilant about assassination attempts. There were very few people who were able to get close to him.
Grechko was accompanied by a security team up to the lavish presidential office, where, after being announced by intercom, the doors were opened and he was shown inside.
Three men sat in a seating area near the fireplace—President Peshkov, his advisor Oleg Beglov, and Inessa’s “boyfriend,” mining oligarch Arkady Tsybulsky.
What the hell is he doing here? Grechko wondered.
“Leo,” Beglov said as he stood to greet him. “Thank you for coming. Mr. President, here he is, Leonid Grechko.”
There was a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table as well as food. Judging by the flush in the men’s cheeks and the unsteadiness with which the President now stood, the intelligence operative figured this probably wasn’t their first bottle.
Walking over to Peshkov, Grechko shook the leader’s hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again, sir.”
“And you, Mr. Grechko. Do you know my old friend, Arkady Tsybulsky?”
“I only know of him,” the intelligence operative replied. Maintaining his poker face, he shook the jowly oligarch’s meaty hand. “It is an honor to meet you.”
“Something to drink?” Beglov asked as he pointed to the chair he wanted him to take.
“I am okay. Thank you.”
Peshkov smiled. “Nonsense. He’ll take a vodka.”
Grechko knew better than to refuse the President’s hospitality.
Once each of the men had a fresh glass, they toasted to Russia and knocked back their shots.
The President insisted Beglov refill the glasses but urged temperance. “This one,” Peshkov said, “we sip.”
The intelligence operative had no idea what was going on. A direct meeting with the President and one of his advisors was rare, but not unusual. To have a mining magnate in the room, however, made no sense at all. What possible reason could require him to be there?
Further, this was a side of Peshkov he hadn’t seen before. He was used to the stern, serious leader he had seen in meetings and on TV. This after-hours, slightly drunk version was something he was quite unprepared for.
“I hope we didn’t interrupt your Saturday night,” the President said, eyeing his intelligence operative’s crisp suit and polished shoes.
“No, sir. Not at all,” Grechko lied. “I am at your service twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”
“That’s a very good answer,” Peshkov responded. “The correct answer.”
“That’s why he’s one of our best men,” Beglov added. “Totally dedicated.”
Grechko looked to see if the advisor was still wearing his wedding band, which he was. And as far as he could tell, he hadn’t suffered any scratching or bruising at the hands of his wife. There was no telling if she had noticed the lipstick on the man’s collar from the night before or not. Perhaps someone had tipped him off before she’d seen it.
The intelligence operative didn’t really care. All he knew was that at this moment, he disliked Beglov even more and he downright hated Tsybulsky. The thought of that corpulent man having his way with Inessa was burning him up inside. He wanted to wrap his hands around the man’s fleshy throat and choke the life out of him.
There were no bodyguards in the room; they were seated just behind a false door, watching everything via closed-circuit TV. He guessed that if he really wanted to do it, he had a thirty percent chance of success before the security men were on top of him and pulling him away. He’d be better off improvising something with a cocktail pick or one of the shrimp forks sitting on the coffee table in front of them.
“I saw you looking at Mr. Tsybulsky,” Peshkov said, “and I can read your mind.”
Grechko doubted it, big-time, but he was polite enough not to say so. “What am I thinking, sir?”
“You are thinking, What the fuck is he doing here?” the President said, laughing, as the other two men joined in.
The intelligence operative smiled and waited for the laughter to die down. “It’s always good to see old friends, Mr. President.”
“Yes, this is true. It is even nicer when the friend doesn’t want something from you.”
Tsybulsky raised his glass in tribute to his host and took a long sip of vodka. As he did, Grechko fantasized about driving the glass down the fleshy man’s esophagus and finishing him off with a throat punch. But it was just that, a fantasy.
Peshkov, after helping himself to a long sip of vodka, finally got around to the point. “Arkady,” he continued, “tell us again about your great idea, the one we were discussing before Mr. Grechko arrived.”
“How I avoided sanctions by putting many of my assets in my mistress’s name?” the fat man asked, laughing again.
“No,” the President replied, shaking his head. “Tell us about your idea for an intelligence operation against the Americans.”
Grechko couldn’t believe his ears. Peshkov was soliciting espionage advice from one of his drinking buddies? Tsybulsky no less? This night really couldn’t get any worse.
The obese oligarch shifted his girth so he could address the intelligence operative head-on and asked, “What do you know about Turkey?”
It was all Grechko could do not to roll his eyes. “Second-largest army in NATO and host of the Allied Land Command headquarters. Turkey is one of our top three trading partners and last year more than doubled its trade with the Russian Federation. Energy and tourism are key markets. Turkey has an embassy here in Moscow and consulates-general in St. Petersburg, Kazan, and Novorossiysk, as well as an honorary consulate in Ekaterinburg, while we have an embassy in Ankara and consulates-general in Istanbul, Antalya, and Trabzon, as well as an honorary consulate in Izmir.
“Over the objections of the United States, Turkey is an adopter of our S-400 missile system and has expressed interest in us helping their air force develop next-generation fighters. The Turkish drone program has—”
Peshkov held up his hand to stop him. “You are obviously well versed in all things Turkish.” Turning to Tsybulsky, he said, “Tell him your idea.”
“Three NATO member states abut the Black Sea—Turkey, Bulgaria, and Romania—along with two non-NATO members, Russia and Ukraine. Control over the Black Sea is a key Russian objective. Interestingly enough, the Black Sea happens to be one of NATO’s most underdeveloped strategies. The Americans realize this and are pushing to reposition the Black Sea as the center of NATO’s focus. There are rumors that they even want to increase the U.S. military footprint and economic engagement in the region.”
Grechko had heard similar rumblings, but military strategy was neither his area of focus nor of expertise. He didn’t quite grasp why he was being subjected to this lecture. Nevertheless, he remained quiet and allowed the President’s chum to hold forth.
“The Black Sea is NATO’s Achilles’ heel. Their influence over Europe’s southeastern flank depends on them controlling it. It’s like they have suddenly woken up to a huge gap in their planning. There’s just one problem—Turkey.
“Turkey is the Black Sea’s gatekeeper. They control the Dardanelles and Bosporus straits—the only way into the Mediterranean—and they have no desire to cede even a modicum of that control to NATO.
“When our special military operation in Ukraine began, Turkey exercised its legal powers under the 1936 Montreux Convention to close the straits and lock the Black Sea down. Only Russian warships returning to their home ports have been allowed through. No NATO warships have been permitted entry. As I suggested to the President, this policy works to our benefit and, for the foreseeable future, should be encouraged.”
Grechko didn’t disagree. There was no telling what kind of trouble could be created by NATO warships steaming into the Black Sea and providing assistance to Ukraine from off the coast. He still, however, had no idea what this had to do with him.
Tsybulsky stared at him as if a big, obvious lightbulb should be going off in his head. It wasn’t.
After a long and uncomfortable pause, Grechko replied, “How can I be of service?”
“You should create a psychological campaign,” the oligarch said, karate-chopping his hands in the air, “rallying American citizens against involvement in the Black Sea.”
The intelligence officer wasn’t happy and shot Beglov a look.
“I have several ideas for you,” Tsybulsky continued. “But first, more vodka.”
At that moment, Grechko knew he was stuck. There was no way he was getting out of there anytime soon.
It was unfathomable what the war had reduced Peshkov to. Taking operational “pitches” from one of the President’s pals was an incredible indignity. At least when James Bond author Ian Fleming had given JFK ideas for dealing with Cuba, they had been coherent and somewhat creative.
Tsybulsky, on the other hand, was a complete moron. His ideas were terrible. But for the vodka, Grechko wondered if President Peshkov would have made him sit there and listen to the man babble on for half the night.
As soon as he was allowed to leave the Kremlin, he hurried outside and texted Inessa.
She apologized, but it was too late for her to meet with him—even for a nightcap. She didn’t know when she would be back in Moscow. Hopefully, they would see each other again soon. She wished him well and told him to take care. Russia was headed in a bad direction, and she feared for his safety.
That was the second time tonight someone had shared a geopolitical opinion that he didn’t disagree with.
As much as he detested Tsybulsky, supporting Turkey’s control over entry to the Black Sea was in Russia’s interest. It required, however, a prolonged, comprehensive strategy, not just a dumb, one-off psy ops campaign against the United States.
Then there was Inessa. She was right to be worried for Russia. He was worried for Russia as well. Things were not going well. Peshkov’s continued tightening of his inner circle, so that he was taking counsel from men like Tsybulsky, was extremely troubling. He wasn’t Hitler, but only Hitler could be Hitler. As the old saying went, history doesn’t repeat, but it does rhyme.
There was enough to be concerned about that Grechko began to ponder something he hadn’t pondered before—getting out.
CHAPTER 25
KHARKIV OBLAST
Jacks woke Harvath up. “We’ve got company,” he said.
Harvath had no idea how long he’d been out, only that it felt like just a couple of minutes.
All the lights in the guest quarters remained out. Someone had cracked a few chem lights and tossed them in the corners so that there was just enough light to see by.
Harvath kitted up as fast as he could—plate carrier, battle belt, all of it. Thanks to Krueger, his helmet now sported a flip-up/flip-down, thermal imaging monocular. Securing his helmet, he powered up the device, grabbed his rifle, and mustered at the stairs with the other men who were already geared up and had their night-vision goggles on.
“Hookah and Biscuit are outside, on the far end of this building, facing the front doors of the convent,” said Jacks. “We have four armed hostiles who came over the back wall and are moving in this direction.”
“A little late for villagers to be paying a visit,” Krueger replied.
Harvath shook his head. “These aren’t villagers. They’re Russians.”
“Agreed,” said Jacks. “Someone in the village must be on their payroll and ratted us out.”
“Or the Ravens are returning to the scene of the crime,” Krueger stated.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Harvath said. As he took the lead, he told the men, “On me.”
His plan was to get away from the structure. He wanted to set up in a different, more secure position where they could still create interlocking fields of fire with Hookah and Biscuit. Though it had been a smart decision to stash the Novator in the garage, it sure would have been nice to have it outside to hide behind.
Instead, he made a beeline for a small, open-air chapel. It was constructed from stacked, interlocking logs about four feet high, which supported a corrugated, teepee-like metal roof with a gilded dome about the size of a beach ball on top. It was the best cover they were going to be able to get.
Once they were in position, they radioed Hookah and Biscuit for a SITREP. The men could still see the enemy team approaching and stated that Harvath and his men should see them any moment.
The one upside to all of this was that the two old Ukrainians who had been guarding the front doors of the convent had gone home. There was no need to stay. The Americans were here, they had seen what they needed to see, and so the old guardians had locked everything up. As Harvath was unloading his gear, they had told him they’d be back in the morning. That act had probably saved their lives. At least Harvath and his guys didn’t have to worry about collateral damage. It was a small consolation.
As the enemy team approached, the first thing Harvath noticed was how well they moved. They were practiced, and extremely precise, with each man and his weapon covering a different angle. They moved as one; as an experienced unit. Everything about them radiated professionalism. These weren’t random soldiers. This was a Special Operations team.
Keeping his eyes focused on the threat, Harvath listened for any sound of a drone overhead. It was quiet, which meant that so far, they had dodged a particularly nasty bullet. Not only could drones use night vision to pinpoint you and alert the enemy to your position, but they could also drop a multitude of deadly munitions right on top of you.
The picture Harvath was seeing through his thermal monocular was different from what his colleagues were seeing through their night-vision goggles. His device was designed to detect heat, while theirs was designed to detect ambient light. And even though they had a much crisper picture than he did, one thing was obvious—the Russians had very sophisticated gear and had come loaded for bear.
