But Kira couldn’t abandon him, even if he couldn’t recognize her. The mujahideen had taken care of maiming his mind as much as his body. And on top of it all, the insurgents had even robbed him of his right to an honorable death by his own hand. According to the account from the rescue crew, the colonel had experienced the same treatment as so many other captured soldiers who had tried to end it with their sidearms rather than … this.
The bastards had shot off his hand and taken his Makarov—the same pistol his father had used in Stalingrad, decades earlier—and also his beloved Gagarin class ring.
She pulled up a chair and sat next to him. His gaunt face was fixed on the highway even though he lacked eyes. His hearing was good—according to the doctors—though he seldom reacted to anyone, due to a combination of the PTSD and the drugs. But he loved listening to that highway traffic. It was almost like a magnet to his damaged soul.
Her eyes dropped to his left hand, the one he kept shaped as if he were holding a pistol, index finger constantly twitching, squeezing the imaginary trigger in his PTSD-induced nightmare.
“He’s still back there,” the doctors had told her at the beginning, when she had managed to peel away from her first KGB post in East Berlin to visit him. “He’s still reliving the hell he went through.”
And that was the primary point of the meds: to stave off the nightmare, tempering the gunslinger action. But today he had not yet gotten his dose, which also meant he was in his most responsive state, before he succumbed to the lethargic effects of the PTSD drugs.
“Daddy,” she said. “It’s me, Kira.”
No response, just the index pulling that damn trigger.
“I found it, Daddy,” she added, fingering her cell phone and staring at the message from a few days ago, which her people in northern Pakistan had intercepted.
The image of a class ring from the Gagarin Air Force Academy, followed by,
FOUND WHAT WE LOOKED FOR THAT NIGHT.
NEED ASSISTANCE TO ASSESS ITS CONDITION.
The year of his graduation, 1971, was clearly visible in the JPEG file, and Kira had spent the better part of the past day tracking down every graduate from that year. The only one missing his ring was her father.
Kira was convinced that the bomb had surfaced. She was also certain that, after so many years, the weapon would be in need of repair, and in the case of a device as sophisticated as the RN-40, that meant original replacement parts. So she had done what the KGB, and later on the GRU, trained her to do: use deception as a weapon.
She had contacted Vyacheslav Ivankov to help her set up a sting operation, using the only language the Russian Mafia boss understood: money. When the request for the RN-40 spare parts arrived from one Prince Mani al Saud, who was acting as broker, Kira and her Russian Mafia asset had been ready to set up the exchange in the hangar. In addition, her agents inside the Rosatom State Atomic Energy Corporation had incorporated a miniature encrypted GPS transmitter in the battery pack included with the components. Ivankov and the Rosatom captains had played their parts perfectly, so Kira had let the Mafia boss keep the contents of the suitcase as his fee while the Rosatom captains were paid directly by the Saudi prince.
“Daddy, I found the bomb,” she said, “and I’m going to get it back.”
For a moment he ceased moving his index finger, and Kira thought she saw his eyelids, sewn shut years ago, quiver ever so slightly.
But a second later the imaginary firing resumed.
Kira forced savage control of her emotions, keeping her voice steady as her gaze landed on one of those weathered Greek statues, the one depicting Nemesis, the angel-like goddess who exacted retribution.
“I’m going to Afghanistan, Daddy. I promise I will bring back your ring … and I’m going to kill the bastards who did this to you.”
Leaning over to hug him, her wet stare fixated on the sword clutched in Nemesis’s right hand, she added, “Every last one of them.”
51
Muy Caliente
THE WHITE HOUSE. WASHINGTON, DC.
President Bush sat behind his desk at the Oval Office, munching on one of his favorite midmorning snacks: a grilled cheese sandwich made with plain Kraft Singles, white bread, and a touch of Tabasco, personally prepared by White House chef Walter Scheib.
The president smiled when thinking of one of the few positions he hadn’t changed during the transition from the Clinton years, though he did pretty much revamp the chef’s menu from hummus, quinoa, and other such foods to down-home American dishes. The list included Texas beef, pulled pork sliders, chicken potpie, a variety of Tex-Mex dishes, and of course, grilled cheese sandwiches.
But the president did find it amusing that his predecessor kept such a healthy menu at the White House, given his well-known addiction to the epitome of American fast food: McDonald’s Big Macs.
As he considered whether Hillary might have had something to do with those heart-friendly choices, the phone rang. He recognized the internal extension from the kitchen. It was Chef Scheib, following up.
He pressed the Speaker button while glancing over at Counselor to the President Dan Bartlett, who was standing in the middle of the room getting the CIA and the DIA technical guys settled in the sofas, while CIA Director George Tenet and Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice stood in the background conferring quietly with Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld.
“What is it, Walt?”
“Good morning, Mr. President. Just wanted to check and see if—”
“It’s hot, Walt,” Bush said, his lips and tongue burning. Scheib had been a bit too liberal with the Tabasco today.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Taking a final bite and licking his fingers, Bush added, “Muy caliente.”
Silence, followed by, “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll be happy to bring up another—”
“Already down the hatch, Walt, though I’ll probably regret it later.”
“Sorry again, sir. Cheeseburger pizza for lunch?”
“Nope. Huevos rancheros, Walt. Hold the Tabasco.” He pressed the Speaker button again, wiped his mouth with a pristine napkin embossed with the White House seal, and walked over to this unscheduled meeting that was taking up the five minutes he insisted on having to himself and his snack every midmorning.
Rice, Tenet, and Rumsfeld, all wearing gray business suits, remained standing behind the sofas.
“All right, boys and girls. What’s so important?”
Bartlett, also wearing a gray suit, said, “The punch line, Mr. President, is that the Russians also know about the nuke in Afghanistan.”
Bush, who always insisted in hearing the ending first, nodded approvingly. “How’s that, Danny Boy?” he asked, calling Bartlett by his nickname.
Bartlett turned to the techies, two guys and two gals who looked no older than Bush’s twin daughters, Barbara and Jenna. The analysts tag-teamed each other for two minutes to explain that CIA internet robots, or “bots” as they were typically called, had intercepted a Russian bot hauling a data packet to a Moscow ISP containing an image of a Gagarin class ring. It was the same image, along with the same brief note, that Glenn Harwich had interpreted as meaning that the Taliban had found the missing RN-40.
When they finished, Bush turned to Director Tenet and said, “Brother George? You’re good with this?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“You too, Rummy?”
Secretary Rumsfeld, arms crossed while holding his reading glasses between the index and thumb of his right hand, said. “The bastard knows.”
Bush considered that for a moment. Rumsfeld probably had the best blend of political, military, and corporate experience of anyone in the room. He’d served his country as a naval aviator before representing the state of Illinois on Capitol Hill as a young thirty-year-old congressman. He then worked in both the Nixon and Ford administrations in cabinet-level positions that included chief of staff, ambassador to NATO, and secretary of defense. Returning to private business
after Ford lost the 1976 election, Rumsfeld became president and CEO of G. D. Searle & Company and later of General Instrument before Bush tapped him to become his secretary of defense.
Rumsfeld added, “It is now a race, Mr. President. Gotta move fast.”
Turning to Secretary Rice, he said, “Condi? Course of action?”
A Stanford University Fellow, Dr. Condoleezza Rice was one of the most educated individuals in his administration. She had degrees from a half dozen universities, in political science, Soviet studies, arms control and disarmament, and international security.
Rice stared at him awhile with her big dark eyes under fine eyebrows, an index finger over her lips while considering her reply. She finally said, “Direct, Mr. President. No screwing around.”
Bush dropped his hands inside the pockets of his pants while contemplating the portrait of George Washington over the mantelpiece opposite his desk. “So mano a mano with Pootie-Poot?” he finally said, using the nickname he’d given to Russian President Vladimir Putin.
Rice tilted her head and smiled. “The only language the steely-faced motherfucker understands.”
Bush chuckled and stretched an index finger at Bartlett. “Make the call. Let’s get this over with.”
Bartlett checked his watch and frowned.
“What is it, Danny Boy?”
“Congressman Boehner, sir,” he said, referring to Republican House Majority Leader John Boehner.
“What about him?”
“He’s been waiting outside for over an hour, sir.”
“Well, tell Boner he’s just gonna have to hold it a bit longer.”
Rice glanced down and smiled while Rumsfeld and Tenet just shook their heads and the CIA analysts tried hard to hide their surprise at the president’s laid-back attitude.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, checking his watch again and looking into the distance.
Bush sighed. “What else, Danny Boy?”
“It’s almost eight o’clock in the evening in Moscow, Mr. President.”
“Good,” Bush replied. “I hope I’m interrupting something really important.”
52
Portrait of a Bully
NOVO-OGARYOVO ESTATE. ODINTSOVSKY DISTRICT. MOSCOW. RUSSIA.
He put on the ring and stared at it, grinning.
Of all the jewelry available to him, some dating back to the period of the czars, the Super Bowl XXXIX ring, which he had taken earlier in the year from Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots, was his favorite.
And it wasn’t the high quality of the diamonds adorning the American football that made it his darling. Nor was it the emblem of the Patriots, made from rubies and sapphires, in the center of the football, or the diamond-studded letters that read “World Champions,” or the fact that the ring was priced at over $25,000.
Russian President Vladimir Putin couldn’t get enough of the ring because no one else in his government had one—at least, not one obtained the way he had gotten his, by prying it from the fingers of Kraft himself during Kraft’s visit to Saint Petersburg.
His colleagues in the government had their gold Rolex or Patek Philippe watches. They had their diamonds from Cartier and Tiffany’s. They rode in the luxury sedans dressed in Armani, Kiton, or Dolce & Gabbana suits.
But no one had an original and very real Super Bowl ring like his, which made it special.
And Putin loved feeling special.
Dressed in a charcoal suit and a starched white shirt, no tie, the Russian President joined his dinner party on the first floor of his estate, which he had renovated in 2000.
It was always the same. All eyes converged on him as he stepped into the lavish hall adjacent to the dining room, under the soft glow of ornate chandeliers. Waiters in tuxedos waltzed about carrying trays filled with hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes for the pleasure of two dozen men and women chatting amiably, laughing, and raising drinks to their host. A Borodin symphony flowed from unseen speakers.
Putin took a moment to take it all in, a scene in sharp contrast with his difficult youth. The youngest son of Leningrad factory workers, Putin was born in 1952, eight years after the World War II siege of that city. His older brothers died before he was born, one at birth and the other during the siege. His father was severely disabled and disfigured by injuries sustained in battle, and his mother nearly died of starvation. Putin was born into this atmosphere of hunger, disability, and profound grief. His childhood was marked by trauma, and with both parents working multiple jobs to survive, the young Putin spent a lot of time in the communal courtyard of his apartment complex, which was dominated by thugs, prostitutes, alcohol, and fistfights. He took special pride in having survived, and he even thrived in this setting, becoming one of those thugs. But he had also been book smart and earned a law degree from Leningrad State University, joining the KGB after graduation and rising through its ranks over the following fifteen years, exiting as lieutenant colonel.
His tough upbringing, combined with his education and intelligence experience, was precisely why he believed himself to be the only leader capable of fixing Russia’s fragile political and economic system. Failing to do so could revert the country back to its dark Soviet past.
One or two missteps is all it would take to bring all of that back, he thought, as a waiter presented him with a box of Cohibas, shipped directly from the bundles rolled exclusively for Fidel Castro.
He selected one, clipped the end with an eighteen-karat cigar cutter, and held it up for his aide to light it, drawing multiple times and exhaling toward the chandeliers. Another server brought him a glass of Stolichnaya, straight up. Putin held the cigar between his index and middle fingers and the glass between the thumb, ring, and pinky fingers of his left hand, keeping his right hand clear to greet people.
Wetting his palate with his favorite brand of vodka before drawing again on the cigar, he briefly closed his eyes, the nicotine and the alcohol washing away the burdens of another sixteen-hour day running what he considered to be the toughest nation on the planet.
Especially compared to the Americans, he thought, shaking his head at the way its media focused on the stupidest things instead of real issues.
He walked among his closest friends, pumping men’s hands, kissing ladies on the cheek, and exchanging greetings—all while drinking and smoking, which he accomplished with grace and elegance. They were mostly deputy prime ministers, as well as heads of various agencies, including defense, justice, and atomic energy. There were also generals from various service branches—plus their wives, girlfriends, or mistresses.
Just then, Anton, one of his new bodyguards, appeared at the other end of the room. Young and muscular, with a full head of dark hair and dressed in a dark blue suit, he cruised through the crowd swiftly but without drawing attention, slowing as he approached the president.
Putin used the cigar as a pointing device while saying, “I told you I did not wish to be disturbed, yes?”
“Sorry, sir,” Anton replied, color coming to his face, before leaning closer and whispering, “It’s GRU officer Tupolev. She’s in the library.”
Without excusing himself, Putin briskly walked away with Anton in tow and stepped inside the large rectangular room.
Old books, some dating back to the Czars, crowded the shelves lining three of the four walls under a pair of chandeliers. The last wall was reserved for portraits of prior leaders all the way back to Lenin, all in matching black frames. He had thought about taking them down, but for better or for worse, each of those men staring stoically down at him, chests full of medals and awards, had a part in shaping the country he now led.
A heavily ornate table, handmade from high-quality Russian birch, ran the length of the room. Hand-carved matching chairs on either side faced individual desk lamps. He had also thought about removing the furniture, since very few people aside from the resident librarian/historian had any interest in actually sitting down here to read the relics stuffed in those dark oak shelves.
But as it turned out, the furniture itself was a relic from the Czar days, and quite priceless, according to an appraiser from Sotheby’s, which made them special.
And speaking of special … Kira sat against the end of the table, arms crossed. Dressed all in black, which contrasted sharply with her porcelain skin, auburn hair, and those very light hazel eyes, she raised her thick brows at him before looking over at Anton. Her elaborate compass rose tattoo, amid lifelike red roses and snow, extended from the base of her neck to the top of her chest, disappearing in the cleavage exposed by her low-cut shirt. Although Putin had not seen her in a few years, they corresponded frequently.
Putin handed the cigar to Anton and said, “See to it that no one disturbs us.”
“What about the guests, sir?”
He turned to stare at his aide, who promptly nodded, backed away, and closed the doors.
Slowly shaking her head, Kira said, “He doesn’t look old enough to shave.”
Putin took a sip of vodka while regarding the feisty operative whom he fell for in 1988, when they were both working the Dresden station. She had been on her first KGB post, collaborating with the Stasi to recruit young men enrolled at the Dresden University of Technology and send them undercover into the United States. Putin ran the Dresden KGB station and quickly took a liking to Kira, taking her under his wing and teaching her the kind of field ops that could only be learned in the actual field. The relationship soon became intimate, even though he had been married since 1983. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, in 1989, Putin got into politics in Leningrad—soon renamed Saint Petersburg—while Kira fell victim to the KGB purges of the time and was sent to prison.
Inmates used tattoos to identify their particular crimes and level of aggressiveness. The compass rose was reserved for a suka, a traitor, or bitch—the way extreme KGB personnel were perceived by the new world order. Kira spent two years in the gulag before Putin was able to locate her, pull her out and, at his recommendation, get her absorbed by the GRU Spetsnaz. She had spent the last decade and a half participating in and eventually leading ops in Chechnya, Georgia, and across the Middle East, where she distinguished herself and was even awarded the Duty, Honor Cross military intelligence medal as well as the coveted Medal for Valor. Putin had actually pinned the latter on her five years ago for her work against Chechen rebels. Although Kira had just turned forty, she was still an amazingly attractive woman—and an even deadlier operative.
Without Fear Page 25