The Russian Deception

by Alex Lukeman

  Their hotel was located across from Macedonia Square in the heart of the city, on the bank of a river. The square was the natural rallying point for the protests. At the hotel desk Selena handed over their passports and spoke to the clerk in English. He couldn't find their reservations until she switched to Macedonian and slipped him a fifty dollar bill. Keys to two rooms appeared as if by magic.

  Selena was an accomplished linguist, fluent in many languages. Before she joined the Project she'd been a lecturer on the academic circuit and a consultant to NSA. She had a world reputation as an expert in ancient and obscure languages of the Far East.

  "I didn't know you spoke Macedonian," Nick said as they headed for the elevator.

  "I don't but I can speak Bulgarian. Most people here can speak it. The languages are almost the same. The differences are subtle."

  "What was the problem with the clerk?"

  "He doesn't like reporters much. There are a lot of them in town to cover the protests and some of them are pretty arrogant. I told him we're working for a Dutch weekly that wants to present a fair account of what's happening here."

  "The American passports didn't put him off?"

  "No. I told him we're freelance. The U.S. hasn't made as many mistakes here as we have in other places. People are still friendly."

  "But not to reporters."

  "Not as far as he's concerned."

  Their rooms were on the fifth floor in the front of the hotel and provided a bird's eye view of Macedonian Square, reached by a stone bridge spanning the Vardar River. The square was dominated by a colossal brown and white stone column topped with a circular disk and a statue of Alexander the Great on his rearing horse, sword raised high as he rode to conquest.

  The column rose from a circular pool marked by statues of four lions at the cardinal points of the compass. Statues of armed soldiers in ancient armor stood guard around the base of the pillar, ready to protect Alexander from anyone who might want to climb to the top and bother him on his horse.

  There were a lot of people in the square, surrounding the pool and talking in groups. Tents and makeshift shelters were going up. Microphones and speakers were being set up on a concert stage that bordered one side of the plaza. Armed policemen stood at the edges of the square observing. Nick spotted men in civilian clothes moving through the crowd who had the unmistakable angry look of authority being challenged.

  "This has all the makings of trouble," Nick said. "Take a look. Tell me what you see."

  Selena scanned the crowd. "A lot of people and more coming. It doesn't look like there's a large police presence."

  "Not yet. The big event is scheduled for tomorrow. They'll probably start giving speeches later on this afternoon. If I were planning on breaking up the demonstration, I'd wait until dark before I brought in reinforcements and keep them out of sight until they were needed. I spotted at least five plain clothes agents in that crowd, probably from the Intelligence Agency."

  "You seem certain the government is going to interfere," Selena said.

  "Count on it. Mitreski isn't about to give up power, no matter how many people tell him he should go."

  "Do you think it will turn violent?"

  "I'm pretty certain it will. These things follow a pattern. People get worked up by the speakers and then the government steps in. They could just send in the cops. Or they could use provocateurs to start trouble and use that as an excuse to start busting heads."

  "Macedonia is an elected democracy with a rule of law," Selena said. "Doesn't that count for something? Don't you think the government could just observe and deal with whatever is said politically?"

  "Just because they have elections here doesn't make it a democracy. That's what these protests are about. Your vote doesn't count for a lot when everyone you vote for is corrupt. In the end, things reach a point where revolution is the only answer."

  "It doesn't have to be a violent revolution."

  "Ideally, no. But unless Mitreski is responsive to the people demanding change there won't be any alternative. Things have gone too far here."

  A wave of fatigue hit him. He yawned.

  "The jet lag is settling in," Nick said. "Let's get Ronnie and Lamont and go downstairs for something to eat. Then I just want to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

  CHAPTER 6

  The new Russia was not so different from the old. Elevation to a position of power brought increased risks as well as rewards. The higher one rose, the farther one had to fall. As First Deputy Director of SVR, Alexei was one spot away from the top job. Some would argue that the Director was the most powerful man in Russia after the president. Alexei Vysotsky looked around his new office on the executive fourth floor of SVR Headquarters in Yasenevo and reflected on Vladimir Orlov's unspoken reasons for his sudden promotion.

  It could be the old Russian trick of playing subordinates against one another. Alexei wasn't sure why Orlov wanted him to go after Vishinski. There could be many reasons. When the center of power shifted in Moscow it was always a time of paranoia. Even Orlov was not immune.

  Perhaps Vishinski knows something he shouldn't, Alexei thought, something that could be a problem for our new leader.

  Whatever the reason, his future depended on finding a way to remove Vishinski. Orlov had lifted Alexei up and he could just as easily knock him down. The sooner he found something the better, but he needed to be careful. Boris Vishinski was no fool. He was a dangerous opponent, unhappy that Alexei had been promoted without consulting him, envious of Orlov's sign of high favor. He would look for any opportunity to thwart his new second in command. If Vishinski found out that Alexei was investigating him there would be serious trouble.

  Vysotsky sat behind a scarred wooden desk that had once belonged to Lavrenti Beria, the ruthless head of Stalin's secret police. The desk was a symbol that did not go unnoticed by those who understood. Alexei had ordered it moved to his new office. Now he opened the bottom left drawer and took out a bottle of Moskovskaya vodka, with its green label picturing one of Stalin's wedding cake buildings. He took a glass from the drawer and filled it, replaced the bottle and closed the drawer. He was about to review the latest reports from Macedonia when the intercom on his desk signaled. Alexei depressed a button.

  "Yes."

  The arrogant voice of Vishinski's aide came through the speaker.

  "General, the Director wants you in his office immediately."

  When your boss is gone I will enjoy seeing you squirm, Alexei thought.

  "Tell the Director I will be there in five minutes."

  "Immediately."

  "Five minutes." Alexei clicked off the intercom.

  Mudak, he thought, asshole. Pereyti yebat' sebya.

  He downed the rest of the vodka, got up and walked to the other end of the corridor and Vishinski's office.

  The aide sat behind a desk in the outer office. He gave Vysotsky an unfriendly look. Alexei ignored him, knocked on the open door and went into the director's office.

  Boris Vishinski was a squat bear of a man. He was reading something and looked up as Alexei came in. He gestured at a chair in front of his desk.

  "Sit, General."

  He went back to reading. Vysotsky gave no outward sign of his annoyance as he waited. He was going to enjoy Vishinki's fall.

  After several minutes Vishinski looked up again. He tapped the papers in front of him. "This is the latest report from Skopje. There is considerable unrest. It's possible that Mitreski's government will be unseated if we don't do something about the demonstrations. Do you agree?"

  "Yes, Director, I do." Alexei's voice was pleasant, agreeable, as if to say No problem here. Whatever you think.

  "I am glad to hear it. The leader of the 11 October movement has scheduled a rally tomorrow to stir up trouble. I have received instructions from the highest level to prevent further provocations by whatever means necessary. I want you to take care of this. Assign someone to rid us of this troublemaker."

 
; "Extreme termination?"

  "Yes. There must be no indication of our involvement."

  "I can think of someone who would be perfect for this," Vysotsky said.

  Vishinski tapped his fingers on his desk and looked at Alexei.

  "I know about your involvement with Gorovsky's sudden heart attack."

  Alexei said nothing.

  "You may be in Orlov's favor but remember that you work for me. You will carry out any orders I give you. The consequences of not doing so would be unpleasant."

  The threat, Alexei thought. Always a threat. Nothing ever changes.

  "Of course, Director." Time to throw a little oil on the water. "I know my place. My promotion was as much a surprise to me as to you. I will do my best to support you and the aims of our service. You may count on me."

  Vishinski grunted. "Very well. Keep me informed of progress in Macedonia."

  It was a dismissal. On the way out Vysotsky caught a whiff of the aide's cheap cologne. It gave him an idea of how to trap Vishinski. He filed it away for later consideration.

  Alexei knew who would be perfect for the assignment in Skopje. When he got back to his office he activated the intercom.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Get Valentina Antipov in here. Now."

  CHAPTER 7

  Valentina Antipov was working out in the gym and thinking about Alexei Vysotsky. The general was the closest thing to a father Valentina had ever known. That didn't mean she confused her feelings about him with a normal family relationship, whatever that was. It was more like a relationship between a stern taskmaster and a brilliant student. Valentina's feelings toward Vysotsky were a bitter stew of love and resentment, seasoned with grudging admiration.

  Recently the relationship had become more complicated. She'd discovered that Vysotsky had murdered her father.

  Her mother, Sofia, had been an officer in the KGB. Valentina had never known her father. She hadn't even known who her father was until she discovered it by accident. The information was on the computer in Vysotsky's office.

  The details in the file had shocked her.

  Her father had been a spy for the Americans, a CIA agent stationed in West Germany in the days of the Cold War, when divided Germany was a hotbed of espionage. Valentina's mother had seduced him as part of an assignment to compromise him. But then the relationship had gone beyond two spies trying to manipulate each other. Sofia had gotten pregnant. She'd refused to abort the child and her handlers had called her back to Moscow. Her CIA lover had been reprimanded and sent home to his American family.

  Valentina's father was marked for termination. Alexei Vysotsky had carried out the sanction. Her father, his American wife and his son had died in the crash. There was a daughter. She hadn't been in the car.

  Valentina's mind had reeled as she'd tried to absorb all the information I have a sister. Who is she? What's she like? Then, Vysotsky killed my father. He's been lying to me all these years.

  Vysotsky had told Valentina that her mother died in a car wreck engineered by the CIA. That she was a hero of the Soviet Union. It wasn't until Valentina read the file that she learned the truth. Her mother had been drunk. She'd driven off the road without any help from the opposition.

  There was a reference to another file on the sister, Selena Connor. Valentina pulled it up on the computer.

  As she read, her anger had begun to grow. Her sister was a spy as well, an active agent, working for a secretive intelligence unit answering to the U.S. president.

  Maybe there's something in the genes, she thought.

  More than a spy, her sister was wealthy on a level that would have made even a Russian oligarch take notice. She was accomplished, famous in her own right in academic circles. Newly married to her team leader. A woman who had everything.

  Why had this woman enjoyed the warmth and comfort of a father, her father, as a child when Valentina had not?

  It was unfair.

  It had been a simple task to memorize the photograph of her sister and the information on the file before she shut it down. When Vysotsky returned he'd found Valentina standing by the window of his office, looking out toward the spires of Moscow.

  That had been three weeks ago.

  She thought about the sister she'd never met and pulled the handles of the exercise machine viciously together, the weights clanking at the ends of their cables.

  Her phone signaled a call from Vysotsky.

  "Valentina. Where are you?"

  "In the gym."

  "Finish whatever you are doing and come to my office."

  He ended the call. Valentina looked at the phone and thought about hurling it across the room. She stepped away from the machine and headed for the locker room. She hadn't decided what she was going to do about Vysotsky, or if she was going to do anything. Until she did, everything had to appear normal.

  Valentina was an attractive woman, with high cheekbones and intense green eyes. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders in gleaming waves. She had a body that made men look twice but her beauty concealed a mind deeply scarred by the absence of love. Under the calm exterior she showed to the world, Valentina simmered with rage. She'd been taught how to kill but no one had bothered to teach her the art of compassion. Her hands seemed as innocent as a child's but she could deliver a blow with either one that could break an oaken board or an opponent's bones.

  She came into Vysotsky's office dressed in black walking shoes, black slacks and a long-sleeved black top, open at the collar. Her long hair was piled on top of her head. She wore no jewelry or makeup. She moved with the unconscious ease of an Alpha predator. Her eyes radiated a singular focused intensity that made Vysotsky think of a beautiful, feral angel.

  He rose and came out from behind his desk and greeted her with three quick kisses to her cheeks.

  "Valentina. You are looking lovely as always. Come, sit. I have a new assignment for you."

  Vysotsky went back behind his desk. "I am sending you to Macedonia on a delicate mission."

  "To Greece?" Valentina asked.

  "No, to the country. The Republic of Macedonia to the north of Greece."

  Valentina waited.

  Vysotsky continued. "Macedonia is friendly to us. The Americans are providing covert support to a revolutionary movement in the country that seeks to overthrow the current regime. They want to see someone in power who will allow them to install missile batteries that could be used against us."

  "How does this involve me?"

  "The movement is called 11 October. The leader is a man named Jerzi Todorovski. Without him the movement would collapse. The different factions would turn on one another. Todorovski is the glue that holds them together."

  "And you want me to melt the glue," Valentina said.

  "As always, you perceive the heart of the matter."

  Vysotsky placed a folder on his desk and pushed it across to her. "Everything you need to know about him is in here."

  Valentina opened the folder and looked at the photograph of her target. A dark eyed man with a square jaw and close-set eyes stared back at her.

  "He seems young," she said.

  "That is one of the things that makes him dangerous. He attracts the students, the young radicals. He's intelligent enough to present ideas that bring in the intellectuals. He's educated and he knows how to talk with them but he comes from common people and speaks their language as well. It makes him a man to be reckoned with."

  "When do I leave?"

  "Today. The main demonstration takes place tomorrow in Skopje."

  "How do you wish it to be done? Do you want visibility? A false trail, perhaps to the CIA?"

  "That is an interesting idea, Valentina, but no. Better if it looks natural. A heart attack, for example. Perhaps an undetected anomaly, an aneurysm in the brain that led to his unfortunate death. There should be no indication of anything except natural causes, unless you have no other choice."

  Valentina nodded. "I understand. You can leave it to me. All I
need to do is get close to him."

  "It shouldn't be difficult. He loves to mix with his supporters. It would be a simple matter to embrace him or shake his hand or whatever is needed."

  "I understand," Valentina said again.

  Vysotsky looked into her eyes and saw something primal and dangerous, as if Valentina scented her prey.

  I'm glad it's not me she's coming after, he thought.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was midmorning on the day of the demonstration.

  Nick, Selena, Lamont and Ronnie stood on the edge of the swelling mob. They wore press badges pinned on their jackets. Lamont and Ronnie carried cameras. The sky was gray, overcast with the feel and threat of snow, the temperature hovering somewhere in the low 30s. The crowd filled the square and spilled over the edges onto the stone bridge and beyond, a ragged riot of coats, hats and scarves bundled against the chill. Handheld signs and homemade banners condemned corruption, demanded Mitreski's resignation and called for new elections.

  A succession of speakers exhorted the crowd, warming them up for the main event when Jerzi Todorovski would appear and make his speech. Ranks of riot police stood on the far side of the square. Behind them were four armored personnel carriers filled with soldiers.

  "This could go bad real fast," Lamont said. "Feel it?"

  Nick's face was tight. "Yeah. It's like that feeling you get right before a big thunderstorm, when there's a lot of ozone in the air. Like something's going to happen."

  "Those soldiers are armed," Selena said.

  "We already know part of what we're supposed to find out," Nick said. "Todorovski is who people want in place of Mitreski."

  "We don't know how they feel about the Russians," Ronnie said. "Just because they like Todorovski doesn't make them anti-Russian, just against Mitreski."

  "For the Russians it's the same thing. Whatever happens today you can be sure Moscow doesn't want to see Mitreski go. Those troops are a bad sign."