by Ted Bell
“Fine with me.”
“It’s the Russians.”
“Back to the good old Cold War, are we?”
“Not yet. A lukewarm peace, perhaps. But it won’t last. There’s a distinct chill in the air.”
“A new turn for the worse?”
“You remember when Mother Russia was the sworn enemy of democracy and freedom?”
“I do.”
“She’s swearing again. Like a bloody sailor.”
“I’d really no idea.”
“Good heavens, Alex, have you read a newspaper lately? Turned on your television?”
“Don’t have a telly. And my reading pretty much centers around a pair of chaps named Huck Finn and Nigger Jim at the moment. I did hear something about critics of President Vladimir Rostov, journalists, getting bumped off at a rather alarming rate, but I’m afraid that’s about it.”
Sir David rose to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and began pacing back and forth in front of the hearth as if he were stalking the poop deck while enemy mastheads climbed the far horizon.
“These recent political assassinations are the tip of the iceberg. Our relations with the Russians have just about bottomed out. Last summer, Russia signed a billion-dollar arms deal with Hugo Chavez, the charming Venezuelan chap you had a run-in with recently. Chavez wasted no time in fantasizing aloud about using Venezuela’s new weapons to sink one of our aircraft carriers, the HMS Invincible, which is in the Caribbean at this time. Last week, the Russians delivered highly sophisticated SA-15 antiaircraft missiles to Iran. We know why, too. To defend Iran’s nuclear sites, a clear threat to the balance of power.”
“The new Russia’s sounding a lot like the old Russia.”
“If that’s not enough, the Sovs—excuse me, the Russians—are building a bloody billion-dollar Bushehr reactor for Iran, which will produce enough spent plutonium to produce sixty bombs minimum.”
“These are not our friends.”
“How much do you know about the Grey Cardinal and the Twelve?”
“Sorry? Grey Cardinal?”
“Kremlinese for Rostov. Tells you a bit about how he’s regarded.”
“Don’t know a great deal, sir. Ex-KGB. Strong, silent type. Cold as ice. Impossible to read.”
“Hardly. He’s a passionate, emotional man who is extraordinarily good at concealing his true feelings.”
“A good poker player.”
“As a matter of fact, yes, he loves the game.”
“I hope you’re not going to ask me to lure him into a few hands of five-card stud. Cards are hardly my strong suit, sir.”
A brief smile crossed C’s lips.
“Vladimir Rostov is not a democrat. Nor is he a Tsar like Alexander II, a schizophrenic paranoid like that pockmarked dwarf Stalin, or a religious nationalist like Dostoyevsky. But Alex, he is a little of all of these. And that is just what the Russians want in a leader right now. He is nashe, even though he frequently drinks Diet Coke instead of vodka.”
“Nashe?”
“Russian word for ‘ours.’ Symbolic for the new Russian pride in all things Russian. A reaction against the groveling, humiliating embrace of Western culture during the nineties, guilty embarrassment at being caught at a McDonald’s wolfing down a Big Mac, slurping Pepsi instead of quaffing vodka like a true Russian. Listening to the Dixie Chicks on the radio.”
“I would also imagine it is quite refreshing not to have your brave leader stumbling around the Kremlin knocking over the samovars.”
C smiled. “I miss Yeltsin, actually. Look here, I have our abbreviated Rostov dossier, which you can read at your leisure. But let me give you a quick sketch as a basis for our immediate discussion. Vladimir Vladimirovich Rostov, known popularly as Volodya, was born into a poor working-class family in 1935. Both parents were survivors of Hitler’s brutal nine-hundred-day siege of Leningrad. His two brothers were killed by the Nazis and his father grievously wounded in the defense of the city. These were prime motivators in his decision to enter the intelligence game.”
“So, he hates the Germans. That could be useful.”
Trulove nodded, happy to note that Hawke was already thinking ahead. He said, “At age fifteen, Rostov saw a film, The Sword and the Shield, which glorified a Soviet spy’s exploits inside Germany during the war. He tried to join the KGB at age sixteen. Just marched into the local headquarters and asked to sign up. They turned him down, obviously, and told him to get a university degree, study law and languages. He did, and they recruited him upon graduation from Leningrad State University.”
“He finds espionage romantic,” Hawke said, rubbing his chin.
“What?”
“I’ve seen that film you mentioned. Very romantic portrayal of the fearless Soviet double agent, alone, deep inside the Reich, stealing secret documents to sabotage German operations. In other words, accomplishing single-handedly what whole armies could not.”
C took a sip of his whiskey.
“I wonder, do you find it romantic, Alex? Espionage? The black arts of derring-do?”
“Not even slightly.”
C’s eyes registered approval, and he continued, “Tall, thin, and delicate in appearance, our little Volodya, at age ten, fell prey to neighborhood bullies. He began a lifelong study of sambo, a Soviet combination of judo and wrestling. He was deadly serious about it. Still is, actually. He earned black belts in both sambo and judo and nearly made the Olympic team. A year after earning his international law degree and joining the KGB, he became judo champion of Leningrad. I mention all this only because I think it provides a vital clue to his true personality.”
“Yes?”
“His boyhood judo coach is still alive. One of our chaps in St. Petersburg had a chat with him recently. Let me read you a bit from his dossier: ‘Volodya could throw with equal skill in both directions, right and left. His opponents, expecting a throw from the right, would not see the left one coming. So, he was pretty tough to beat because he was constantly tricking them.’”
“I see what you mean.”
“Rostov’s inherent inscrutability and judo were perfectly matched. He’s got an innate ability to read his opponent’s moves while concealing his own intentions.”
“It’s not a sport to him. It’s a philosophy.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s fascinating, sir,” Hawke said. “I’m most anxious to learn where all this leads.”
“To Moscow, Alex.”
“And once there?”
“You’ll know more tomorrow. For now, let me just tell you why I’m here on Bermuda. I intend to establish a new top-secret section of MI-6. For want of a better name, I’ve decided to call it Red Banner. Its sole reason for being will be vigorous counterintelligence operations against the newly reconstituted Russian Cheka.”
“Cheka?”
“Chekists were the Bolshevik version of the KGB. A word formed from the Russian acronym for Lenin’s Extraordinary Commission, or secret police. It’s run by a group of men inside the Kremlin I may have mentioned earlier. They’re called the Twelve. In Russian, it’s the siloviki. Translation, the all-powerful.”
“Their role?”
“We think it’s possible they pull all the strings. That the Grey Cardinal serves at their pleasure and acts at their direction.”
“So Rostov’s a disappointment, is he? We had rather high hopes for him at one point.”
“There’s some very unpleasant news coming out of Moscow, Alex. Our highest priority is to protect the young states of Eastern Europe.
The Kremlin has already tried to force the collapse of democratically elected governments in Estonia and Georgia. And punished other independent neighbors by cutting energy deliveries.”
“To what end? They’re all sovereign states now.”
“We think all this strong-arming is only a prelude. There’s a strong possibility she may try to take them all back. Restore her old Soviet borders by force. And once she’s digested her
eastern neighbors, she’s going take a hard look at the rest of Europe. Western Europe’s at Russia’s mercy, even now. The Kremlin can shut off the flow of energy to our European allies any time it damn well wants to.”
“Christ.”
“You could say that. That’s why this urgent need to revitalize our intelligence operations vis-à-vis the Russians. And we need to do it now.”
“And our new counter-Chekist branch will be based where?”
“Right here. On Bermuda. We’re going to the Dockyards in the morning after your appointment in Samara with Nigel Prestwick. Find some office space for you.”
“For me?”
“You’re to head up this new special division, Alex. I’ve thought long and hard on this, and I’m convinced you’re the ideal chap to take this on. You’ve put together quite an outstanding record these last years, you know.”
“I’m honored. Thank you, sir. Of course, I—”
“Alex, you can have some time to think this over. But time is short. I need you to be brutally honest. Do you have any qualms? Reservations?”
“My Russian is nonexistent, for one.”
“But your comrade-in-arms Chief Inspector Congreve is fluent. And you’ll be surrounded with other fluent personnel from the firm.”
“Ambrose knows about this—Red Banner?”
“He’s part of your team. Already signed on. Two other young fellows from the MI-6 Russian division have come over as well. Benjamin Griswold and Fife Symington. First-rate lads, both of them.”
“I see. Well—”
“Listen, Alex. I know this is all quite sudden. You don’t need to respond tonight or even tomorrow. But if your answer is affirmative, the sooner I know, the better, so I might get on to the next candidate.
It’s early days, but we’re at a critical moment in a new duel with these twenty-first-century Chekists.”
“Pistols at dawn?”
“Not quite. But we do need to move with alacrity. Something’s very much up, as I said, and I doubt it will be an extended olive branch. One year ago, I would have put the number of Russian covert operatives working inside Britain at fewer than one hundred. In the last month alone, I’ve seen estimates that put that number at well more than a thousand.”
“Astounding. Any correlation with what our American cousins are seeing?”
“The same, if not worse. Your friend Brick Kelly at CIA is just as concerned as we are. The Kremlin is sitting atop a deeply entrenched criminal enterprise with unlimited wealth and natural resources as yet untapped. The Russian economy is suddenly booming right along with the price of oil. As I say, they could bring Europe to its knees in less than an hour by simply turning off the oil and gas taps. They won’t do that unless pushed, of course. They like the cash flow too much. So, what the devil is going on with the big Russian bear? That, Alex, is what Red Banner is going to find out.”
“I understand. One question, if I may, sir. Why base this new operation in Bermuda, of all places?”
C smiled. “For one thing, it’s almost equidistant from London and Washington. But more important is secrecy. I can’t run this thing out of 85 Vauxhall Cross. Think about it, Alex. The Russians have invaded London. Not only the obscenely wealthy oligarchs buying up Mayfair palaces but the newly reborn KGB, as well. The bloody Russian spooks and tycoons are everywhere you look. Dysfunctional, amoral, and nothing is out of bounds.”
“I’d heard the Russian mafiya are buying up casinos and completely taking over London’s prostitution rings. White slavery run out of Eastern Europe and the Gulf States. Londonistan, I hear they’re calling it these days.”
“I’m afraid so, Alex. In the nineties, we were dealing with a kleptocracy, a government in chaos run by competing thieves. These billionaire bandits have stolen Russia blind. Literally, in a few short years, stolen an entire country in what amounts to the greatest theft in history. Now the country is in the hands of the secret police. Putin was first to put former KGB cronies in every possible position of power. The New Russia is the world’s first true police state, ground up. Now, rich beyond measure because of soaring oil revenues, they’re looking around for new worlds to plunder.”
“I’m still not sure I understand your choice of Bermuda for Red Banner, sir.”
“Again, geography. Is there a more isolated, a more pristinely British spot on earth than this tranquil little pastel archipelago? Any Russian setting foot on this island to poke about in our nest will stand out like a sore thumb.”
Hawke was about to mention the exquisitely beautiful sore thumb he’d met on the beach earlier that afternoon, but at that moment, Lady Diana Mars poked her lovely head inside the library door and said, “Gentlemen, dinner is served.”
“After you, comrade,” C said to Hawke with a smile.
“Spasiba,” Hawke said, thanking him and virtually exhausting his Russian vocabulary.
He’d have to learn some bloody good Russian swear words so he could let Ambrose have it for leading him by the nose into this little trap C had laid for him.
11
NEW YORK CITY
Sleigh bells ring, are you list’nin’? Paddy still got that old tingle. Christmas in New York, you couldn’t beat it with a stick. Something in the air, that’s what they said, and they were right. Fuckin’ magic, that’s what it was. He was leaning on the rail on the Fifty-third Street side, overlooking the skating rink at Rockefeller Center. He still got a kick out of it, just as he did when he was a snot-nosed kid living at the wrong end of Neptune Avenue in Brighton Beach. Coming into the city with his dad had been a big deal, especially at Christmastime.
A light snow was falling, like movie snow, it was so fine and sparkly, and it was getting dark fast, making that huge tree glimmer and shine. He squinted his eyes, making the tree go all hazy the way he used to do as a kid. How about that, huh? Beautiful thing to see, even at his age.
Even the skaters were still fun to watch. The babes in their little pleated skating skirts were the best ones. You couldn’t put on an outfit like that and step out onto the ice unless you could skate like an angel. Then you had the guys. Something about a guy lifting one leg and skating along like a friggin’ swan just didn’t sit right with him, never had.
Like guys who took tub baths instead of showers, tough to trust. The really good guy skaters had to be fairies, right? And the really bad ones, like this gangsta character who just took a header and slid butt-first into the wall, should not have been on the ice for any reason whatsoever.
“Hey, Spazmo! Yeah, I’m talking to you, the great one! Nice move, man, look like Wayne friggin’ Gretzky out there!”
He laughed and looked at his watch. The office Christmas party started at six, and here it was now already quarter past. After the endless flight from Fairbanks friggin’ Alaska, he’d gone straight to his room at the Waldorf and gotten a few hours’ sleep, leaving a wake-up call with the operator for four-thirty.
He’d stopped in at P.J.’s for a couple of pops and lost track of the time. But yeah, he was pumped about the party. It would be the first official event at the new corporate offices at the top of the Empire State Building. Somebody said they were having Gladys Knight, but that could have just been the water cooler talking.
He wasn’t sure what time the big boss would show up for this wing-ding, but that was something he definitely didn’t want to miss. Most employees never got the chance to see the man himself. The Queso Grande, the honcho, the muckety-muck, the man behind the curtain. Yeah, tonight was going to be very special. There was even a crazy rumor about the way the old man was going to arrive tonight. He had no idea how, but he was pretty sure the boss man wasn’t going to be stepping off a Fifth Avenue bus.
Better get a move on. He turned away from the skaters and started walking quickly east along the beautifully decorated mall toward Fifth Avenue. Christmas shopping was going full-bore now, and he had to be careful about knocking anybody down who got in his way. People, when they saw his size, norm
ally got out of the way fast. But in a crowd like this, it was tough to move fast without seriously injuring anybody.
Paddy hung a right on Fifth and started walking south down to Thirty-fourth Street. The crowds were amazing, especially the lines across the street forming outside the Saks windows. Something was also going on farther along the avenue, because they had these giant searchlights shooting straight up into the clouds. You could see the beams sweeping back and forth through the snow, lighting up the dark bellies of the low-lying clouds and flashing across the tall spires that lined the street of boyhood dreams.
It took him all of ten minutes to reach the Empire State. The searchlights, on flatbeds, were right outside the main entrance, aimed up at the tower. The tower at the top was always lit up with beautiful lights, sometimes red, white, and blue or red and green like now for Christmas. But the searchlights were crisscrossing the building, and it looked like some kind of Hollywood premiere or something. All kinds of TV trucks with big dish antennas out there, too. Something big was going on, all right.
Walking inside the three-story lobby, Paddy felt a touch of pride. After all, this was his office. Kind of.
He’d come a long way from the Brooklyn dockyards where he was just another punk longshoreman with a thirty-inch neck and a whole lot of attitude. He was now an important part of a multinational organization with a fancy corporate headquarters at one of the most famous buildings in the world. After September 11, 2001, it had become the tallest building in New York again.
He looked around the lobby, his lobby, taking it all in. Art deco, he thought they called it. Looked good to him. Glitzy, but old-fashioned glitz. He’d never been upstairs to the corporate offices before, so he went over to the fancy marble info desk and spoke to the nice little Jewish lady who looked as if she’d been behind that counter her whole life. Her nameplate said “MURIEL ESB.” Esb? Esb didn’t sound like any Jewish name he’d heard of, and then he realized maybe it was the initials of the building? Yeah.
“Welcome to the Empire State Building! How may I help you?”