Colonel Denis Kovanyov, a short, thin, gray-haired and pale-faced man, was addressing the restricted forum: “I’m pleased to inform you that the forces in Ireland and Germany are almost ready for action. The Irish team will arrive in England immediately after Christmas, and then split up and operate simultaneously in London, Birmingham, and Manchester. Three pubs, three bombs. The German team will also split up, and its members will lie in wait on New Year’s Eve near the homes of three senior bank officials—the CEO of Commerzbank, the CEO of DZ Bank, and the deputy CEO of Deutsche Bank. As you know, the CEO of Deutsche Bank has been under tight security ever since the incident involving the extortion attempt by the Serbian gang, and it’s impossible to get to him directly, and certainly not with the forces at our disposal. That’s why we’re targeting his deputy. In Italy, I regret to say, we aren’t making as much progress. Apparently, abducting a president these days is a lot more complicated than it was almost forty years ago. So we’re working on an alternative operation, too, aimed at the director of the central bank. An abduction would be our best option, but it appears to be too complex at this stage. We’ll make do with a targeted killing.”
General Ivanov glanced to his right and saw the astonished face of the head of the research department. Before the current meeting, he hadn’t been privy to the operation, and he had been invited to the present assembly only by virtue of a personal and adamant instruction from the GRU chief, and much to the displeasure of the head of the foreign operations unit. “He must be in on things,” the GRU chief had ruled. “Europe is going to go up in flames and he has to understand why. If he doesn’t get to see the overall picture, all the research under his purview will be distorted and misleading.”
“But we agreed to involve as few people as possible,” Ivanov argued angrily.
“Correct, and I’m adding another one. Just one,” his superior officer said, thus ending the discussion.
“What are you up to?” whispered the head of the research department, General Professor Vasily Lavarov, seemingly conversing with himself only.
“Does it remind you of anything?” asked Ivanov, who heard his question.
“Yes, it does. It reminds me of the madness that gripped Europe in the 1970s.”
He saw a faint smile appear on the face of Ivanov, who also raised one of his eyebrows. Lavarov switched from the second to the first person, but it did nothing to dull the intensity of the shock in his voice.
“Are we reconstructing the chaos that prevailed then? Is that what we’re doing?”
The rest of the room’s occupants remained silent.
“From what you’ve described,” Lavarov continued, “it appears we’re re-creating the IRA’s terror attacks in Thatcher’s England, the murders committed by the Baader-Meinhof Gang in Germany, and the abductions and assassinations carried out by the Red Brigades in Italy.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” Ivanov drily confirmed.
“But to what end? What’s the idea behind this theater of blood?”
Ivanov explained, his voice cool and didactic. “We’re at a point in time,” he said, “at which we need to remind the Europeans of our ability to cause damage. They’ve grown accustomed to a comfortable and secure life. Yes, they can see the early manifestations of the Islamic threat, and they’re adopting certain measures to counter it, as partial and as panicky as they may be. But they’ve forgotten about us. We’ve become taken for granted. Taken for granted!” Ivanov reiterated, raising his voice and slamming his palm down on the table. The water in the glass next to him shook. “Look at how they dare to respond when we show even just the first signs of realizing our most basic rights in Crimea and eastern Ukraine. They have no regard for our interests. They belittle them, and treat us as second rate at best, like a nation that may have been a superpower at some point in the past but has now become a marginal player. We can’t allow things to go on like that. They need to be reminded of what could happen if we’re pushed into a corner. We have no intention of setting Europe ablaze. On the contrary. We’ll have the ability to contain the madness that erupts. That’s the only way to show them just how crucial we are to the stability and quiet to which they are so addicted. But before then, they’re going to have to wake up. To understand just how easy it would be to go back to the nightmare they experienced back then.”
“But what’s going to happen if they find out that we were behind all those terror attacks and assassinations and abductions?”
“I realize it’s hard for you to digest what I’ve just said. That’s the whole point. We want them to suspect that we’re involved. That we’re connected to the incidents and that we can stop them. That we’re the only ones with any sway over this wave of terror that’s going to sweep across Europe like a nightmare. They need to come to terms with our power to take Europe—the entire world—back to a time to which none of them wants to return. To ensure success, however, our actions have to remain in the shadows, we have to be like ghosts. So we’re working with proxies, others to do our work. We have genuine Irish and German and Italian agents. And if rumors arise to say that Russian intelligence officers could have some pull, and perhaps even put an end to it, even better. And if the rumors don’t sprout unaided, our psychological warfare personnel will put things right.”
“It’s a crazy idea!”
General Ivanov looked at him with a cold glint in his eyes. “You have the right to express your thoughts in person to the individual who came up with the idea,” Ivanov said. “You’re familiar with his address. The Kremlin, Red Square, Moscow. The guards will be happy to allow you in. No need to worry.”
“Surely he didn’t mean the things we’re doing.”
“I have to say, to his credit, that he added the sting to the plan we formulated. He instructed us to also try to recruit individuals who have a personal connection to the generation of terrorists that operated back then, some forty years ago. The team in Ireland includes three men who were members of the IRA at the time. They’re in their sixties today, but just as tough and dedicated. And we also recruited the sons of veterans of the Catholic Republican Army. The granddaughter of the woman who handled the financial side of Klaus Baader and Ulrike Meinhof’s activities is part of the team that’s operating in Germany, alongside someone who at the time was a young and devilishly talented man, and one of the group’s ideologists. Today he’s a sixty-seven-year-old revolutionary. In Italy, too, we’ve managed to recruit two women who were once members of the Red Brigades in Turin and are now involved again in underground activity. Can you see the poetic beauty in all of this? Not to mention the affection of the masses for the children of the famous. Only this time, the famous will be notorious terrorists.”
Lavarov remained silent.
“That’s the genius of this operation,” Ivanov continued. “The more convincing we are about our ability to do damage, the less damage we will ultimately need to inflict. The sooner they get the message, the sooner we’ll be able to restore order. All we have to do is present them with the alternatives—a violent, fragmented Europe in the throes of madness once again, or a world in which we are treated with respect and appreciation. A pretty simple choice, right? But in order for them to make the correct choice, they first need to be shown the price of making a mistake. And our message has to be clear, clear and forcefully convincing. A collective flashback to the horrors of the 1970s will make things clear. And if it doesn’t, the glimpse of the bloody past will become a prolonged look. The infrastructure is almost ready, and things will begin within a few days.” Ivanov turned to look at his subordinate.
“Good work,” he said to Colonel Kovanyov. “Precision is essential. Don’t deviate from your plans. The operation has to be a model of perfection. Polished like the Bolshoi Ballet. Let it be clear to one and all that there is someone pulling the strings and orchestrating every move.”
All the occupants of the room stood up to leave. The general gestured to Lavarov to remain behind. They wer
e left alone.
“You look as pale as death,” the general said to him. “You should rest for a day or two. Take care of yourself.”
26
EAST OF BREMEN, DECEMBER 2014
From their position in the small clearing in the forest, they were hidden from the nearby road. The farm was about nine hundred meters away as the crow flies, but out of sight due to the steep incline of the terrain. Aslan surveyed the area meticulously while the others followed him with their eyes.
“There were three, or maybe four, people here,” he said. “Can you see the trampled grass? Those are tracks left by several pairs of shoes.” He slowly approached the embankment of rocks and earth. Beyond it were the woods, dense and uninviting. “I believe this embankment has taken a fair deal of gunfire.”
“Can you see any bullets?” Ya’ara asked.
“No, but look at the shards of rock. They appear fresh. Completely white.” He looked down at the ground in silence. “There may have been targets here. These holes in the ground appear to indicate so. The earth here is loose so the signs are a little unclear. But I think these are marks left by spikes that were pushed into the earth and later removed.”
“There are glass fragments here, too,” Sayid said quietly. “I’m no expert, but it looks like they haven’t been here for very long. They’re clean, without a layer of mud or dirt.”
“If they were shooting here, where do you think they were firing from?”
“From exactly where you are standing now, Ya’ara. It’s no more than fifteen meters. I think they fired from there in this direction, toward the embankment. They were shooting at targets and maybe beer bottles. Or wine.”
“I don’t see any spent cartridges . . .”
Aslan joined her, his eyes scanning the ground. “If they were standing here,” he mumbled, “then the casings must have flown off to the right.” He walked to the side, a meter or so away, and kicked at the earth with his shoe. And again. And one more time. Nothing. Just moist earth. “I’m pretty sure that the embankment here took gunfire. And I think it was the shooting that we heard yesterday. I think they must have collected the spent cartridges. That’s why we aren’t finding anything.”
“If they picked up the casings, they must be hiding something. They’re professionals. Or there’s a professional who’s instructing them,” Ya’ara said.
“Isn’t it dangerous to draw conclusions from the fact that there are no spent cartridges lying around?” Batsheva commented. “Excuse me for talking like a lawyer, but a lack of evidence isn’t really evidence.”
“You’re right,” Aslan replied, “but there appears to be shrapnel here from gunfire. And that’s something real. Concrete. And when you add that to the fact that there are no cartridges, it looks a little suspicious. No, it’s not evidence for a court of law, but it’s something that requires further investigation.”
“We should get out of here,” Ya’ara said. “If they were here yesterday, they might come back today. And if our assumptions are correct, then they are armed and we aren’t. It’s best we don’t run into them here.”
“If there’s a group of armed people here, perhaps we should pass on the entire matter to the German intelligence service?” Sayid wondered out loud.
“Maybe,” Ya’ara responded, “but we need a few more particulars and facts before calling in the cavalry.”
“The what?”
“It’s just an expression,” Ya’ara said. “What I meant was we need more proof before we mobilize forces to this shithole.” She omitted the fact that if their suspicions turned out to be justified, Matthias had become entangled in a far more dangerous affair than initially believed. Yes, perhaps this was precisely the right time to end the subterfuge and silence, but if Matthias was caught up in something of this nature, it would spell the end for him in his organization. She didn’t want to let go so easily.
“We’ll circle around and go to the surveillance point we were at yesterday. Then if they are on their way here, we won’t run into them and we’ll be able to see if anything’s happening at the farm.”
“I’m freezing to death. We’ll warm up a little if we move,” Batsheva commented. Her entire appearance indicated a readiness to spring into action right there and then. Even in her hiking boots she looked like someone who was in the habit of wearing high heels and socializing at parties. But Sayid, who took a long look at her, saw something more. On their way back, he asked if they should continue to memorize the relevant pages in the bird guide as Ya’ara had instructed.
“Remember,” Ya’ara said, “a good cover story is one that includes elements of truth. I expect you not only to know the birds, but to love them as well. If anyone asks, the only thing that brought us here was a burning desire to discover the nesting areas of the birds of Germany. We’re ornithologists, after all.”
• • •
Aslan held the binoculars to his eyes and raised his hand to command the attention of the others.
“The door’s opening,” he whispered.
Ya’ara, Batsheva, and Sayid froze on the spot, hoping that the vegetation and branches were truly offering adequate cover. Ya’ara peered intently through her binoculars. The two cadets strained their eyes.
Six figures emerged from the farmhouse, one after the other. “Four men and two women,” Ya’ara said. Three men and one woman walked toward the barn. The remaining man and woman headed for the all-terrain vehicle parked in the yard.
“Can you make out their faces?”
“Barely. Certainly not well enough to positively identify them elsewhere.”
“Okay, they’re both blond, and they’re both wearing boots and khaki green jackets. They look like hunters.”
The woman sat behind the wheel. The man got in next to her and slammed the door. The sound of the engine was loud enough to be heard by the group observing them through the trees. The vehicle growled, leaped forward, made a U-turn, and exited the farm compound in the direction of the road. Ya’ara shivered as a cold gust of wind slammed into the thicket.
“Just a moment, they’re leaving the barn now,” Aslan whispered. The reddish barn door opened outward and two of the men closed it carefully behind them.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Ya’ara asked.
Aslan nodded.
“I can’t see a thing,” Batsheva whispered to Sayid.
One of the men was holding several steel rods that were fitted at one end with white pieces of cardboard. The man was struggling to manage them all, and for a moment it looked as if he was about to drop them. He tried to steady them, and almost managed to do so, but suddenly they started to wobble violently and the man almost fell to the ground.
“The wind must be blowing them around.”
The man bent down, placed the rods on the ground, rearranged them, and then gathered them up again, tightly together.
Swinging on the shoulder of the second man were two assault rifles.
“Kalashnikovs,” Ya’ara said.
The two men headed away from them down the slope. They appeared to be walking toward the woods.
“More shooting practice?”
“We’ll hear soon enough. I wonder where the other two are.”
And just as if someone had heard Aslan’s question, the barn door opened again and a man and woman emerged. The man looked middle-aged. His hair was white and long, and tied back. He had something that appeared to be a pistol in his hand. He and the woman followed in their friends’ footsteps. Ya’ara and Aslan kept track of them with the binoculars until they disappeared.
Aslan went quiet, and then asked: “Tell me something, Ya’ara, is Martina a blonde?”
Ya’ara responded softly, almost in a whisper. “Her hair in the pictures with Matthias is dark. Black. After finding pictures of her grandmother, ones that appeared in the press when she was arrested, I could see the resemblance between them. Truth be told, her grandmother looked a lot like Ulrike Meinhof herself. She dressed
like her, at least, and they had similar hair, too. The only thing missing in the pictures of Martina are the horn-rimmed glasses.”
“When you briefed us, back in Berlin,” Batsheva suddenly said, “you said something about the vehicle that came to collect Martina from Matthias’s home.”
Ya’ara tensed up.
“You said Matthias described it as a militarylike vehicle, more suited to the desert than to the German army; you said it was a light color.”
“Like a vehicle from a cigarette commercial,” Sayid added.
“That’s definitely a significant detail,” Ya’ara said, still speaking softly. “I should have thought of it myself. Yes, under all that mud it’s covered in, that vehicle is the color of sand.”
“Shhhh,” Aslan quieted them.
Short bursts of gunfire could be heard on the wind.
27
LEEDS, DECEMBER 1947
Raphael took a deep breath and tightened the scarf around his neck. Night had already fallen and he could feel the cold in his bones. His head was spinning. He took another deep breath in an effort to calm himself. His exhilaration was spiritual in nature, but accompanied by physical signs, too. A real difficulty in breathing and a rapid pulse that throbbed in his temple. He had almost forgotten his meeting the previous night with the Irish arms dealer at that dingy pub nearby the Liverpool port. Coursing through him at that moment were his impressions from his lengthy meeting with the great sculptor Henry Moore. Raphael had initiated the meeting by means of a brief letter sent from London, and Moore’s reply, a single sentence on a thick greeting card of fine quality, was reservedly polite:
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