Ghost Force

by Patrick Robinson

  Russia, showing the dividing line of the Ural Mountains. To the east lie the vast plains of Siberia, all the way to the Pacific Ocean.

  The fifty-two-year-old Siberian oil boss disembarked from the truck and nodded his thanks curtly to the driver, who had brought the massive vehicle to a halt outside the main doorway of a three-storey wooden office building on a side street right off the main throughway of the town.

  Jaan hurried inside, brushing the snow off his fur coat as he entered the warm corridor. He walked briskly upstairs to the first floor, where a large wooden door bore the lettering SIBNEFT, the Russian name for the gigantic Siberian Oil Company, whose refineries in the city of Omsk, down near the Kazakhstan border, and in Moscow, produce 500,000 barrels of oil product every day.

  Inside, behind a large desk, in front of a roaring log fire, sat Sergei Pobozhiy, the fabled Chairman of SIBNEFT. Neither man had been to this oil frontier town for at least two years, and they gave each other great bear hugs of recognition. Sergei had arrived by helicopter from the city of Yekaterinburg, which stands, in its infamy, in the foothills of the Urals.

  The next visitor, who arrived at 9:30, had traveled up from the same city, also by helicopter. The mission was too secret for the men to travel together. Like Sergei, Boris Nuriyev, first Vice President of Finance at the colossal, restructured LUKOIL Corporation, had traveled alone in the corporate helicopter.

  Boris Nuriyev was a stranger to Jaan and Sergei, but all three of them were Siberian-born, and all three of them had been close friends with the late Mikhallo Masorin. They shook hands formally and sat down with black coffee to await the arrival of the fourth and final member of the meeting.

  He came through the door at 9:40, direct from the rough little Noyabrsk airport, having landed in a private corporate jet directly into the teeth of the wind, and was almost blown off the runway. The government car that picked him up was a black Mercedes limousine, with chains already fitted to the tires. The automobile was a gift from the Chinese government.

  Roman Rekuts, a big man well over six feet three, issued no bear hugs, mainly because he might have crushed the spines of the other men. But Jaan, Sergei, and Boris each shook hands warmly with the last arrival, welcoming the new head of the Urals Federal District, the man who had replaced Mikhallo Masorin. A Siberian-born politician, he had served under Masorin for four years.

  Sergei Pobozhiy motioned for Roman to remove his coat and to sit in the big chair behind the desk. The SIBNEFT boss poured coffee for them all, and suggested that the new Urals Minister begin proceedings. Nothing written down, just an informal chat among four of the most influential men in Siberia.

  “Well,” he began, “I understand we are unanimous that Moscow agents assassinated Mikhallo Masorin. The American newspapers confirm the findings of the autopsy, and the coroner in Washington is expected to deliver a verdict that he was murdered by person or persons unknown.

  “I imagine the Russian security contingent that traveled to the United States with the President will maintain the Americans must have done it. But of course no one is going to believe that. At least the Americans won’t, and neither will we.

  “Gentlemen, we are discussing here a matter of approach. And we should perhaps decide among ourselves what it is we want. And the short answer is plainly revenge, and then money. The taxes on Siberian export oil levied by Moscow are very high, and we do not get even a reasonable share of it.

  “It would obviously suit us much better if the oil corporations—your good selves, that is—paid a higher tariff to Siberia, and made Central Government pay a higher price for domestic oil, and then share some of their huge export tax revenues with the country of origin. That’s us.”

  “Of course, we are not really a country,” said Boris thoughtfully. “We are, and always have been, a part of Russia.”

  “A situation that could probably be changed,” said Sergei. “Let’s face it, Siberia really is a separate country. The Urals form a great natural barrier between us and European Russia. We’re talking a twelve-hundred-mile range of mountains stretching north-south all the way from the Arctic Circle to Kazakhstan. That’s a barrier, a true break point. Enough to discourage anyone from using force against us.”

  “True enough,” said Jaan. “And the Russian government knows it has no possibility of suppressing us by force. Even the mighty army of Germany never penetrated the Urals. We’re safe from invasion, and the Chinese love us, so we don’t have that much to fear. If we demand financial justice, Moscow essentially will have to give it to us.”

  Sergei, who, with Masorin gone, was probably the most militant of them, suddenly said flatly, “We could just round up the other two Siberian Federations and inform Moscow that we do plan to secede from the Russian Republic. Just like the smaller countries did from the Soviet Union.

  “We ought not to do this in any spirit of malevolence, and we should inform them we would like to continue with trade agreements, much like the status quo. But in the absence of cooperation from Moscow, and in light of their compliance in the murder of the leader of the Ural Federal District, we intend from now on to call the shots financially on our own oil, and increase our trade with China.”

  “To which they will say, No, out of the question,” said Roman, mildly.

  “Then we issue our first veiled threat that there may be some interruption in production,” replied Sergei.

  The room fell silent. The snow squalls lashed against the double-glazed windows, and the wind howled.

  “You hear that weather out there?” said Sergei. “That is our greatest strength. Because you have to be Siberian to work out here, to cope with the terrible conditions. I know we ship in labor for the rigs from Belarus and other cold climates. But the bedrock of our workforce is Siberian. Without native labor the entire oil industry would collapse. No one else is tough enough to stand it.”

  “Gentlemen, how serious are you about a declaration of independence?” Roman was pensive.

  “Not very, I don’t think,” said Boris. “But I think we all believe the threat would send a lightning bolt through the Russian government. And that would quickly bring an agreement that the Siberian Federations deserve more from the treasure that lies under their own lands. It’s really the only compensation the people have.”

  “I believe the intention of opening up increased trade with China would really frighten them,” said Jaan. “We already have shortages and bottlenecks on the pipelines. If Moscow thought we intended to ship more and more oil down the new pipeline to China, I think they’d be very nervous. Especially if we were getting a much better price for it.”

  “And of course we ought not to forget the new tanker terminal in Murmansk,” added Boris. “Right now we’re shipping one point five million barrels of Siberian crude a day to the United States directly from the Barents Sea to the U.S. East Coast. Moscow would hate to jeopardize that, and Murmansk is a real outpost, way down at the end of a very long pipeline. Everyone knows they’re what the Americans call ‘low man on the totem pole.’

  “Any shortages up there would infuriate them. But they already know the danger. And they know the sympathies of the big oil corporations are very much in favor of the Siberians. Especially as so many of us are Siberians. The truth is, Siberia not only owns the oil, Siberia also controls it.”

  Outside, the ice storm continued to blow out of the north. Sergei stood up and placed another couple of logs on the fire, saying quietly as he did so, “Moscow is fifteen hundred miles from us—and if we decide to increase our production to China, there’s nothing they can do about it. Except negotiate, on our terms. And the murder of Mikhallo has not helped their cause
, both in this room and out there among the people.”

  “Gentlemen, I think this calls for a summit meeting, in the next ten days. Is that likely to be possible?” Roman was getting down to brass tacks.

  “Yes. I think we could manage that,” replied Sergei. “Say four or five top oil executives, ourselves and perhaps three more, plus four or five major Siberian politicians, Roman and the other two Federation leaders, plus two Energy Ministers from the Ural Federation and maybe Mikhail from the Far East.”

  “Place?” said Roman.

  “Well, it can’t be out here,” stated Boris. “We’ll be lucky to keep this little gathering under wraps, even if we get out the moment the weather slows down. I’d suggest Yekaterinburg, because it’s bigger, more anonymous, and we can arrive from several different directions. It doesn’t matter if any one of us is recognized, so long as no one knows we’re meeting together.”

  “It’s important we show Moscow a united front that truly represents the will not only of the Siberian oil industry, but that of the people,” said Roman. “They can’t assassinate us all, can they?”

  “I suppose not,” muttered Sergei.

  0800 (LOCAL), SAME DAY

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Lenny Suchov was on the secure line from CIA headquarters early. Lt. Commander Ramshawe took the call.

  “Guess you heard the verdict, Jimmy. It’s in all the papers this morning.”

  “Sure did. Murder by persons unknown.”

  “Well, I called you for two reasons. First of all we got a picture of the guy who probably shot the curare into Mikhallo’s neck. Only from the back. But he’s a big guy, and he’s leaning over talking. We’ve checked every inch of the surveillance film. No one else got that close all evening, at least not while Masorin was dining.

  “The FBI are making formal inquiries at the Russian embassy, showing them our film, but the guy is back in Russia. And word is the White House does not want this to go much further. We got major oil trade agreements with Moscow, and the new export route from Murmansk is working well and profitably for everyone.

  “Guess the President doesn’t want to piss ’em off any more than we already have.”

  “That’d be right,” said Jimmy. “Anyway, in the end, it’s nothing to do with us really. It’s a Russian murder and a Russian matter…what else?”

  “One of our guys in the Siberian oil fields thinks something is brewing up there, politically.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Apparently, earlier today—”

  “You can’t get much bloody earlier…”

  Lenny chuckled. “They are nine hours in front…”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s different. Carry on.”

  Lenny laughed out loud. “Pay attention, young Ramshawe,” he said. “Otherwise I have you assassinated…as I was saying, one of our guys was out at the little airport in Noyabrsk when a private jet landed, bearing none other than Boris Rekuts. That’s the new political chief who’s replaced Masorin as boss of the Urals Federal District.

  “Anyway, our man tracked him into the town and saw him go into the SIBNEFT offices, where he stayed for three hours. Our guy sat in his car, just up the street, in a snowstorm, and saw Jaan Valuev leave the same building—he’s the billionaire who runs OJSC, one of the biggest oil companies in Russia. Our man did not see anyone else leave, and he waited until dark at four p.m. But Valuev was picked up by an articulated truck, right across the street.”

  “Is all that significant?” asked Jimmy.

  “Well, they were in these small SIBNEFT site offices. You know that’s the enormous Siberian Oil Company. We got the biggest man in the business, Jaan Valuev, sneaking in and out of articulated trucks, and the political boss of Western Siberia showing up for just three or four hours. Sounds like a serious powwow to me.”

  “You think it has something to do with Masorin?”

  “I’ve no doubt they mentioned it. But the Siberian oil establishment is restless at the moment. They’re sick of Moscow, dying to trade more with China, and when two or three very big cheeses start meeting in secret, in the wilds of the western Siberian plains, it’s good to know.”

  “I guess it is,” said Jimmy. “And I’m going to record all of this in my files. But I’m not quite sure why.”

  “If Russia suddenly attacks its Siberian colonies and causes a World War, you’ll be glad I call you, hah? Glad to know Lenny was still steering you straight!”

  “I’m always glad of that, old mate,” replied Jimmy. “Dad’s coming down to Washington for a couple of weeks soon…will you have dinner with us?”

  “That would be very nice…good-bye now…how you say? Old mate.”

  1530, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 27

  EASTERN FOOTHILLS OF THE URAL MOUNTAINS

  The city of Yekaterinburg lies 1,130 miles east of Moscow. It is a city of a million souls, a light, airy, modern place with wide avenues, parks, and gardens, many of its historic public buildings constructed in the same fawn-and-white stucco as those in faraway St. Petersburg.

  Some of the more elegant architecture of the old city, dating back to the 1720s, has been preserved; not, however, the Ipatiev house, which stood on a piece of land opposite the cream-and-turquoise tower of the Old Ascension Church. The house is long gone, bulldozed on the orders of Leonid Brezhnev. Today there is just a stark white memorial cross among a copse of trees.

  It marks the spot where, on July 17, 1918, Czar Nicholas II, his wife, son, and daughters were slaughtered in the basement of the merchant Ipatiev’s residence, gunned down, bayoneted, and bludgeoned by the secret police squad that guarded them on behalf of the Bolsheviks.

  The name Yekaterinburg will always stand as a symbol of those brutal, violent murders, and, as if to make sure no one ever forgets, there stands a statue, right in the middle of Central Avenue, the former Lenin Street, of Yakov Sverdlov, organizer of the killings.

  Not a hundred feet from the statue, in another basement, the lower floor of an office building owned by SIBNEFT, there was taking place one of the most secret meetings ever conducted in Yekaterinburg, certainly since the days leading up to the death of Czar Nicholas and his family.

  At the head of a long polished oak table sat Roman Rekuts, the towering figure who now virtually ruled western Siberia. At the far end sat Sergei Pobozhiy, the Chairman of SIBNEFT, flanked by his two coconspirators, the billionaire Jaan Valuev from OJSC Surgutneftegas, and the powerful LUKOIL Financial Vice President, Boris Nuriyev.

  The First Minister of the Central Siberian Federal District was there, in company with the new Chief Executive of the Russian Far East, who brought his Energy Minister, Mikhail Pavlov.

  Roman Rekuts had brought his new deputy with him, and Sergei Pobozhiy was accompanied by his West Siberian Chief of Operations, the grizzled, beefy ex-drillmaster on the exploration rigs, Anton Katsuba.

  Every one of the nine men in the room was Siberian-born. And not one of them failed to be attracted by the prospect of a clean break with Moscow. Of forming a new Republic of Siberia, a free and independent state with its own flag and currency. Even Yekaterinburg had its own flag, a white, green, and black tricolor, and there was talk of a Urals franc.

  But the meeting was collectively certain of one sacrosanct rule—they must keep their close ties to Moscow in the oil business, retaining, however, the freedom to trade with their anxious, more affluent industrial neighbors to the south and east, in the People’s Republic of China.

  There had been instant camaraderie in the boardroo
m since the meeting began, as men with similar stated aims pointed out the advantages of freedom to both the corporations and to the people of Siberia. They had begun at 3:00 p.m. and intended to proceed until dinner, which would be taken at the big table, before proceeding with the final draft of their communiqué to Moscow.

  The meeting ended early, however, shortly after 4:30, when the double doors to the boardroom were booted open and an armed Soviet-style guard in military uniform bearing no insignia aimed his Kalashnikov straight at the defenseless head of Roman Rekuts and opened fire, pumping three bullets in a dead straight line across his forehead.

  In a split second four more guards were in the room. They cut down Sergei Pobozhiy with a hail of bullets to the neck and chest, and blew away Jaan Valuev, who was hit by eight AK-47 bullets to the throat and neck.

  Boris Nuriyev stood up and held his hands out in front of him, in the fleeting mini-seconds before he was gunned down with a burst to the chest that caused him to fall forward, bleeding onto the rough draft of their demands to Moscow.

  Anton Katsuba, seated in the center of the table opposite the guards, crashed his way under the table and seemed to vanish from everyone’s mind, but the big man made a stupendous comeback, rising out from under the seats like a rogue elephant and clamping a mighty fist on the windpipe of one of the attackers.

  By now he was the only one of the nine left alive, and he grabbed the guard’s rifle and opened fire. No one was ready for this, and he actually killed two and wounded three before he was himself cut down in a hail of bullets from the other six.

  The room was a total bloodbath, the carpet awash, the walls splattered. Blood flowed over the table. It was a grotesque insurrection, a near copybook repeat of the events of July 17, 1918, in a subterranean room not so far away from the old Ipatiev basement.