Ghost Force

by Patrick Robinson

  Russia was ruled from this grand suite of offices where the President now sat, sipping coffee at the head of a highly polished table. With him were just four men, gathered here in the domed rotunda on the second floor of the Senate building, today the ultimate seat of Russian power, situated on the east side of the Kremlin.

  The great yellow-and-white, triangular, eighteenth-century neoclassical edifice stands east of Peter the Great’s Arsenal building, alongside the old 1930s Supreme Soviet. It is situated behind the ramparts that flank the Senate Tower, directly behind Lenin’s tomb.

  Like the current Russian President, Vladimir Ilych Lenin both lived and worked in the Senate, a measure of history adored by the reigning President. But perhaps the leader in 2010 liked even better the fact that during World War II, this rotunda hosted the Red Army Supreme Command, under Stalin.

  The President was relaxed in this cradle of Russian history, feeling as he always did in the rotunda a vast sense of confidence, impregnability, and destiny. The men who depended entirely upon him for their exalted positions and grandiose lifestyles were apt to treasure his every word.

  It was almost impossible to imagine the old days, when Politburo members occasionally vanished for incurring the wrath of their Communist Party leader. Almost impossible. Not quite.

  The President smiled at those whose undying trust he enjoyed. There was the Prime Minister, Valery Kravchenko, who like himself was a native of St. Petersburg. There was the current head of the FSB, Boris Patrushov; the Energy Minister, Oleg Kuts; the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Oleg Nalyotov, who literally strutted around in his vast authority, pompously occupying the office once held by the great Andrei Gromyko.

  The last man at the table, placed to the right of Nalyotov, was Gregor Komoyedov, the former Moscow oil executive who now occupied the critically important Ministry for Foreign Trade. Above them all fluttered the white, blue, and red horizontal tricolor of the Russian Federation, high atop the flagstaff at the pinnacle of the rotunda.

  Twelve hundred meters to the south, the Moscow River flowed icily eastward, lazily as Russian history. And beyond the great Senate Tower, in Red Square, a thousand tourists stared up and over the Kremlin ramparts, most of them gazing at the towering gilded dome of Ivan the Great’s Bell Tower, still the tallest structure in the Kremlin, and once the tallest building in Moscow.

  From the wide windows of the rotunda, the Russian President and his colleagues could see the riotous colors, the greens, the yellows, and the bloodred livery of St. Basil’s Cathedral with its twisting domes jutting skyward to the south of the square.

  One glance through those windows could engulf the mind with visions of the stark and tumultuous history of Russia. Every man at the table sensed it, especially the President. And they sensed it every time a highly classified meeting was invoked. As ever, for former middle-line government officials elevated to the grandeurs of power, destiny beckoned.

  “Gentlemen,” said the President, “first of all, I think we owe a vote of thanks to Boris Patrushov, to the quite brilliant way he first located, and then dealt with, that treasonous and seditious conference that took place in Yekaterinburg. I think our mutual role model, the late First Secretary, Leonid Brezhnev, would have been very proud.”

  The head of the new secret police looked modestly down at his notes, and said quietly, “Thank you, Comrade. But I should say our success was entirely due to the very alert observation of our little mole in the office of the Chairman of the Siberian Oil Company. The rest was routine for me. That conference represented a threat to the Russian people. A threat to the bedrock of our economy. It had to be extinguished.”

  “Absolutely correct,” interjected Oleg Nalyotov. “The consequences of their proposed actions were unthinkable for any Russian not resident in Siberia.”

  The President nodded. “However,” he continued, “the Siberian threat remains. They are a vast Russian protectorate, which, at the top at least, suspects it no longer needs our protection. I think it is likely that such an intention, to secede from the Motherland, may very well occur again, though probably not for a while.

  “We have probably silenced it for maybe five or six years. But we have not killed it, any more than we could ever kill it. The will of the Siberians, to profit and prosper from the oil and gas that lies beneath their godforsaken frozen soil, will surely rise again.

  “But first I would like to deal with more immediate matters. The…er…termination of the careers of the treacherous men who gathered in Yekaterinburg on Monday. Plainly they will be missed. Probably already have been…”

  Foreign Minister Nalyotov intervened. “With respect, Comrade, the Western press has already picked up a lead on the disappearance of Jaan Valuev, the Surgutneftegas President…apparently failed to turn up at some soccer game…caused questions in sports circles…now we have formal inquiries from foreign media asking if he’s been found.”

  The President nodded, very seriously. “Nothing else?” he asked.

  “Well, they seem to think Sergei Pobozhiy, the Chairman of SIBNEFT, is mysteriously vanished. I think Gregor Komoyedov might have some information.”

  The Energy Minister nodded and said, “Very little, I am afraid. But I understand there have been some serious inquiries inside the corporation as to his whereabouts. The Chairman does not often go missing, and I did hear they were talking to his wife. That’ll be public knowledge in twenty-four hours.”

  “Plainly,” said the President, “we must move on this. I think the best course of action would be an accident in a military aircraft deep in the tundra. We need not give details, as the mission was highly classified. But I have drafted a press release, which should be issued directly from the military. It should begin something like this…

  “With deep regret we announce the loss of a Russian Air Force jet, which disappeared over the arctic tundra somewhere north of the Siberian oil fields earlier this week. Unfortunately, the aircraft was known to have been transporting several important personnel from the Russian national oil and gas industry, as well as several senior Siberian politicians. Severe weather conditions have made the search for bodies almost impossible.

  “Their ultimate destination was Murmansk for an international conference at the new tanker terminals. Air Force helicopters are currently in the search area but no wreckage has yet been found, and we have no information on the cause of the crash. Because of the classified nature of the mission, the Air Force will not be releasing the names of any of their own personnel.

  “Families of the deceased executives and politicians are currently being informed. The government and the military authorities are treating the incident as an accident that occurred in flight, though there will of course be a thorough investigation into the possible reasons for the jet to have gone down.”

  “Excellent,” said Boris Patrushov, with the clear relief of a man who had just ordered and masterminded a dozen cold-blooded murders of innocent Russian civilians. “It’ll take a few days and a few awkward questions. But we’ll alert the military media authorities on the procedures we expect them to adopt.

  “And we’ll make it known that the government would prefer this very sad incident to be treated with care and sensitivity. Sensationalizing the death of such men will incur the anger of the authorities. It might also be a good idea to bestow some kind of decorations or medals on these men who died in the service of their country.”

  “Very good idea,” said the President. “Perhaps the Cross of the Russian Federation for the civilians, and regular combat medals for the pilots.”

  “Perfect,” offered Boris. “And of course in the end we�
��ll blame the appalling weather and the impossibility of landing the aircraft after an instrument failure, and an apparent problem with the hydraulics.”

  “Yes, I think that will see our little problem off very nicely,” said Prime Minister Kravchenko. “Very nicely indeed.”

  “Meanwhile,” continued the President, “I think we should discuss the heart of the problem.”

  “Which is?” asked Kravchenko.

  The President looked concerned. He glanced up and said, “What would become of Mother Russia if ever the Siberians were to succeed in going their own way? They certainly would not be the first of our satellites to do so. But they would be, by a long way, the most dangerous.

  “And even if they demanded or took a far greater license in deciding the destination of their own oil and gas…well, that could prove nearly fatal for us. Because they would almost certainly turn to China, and a close, cozy relationship between those two, right down at the ass end of the fucking Asian continent, would not be great…”

  “Neither financially, geographically, nor diplomatically,” mused Kravchenko. “World sympathy would immediately swing to Siberia, the poor freezing underclass of the old Soviet Union…never had anything, never been fairly treated by Moscow…struggled with the world’s cruelest climate for centuries…and now the bullies of the Kremlin want to suppress them yet again—”

  “Yes,” interrupted the President. “I think that was quite sufficiently graphic. And I think I speak for everyone when I say we might one day simply lose control of that Siberian oil. We won’t be ruined…there’ll still be riches and reward for the Russian government. But it won’t be like now. The goose’s golden eggs will become a bit more…well, brassy.”

  The Russian President stood up and pressed a bell for the Senate butler to come through and bring them coffee and sweet pastries. He stood before a gigantic portrait of the elderly Catherine the Great, accompanied by her brown-and-white whippet, and specified the precise texture of thick dark coffee he required, and the precise sweetness of the pastries.

  Then he sat down and began to outline a plan of such terrifying wickedness and subversiveness, each of the four officials who were listening were stunned into silence.

  “We are going to need a new supply of oil,” he said. “From somewhere in the world where there are ample reserves, billions of barrels of crude, which we can seize control of. I know it’s not going to be easy, and that anyone who has it wants to keep it. But there is a new and very serious player in the game…China. And within a few short years they are going to want every last barrel they can lay their hands on.”

  He hesitated for a moment as the door opened and the butler came in with their coffee. He nodded respectfully and set the large silver tray down on an antique sideboard beneath a gigantic nineteenth-century painting of the Battle of Balaklava fought in the Crimea in 1854.

  Turning to Energy Minister Kuts, the President said, “Oleg, read to them those stats you gave me yesterday, will you? I think everyone will be interested, and I would like my memory to be refreshed.”

  “Certainly,” replied Kuts, shuffling his files. “I should perhaps begin by stating there are more than fifty-six million cars, vans, and sport utility vehicles rolling down China’s highways at this very moment. That accounts for probably sixteen percent of the world’s energy consumption—that’s second only to the U.S., which gobbles up twenty-four percent.

  “By 2020 it is estimated that China will be very close to that twenty-four percent—probably using eleven million barrels a day, plus three point six trillion cubic feet of natural gas. And that’s likely to put their backs to the wall.

  “Hardly a day passes without some kind of power outage in China, especially in the winter, when their aging pipelines occasionally fail. Their electricity grid grows more decrepit every year. Output is rapidly declining in the big northeastern fields around Daqing, and their reserves in far western China mostly lie beneath the high, dry deserts.

  “That means their best shot at claiming those reserves, deep beneath the surface, is going to be very, very expensive.

  “That’s why, even as we speak, China is out there scouring the globe for new opportunities in oil exploration. They will naturally try to crowd their way into neighboring Siberia with promises of a huge market for local oil. In the meantime, they will be pushing forward, financing and trading, to open up oil exploration fields in Australia, Indonesia, Iran, Kazakhstan, Nigeria, Papua New Guinea, and the Sudan.

  “Gentlemen, China calls it supply security , and the name of that game is diversification. They’re in it up to their elbows, we’re lagging far behind. We’re too dependent on Siberia. We must raise our sights. And I think you will find our most esteemed leader has some very advanced views on that.

  “Yesterday I briefed him as well as I could on the global situation. Who has new oil? Where are the big new fields? Is anyone vulnerable to persuasion? If not, how can we persuade them? During the next few minutes, gentlemen, you will hear why our President may one day be talked of in the same breath as Brezhnev, Gorbachev, and Yeltsin. The great visionaries of our time.”

  The President smiled. “Thank you for those generous words, Oleg. I’m grateful for them, and I’m grateful to be here among old and good friends who share my concern for the future.

  “And I would like, if I may, firstly to outline the very obvious difficulties that lie in much of the world’s oil exploration countries. Take the Middle East…well, we may make some headway, but mostly in Iran. The rest of the Gulf, the principal Arab producers, are always in the hands of the Americans.

  “The Saudis, the Emirates, Iraq, Kuwait, Bahrain, and Qatar are all encompassed by the USA—particularly after the Presidency of George W. Bush. None of them move without an okay from the White House.

  “Indonesia was up for grabs. But the Americans are strong there and the Chinese are getting close. The Brits are running out of North Sea oil altogether. Europe is devoid of all resources except coal. The USA will never relinquish any of the oil from the Alaskan fields, and Mexico and Venezuela prefer to deal with Washington. Thanks again to President Bush.”

  The Russian President rearranged his papers. “Which brings us to two of the biggest strikes of this century so far—the one in South Georgia, which lies deep in the middle of the South Atlantic, about four meters from the Antarctic Circle, and those two huge new oil fields on the Falkland Islands.”

  “The Falkland Islands!” exclaimed Oleg Nalyotov. “That’s more hopeless than all the other places put together. It’s a British Colony that twenty-eight years ago was the scene of one of the most vicious little three-month wars in modern history.

  “I’m sure you all remember. The Argentinian military seized it, claimed it, and occupied it. And before you could say Nyet , the Royal Navy assembled a battle fleet and charged down the Atlantic and did what they said they’d do.

  “Literally, the Brits blew ’em off that island with guided missiles and bombs. They landed a force of ten thousand and fought for the place as if they were defending the coast of Sussex. Some terrible Admiral they had put the big Argentine cruiser, the General Belgrano , on the bottom of the Atlantic, drowned more than three hundred sailors.

  “My general advice would be don’t fool with the Brits. They get very touchy. And I happen to know it’s Exxon and British Petroleum who are going to develop those oil fields. That’s a U.S.-UK alliance. We should be wary of those, especially when there’s a lot of money involved.”

  The President looked up and nodded. “My dear Oleg,” he said patiently, “you do not think for one moment I intend t
o become involved in a fight with either of them, do you? Frankly I’d rather fight the Siberians, or the Chinese for that matter.

  “But there is one rather hotheaded little nation that might very easily be happy to do our dirty work for us. I believe it’s called Argentina, and they are not afraid of anyone when it comes to those islands. The Malvinas, they believe, belong to them. The very word Malvinas drives them mad in Buenos Aires.

  “Grown men, military officers, beat their breasts and start raving about how proud they would be if their own sons fought and died for the islands. One of the Argentine admirals in the last conflict stated he would die a happy man if the blood of his son, killed in combat, was to seep into the soil of the Malvinas. There is no reason in that country, just passion… Viva las Malvinas! All that nonsense.

  “Their claim is essentially ludicrous, utterly dismissed by London. But with a little clandestine help from us, they might just go at it again. You know, capture the islands, which are scarcely defended, seize the oil, expel the oilmen from Exxon and Shell. And allow us the rights—in return for a generous royalty.

  “We then put in two big Russian oil companies, build them a tanker complex, and sit back and take our cut, in the form of taxes on the oil exported to the Gulf Coast of the United States. Works for everyone, correct?”

  “Sir, it is my duty to warn you that the Americans would be absolutely furious and might use military force against the islands.”

  “Thank you, Prime Minister Kravchenko. But I don’t think you are right. The Americans might be furious, but in the end they would do a deal. The Brits, however, would not. They’d attack the islands, just as they did in 1982.”