by Ward Larsen
Curiously, the most headline-worthy release of information came not from the Moroccans, but rather the Russian ambassador in Rabat. In a freewheeling news conference on the second day after the event, he spilled word of what had been discovered in the wreckage of RosAvia’s hangar. Surviving the inferno were countless ISIS pamphlets, prayer rugs, and two laptop computers containing a virtual library of radical Islamic literature. Perhaps coincidentally—or perhaps not—within minutes of the Russian ambassador leaving his podium, a number of crude videos began circulating on the internet in which ISIS claimed credit for the attack.
With the bit between their teeth, reporters besieged Morocco’s Sûreté Nationale, who reluctantly confirmed the ambassador’s assertions. The police had hoped to deflect mention of ISIS involvement, not wanting to fan fundamentalist flames in their strongly Muslim nation. The dashing of the Sûreté’s hopes was made complete the next day when headlines across the world labeled the attack as the latest radical jihadist assault.
An ocean away, the CIA followed every dispatch. The consensus opinion there was nearly universal, and distilled to two points: As attempts at false flag attribution went, it was perhaps the clumsiest job anyone had ever seen. And by all appearances, it seemed to be working.
EPILOGUE
Two weeks later
Corruption is not born spontaneously. It festers in fine hotel rooms, hatches in five-star restaurants, and is birthed on yachts in faraway anchorages. It takes root in the dusty file cabinets of small-island law firms, and smiles in the reflection of washbasin mirrors in government ministry bathrooms. At that moment, it was coming together nicely on the paths of a palace garden along the shores of the Black Sea.
It was the richest of absurdities that if any palace in the world could rival those of the Saudi kingdom, it was one built for the man who had plotted to murder its sovereign. At a cost of a billion dollars—skimmed from state accounts intended for health care and infrastructure—the “Southern Project” held distinct differences from its Arab competition. There was a chapel in one wing, a casino in another. Multiple theaters showed first-run Hollywood movies, and ballrooms and swimming pools were so plentiful as to require numbers to distinguish between them. The palace by the sea was compulsive in scale, thieving in style, and, not by chance, reminiscent of the houses built for Russian Czars in the eighteenth century.
Situated high on a densely wooded plateau at the head of the Caucasus Mountains, the estate kept an authoritative watch over the eastern shores of the Black Sea. In whose name it did so was an ill-kept mystery. The property’s provenance had proved maddeningly untraceable, this despite research campaigns by a dozen Western media outlets. For every official record reporters unearthed, two more seemed to appear. As shell games went, it was more transparent than most—the opulent manor north of Sochi had but one lord. And while he visited rarely, his sojourns were generally designed with one thing in mind: discretion.
As was the case today.
President Petrov roamed the eastern gardens with two men in tow. He looked out across the sea until a frigid breeze swept in and turned his gaze shoreward. Isolation aside, he’d hoped the southern palace would prove warmer than Moscow. As it turned out, any difference was marginal.
Vladimir Ovechkin, who was on his right, pursed his lips thoughtfully, and said, “I read this morning that oil prices have begun falling again.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“At least there was a brief spike. It took the Saudis a week to put down the insurgents we armed. And the rumors of an assassination plot against the entire House of Saud—it did rattle the markets. We were on the right track.”
The president frowned. “I’m not so sure. The revolt was put down decisively, and now the Saudis will double down on security for the royal family.”
“Perhaps. We can at least be happy the CIA hasn’t gone public with what they know about our … involvement.”
“Let them try,” Petrov said dismissively. “There is no real evidence. Nothing we can’t deflect and obscure. If we have gained one upper hand in recent years, it is our ability to manipulate information. Our cyber teams are unmatched.”
They reached a broad set of steps rising to a stone terrace that spanned over an acre. The president began climbing and Ovechkin followed suit. Three steps behind them the third man kept pace, a pit bull to Ovechkin’s corpulent poodle. His name—as he had truthfully told the crew of a ship named Argos, and workers in a hangar in Morocco—was Ivan.
Ovechkin said, “We made the right choice in silencing Ivanovic and Romanov. They would not have been reliable under such pressure. But it’s too bad about your young gun.”
“The sergeant?” the president replied.
“Yes. Who was he?”
They reached the top of the stairs, and Petrov began walking toward the overlook of the southern glade. “A soldier—a very competent one, or so I was told. I believe his name was Nikolai.”
“Nikolai. Another in the long line of men giving the ultimate sacrifice for the Rodina.”
Petrov looked at Ovechkin and saw the sly grin. “Yes,” said the president, “the Rodina. I’ll make sure he gets a star on a wall somewhere. Perhaps a statue in a square.”
“That’s more than I’ll ever get,” said Ovechkin reflectively. “Not that I care. I’m happy to take my accolades in this life.”
“You always do—in whatever denomination you can get.”
Ovechkin’s grin became forced, and he turned pensive. “What about Slaton? Apparently he is alive after all, and better than anyone thought. The fallout from our operation seems mostly contained, but he could be a problem.”
Petrov’s gaze hardened. “By all accounts, he was instrumental in our failure—he put a hatchet to three years of work. Last week I gave the SVR orders to hunt him down.”
“Have they made any progress?”
“A few leads,” the president said, “but he’s proving elusive. We think he may be aware of our effort to eliminate him.”
“How could that be?”
“He apparently keeps loose ties with the CIA, and perhaps Mossad. He’s getting information from somewhere. But we’ll find him. As long as I keep a target on his back, it is only a matter of time.”
The two men stood along the high balustrade, looking out across the sea.
Ivan came closer and stood next to Ovechkin. He said, “If you locate Slaton, I would like to do the honors.”
Petrov eyed him, then Ovechkin. “You have both proved yourselves in recent months. Our little effort went astray, yet I think that going forward we should—”
The president’s words were interrupted by what seemed like a rush of air, and in the next instant came an explosion. An explosion of flesh and blood and fabric. Ovechkin dropped to the terrace like a stone. Ivan seemed to pirouette, then fell in a heap next to him.
A stunned Petrov reeled back a step. He looked at Ivan and saw a massive wound from rib to rib—he’d nearly been cut in half. Centered in Ovechkin’s chest was a glistening crimson hole. The terrace all around was covered in blood and tissue. The president looked down to see his own fine suit misted in red.
Petrov stood inanimate, disbelieving.
The next thing he knew, he was tackled to the cold stone by his personal security detail.
* * *
As the shaken Russian president was locked down in the palace’s inner sanctums, a spirited response was launched. For three hours Russian security forces searched the surrounding forest. Roadblocks were established for containment, nearby airports locked down. Service was suspended at the nearby Sochi train station as police and counter-terrorism forces beat down doors and scoured the countryside. A two-mile search radius around the palace was increased to three, and by seven that evening, with the president taking a cautious dinner under light sedation, there was still nothing to report. The best counter-terrorism forces in Russia could find no trace of the assassin who had shot two men dead with a single heavy-
caliber bullet—a bullet that had passed within inches of the presidential lapel.
It went that way until just after sunrise the next morning. That was when Petrov himself ordered the search perimeter expanded. The shooter’s hide was discovered soon after, and with surprisingly little trouble—the assassin had not bothered to conceal his temporary residence. There were energy bar wrappers and water bottles, fresh footprints on the wet earth. An expertly built blind made from vegetation had actually been set aside, in the way one might pull back the curtain on a stage.
By the account of one security man, who’d had some training as a sniper, it was as if the assailant was making an effort to advertise his presence. Yet the same man gave pause in his assessment for one very simple reason: if this was indeed where the shooter had holed up, it would indicate a shot of six thousand yards. Nearly three and a half miles. Without question—and even against recent rumors from Capri and Davos—the longest sniper shot ever recorded.
Aside from the detritus of occupation, the hide provided one striking bit of evidence: a standard ammo box. Not sure what to make of it, and wanting to provide some sign of progress, the head of Kremlin security, a neckless man named Vasiliev, brought it straight to the president. Wearing gloves to ensure the evidence wasn’t contaminated, he set it on a Louis Quinze desk in the president’s private study for Petrov’s inspection.
“It’s an ammo box,” Vasiliev said.
Petrov stared at the man with some irritation. He’d long cultivated his image as an outdoorsman, and he hunted regularly. He knew an ammo box when he saw one.
Vasiliev explained about the hide. “It’s almost as if he’s daring us to find him,” he said at the end.
The president gestured toward the box with an upward flick of his finger. Vasiliev raised the lid. Petrov stared at what was inside for a very long time. He then ordered Vasiliev to stay put, and deferred to the far side of the room where he made a phone call that lasted five minutes. When it ended, Petrov returned to his desk and stood hovering over the box.
“This is precisely as you found it?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Vasiliev.
“And you are certain that only one bullet was fired yesterday?”
“I can tell you a single spent casing was recovered from the shooter’s hide. We have also confirmed that both victims were struck by a single round. We analyzed their injuries, and know precisely where each man was standing in relation to the shooter’s position. We actually have video from cameras on the terrace. There was no more than a ten-second window in which the two were standing perfectly in line. For one shot to strike them both—it was a terrible bit of bad luck. The bullet was found embedded in stone at the foot of the main residence. It is in poor condition, yet seems to be of a very curious design. Our forensic people are going to—”
“No!” Petrov barked. “I want the bullet brought to me!”
Vasiliev was dumbfounded, but knew better than to argue. “Very well.”
Petrov stared at the box like it was a grenade with a pulled pin. After a period of silence, Vasiliev screwed up enough courage to ask, “Sir … it is my sworn duty to protect you. I will do as you ask, but if there is something I should know, something that has bearing on my duties…”
The president lifted his stony gaze from the box and settled it on the man whose job was to keep him alive. Petrov’s rise to power was based largely on ruthlessness, yet as with most long-tenured tyrants, he recognized the occasional need for pragmatism.
“What I am about to tell you will never leave this room.”
Vasiliev nodded cautiously.
“The phone call I just made was to a certain team of engineers. Some years ago they undertook a very special armaments project…” He told his security chief about the development of a steerable bullet and its capabilities. At the end he pointed to the ammo box. “A few weeks ago, three of these bullets existed. One, I’ve been told, was used in Morocco. It was employed by one of our best marksmen against a target who somehow survived. That man, as it turns out, is himself an accomplished sniper. He managed to overpower our man, and take possession of the remaining two rounds along with the weapon system. Yesterday he employed one of these bullets. You have seen the results.”
Now it was Vasiliev who stood staring at the ammo box. There were three foam slots. In two of them were empty plastic cases shaped like large-caliber cartridges. The third slot was quite empty.
“You see the problem,” Petrov said. “One bullet remains.”
The head of Kremlin security, who had never conceived of bullets that could reach out miles, was quick to envision how such a technology could complicate his job. “The area we will have to clear everywhere you go—it has just more than tripled. Any public appearance will become a monumental undertaking. I dare say, there are certain venues that could never be made safe.”
“Actually,” the president said, confidence returning to his voice for the first time in nearly a day, “I think it may not be so difficult.”
“We have to find this man, eliminate him,” Vasiliev said.
“The SVR has been trying to track him down for weeks. They’ve gotten nowhere.” Petrov actually smiled, at last seeing the theatrical double murder for precisely what it was.
A message.
“No,” the president said, more to himself than Vasiliev. “I think we need to do quite the opposite.”
* * *
President Petrov spent the next hour on the phone issuing orders. All were carried out to the letter.
In a soulless industrial park west of Moscow, a small and mysterious research project was ordered shuttered that day. All equipment was to be packed up and shipped away, and by the next morning every member of the support staff was lined up for exit briefings at two separate doors in the fast-emptying building. Behind the first door a pair of beefy FSB agents, straight from central casting, impressed upon everyone the continued level of secrecy expected regarding their work. One by one, the employees advanced with some trepidation toward the second door where a far more positive message was delivered. Two options were presented by an attractive young woman whose government affiliation was left unmentioned: each worker was offered either an early and remarkably generous pension, or a plum assignment in an unrelated engineering project. Among the support staff, none left the second room without a smile.
In an ode to compartmentalization, the only two people in the building with full knowledge of the project were the lead engineers. The man and woman took the news with predictable despondency: the research they’d committed four years of their lives to was having its plug pulled. Both had long tenures in the defense establishment, and so they’d seen such shutdowns before. Usually it involved a lack of progress or dismal test results. The two were convinced that their steerable bullet had shown great promise, yet any hope of resurrecting their work was shot down in a private briefing with the head of the FSB team. The choices they were presented, by a bespectacled pock-faced man, were considerably more narrow than those offered their underlings. Each of the engineers would be given a comfortable severance in exchange for never working again. More pointedly, they were warned against ever discussing any aspect of their recent work. The only alternative to this arrangement, alluded to obliquely and with a dead gaze, centered around something called Camp Number Six in Central Siberia. The man and woman signed agreements and left the room in silence.
Closer to the center of Moscow, the director of the SVR was taken by surprise when he was ordered by the president to shutter his agency’s search for an elusive former Mossad assassin. Yet he was not unhappy. In the two weeks since the president had initiated the manhunt, there had been a notable dearth of leads. A paid informant in Lebanon swore the man could be found at a resort in Beirut. No trace of their target was ever seen, and not surprisingly, the informant himself fell untraceable when sought for a follow-up interview. There was a nibble in Madrid, but two SVR agents there were left backpedaling from the apartment of
a retired Mossad officer who bore no resemblance whatsoever to their suspect, and who owned at least one large-caliber handgun.
The most promising tip, as it turned out, had come from an informant tied to the U.S. embassy in Rome. A plumber who performed occasional work there, and who much to the SVR’s delight fancied himself a secret agent, claimed to have overheard rumblings that an “Israeli contractor” had taken up residence in the embassy with his family. The SVR set up watch outside the mission, and for three days saw nothing notable. They were in the process of pulling their surveillance when, less than twenty-four hours ago, the plumber had followed up with one more snippet: the Israeli in question was further rumored to have departed the embassy for a sailboat docked in Amalfi.
Weary of so many false leads, the SVR dispatched but a single man to the southern coast, although it wasn’t quite the token effort it appeared. As far as anyone knew, the man they sent was the only person still living who had seen Slaton—just over two weeks ago in a derelict apartment amid the darkest dens of Marrakesh.
* * *
The tall and gaunt man, who when it suited him called himself Smith, cut no less somber a figure in Amalfi than he had on Rue Essebtiyne. He arrived on a sunny Saturday morning to a sparkling sea and the bluest of skies.
As an experienced field officer, he was well versed in all manner of surveillance. Resultingly, as he spent hours scouring the municipal docks, he did so with no small degree of discomfort. Because of his appearance—his unusual height and gait, and strikingly angular features—he was generally considered unsuitable for “street work.” It was his strong language skills—honed by repeated postings to America—that had caused him to specialize in a far different role. He was, as he himself claimed in the parlance of Hollywood, something of a character actor. Someone who could play a bit part with the utmost of conviction.