by Tigner, Tim
“Where are you calling from?”
“I’m outside Chulin Air Base, where they’re holding Alex. It’s just east of Irkutsk. The snow is coming down pretty heavy now, and there’s a nasty wind, so obviously they’re waiting until the weather improves to take off.”
“Do you think you stand a chance of getting him out of there first?”
“I don’t know, Sir, but I am going to try. It will be risky. That’s why I wanted to check in with you now, to let you know what was happening in case things don’t turn out.”
Sugurov stopped pacing and dropped into a chair as he exhaled. “Listen Andrey, I know I don’t need to tell you how important this mission is to Russia. I think you understand that better than anyone. But don’t go throwing your life away either. If it can’t be done, it can’t be done. We will find another way.”
“Do we have time for that?”
Sugurov was not one for candy coatings or wishful thinking; as Foreign Minister he could not permit himself such indulgences. Still, knowing, loving the man he was speaking with, he dreaded the consequences of the only answer he could give. “No, we don’t have time.”
“Then I will do everything in my power to ensure that Alex does succeed.”
“Can I send you some help?”
“No, Sir. I doubt there’s time, and in any case it’s too risky. Any overt help would render Alex impotent.”
“What about tracking the plane to see where they take him?”
“Won’t work, Sir. You’d need to work with the air base here, and I don’t know if it’s been compromised. In any case I doubt they could help. Yarik knows his business and will surely dip below radar long enough for us to lose him.”
“Godspeed then.”
Sugurov put down the receiver and noticed that his hand was shaking. He had not experienced that before. Was it age, or nerves?
He slid aside one panel of the oak headboard on his bed, revealing the door to a safe. Sugurov keyed in the long combination and was rewarded with the familiar whir and click before thick steel door swung open. He removed a metallic briefcase, set it down on the bed, and pressed his thumbs down squarely on the two large clasps. A microchip verified the thumbprints of the Foreign Minister, and the case popped open.
The briefcase contained a single red file, which in turn contained just two sheets of paper and a diskette. Andrey found that diskette behind the false back of another briefcase. His Deputy, Leo Antsiferov, had been carrying that briefcase three months ago on the day he died. The letters encrypted on the diskette were worse news than the helicopter crash itself.
Pavel Sugurov had been a man of action his whole life. He was the guy who stepped up to the plate, the one who took charge and did the things nobody else knew how to do, or wanted to do. With all the challenges he’d faced, all the transformations he’d seen, this was the first time Sugurov wished he were the other man, the man who didn’t know, the man who didn’t care, the man who left the tough jobs to someone else. Sugurov wanted the Knyaz to be someone else’s problem.
He knew he should be counting his blessings rather than reflecting on his hardships. Andrey could have been killed as well when their helicopter collided with a small plane. Then nobody would know. In fact, it was a miracle that his Chief of Staff survived with no more lasting damage than a nasty scar on his neck. All those hours Andrey spent in the gym had finally paid off. Sugurov had often mocked Demerko for his exercise routine, “It’s your mind you need to build, Andrey, not your muscles.” But the ribbing had stopped when Andrey walked away from that crash. Now Sugurov looked over at the cigarettes by the bed, then down at the frail form in his bathrobe and shook his head.
The blessings continued when Andrey mistakenly salvaged Leo’s briefcase rather than his own, survived the long trek to civilization, and eventually found the hidden diskette. How they had puzzled over its cryptic contents. The diskette contained just two documents, a few kilobytes of information, yet it was packed with enough explosive to rock the world.
The first document contained the technical schematics of an aircraft engine called the UE-2000. To a couple of diplomats, this was mundane and meaningless by itself. The second document was not. It had turned his blood cold. Sugurov steadied his hand and looked down at the provocative text.
I am pleased to report that I shall deliver US projects two and three and complete my assignment as scheduled. I would like to add that the latest figures from the parent companies estimate sales or orders of between one and two billion dollars for each project in the first year alone. We have chosen wisely. With the war coffers secured, I trust this means we will keep to the master schedule and launch in full force by New Year’s, assuming Gorbachev continues to be ripe for the plucking.
Here’s to the New Russia. Long live the Knyaz, —V.
Sugurov had spent days with Andrey brainstorming over those words, turning them inside out and upside down. It wasn’t the idea of overthrowing Gorbachev that troubled him, revolutionary sentiment was unfortunate but ordinary. What was extraordinary was the audacity of the plan that emerged when you read between the lines.
Sugurov and Andrey had agreed on the interpretation of the letter, but their initial impressions of the men behind it and what they were doing had been polar opposites. Sugurov remembered that conversation well.
“These Knyaz have conceived a bold and creative plan, Sir. The idea to steal cutting-edge Western technology to reproduce in Russia is brilliant. They make use of the few trump cards we still have left—our intelligence network and our engineering skills—to get us what we really need. This is better than perestroika, it’s perestroika plus, and it could not only revive Russia, it could make us a superpower again.”
The arguments Andrey made in support of the Knyaz plan were both transparent and persuasive. That was what made them dangerous; they would appeal to the masses.
“If history has taught us anything, Andrey, it is that she will not be rushed and that she does not take kindly to those who try. You cannot build a solid nation on a flawed foundation and expect it not to crumble.
“The US enjoys enduring economic dominance because it is built on a rock-solid foundation. Simply put, Andrey, America’s founding documents represent the best political strategy ever devised. Russia can’t possibly expect to put itself on par, much less take the lead, through a single subversive act.”
Sugurov knew this was a shocking admission for a member of the Russian cabinet to make, and he knew Andrey would find it all the more meaningful as a result.
“But Sir, it’s not just money; it’s jobs, prestige, know-how…”
“Look, Andrey, the Middle East got a similar economic miracle when it found its oil reserves, and look at them. Look at the average Middle Easterner. Not only do they have a social mess, but they’ll be nomads again as soon as the wells run dry. I assure you, Andrey, that when we unmask these Knyaz you won’t find faces you would be proud to see on the new Russian currency.”
Andrey took a minute, but he came around. “Well, at least for their plan to succeed they will have to step forward and be recognized. Then we will have them.”
“On the contrary, Andrey, then they will have us. The people will believe what they want to believe. They will convince themselves that they deserve what the Knyaz offer and they will love the Knyaz for offering it. They won’t think forward to the price that their children will have to pay for growing up in a house of sin. And don’t believe for a second that the Knyaz will suddenly become honest once they walk through the Kremlin’s door. To the contrary, power will only feed the roots of their duplicity and some new evil will begin to grow. They will gain a taste for conquest and look for more. It happens every time.
“No, Andrey, it’s up to a wiser government to implement the restraints that will protect its citizens from themselves, like a father childproofing his house. We cannot give these men a shot at power. Gorbachev has the intelligence, the integrity, and the courage to lead our great nation
properly through these formative years. We must give him the chance. Not these people”
Once Sugurov got Andrey’s buy-in, he shifted their attention to the crucial task of determining if the Knyaz threat was credible: Could they really pluck Gorbachev? To answer that question, they had to pull the mask off Zorro, and to do that, they had to find him. The million-ruble question was how. The winning answer was delicately.
The precariousness of the current political and economic situation in the Soviet Union made it imperative that they conduct the search in absolute secrecy. If the Knyaz got wind of their investigation, they might choose to take radical action. You never want to corner a lion.
So Andrey and Sugurov’s first tactical problem boiled down to figuring out how to investigate the Knyaz without getting caught looking. Their eventual solution was to get an American to do it.
With their fundamental approach determined, they faced the question of where to start. The word Knyaz, the initial V, and the reference to a project at United Electronics was not much to go on. The break came from a fingerprint on the diskette, a fingerprint which they determined to be that of a deep-cover mole in the US, one Victor Titov. They had found “—V.”
“It’s my turn for a question, Andrey. As a Russian writing to Russians, why would Victor be writing in English?”
Andrey had been quick to answer. “I think he’s just meticulous. He can’t write by hand, because handwriting analysis could identify him, and he doesn’t want to install Cyrillic fonts on his computer, because they might incriminate him.”
With that insightful answer, Sugurov had confidently turned the operation over to his Chief of Staff for execution.
Sugurov had watched from Moscow as Andrey followed Victor to Elaine Evans. Once he understood what was going on there, he investigated the backgrounds of her colleagues and found Frank Ferris, or more to the point, his brother Alex. Then Andrey began composing his symphony of subterfuge.
The first movement began with a scheme to trick Victor into murdering Alex’s brother. This brought about the second movement, Alex’s wholehearted involvement, after which Andrey stopped conducting and stepped back into the shadows to listen while making sure that Victor didn’t sour the tune. It was a brilliant plan, and it had gone smoothly enough, until now.
Despite all the progress they had made, Sugurov knew that it would end there, today, if Andrey did not find a way to free Alex from captivity. A standard rescue operation would be a challenge, but not a daunting one for the likes of Andrey. The real rub was the need to free Alex in such a way that the Knyaz would not know that he had been helped. Rescuing Alex was pointless if he could not be put back on course.
It was a long shot with the highest stakes. If Andrey failed, Gorbachev might falter, and then Russia itself could fall to the Knyaz. After nearly seventy years of atheism, Sugurov said a prayer.
U.S. Sees Threat to Soviet Economy
“The economy of the Soviet Union is in a “near crisis” state, and prospects for improvement are slight, United States intelligence agencies told Congress today.
A “single major event” like a prolonged strike or new ethnic unrest could lead to economic chaos.”
David E. Rosenbaum, The New York Times, Page A1[vii]
Chapter 31
Irkutsk, Siberia
So, you can’t see, you can’t hear, you can’t talk, and you’re tied to the floor with your hands behind your back. What do you do?
Alex’s current situation reminded him of a game he and his Turkish partner Mehmet used to play. They would burn up time on boring stakeouts by working their way out of hypothetical binds, challenging each other to find the solution. Aside from exercising their creativity and strengthening their logic skills, the game got them in the habit of thinking out of the box and approaching problems from multiple perspectives.
Now it was second nature for Alex to look at his investigations from the perspective of everyone involved as he searched for motive, opportunity, and intent. But that may not have been the greatest benefit of the game. The what-do-you-do game had taught Alex that there was no such thing as helplessness, just differences in perspective. So once again, Alex, what do you do?
Before he could tackle what-do-you-do, he had to ask himself what-do-you-know? At first glance the answer in this particular instance was, not a lot. That was no coincidence; the people who had captured him were pros. But Alex knew from experience that people in his situation usually knew a lot more than they thought they did.
There had been no conversation since his initial apprehension, just a lot of man-handling. Apart from “Turn around,” and “Move,” the only words spoken to him since his capture in the boardroom were, “Now I’ve got your number.”
The giant had uttered those words just after stabbing Alex in the ass with a syringe that looked more suited for a horse than a human. That had put the fear of God in him. Alex had seen what interrogation chemicals could do to a man’s brain. This is your brain. This is your brain on sodium pentathol…
Only later on, sitting there in the dark and feeling as normal as one could under such circumstances, did Alex’s unwavering state of mind convince him that it was not a chemical cocktail they had injected him with, at least not a mind-altering one. Perhaps, he wishfully hypothesized, it was just a scare tactic.
Alex had just drifted off to sleep when the obvious answer woke him like a kick in the chin. They had implanted him with the same device they had used on Elaine’s mother and daughter Kimberly.
Now Alex’s mind was really cranking (his stomach was growling as well). If that hypothesis was true, then he now had an electronic leash he could not outrun. Would they try and control him now, like a puppet on a string? Would they send him back to America, try and turn him into a traitor and a terrorist? It added a whole new dimension to what-do-you-do.
Now I’ve got your number. Those five words, spoken in that gruff voice, echoed over and over in his mind like the jingle from a popular commercial. They also took him from a self-controlled state of analysis to the edge of hysteria. Why’d you have to go and be so smart?
Alex worked hard to rein in his imagination, to focus on the positive and think about escape. There was always a way out. He took three deep breaths and forced himself to pull a Descartes, to put speculation out of his mind and focus on that which he knew to be certain.
What did he know had happened? After giving him the injection, the giant had gagged him with a modified racquetball. It was uncomfortable to say the least and had forever ruined that sport for him. Then the giant directed a scene worthy of Alfred Hitchcock. He filled Alex’s ears with wax dripped from a burning candle. While the function was obviously to deafen him, the purpose seemed to be providing the big guy with a few laughs. The paraffin had stung, but given the images the giant’s appearance conjured up, Alex was just glad it wasn’t molten lead.
With the gag and earplugs in place, his captor pulled out a dark burlap bag. Alex was afraid he would drop in a starving rat and tie the bag over his head, but the giant just used it like a blindfold for the very ugly. As he did so, Alex found himself feeling oddly grateful, and thought of Mehmet’s lesson on perspective...
Overall, the treatment was better than a head full of lead or a rat in your hat, but with time Alex was finding it maddening nonetheless. That was undoubtedly one of the desired effects. He had to calm himself, and the best way to do that was to take his mind off his physical condition. He knew it was possible. Focus, Alex, focus. You are going to think your way out of this, you always do. Now, what do you know? Who is holding you?
Up until that point the only things he had learned about his captors were that they were KGB and that the giant in charge was named Yarik. He picked up the last tidbit when one of the soldiers had referred to the giant by that name in Alex’s presence. Yarik rewarded the loose-lipped soldier with a punch to the face so brutal that he had lost consciousness to the sight of spurting blood and the sound of snapping cartilage. Alex
appreciated the sacrifice. Yarik sounded tough, but it was just a name and thus less demoralizing to repeat than the giant or the hulk.
He added Yarik’s name to Victor’s on his Who roster: two first names, one description, and counting.
Where are you? Alex’s best guess was that he was tied to the floor of a stationary cargo plane somewhere near Irkutsk. Given the metal floor, he had assumed it was a truck at first, but when he felt the curvature of the wall he realized that it was a plane’s fuselage. He wanted to explore more but his hands were tightly bound to a D-ring welded to the floor behind his back. They were numb and his arms were cramped. He also had a pain in his backside where the syringe had gone in, and the cold, metallic floor wasn’t helping that any. He had never missed his San Diego Jacuzzi so much.
Alex had no way of telling how long he had been there—each minute seemed like an hour with the sensory deprivation—but he guessed that it really had been hours. Surprisingly, they hadn’t removed his watch, although of course he couldn’t see it.
Speaking of which, what tools and weapons are at your disposal? Well, his legs were not bound, so he could kick, and if he ever got free he could run. Those were two big checkmarks in the assets column. He couldn’t bite, but he could head-butt. Of course, this was all worthless as long as he was tied to the ground with his hands immobilized. But unless the burlap bag was really an execution blindfold, they would be moving him at some point. Furthermore, he was tied rather than chained, and ropes could be cut. Perhaps he could search the floor for something to cut the ropes with. It wouldn’t take much: a staple or nail from a hastily opened crate, a chip from a carelessly broken bottle, a beer cap. Now you’re thinking, or dreaming...
The range of motion available to his hands was close to zero, but Alex guessed that he might be able to sweep up to 180 degrees with his legs. Of course, if there was a guard sitting next to him Alex would probably be rewarded for his efforts with a kick in the balls. Perhaps he should just stick with the sensory deprivation.