The outlaws pa-6

by W. E. B Griffin

  Murov took a moment to organize his thoughts, and then asked, "How much of the history of the SVR do you know, Frank?"

  "Not nearly as much as I should," Lammelle said. "I know that the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki used to be the First Directorate of the KGB, and there's a story going around that the reason it's so powerful is because, in addition to his other duties to the Russian Federation, Vladimir Putin runs it."

  "You do know how to go for the jugular, don't you, Frank?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "My question was: How much of the history of the SVR do you know?"

  "Putin doesn't run it? For a moment there, I was beginning to think that Putin was he who wants Castillo, too."

  "Once more, Frank: How much of the history of the SVR do you know?"

  "Why don't you tell me, Sergei, what you think I should know about it?"

  Murov looked at him carefully and pursed his lips as he framed his reply.

  Finally, he asked, "Would you be surprised to learn that its history goes back beyond the Special Section of the Cheka? Back beyond the Revolution?"

  "I don't know. I never gave that much thought."

  "Where do you think the Cheka came from?"

  "I know it really became important in 1917-1918?-when Felix Dzerzhinsky took it over."

  "Did you ever hear that Dzerzhinsky was an oprichnik?"

  "I don't know what that is. But I have heard that Dzerzhinsky had been locked up and nearly starved to death by the Bolsheviks until just before he was given the Cheka."

  "That's what you and I would now call 'disinformation,' Frank. I think it unlikely that he ever spent a day behind bars. Dzerzhinsky was in fact an oprichnik."

  "And I told you I don't know what that means."

  "I'm about to tell you. In 1565, Ivan the Terrible moved out of Moscow, taking with him a thousand households he'd selected from the nobility, senior military officers, merchants, and even some serfs. Then he announced he was abdicating.

  "The people left behind were terrified. Ivan the Terrible was really a terrible man, but those who would replace him were as bad, and before one of them rose to the top, there would be chaos."

  Where the hell is he going with this history lesson?

  "So they begged Ivan to reconsider, to remain the tsar. He told them what that would take: the establishment of something, a 'separate state' called the 'Oprichnina,' within Russia. The Oprichnina would be made up of certain districts and cities, and the revenue from these places would be used to support Ivan and his oprichniki.

  "To make the point that it would be unwise to challenge this new idea, Ivan first had Philip, the Metropolitan of Moscow-who had said the Oprichnina was un-Christian-strangled to death. Then Ivan moved to Great Novgorod, Russia's second-largest city, where the people had complained about having to support the new state-within-the-state.

  "There he killed all the men and male children, raped all the women, seized all the crops and livestock, and leveled every building. No one ever questioned the Oprichnina again."

  "Not once, in the next-what?-four hundred fifty give-or-take years?"

  Murov ignored the sarcasm, and went on: "In 1825, after Tsar Nicholas the First put down the Decembrist Revolution, he realized the revolution would have succeeded had it not been for the assistance-more important, the intelligence-provided by trusted elements of the Oprichnina, so he made them into a separate state within the separate state. He called this the Third Section, or sometimes the Special Section.

  "When the Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, and, finally, the Communists took over, Lenin, on December 20, 1917, formed from the tsar's Special Section what was officially The All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counterrevolution and Sabotage, but commonly known by its acronym as the Cheka. He placed an aristocrat named Felix Dzerzhinsky in charge."

  "The tsar's secret police became the Cheka under an aristocrat named Dzerzhinsky?" Lammelle asked incredulously.

  Murov nodded.

  "Dzerzhinsky's father had been one of the more important grand dukes under the tsar. One of the oprichniki. There were no more grand dukes, of course-or any 'nobility.' But there was the Oprichnina, and Dzerzhinsky was one of them.

  "He apparently decided he could best serve Russia by serving Lenin. The family still lives on the estates they had under the tsar. That's the point of this history lesson, Frank. To make sure you understand how important the Oprichnina remains even today."

  "I guess you wouldn't know all these fascinating details if you weren't one of them, huh, Sergei?" Lammelle said, more than a little sarcastically.

  Murov either missed the sarcasm or chose to ignore it.

  "My family has been intelligence officers serving the Motherland for more than three hundred years," Murov said with quiet pride. "We have served in the Special Section, the Cheka, the OGPU, the NKVD, the KGB, and now the SVR."

  "And Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin is one of you, too, I suppose?"

  "I've answered your question truthfully. Now answer mine: You're not going to deny that Colonel Castillo works for you, are you?"

  "Lieutenant Colonel Castillo does not now, nor has he ever, worked for the agency. That's the truth, Sergei."

  "But you're-how do I put this?-in touch?"

  Lammelle shook his head. "No."

  "Do you know where he is?"

  Lammelle shook his head again. "No, but if I can find out, I'm going to warn him that Putin's after him."

  "I didn't say that."

  "You didn't have to," Lammelle said. "Are you going to tell me what that's all about? Why does Putin want his head?"

  "I didn't say President Putin is in any way involved in this, Frank."

  Of course you didn't.

  Those cameras and microphones also are recording everything you say, aren't they?

  "Okay. Let me rephrase. Why does He Who Wants Castillo want him? And please don't tell me 'wants' isn't shorthand for 'wants eliminated.'"

  "There are several reasons, most of which-probably all of which-have occurred to you. For one thing, Colonel Castillo has left a great many bodies behind him in his travels around the world. Do I make my point?"

  "That accusation would be a good deal more credible, Sergei, if you put names to the bodies," Lammelle said.

  "If you insist," Murov said. "I suppose the first was Major Alejandro Vincenzo of the Cuban Direccion General de Inteligencia. You're not going to deny Castillo was involved in that, are you?"

  "As I understand that story, that was self-defense," Lammelle said.

  "Whatever the circumstances, Vincenzo and half a dozen others were shot to death in Uruguay by a commando team under Colonel Castillo."

  "There was a confrontation and Vincenzo lost. Sometimes that happens in our line of work, Sergei. The good guys don't always win."

  Murov smiled.

  "That comment can be interpreted in two ways, Frank, depending on who one thinks are the good guys."

  "I suppose it could."

  "In any event, Vincenzo's death was an embarrassment to General Sirinov, who had to explain it to the Cubans."

  "General who?"

  "Contrary to your beliefs, General Yakov Sirinov is the man in charge of the FSB and the SVR."

  "You mean he runs them for Mr. Putin?"

  "President Putin has nothing to do with either the FSB or the SVR."

  "You keep telling me that."

  Not because you believe it, or expect me to believe it, but because the cameras are rolling.

  Murov met Lammelle's eyes for a moment, but did not reply directly, instead saying, "Podpolkovnik Kiril Demidov."

  "Is Podpolkovnik Demidov somebody else Podpolkovnik Castillo is supposed to have killed?"

  Murov smiled and shook his head.

  "All right, Frank, Lieutenant Colonel Demidov was a lifelong friend of mine."

  "Another member of the oprichniki?"

  Murov nodded. "More important, his family and that of General Sirinov were close-more than close,
distant cousins, that sort of thing-and even more important than that, close to other powerful people."

  "Like he whose name we're not mentioning, who wants Castillo eliminated?"

  Murov nodded.

  "Vienna is not nearly as important a post as it once was, but when Kiril was named rezident there, there were those who said he was too young and did not have the experience he should have."

  "But they didn't complain, right, because that might annoy he whose name we are not mentioning who arranged his appointment?"

  Murov shrugged in admission.

  "Well, I hate to tell you this, Sergei, but I happen to know that Lieutenant Colonel Castillo was nowhere near Vienna when someone strangled your friend and left him in a taxi in front of our embassy."

  "We're back to my analogy about who controls the brandy bottle," Murov said. "And the other bodies had names, too: Lieutenant Colonel Yevgeny Komogorov, for one."

  Lammelle said, "There was a story going around that he was the FSB man for Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay. The story I heard about what happened to him was that he made the mistake of trying to assassinate Aleksandr Pevsner."

  "And then there was Lavrenti Tarasov and Evgeny Alekseev, whose bodies were found near the airport in Buenos Aires. Evgeny was another old friend of mine. I'm sure you know that he was Podpolkovnik Svetlana Alekseeva's husband."

  "Why would you think I would know that?"

  "Because you're the deputy director of the CIA," Murov said coldly.

  "Do I detect a subtle tone of disapproval in your voice, Sergei?" Lammelle said.

  "How about disappointment? I really hoped we could have a serious discussion and resolve our problem. As professionals."

  "As a professional, Sergei, I find it hard to believe that you thought we could have a serious discussion when what I'm hearing from you strikes me as nonsense."

  "Nonsense?"

  "Right now I don't have a clear picture of the long-term implications of Congo-X turning up at Fort Detrick and on the U.S.-Mexico border. If you wanted to hurt someone with it, you would have. If you had hurt someone, that could have led anywhere, right up to a nuclear exchange. If you do hurt something that hurts us badly, for example, killing as many people as the rag-heads taking down the World Trade Center towers killed, then the missiles will fly. We didn't know whom to nuke after 9/11. But if something happens involving Congo-X, we know just where to go: Lubyanka Square, Moscow, and you damned well know it.

  "And what you're suggesting here is that you're willing to risk a nuclear exchange unless we turn over to you three people, a colonel and two lieutenant colonels! You're right, Sergei, that's not nonsense. It's not even a clumsy attempt at blackmail. What it is, is pure bullshit!"

  Murov looked at him for a moment, then reached for the bottle of Remy Martin cognac. He poured two inches of it into one of the snifters, and then looked at Lammelle.

  "Why not?" Lammelle said. "Not only are the gloves off, but I'm about to walk out of here."

  Murov poured cognac into another snifter, then handed it to Lammelle.

  They touched glasses.

  "Mud in your eye," Murov said.

  "Up yours, Sergei," Lammelle said unpleasantly.

  "I used the word 'disappointed' a moment ago, Frank. And I am. I'm disappointed that you don't really understand power."

  "And what don't I understand about it?"

  "In your government, your leader, your President, doesn't really have absolute power. There are things he simply cannot do because he wants to. In other governments-Cuba, for example, North Korea, Venezuela, and one or two others-the leader can do anything that pleases him. Anything."

  Lammelle felt a chill at the base of his neck.

  "Russia wouldn't be one of those other countries, would it?"

  "Of course not. We are a democracy now. Our president and other officials must-and always do-follow the law and the will of the people."

  Lammelle took a healthy swallow-half of the cognac in the glass-and felt the warmth move through his body.

  "That's utter bullshit, too," he said.

  "I'll tell you what's going to happen now, Frank," Murov said. "You're going to go back to Langley and report this conversation to Jack Powell. And he will be as unbelieving as you were. This will evolve into anger. And then you'll go to the President. And he will be as unbelieving as you were and Jack Powell will be. And then he will become angry. Fortunately-for all of us-President Clendennen is not nearly as impulsive as his predecessor. He will think things over carefully, and in the end he will tell you to call me back and say that you will do whatever you can to resolve this problem. As you yourself pointed out, in the balance, the lives of a colonel and two lieutenant colonels aren't really worth all that much."

  "Fuck you, Sergei."

  "I'll have the car brought around," Murov said, and reached for a telephone.

  "Let me call first," Lammelle said, and Murov slid the telephone to him.

  Lammelle punched in a number from memory.

  "It's time to pick up the dry cleaning," he said a moment later, and then hung up.

  He slid the telephone back to Murov.

  "Don't bother to make note of the number," he said. "In ten minutes, it will be out of service."

  "You didn't have to tell me that, Frank," Murov said, and then punched in a number and said, in Russian, "My guest will be leaving." Murov walked him to the Caravan.

  When Lammelle was in the front passenger seat, Murov motioned for him to roll down the window. Lammelle found the switch, but the window remained up.

  "Unlock his fucking window," Murov called nastily in Russian.

  Lammelle tried the switch again, and this time the window went down.

  "Well?" Lammelle asked.

  "Frank, the problem people like you and me have is that sometimes we have to do things we don't like at all. I took no pleasure in what happened between us today. There was no feeling of 'Score one for our side.'"

  Lammelle met his eyes, but said nothing. He found the switch, put the window up, and then in English said, "Okay, let's go." [TWO] The President's Study The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 1225 7 February 2007 "Fascinating," President Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen said when Deputy DCI Frank Lammelle had delivered his report on what had happened that morning in the Russian dacha. "How much are we supposed to believe?"

  He turned in his high-backed blue leather judge's chair and pointed at Secretary of State Natalie Cohen.

  "I think Frank can answer that better than I can, Mr. President," Cohen said. "He was there."

  "I'll rephrase, Madam Secretary," Clendennen said, a long way from pleasantly. "Presuming Mr. Lammelle told us the truth and nothing but, how much of what this Russian told him can we believe? Make that two questions: How much of what the Russian told Lammelle are we expected to believe, and, two, how much can we believe?"

  If she felt insulted, it didn't show on her face or in her tone of voice.

  "Mr. President, I always like to start with what we do know. In this case, we know the Russians were involved with the bio-chem laboratory in the Congo. And since they know we call this substance Congo-X, and that some of it was delivered to Fort Detrick and some left for us to find on the Mexican border, I suggest that it is safe to presume they have more of it. The threat, therefore, is real."

  "Natalie, we don't know that," DCI Jack Powell said. "For all we know, the stuff they sent us may be all they have. This whole thing may be a bluff."

  "I asked her, Jack," the President said. "You'll get your chance."

  "I think, Mr. President," Cohen said, "to respond to your questions directly, that they expect us to believe everything they told Frank, and I think we should."

  Clendennen grunted, then looked at Powell.

  "Okay, Jack, your chance," the President said. "Do these bastards have more of this stuff, or not?"

  "Off the top of my head, Mr. President, I would say they have at least a little more, enough of i
t so they can leave us a couple more samples."

  "And that's all they have?"

  "Mr. President, we leveled and then burned everything in a twenty-mile radius of the Fish Farm. Either we somehow missed this, or they had some of it in a laboratory in Russia. Or someplace else. My gut tells me there's not much of Congo-X anywhere."

  "But we don't know that, do we?" Clendennen asked.

  "No, sir, we don't."

  "Why would Putin do something like this?" Clendennen wondered aloud.

  "Was that a question, Mr. President?" Mark Schmidt, the director of the FBI, asked.

  "Does that mean you have an answer?"

  "No, sir. Just that I've been thinking about motive."

  "Well, out with it."

  "For one thing, we humiliated the Russians when we took out the Fish Farm," Schmidt said. "For another, Castillo and his people-"

  "My predecessors' loose cannon and his merry band of outlaws humiliated the Russians?" the President interrupted, sarcastically incredulous.

  "Yes, sir. Castillo and his people have not only humiliated the Russians-which is to say Putin-all over Europe and South America but-according to what the Russian told Frank-has killed a lot of them. I think it's credible that Putin did know some of them personally, and wants revenge."

  "Madam Secretary?" the President asked.

  Natalie Cohen nodded her agreement with Schmidt's theory.

  "And he could well be reasoning that we really don't want a confrontation when that could be avoided by returning their two defectors. We can't give him Castillo, of course-"

  "Why can't we?" the President asked.

  "Jesus Christ!" Lammelle exclaimed.

  "Let's go down that road," Clendennen said. "No. Of course we can't give him Colonel Castillo or any of his people. As much as I might want to. But we can go along with that notion…"

  "Let me go on the record here," Natalie Cohen said. "I will not be part of any agreement which will turn over the two defectors, much less Colonel Castillo or any of his people, to the Russians."

  "Duly noted," President Clendennen said. "Let me finish, please. I said we can let the Russians think we're willing to give them all three of them. So far as the Russians are concerned, we weren't responsible for their defection."

  "Castillo flew them out of Vienna on his plane, Mr. President," Powell said. "And if he hadn't, we had a plane waiting at Schwechat to do the same thing."