The Outer Circle (The Counterpoint Trilogy Book 3)

by Bell, D. R.

  He got up, signaling that the decision had been made and the meeting was over.

  Moscow, Russia

  Ivan Mershov stood by the window of his office, looking out on busy Petrovka Street. Earlier, warm summer rain had cleaned the air and washed the pavement. Muskovites were hurrying back and forth on their business.

  The information that his son brought was dangerous. Not enough to do anything with, but enough to trigger a gut feel that something was very wrong. Last week two militziamen had indeed been killed in St. Petersburg after being called to investigate a routine disturbance. Supposedly, they walked in on a mob dispute. He wanted to check the names that Vitaly gave him: the bodyguard Fyodor Bezdorukov and the FSB colonel Bogdan Zaychikov. He knew he should be able to do this with his access level, but he didn’t want to leave any evidence of looking.

  Mershov went to his desk and called his secretary:

  “Valya, can you get me Stepan Ryzhkov? Yes, right away please.”

  Ryzhkov was OMON’s IT expert. Two years ago Mershov used his influence to get one of the Moscow’s best surgeons operate on Ryzhkov’s child. It was time to call in the debt. Besides, he had to trust someone.

  Ryzhkov appeared in five minutes with a careful knock on the door. As usual, he looked unkempt and disheveled, as if he just woke up:

  “Colonel?”

  “Come in, Stepa. Sit down. How’s your son?”

  An oblique reminder of the debt.

  “He is fine, Colonel. Running around like new. What can I do for you?” Acknowledging the debt.

  “Suppose I want to look up some restricted information... at my access level, of course. But I don’t want others to know that I’ve been looking. Is it possible?”

  “All access data is logged in. So there will be a record of your login. If someone set up an alert to indicate when there is an attempt to access a particular data record, they will trace it to you.”

  Mershov drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Stepa, any suggestions? This is important.”

  “Yes.” Ryzhkov looked very uncomfortable. “I can’t turn off the logging function unless it’s a system that I control. The only other solution I can offer is to pretend to be someone else.”

  “I believe this information may require a very high level of access.”

  “Colonel, remember how I always insist that people don’t put their login and password on little pieces of paper that they leave by their computer?”

  “Yes, you are forever fighting the human nature,” smiled Mershov.

  “Last month, there was an FSB colonel working with us for a few days.”

  “I remember him.”

  “We set him up with access to one of our computers. When I went to check on him, making sure everything is working, he had a sticker with a login and two passwords on the table.”

  “And you took it and told him not to do again?”

  “No, but I copied them when he was out of the room. He was kind of a jerk, ordering me around like I was his serf. I wanted to get him in trouble by letting their security know that he is careless, but then thought better of it.”

  Ryzhkov pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and removed a small piece of paper.

  “Chances are it’s still good, although they are required to change passwords every three months. Are you going to use it here?” he nodded at Mershov’s computer on the desk.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Let me set up a connection with the TorPlus browser so your IP address won’t be logged.”

  For security reasons, Mershov’s work computer was set up with an old-fashioned 3-D monitor and a keyboard. Someone thought that voice input and projection images were more vulnerable. Mershov smirked, thinking that the vulnerability was in people, not computer peripherals. After Ryzhkov left, Mershov used the careless colonel’s credentials to log into the FSB database. He typed in ‘Bogdan Zaychikov.’ The system requested a “special access” password, somewhat unusual for a simple personnel record. Mershov typed the second password from the little piece of paper that Ryzhkov left him.

  47 years old, Zaychikov started his career as a young officer in the Second Chechen War. He joined the Ministry of Internal Affairs, or MVD, in 2002 while still in Chechnya and ran an Internal Troops paramilitary detachment. This was before he joined the FSB and moved to St. Petersburg in 2004. Mershov wondered if he ran into Zaychikov during that time. Zaychikov moved to Moscow in 2008 with a promotion to a captain. He had asked to be transferred back to St. Petersburg only five months ago, for “family reasons.” Most of his work was in the Economic Security Service division, but on his last transfer he shifted to the Defense of Constitution and Fight Against Terrorism group.

  Mershov moved to Fyodor Bezdorukov. At 43, he was a bit old for the bodyguard. He was also in the Second Chechen War, as a solider. Undertaking Spetsnaz training, he stayed in the army until 2011. Afterwards, he joined the security detail for one of the banking oligarchs, working his way into a head of security position. In 2013, Bezdorukov suddenly left that job to join the Federal Security Service of the FSB. That doesn’t make much sense, thought Mershov. Why would he leave such an obviously better private position? Perhaps he ran into some trouble there. Four months ago, Bezdorukov transferred to the regiment of the Russian Military Police tasked with guarding the Minister of Defense.

  Mershov gave computer a command: “Graph connections!” and waited a few seconds until he remembered that this unit only accepted typed instructions. It was a bit unnerving to work with a device that would neither listen nor respond. He entered the command, then had to type Bezdorukov’s and Zaychikov’s names again. The computer displayed a timeline graph, showing a thick line of strong connections from late 1999 to 2004. Bezdorukov served under Zaychikov in the regular army. When Zaychikov joined the MVD in 2002, Bezdorukov went with him to the same Internal Troops regiment.

  Mershov stared at the screen, rubbed his chin, and typed in “Nikolai Nemzhov.” He only thought of this because of Oleg’s message; Nemzhov’s name was in his head. Mershov expected to see a connection in St. Petersburg. Instead, multiple contact lines appeared, starting in 2002 in Chechnya. According to the computer, Nemzhov was there for eighteen months, coordinating FSB field operations in the same district where Bezdorukov’s and Zaychikov’s Internal Troops regiment operated. Effectively, he was their boss. The Nemzhov – Zaychikov connection picked up again in 2004 when Zaychikov worked for Nemzhov in St. Petersburg and continued through the move to Moscow until 2011, when Nemzhov left the FSB for a promotion in the GRU.

  The MVD – Chechnya connection bothered him. He could not quite put his finger on why, until he remembered that his boss, Dmitry Kolotov, the Minister of Internal Affairs, was in Chechnya when the MVD ran the operations there in 2003. At official dinners, Kolotov regaled them with his “Chechnya stories.” It was rumored he came back with a nice profit from that lawless land and time. Mershov took a deep breath, typed in “Dmitry Kolotov” and the connection appeared – they all overlapped in the same place in 2003.

  Mershov shut down the computer. Too many coincidences. Who can I trust? Nobody high enough in the MVD, the GRU or the FSB. He thought of his friend Fyodor Bakunin, the Deputy Director of the Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR. The SVR was the GRU’s poor sister. They were supposed to work cooperatively but, as usual in such situations, the relationship was strained and mistrustful.

  Mershov picked up his phone:

  “Valya, can you get me Fyodor Bakunin from the SVR? Yes, right away please.”

  Beijing, China

  Jia Kecheng had been to the new Russian Embassy only once since it opened in 2021. It was much larger and better located than the old one on Dongzhimen Beizhongjie, symbolizing a close relationship between the two counties.

  Despite some vague rumors about disagreements, the ambassador’s birthday party was lavish and well-attended. Jia knew that the invitation list would be long; as a lowly colonel in the General Staff
he was not high enough to get invitations to any but the largest gatherings. As Jia and his wife mingled, politely chatting with other lowly folks from various countries, his eyes kept scanning the room.

  Finally, he saw the man he wanted. Jia politely but somewhat abruptly excused himself, leaving his wife to fume in the company of some insignificant Iranian diplomat.

  “Vasya!” he gently tapped a man’s shoulder. Vasily Pomolsky, a Russian second military attaché, turned around and looked with a momentary misapprehension. Then recognition sparked in Pomolsky’s eyes and his expression changed to a friendly one: “Jia! It has been a long time.”

  Six years ago, Pomolsky and Jia helped oversee of one of many in a series of Chinese and Russian joint military exercises. Being forced to spend eleven days together by the Amur River in the middle of nowhere, they struck a casual friendship of two men that liked each other but didn’t have a whole lot in common.

  “Yes, Vasya, I don’t get many invitations to your embassy.”

  “I’d be happy to correct that.”

  “Thank you,” smiled Jia, fully aware that Pomolsky wouldn’t be able to get him more invites unless Jia got to the covered rank of General. “How about we walk in the garden for a few minutes and reminisce about the old times on the Amur River?”

  Pomolsky opened his mouth to beg off, but Jia gently tugged on Pomolsky’s sleeve and pointed his eyes in the direction of the garden, indicating that the conversation would in fact be about something else.

  “Yes, of course,” Pomolsky smiled back with his mouth but not his eyes. “Those were fun times.”

  Once in the garden, Pomolsky led them to a fountain in the corner where the sound of water would mask the exchange, all the while laughing and chatting idly. The two men lit up their cigarettes.

  “Is this about the East and South China Seas operation that the General Staff is planning?” asked Pomolsky.

  Jia thought that his friend might have been bypassed for promotion three years ago because he was not patient enough to let the information come to him.

  “Yes, we are planning it. You know?”

  “Of course. I’ve been told that the timeline is late January, right after the new U.S. administration takes office.”

  “What do your people think about it?”

  “It’s good to have plans and the timing is interesting. But frankly, nobody takes it seriously. You plan Taiwan’s invasion every year,” Pomolsky shrugged. “But with the U.S. 7th Fleet there, everyone thinks these are just more planning exercises. Next year there will be another exercise. We do the same thing over and over. Keeps us employed.”

  Kecheng exhaled smoke and lowered his voice to a whisper:

  “This might be different. The planning is done under the assumption that Russia will join and that the Pacific Fleet will be a part of the attack force.”

  “What?” Pomolsky accidentally raised his voice. “We’ve never taken the mutual defense pact that far!”

  Jia raised his palm to silence Pomolsky. “General Wu Cao specifically told our small team of planners to assume this. When one of my colleagues questioned how realistic this is, the General told him ‘You’ll see before the end of the month.'”

  “That is very strange,” Pomolsky shook his head. “But perhaps it’s just a premise for the planning exercise, nothing more.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Jia. “We’ve also been told in our exercise to not worry about the Americans cutting us off from Middle East oil supplies because Russia will divert all its energy deliveries from Europe to us.”

  A couple of other guests approached the fountain.

  “Remember when that Russian captain got so drunk that he jumped into Amur River in full clothing and had to be rescued?” laughed Jia.

  “Ha, yeah, I do. He lost his boots!” Pomolsky clapped, trying to appear in the midst of fun memories.

  Moscow, Russia

  It was a long drive to the Yasenevo district.

  “Why did the SVR choose to locate themselves in the middle of nowhere?” grumbled Vasily.

  Ivan Mershov laughed at his driver:

  “Vasya, not everyone likes to be in the center of the city. For intelligence operations, being on the outskirts can be a good thing.”

  Having the SBOR uniform helped. Upon arrival, both Mershovs were promptly processed and escorted to Fyodor Bakunin’s office. The secretary brought tea and they exchanged family news until Bakunin put down his tea glass:

  “All right, Vanya, we’ve known each other for over forty years. You would not ask for an emergency meeting unless something major was happening.”

  “Perhaps something is happening, Fedya, perhaps not. I am sorry to drag you into this. I have to find out more about Nikolai Nemzhov and I just don’t know who to trust.”

  “Nemzhov?” recoiled Bakunin. “That snake? I thought we got rid of him.”

  “I thought so too.”

  “This requires more than tea,” Bakunin got up, went to his desk and opened the lower drawer: “Vodka or scotch?”

  “Vodka.”

  “You’d better start from the beginning,” said Bakunin after pouring generous portions.

  Mershov hesitated. You have to trust someone, might as well be a childhood friend. Then he told the story that Vitaly brought in from St. Petersburg, then his own computer research and the apparent connections between Zaychikov, Bezdorukov, Nemzhov and possibly Kolotov.

  After finishing, he gulped the rest of the vodka and said:

  “Fedya, please tell me I’m paranoid.”

  “I don’t know, Vanya. Zaychikov and Bezdorukov transferring in the last few months to end up so close to the Defense Minister Nedinsky’s assassination? We’ve been in this business long enough to distrust coincidences.”

  Bakunin stood up and nervously paced the floor:

  “Look, let me tell you about Nemzhov. He was a master bureaucrat. Very smart, very ruthless. The SVR is a separate organization that reports directly to the President, but the GRU is much bigger, so he always treated us like crap. Before coming to the GRU, he spent over twenty years at the FSB. He was in St. Petersburg when Mosin was still there, he was connected – on the outskirts, but still connected – to the original St. Petersburg mafia, to the siloviki that ended up running this country. I think he was angry that they didn’t take him to Moscow in the late 90s, but as a good bureaucrat he bid his time, built his connections. And he always stayed close to the money, the big money. The money that disappeared when the Soviet Union fell. I know, I head the Directorate of Economic Intelligence here. I could tell that he knew where the skeletons had been buried, where the money were hidden. And he made sure others knew that he knew. That’s what helped him to move to Moscow. That’s what got him to the top of the GRU. And then he sold Mosin on the plan to bring down the American dollar. He worked on that for twenty years, waiting until the time was right, building alliances with the Chinese, the Iranians, the Brazilians. Patiently waited for a long time until he was ready to strike.”

  “And then two amateurs brought him down?” half-asked, half-stated Mershov.

  “Exactly! Although in a strange way, I am not surprised. Sociopaths like Nemzhov, they think they can figure out and control everyone. And in most cases, that’s true. To bring down people like that sometimes takes an inexperienced and unpredictable amateur doing what’s unexpected.”

  Bakunin pivoted and planted his palms on the table across from Mershov.

  “Once his role – and his outsized greed – had been exposed, he had no choice but to go on the run. He knew he would be sacrificed. I can only imagine how angry he is, burning with desire for revenge. Vanya, two rumors have quietly circulated since his disappearance. One is that Nemzhov managed to get out most of his money, which were likely quite substantial.”

  “And the second rumor?”

  “That he got out his secret dossiers. Vanya, you are not a political animal, you are basically a soldier. So you may not know that everyone who is anyone
in Moscow was scared of Nemzhov. It was believed – a belief that he strongly encouraged – that he had records on anyone worth keeping records on, both here and abroad. Between his years in the FSB and the GRU, he built up his connections and his files. He was glad to bestow favors on people; his price was always information. Any incriminating information would do. Illegal financial dealing, inappropriate sexual dalliances, briberies, anything that can be used to blackmail – he collected it. And with computers, tracking, video cameras everywhere, drones overhead – the data was pouring in, one just had to search for it. He didn’t even have to use it. He would just imply that he had “something” and people would fold. Because everyone is guilty of something and when the privacy is gone, when the government can potentially record everything you do or say, you can’t hide.”

  “But if we know what’s in his secret files, we know whom he can blackmail?”

  “That’s the problem! His files are gone. From what I’ve heard, he got rid of paper records years ago – so nobody can have them. He controlled access to electronic records and doled it out selectively to his lieutenants. He must have had his right-hand computer guy – who disappeared with him, probably eliminated – program a complete erasure sequence, because all the files have disappeared. It was a work of art, to erase everything, backups and all, so they can’t be restored.”

  “But you think he has a copy?”

  “Yes. Obviously, I don’t know; I’m not high enough. I only heard panicked rumors. But it’s logical to assume that he has the files. Which gives him the power to bend others to his will.”

  “Fedya, what do you think we should do now?”

  Bakunin sighed,

  “What you have is very circumstantial, we can’t prove anything. I don’t know where to take it. I mean, if you go and cast suspicion on some high level people and this turns out to be nothing...”