Ghost Force am-9

by Patrick Robinson

  "Place?" said Roman.

  "Well, it can't be out here," stated Boris. "We'll be lucky to keep this little gathering under wraps, even if we get out the moment the weather slows down. I'd suggest Yekaterinburg, because it's bigger, more anonymous, and we can arrive from several different directions. It doesn't matter if any one of us is recognized, so long as no one knows we're meeting together."

  "It's important we show Moscow a united front that truly represents the will not only of the Siberian oil industry, but that of the people," said Roman. "They can't assassinate us all, can they?"

  "I suppose not," muttered Sergei.

  0800 (LOCAL), SAME DAY

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Lenny Suchov was on the secure line from CIA headquarters early. Lt. Commander Ramshawe took the call.

  "Guess you heard the verdict, Jimmy. It's in all the papers this morning."

  "Sure did. Murder by persons unknown."

  "Well, I called you for two reasons. First of all we got a picture of the guy who probably shot the curare into Mikhallo's neck. Only from the back. But he's a big guy, and he's leaning over talking. We've checked every inch of the surveillance film. No one else got that close all evening, at least not while Masorin was dining.

  "The FBI are making formal inquiries at the Russian embassy, showing them our film, but the guy is back in Russia. And word is the White House does not want this to go much further. We got major oil trade agreements with Moscow, and the new export route from Murmansk is working well and profitably for everyone.

  "Guess the President doesn't want to piss 'em off any more than we already have."

  "That'd be right," said Jimmy. "Anyway, in the end, it's nothing to do with us really. It's a Russian murder and a Russian matter…what else?"

  "One of our guys in the Siberian oil fields thinks something is brewing up there, politically."

  "Yeah?"

  "Apparently, earlier today—"

  "You can't get much bloody earlier…"

  Lenny chuckled. "They are nine hours in front…"

  "Oh, yeah, that's different. Carry on."

  Lenny laughed out loud. "Pay attention, young Ramshawe," he said. "Otherwise I have you assassinated…as I was saying, one of our guys was out at the little airport in Noyabrsk when a private jet landed, bearing none other than Boris Rekuts. That's the new political chief who's replaced Masorin as boss of the Urals Federal District.

  "Anyway, our man tracked him into the town and saw him go into the SIBNEFT offices, where he stayed for three hours. Our guy sat in his car, just up the street, in a snowstorm, and saw Jaan Valuev leave the same building — he's the billionaire who runs OJSC, one of the biggest oil companies in Russia. Our man did not see anyone else leave, and he waited until dark at four p.m. But Valuev was picked up by an articulated truck, right across the street."

  "Is all that significant?" asked Jimmy.

  "Well, they were in these small SIBNEFT site offices. You know that's the enormous Siberian Oil Company. We got the biggest man in the business, Jaan Valuev, sneaking in and out of articulated trucks, and the political boss of Western Siberia showing up for just three or four hours. Sounds like a serious powwow to me."

  "You think it has something to do with Masorin?"

  "I've no doubt they mentioned it. But the Siberian oil establishment is restless at the moment. They're sick of Moscow, dying to trade more with China, and when two or three very big cheeses start meeting in secret, in the wilds of the western Siberian plains, it's good to know."

  "I guess it is," said Jimmy. "And I'm going to record all of this in my files. But I'm not quite sure why."

  "If Russia suddenly attacks its Siberian colonies and causes a World War, you'll be glad I call you, hah? Glad to know Lenny was still steering you straight!"

  "I'm always glad of that, old mate," replied Jimmy. "Dad's coming down to Washington for a couple of weeks soon…will you have dinner with us?"

  "That would be very nice…good-bye now…how you say? Old mate."

  1530, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 27

  EASTERN FOOTHILLS OF THE URAL MOUNTAINS

  The city of Yekaterinburg lies 1,130 miles east of Moscow. It is a city of a million souls, a light, airy, modern place with wide avenues, parks, and gardens, many of its historic public buildings constructed in the same fawn-and-white stucco as those in faraway St. Petersburg.

  Some of the more elegant architecture of the old city, dating back to the 1720s, has been preserved; not, however, the Ipatiev house, which stood on a piece of land opposite the cream-and-turquoise tower of the Old Ascension Church. The house is long gone, bulldozed on the orders of Leonid Brezhnev. Today there is just a stark white memorial cross among a copse of trees.

  It marks the spot where, on July 17, 1918, Czar Nicholas II, his wife, son, and daughters were slaughtered in the basement of the merchant Ipatiev's residence, gunned down, bayoneted, and bludgeoned by the secret police squad that guarded them on behalf of the Bolsheviks.

  The name Yekaterinburg will always stand as a symbol of those brutal, violent murders, and, as if to make sure no one ever forgets, there stands a statue, right in the middle of Central Avenue, the former Lenin Street, of Yakov Sverdlov, organizer of the killings.

  Not a hundred feet from the statue, in another basement, the lower floor of an office building owned by SIBNEFT, there was taking place one of the most secret meetings ever conducted in Yekaterinburg, certainly since the days leading up to the death of Czar Nicholas and his family.

  At the head of a long polished oak table sat Roman Rekuts, the towering figure who now virtually ruled western Siberia. At the far end sat Sergei Pobozhiy, the Chairman of SIBNEFT, flanked by his two coconspirators, the billionaire Jaan Valuev from OJSC Surgutneftegas, and the powerful LUKOIL Financial Vice President, Boris Nuriyev.

  The First Minister of the Central Siberian Federal District was there, in company with the new Chief Executive of the Russian Far East, who brought his Energy Minister, Mikhail Pavlov.

  Roman Rekuts had brought his new deputy with him, and Sergei Pobozhiy was accompanied by his West Siberian Chief of Operations, the grizzled, beefy ex-drillmaster on the exploration rigs, Anton Katsuba.

  Every one of the nine men in the room was Siberian-born. And not one of them failed to be attracted by the prospect of a clean break with Moscow. Of forming a new Republic of Siberia, a free and independent state with its own flag and currency. Even Yekaterinburg had its own flag, a white, green, and black tricolor, and there was talk of a Urals franc.

  But the meeting was collectively certain of one sacrosanct rule — they must keep their close ties to Moscow in the oil business, retaining, however, the freedom to trade with their anxious, more affluent industrial neighbors to the south and east, in the People's Republic of China.

  There had been instant camaraderie in the boardroom since the meeting began, as men with similar stated aims pointed out the advantages of freedom to both the corporations and to the people of Siberia. They had begun at 3:00 p.m. and intended to proceed until dinner, which would be taken at the big table, before proceeding with the final draft of their communiqué to Moscow.

  The meeting ended early, however, shortly after 4:30, when the double doors to the boardroom were booted open and an armed Soviet-style guard in military uniform bearing no insignia aimed his Kalashnikov straight at the defenseless head of Roman Rekuts and opened fire, pumping three bullets in a dead straight line across his forehead.

  In a split second four more guards were in the room. They cut down Sergei Pobozhiy with a hail of bullets to the neck and chest, and blew away Jaan Valuev, who was hit by eight AK-47 bullets to the throat and neck.

  Boris Nuriyev stood up and held his hands out in front of him, in the fleeting mini-seconds before he was gunned down with a burst to the chest that caused him to fall forward, bleeding onto the rough draft of their demands to Moscow.

  Anton Katsuba, seated in the center of the table opposite the guards, crashed his
way under the table and seemed to vanish from everyone's mind, but the big man made a stupendous comeback, rising out from under the seats like a rogue elephant and clamping a mighty fist on the windpipe of one of the attackers.

  By now he was the only one of the nine left alive, and he grabbed the guard's rifle and opened fire. No one was ready for this, and he actually killed two and wounded three before he was himself cut down in a hail of bullets from the other six.

  The room was a total bloodbath, the carpet awash, the walls splattered. Blood flowed over the table. It was a grotesque insurrection, a near copybook repeat of the events of July 17, 1918, in a subterranean room not so far away from the old Ipatiev basement.

  The one difference was that these modern soldiers of the Republic of Russia would have no need for the bayonets that were used to finish the Czar and his family. There was no need to plunge the steel into the bodies of the oilmen and the Siberian politicians as the guards had done to finish Nicholas, and the Empress Alexandra, the little boy Alexi, and the Grand Duchesses Marie and Olga, and Tatiana and Anastasia.

  The ripping slugs of the clasp-loaded modern AK-47s were a lot more efficient than the old service revolvers of the early twentieth century. Not one of the original nine men who had assembled in this room was breathing.

  And outside the room, there was pandemonium. The Russian Army, which had screamed into Central Avenue from the headquarters just outside the downtown area, had sealed off the entire throughway. Outside the building there were three large Army trucks plus one military ambulance.

  Stretcher parties were running in through the main doors. Everyone working in the building remained at their desks. Armed guards were posted on every door. Huge green screens were erected to shield the main entrance from the public, and they continued to the rear of the trucks. Soldiers with body bags were sprinting down the stairs to the basement. A team of soldiers with ladders, paintbrushes and rollers, cans of paint, and ammonia were descending the steps in single file.

  Everything from the room was being removed, eleven dead bodies, three wounded guards, the big table, carpets, chairs, papers. Everything. Behind the screen outside the door the Army trucks were being loaded, engines revving.

  The first of them, the one containing all of the bodies, was under way less than twenty minutes after the opening burst of fire had cut down Roman Rekuts. It swung out of Central Avenue heading north, directly toward the arctic tundra northeast of the Ural Mountains on the estuary of the Ob River.

  The truck containing the bloodstained carpets and furniture was next, roaring up the snowy street and again heading north. The ambulance was next, then the final truck, containing the screens and a dozen infantrymen in the back to assist with the burning and general destruction of the evidence when finally they reached their destination in the frozen north in the small hours of the morning.

  This was the Russian military at their most thorough. No one would ever know the fate of the nine men who had sought freedom for their homeland of Siberia to trade their oil without the heavy yoke of the Russian government around their necks.

  Perhaps even more sinister, no one would ever know how Moscow found out the meeting was taking place. But, as they say in the Siberian oil industry, even the icicles have ears and the wooden walls have eyes.

  MIDDAY (LOCAL), TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28

  PRIVATE RESIDENCE OF THE RUSSIAN PRESIDENT

  MOSCOW

  There were just three visitors this morning: the Commander in Chief of the Russian Army, East of the Urals. The head of the FSB, who was rapidly developing a reputation comparable to his many predecessors. And the Russian Energy Minister, Oleg Kuts.

  "Anyone heard anything?" asked the President.

  "Not a word, sir. It seems no one knew who was in the meeting, no one knew what had happened, no one saw the cleanup, and no one's heard a word since. So far, that is."

  "Good," said the President. "Very good. Please congratulate your Commander on a very skillful job, very well executed."

  "I'll make a point of it," said the Russian General, kicking the heels of his jackboots together with an exaggerated, sharp crack.

  "No word from inside the oil industry, I trust?"

  "Nothing, sir," replied Oleg Kuts. "But that's understandable, since it seems no one has any idea who was in that room. I don't suppose anyone will realize they're missing for another twenty-four hours at least."

  He turned to the sallow-faced, fortyish head of the FSB. "Your men found out anything?"

  "Not really, sir. Except that at least six of the men in the basement traveled to Yekaterinburg by completely different routes. None of them traveled together, and they used private aircraft and helicopters, cars, and two of them at least finished the journey on the Trans-Siberian Railway, one from the east, one from the west."

  "A very secret meeting, eh?"

  "Yessir. Highly classified."

  "We were certainly on the right lines then?"

  "Most definitely, sir."

  "But in my view this all leads to one inevitable conclusion, gentlemen…we can't go on doing this sort of thing. And I truly do not know how long we can keep the lid on Siberia. In the end they are going to try again, because the temptation of riches from China is simply too great. And we cannot go on putting people in jail whenever they become too powerful, as we have done in the past, eh?"

  "Or…er…eliminating them, sir."

  "Exactly so. The fact is, we need to home in on at least one major foreign oil supplier who is not in Siberia. We cannot have all our eggs in that one huge basket."

  "I know, sir. But these days, everyone who has any oil whatsoever is desperate to hang on to it and reap the reward. Yes, we may have to use our powers of persuasion."

  The President smiled. "Perhaps, Minister, you should conduct an immediate study…and find a new supplier, with substantial reserves, who might be…shall we say…vulnerable?"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jaan Valuev, for the past six years, had led something of a double life. As the hard-driving boss of OJSC he was the very picture of a New Russian industrialist, a suave, well-tailored chief executive, presiding over the fortunes of an oil giant with income of more than $6 billion a year, annual growth of 17 percent, and 100,000 employees.

  His wife had died four years earlier, and at fifty-two Jaan still lived in the grand mansion on the edge of the city of Surgut where they had brought up their two children. Both boys were now studying engineering at the Urals State Technical University in Yekaterinburg, the alma mater of Russia's first President, Boris Yeltsin, and his long-suffering wife, Naya.

  This university is the largest east of the Ural Mountains. It once boasted twelve graduates on the Central Committee of the Communist Party. Jaan Valuev was its biggest private benefactor, and unlike all of the other Russian oil chiefs, he also heavily supported social programs in his hometown of Surgut. Generally speaking, Jaan Valuev had been a pillar of Siberian society.

  But there was another side to him. Instead of the traditional lavish dacha on one of the more scenic coastlines of the Black Sea, Jaan preferred western Europe. He owned a spectacular beachfront estate two miles east of the Marbella Club in Andalusia, southern Spain, and kept a permanent $300-a-night suite at the superb Hotel Colon on Cathedral Avenue in the heart of Barcelona.

  He owned an opulent white-fronted Georgian house in The Boltons, off London's pricey Brompton Road, and a twenty-acre country estate in the hills above the Thameside village of Pangbourne in Berkshire. He had found his way into this glorious English countryside through his great friend, the urbane multimillionaire publisher, hotelier, and soccer fanatic John Madejski, the Chairman of Reading Football Club and owner of the towering modern stadium on the borders of the M4 motorway.

  It was this love of soccer that hurled the two men together. In 2009, upstart little Reading had fought their way into the upper echelons of the English Premier League and ended up playing mighty Barcelona in front of 60,000 people in the Europea
n Champions League at the Noucamp Stadium in Spain's second city.

  And who should emerge that day, almost shyly, as the great new power in the Barcelona club? The billionaire behind some of the biggest player transfer deals in the history of Spanish football — Jaan Valuev. Barcelona beat Reading 4–1, but the Siberian and the English tycoon became instant pals, and Jaan bought a house just a couple of miles from the imposing Madejski estate in Berkshire.

  By 2010, Jaan Valuev was Chairman of Barcelona FC, following in the footsteps of another Russian oil tycoon, Roman Abramovich, who famously bought and recharged the batteries of Chelsea Football Club, in West London, with close to half a billion dollars, which purchased some of the best players in the world.

  And tonight, Tuesday, September 28, Barcelona were in London, for their European Champions League game against England's greatest football club, Arsenal, founded in 1883 and a byword for excellence and sportsmanship in a sometimes tarnished world game.

  Barcelona versus the Gunners, in the ultramodern new Emirates Stadium, in the heart of North London. Here was a game to be savored by aficionados all over the world. And 60,000 fans, 8,000 from Spain, were already making their way across London by taxi, bus, and train to watch this clash of titans, the Champions of the Spanish League against the Champions of England's Premiership.

  Inside the marble halls of the Emirates Stadium, arrangements had been made for a sumptuous VIP dinner at 8:45 p.m., immediately after the game. The Arsenal Chairman would host it, and among his guests would be the Barcelona Chairman, and his buddy John Madejski, who was rumored to be preparing a sensational bid to buy Arsenal Football Club in partnership with Jaan Valuev.

  But these awesome financial shenanigans were all taken in good heart, and the game was under way right on time, with the stadium packed and both teams free of injury. There was only one blight on the big game landscape: Jaan Valuev, whose body was currently lying burned in a mass grave deep in the icy wastes of the arctic tundra in northern Siberia, naturally had not turned up.