For Malkovic himself, ZHUKOV represented the opportunity to become one of the richest and most powerful men in all of human history. That was a dream he had nurtured from his childhood as a despised, poverty-stricken refugee drifting around Europe. As he grew older and began to realize the extent of his skills—especially his uncanny ability to predict the future movements of financial and commodities markets—the dream had turned into a burning desire, a driving passion above all others.
Now fantastically wealthy, he exercised a substantial measure of influence over several governments in Europe, Africa, and Asia—both through his overall economic clout and through direct bribes to susceptible politicians and bureaucrats. His enormous holdings also allowed him to subtly manipulate the operations of banks, brokerage houses, investment firms, pharmaceutical labs, oil companies, arms manufacturers, and other industries around the world. Through the Brandt Group, he commanded a force of hired killers and spies, enabling him to act clandestinely and violently if necessary against his personal enemies and business rivals. But, of late, he had discovered there were still limits to his power. To his dismay, there were politicians he could not bribe or threaten, corporations he could not buy, and laws and regulations he could not yet overturn or safely ignore.
And so Malkovic had begun scheming to find a way to increase his personal wealth and power at least ten-fold. Long ago, in the immediate aftermath of the Cold War, he had secured the services of various Soviet-bloc weapons scientists—Wulf Renke among them. At the time he had only imagined developing a discreet side venture for one of his shell companies, the business of supplying unconventional armaments to the world’s richest rogue states in return for huge sums of thoroughly illegal cash.
But when Renke came to him with the HYDRA breakthrough—the ultimate precision-guided assassin’s weapon—the Serbian-born billionaire had seen its potential in a single shattering instant. Control over this undetectable, unstoppable, and incurable weapon would give him the power he had long desired. With it, he could break nations whose leaders opposed him, and reward those who allied themselves with his purposes.
Under Viktor Dudarev, Russia had chosen the path of wisdom.
As payment for use of the HYDRA weapon to soften up their enemies in the West and the former Soviet republics, Dudarev and his allies in the Kremlin had signed solemn and secret agreements with Malkovic, sealing a bargain that benefited both sides. By crippling the West’s intelligence services, HYDRA was making it possible for Russia to plan, organize, and conduct its military campaign without interference from America and its allies. Once the shooting started, the Europeans and Americans were sure to protest fiercely, but if they were caught by surprise it was extremely unlikely that they would risk a wider war by intervening. Presented with the hard fact of Russian troops on the ground and firmly in control, the Americans would blink, reluctantly accepting reality.
In turn, when Russia’s conquests were complete, the billionaire would own the lion’s share of the captured oil, natural gas, mining, armaments, and other industries. Within a short time, the profits from these new holdings would make him the richest man in the world, far eclipsing any possible rival.
Malkovic gloried in that approaching prospect. Fools argued that wealth was the root of all evil. Wise men knew better: Money was only a lever, a tool that could be used to remake the world as one saw fit.
“When will you attack?” he heard Brandt ask.
Kirichenko looked at Dudarev, received a brief nod, and answered the question. “ZHUKOV will commence in less than five days,” he replied. “The first Spetsnaz raids and air strikes will begin a few minutes after midnight on February 24. Our tanks and other troops will cross the frontier shortly after that.”
“Without prior provocation?” Brandt said cynically. “Forgive me, Colonel, but that seems somewhat…unsubtle.”
Ivanov leaned forward in his seat with a thin, humorless smile. “There will be ample provocation, Herr Brandt.” His eyes were cold. “For example, in Ukraine, special intelligence strongly suggests there may soon be a regrettable terrorist incident, one that will kill a great many innocent ethnic Russians.”
Brandt nodded coolly. “I see. That is certainly convenient. And naturally this terrorist attack would demand an immediate military response by your forces.”
“Naturally,” Ivanov agreed laconically. “If the Kiev government cannot protect our people from its own Ukrainian ultra-nationalists, then we must do it for them.”
Listening, Malkovic snorted. He turned to Dudarev. “And what excuse will you find to intervene in Georgia and the other countries?”
The Russian president shrugged. “In Georgia and the rest of the former republics, there are already signs of growing political instability.” He inclined his head toward the billionaire with a dry, ironic smile. “Thanks, of course, to the civilian and military leadership deaths inflicted by your HYDRA virus.”
Malkovic nodded.
But now Ivanov pounced. “Unfortunately, Mr. Malkovic, HYDRA itself may now present the greatest threat to our success.” Coldly, the head of the Thirteenth Directorate looked across the table at Brandt. “Herr Brandt’s failure to eliminate Dr. Petrenko before he talked was a serious mistake. But his continuing failure to capture or kill this Colonel Smith and his associates is a potential disaster. The longer Smith runs free here in Moscow, the greater the chance that he will penetrate the HYDRA secret. Put bluntly, that is a chance we cannot take.”
“Very true, Alexei,” Dudarev agreed. The Russian president pointed to the screen depicting armored spearheads thrusting deep into Ukraine, Georgia, and the others. “ZHUKOV’s success depends entirely on our achieving almost complete surprise. But if the Americans learn of our involvement in the deaths caused by your viral weapon, everything we hope to achieve is put at risk.”
“What do you propose?” Malkovic asked stiffly.
“First, that my directorate assume full control over the search for Smith and the American journalist, Ms. Devin,” Ivanov told him. He turned back to Brandt. “But I want total cooperation this time. Nothing must be held back or concealed from me. Nothing. Is that clearly understood?”
For a moment, the former Stasi officer said nothing. His jaw tightened as he tried to hide his anger. Then he shrugged elaborately, feigning almost total indifference. “As you wish.”
Malkovic kept his gaze fixed on Dudarev. For all his ruthlessness, Ivanov, like Brandt, was merely a servant. The Russian president was the man who pulled the strings. He raised a single eyebrow. “Well, Viktor, is that all?”
Dudarev shook his head. “Not quite, my friend.” His fingers drummed softly on the table. “This American intelligence effort troubles me. Despite its real successes, so far, at least, it appears that HYDRA has not yet sufficiently blinded Washington. I also worry that President Castilla may prove more stubborn than wise. If, in the end, he proves unwilling to accept our conquests, the risk of an unwanted direct confrontation with the United States grows exponentially. Given our strategic advantages in Ukraine and central Asia, we should still prevail, but the costs, in troops, equipment, and money, might be excessive.”
The other men in the room nodded slowly.
“For that reason,” Dudarev continued, “I have decided to make sure that this particular American president no longer threatens us.” He focused his eyes on Malkovic. “You will instruct your people to hand over the appropriate HYDRA variant to one of Ivanov’s couriers as soon as possible.”
Malkovic stiffened in surprise. “But the risks of killing Castilla are—”
“Manageable,” the Russian leader said calmly. He glanced at Ivanov. “Correct?”
The head of the Thirteenth Directorate nodded coldly. “We have a mole in place, inside the White House,” he confirmed. “Deploying HYDRA successfully should present no particular problems.”
Malkovic felt cold. “There will be hell to pay if the United States ever suspects what we have done,” he said tightly
.
Dudarev shrugged. “Let the Americans suspect what they will, so long as they cannot prove anything.” He smiled thinly. “Which brings me to another concern. In the circumstances, with American agents on the prowl, have you considered the possible dangers to your HYDRA facility?”
“The lab is secure,” Malkovic told him flatly. “The Americans will not discover it.”
Beside him, Brandt nodded in agreement.
Dudarev eyed them both with amused cynicism. “That is good news,” he said after a moment, delaying just long enough to make it clear that he did not believe them. “Still, it might be safer for all of us if Dr. Renke and his scientific team were transferred here—to one of our special maximum-security Bioaparat complexes, for example. Don’t you agree?”
Malkovic grimaced. Now he could see the game the Russian president was playing. Complete control over HYDRA and the secret of its creation was his high card in this high-stakes gamble. The unique viral weapon created by Renke made the billionaire an irreplaceable ally, a man with whom Dudarev must deal as an equal. But if he ever lost his monopoly on this lethal technology, the men in the Kremlin would be free to act as they saw fit. For that reason, he had kept all knowledge of Renke’s whereabouts a closely guarded secret, especially from the Russians.
“The facility is safe,” he repeated coldly. “Of that you have my most solemn word.”
Dudarev nodded slowly. “Very well, I am willing to accept your pledge.” Then, quite abruptly, his seemingly mild, half-amused expression hardened. “But one thing must be made absolutely explicit, Mr. Malkovic: Since you will not allow us to protect the secret of this weapon ourselves, we will hold you personally responsible for any further failures. Five days remain before we can launch ZHUKOV. Five short days. But until our soldiers and combat aircraft are in action, the Americans must not learn of HYDRA’s existence. If they do, your life is forfeit. Remember that fact.”
Later, during the brief limousine ride back to his Pashkov House office, Malkovic moodily considered the Russian president’s threat. So the tiger has shown me its teeth and claws, he thought grimly. He scowled. All the more reason then to make sure that he kept a firm grip around its throat.
He looked across at Brandt. The tall, blond-haired German was sitting on the rear-facing seat, staring blindly out the window.
“Will Ivanov succeed in capturing or killing the Americans?” Malkovic asked quietly.
Brandt snorted. “I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Because the militia and the security services are fundamentally unreliable,” the German explained slowly through gritted teeth. “For all of Dudarev’s vaunted purges, both still contain too many officers who are either corrupt and willing to sell information or protection to fugitives with enough money—or else who are tainted by so-called ‘reformist’ ideals. The chances are too great that Smith and Devin will find officials willing to help them, or at least to turn a blind eye while they escape. If Ivanov thinks otherwise, he’s a fool.”
Malkovic pondered his subordinate’s bitter, cynical assessment in silence. With his own neck very much on the line, hearing Brandt’s low opinion of the FSB and militia was deeply worrying.
The billionaire came to a decision. “Then you will continue your own hunt for Smith and Devin,” he told Brandt. “I want them found, and found quickly. Preferably by your men, and not by the Russians.”
“What about the Thirteenth Directorate?” the other man wondered. “You heard Ivanov. He’ll want every scrap of information we dig up. It will be hard enough tracking down the Americans without tripping over FSB agents at every turn.”
Malkovic nodded. “I understand.” He shrugged. “Give the Russians enough of the data you have obtained on this man Smith to keep them happy. In the meantime, press your own search as far and as fast as possible.”
“Capturing the two Americans under Ivanov’s nose will be difficult,” Brandt warned. “But I promise you that my men and I will.”
“I am not paying you to try, Herr Brandt,” the billionaire said icily. “I am paying you to succeed. I strongly suggest that you remember the difference.”
“And if I take Smith and Ms. Devin alive?” the German asked calmly, ignoring the implied threat. “Without Ivanov finding out, I mean. What are your orders then?”
“Squeeze them dry,” Malkovic said brutally. “Find out who they’re working for and how much information on HYDRA they have already relayed to the United States—”
“And after that?”
“Kill them,” Malkovic snapped. “Quickly, if necessary. But slowly, if possible. Colonel Smith and Ms. Devin have caused me a great deal of trouble and anxiety. That is something I would dearly like them to regret.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Moscow
Jon Smith reacted instantly to the sound of a soft knock on the apartment’s front door. Rising from the sofa where he had been trying to catch up on his sleep, he scooped up the 9mm Makarov from the coffee table, thumbed the safety off, and yanked back on the slide to chamber a round. Then he swung around with the pistol extended in both hands, ready to fire. He breathed out, calming himself as he steadied his aim. The Makarov’s front and rear sights settled on the center of the door and stayed there.
With her own weapon held at the ready, Fiona Devin came ghosting in from the bedroom, moving cat-quiet on her bare feet across the scuffed hardwood floor. “Who is it?” she called out in Russian, altering the tenor of her voice to imitate the quaver of an old woman.
A man answered her, his voice muffled by the heavy wood door. “It’s me, Oleg.”
Smith relaxed slightly. He recognized Kirov’s voice. More important, by using only his first name the Russian had signaled them that it was safe. If he had identified himself fully, he would have been warning them that he was acting under duress, as a prisoner of either the Moscow militia or of anyone else who might be hunting for them.
Slowly, Smith lowered his Makarov and put the safety back on. Fiona did the same with her weapon and then went forward to unlock and unbolt the door.
The tall, barrel-chested Russian came in quickly, carrying a pair of heavy suitcases. His silver eyebrows rose when he saw the pistols in their hands. “You are nervous?” he asked. Then he nodded grimly. “And so you should be.”
“What’s up?”
Kirov set the suitcases down and moved to the nearest window. He pulled back the drapes a bit. “Come and see for yourselves,” he suggested, nodding at the street below.
Smith and Fiona joined him.
Cars and delivery trucks were backed up all along the bridge across the Vodootvodny Canal. Militiamen in gray overcoats and peaked caps were moving in pairs from vehicle to vehicle, bending down to examine papers and ask questions of each driver. A squad of soldiers armed with assault rifles and clad in winter-pattern camouflage uniforms stood guard at the nearest intersection.
“Ministry of the Interior troops,” Kirov said coolly. “From what I’ve seen, there are checkpoints going up at most of the key intersections and outside the more important Metro transfer stations.”
“Damn,” Smith muttered. He glanced at the other man. “What’s the official reason they’re giving?”
Kirov shrugged. “According to the news, this is just part of a routine security sweep for suspected Chechen terrorists. But I managed to get close enough to one of the checkpoints to see what they were using to sift through the crowds.” He looked back at the two Americans. “The militia have copies of your passport photos.”
Fiona sighed. “It was only a matter of time, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Kirov said soberly. “And now we must face facts. We cannot delay any longer. Both of you need new papers—with new faces and new names.”
Smith stared back at him, struck by something the other man had just said. A faint possibility stirred far back in his mind, something that was more the vague hint of an idea than anything really solid. But then, as other small fragments
of evidence started tumbling neatly into place, this new theory of his began taking on a dazzling form and substance, like a smoldering ember whipped into flame by the wind.
His eyes widened. “Names,” he said abruptly. “That’s the link we’ve been missing. We’ve all been wondering why so many people were killed to prevent us from getting our hands on those case notes. Well, maybe the answer has been staring us right in the face all along.”
“Exactly what are you talking about, Colonel?” Fiona asked quietly. Kirov’s face mirrored her incomprehension.
On fire with his new theory, Jon led them back to the coffee table. “Names,” he said again, fanning out the sheaf of typed papers and their scrawled translations. With a red pencil, he swiftly circled certain sections of the papers. “See for yourselves. That’s what Elena’s notes contain…the names of the victims of the first outbreak. And their families. And their addresses. Right?”
The other two nodded slowly, still clearly unsure of where he was leading them.
“Look,” Smith explained. “Somehow, somewhere, there has to be a connection between those who died and between their families. A connection that could give us a better understanding of how this new disease works and where it comes from.”
The Moscow Vector Page 22