by Ted Bell
“None. Putin’s insistence on keeping Assad’s government intact is couched in a reading of the conflict in Syria far more cold-blooded than the views of those in Washington. It’s merely engaged in an ancient religious war as far they’re concerned.”
“Bottom line?”
“Western attention has shifted dramatically from the murders carried out by the Assad regime to those carried out by Islamic terrorists. Simply another sign of the overwhelming complexity of this new multifront Middle East war.”
Congreve paused to digest this. Sometimes his friend adopted a more professorial tone in his locutions, and one had a bit of a time of it putting two and two together.
“What a nightmare, Stef. I often feel like the man falling from a building and saying something to a chap in an office window on the way down. We are going to war with Russia, you know. Any day now. Unless you and I manage to do something brainy in a hurry.”
“Indeed we must, Constable. And the very best thing we can do at the moment is not let this attack by Russian-sponsored Cubans on the American homeland stand without answer. It will only encourage the Kremlin’s ambitions in North America.”
“It just doesn’t feel like Putin somehow. Attacking America with the foreknowledge that the West will retaliate against Cuba in all likelihood. Has the real Vladimir Putin finally emerged from the closet of statesmanship and shown his true colors?”
“That’s why I invited you to Cambridge, Ambrose. I don’t know the answer to that question. Haven’t a clue, in fact. Perhaps we can cobble together an explanation for all this.”
“You said you believed this may be a Kremlin outsider of some kind. What do you mean by that?”
“I’m not sure. It’s purely a gut feeling. There is certainly nothing subtle about shooting down your own passenger planes. If indeed, Putin was responsible. And yet that’s just what he may have done. If it was him, of course.”
“Who else could it be?”
“There are rumors within rumors, worlds spinning within worlds, as you of all people know best. Nothing new within the ancient walls of the Kremlin, of course. But still. There’s substance enough to be found in there somewhere, if we dig deeply enough. A power behind the throne, perhaps.”
“Go on, Stefan,” Ambrose said, tossing off the remains of his whisky. This, now, was the reason he’d driven all this way to Haversham.
“Mmm. I wonder. You will perhaps recall a remote KGB outpost in the frozen tundra of Siberia. Near a small railway outpost called Tvas. It was the former winter palace of the tsars before the late Count Korsakov acquired it. Know what I’m talking about?”
“Of course. Hawke’s beloved Anastasia is currently imprisoned near there. He’s visited once or twice, the last time to bring home his son. The boy’s mother, I believe, is held captive by the KGB. The mother of his only child. Awful situation for her. And him.”
“She’s no captive, Ambrose. She is there of her own free will. She married the old officer who’s in charge there. General Kuragin was his name, as you remember.”
“Was his name?”
“Probably dead. I never see him in Moscow anymore. There are rumors about him, too, of course. That he fell into disfavor. That Putin had him assassinated using polonium-210. Same stuff used to take out Litvinenko in London, you’ll recall.”
“Alex never told me Anastasia had married.”
“I hardly blame him for not wishing to speak of it. It fractured his heart. It was their cherished secret.”
“What made you think of looking at Tvas in the first place?”
“Something is going on out there, Ambrose. I hear things, seeping from beneath closed doors. There are KGB black ops within ops. Black sites. And then there are KGB black holes. This is the latter.”
“A black hole, huh? Putin behind it? He’d be at the top of my list.”
“I can’t run it back to him. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stick Putin with a damn thing. That’s where I’ve hit the wall. For the life of me, I just cannot. Unless, of course, Putin has acquired a proxy bully to protect him in the court of public opinion.”
“Interesting concept. Tell me, Stef. Unless you can’t tell me. Did Sir David ever ask you to keep anything from me? Or even Alex?”
Halter shrugged. “He has done. But, no, not this time.”
“Good.”
Halter got to his feet and went over to the broad Georgian desk. It stood solidly beneath a huge canvas depicting the Battle of Stalingrad. Ambrose, looking at the painting, thought, Is it a constant reminder of the motherland Halter is betraying? That would certainly be in keeping with his ability to survive on both sides of the game. Alliance to all, allegiance to none.
Congreve wondered about that, Stefan’s true allegiance. To one or the other. And not for the first time, either.
CHAPTER 59
Halter returned a moment later with a red-and-black leather TOP SECRET folder. Congreve noticed the faded sword and shield symbol of the old KGB embossed on both sides.
“What’s that?” Congreve said as the professor sat down and began leafing through the pages in the secret file.
“Everything I’ve managed to nick from my Kremlin office regarding developments out at Tvas. The remote KGB headquarters for Eastern Affairs. Here are some aerial photos, sat photos, et cetera, all pertaining to a recent construction project nearby . . . come have a look . . .”
“Good heavens,” Congreve said, flipping through the stack.
“Amazing. Look at this one. You see, right here, this very large structure is the Winter Palace itself. Built sometime around the middle of the last century. It’s where General Kuragin and Anastasia maintain their residence. And where Alex’s son spent his early youth. Here is the pond where his mother taught him to ice skate . . . So sad, no?”
Congreve nodded, feeling a wave of pity for the boy, separated from his mother for all these years. And now, threatened with death everywhere he turned. It was utterly untenable. Alex Hawke forced to retreat to the shadows to protect his son? No, that simply could not stand.
“And look here, Ambrose. All this area to the south of that existing residence is where new work is taking place. Or, was, at the time these photos were taken. I’m sure it’s all practically completed by now. Notice it’s surrounded by three layers of security fencing, concertina wire, a broad no-man’s-land with kennels for the guard dogs to roam here. And with an unobstructed field of fire from these six guard towers here, here, and . . . here. Three more to cover the western approach through the forests.”
“Incredibly dense forest from the looks of it. What’s it called?”
“Czar Nicholas called it the Schwarzwald. Black Forest. After the German hunting lodges he frequented with his father as a child, in Baden-Württemberg on the Rhine. It was his happy hunting ground.”
“And what’s this? Looks like a landing strip was just being completed over here.”
“Five thousand feet. Sufficient runway provision for the heaviest troop-transport planes.”
“Makes sense. How about these large parallel rectangles? I count sixteen of them. Barracks, maybe?”
“Barracks, all right. Twenty, thirty thousand personnel, easy. Maybe more. Huge.”
“And this steel and glass cube in the center of the compound?”
“CCC. Command-and-control center. Completely self-sufficient. And separate from the primary KGB HQ to the north.”
“And, here, a row of hangars?”
“Perhaps. Wondered about that myself. Aircraft? Drone storage maybe. Who knows, at least until we get a peek inside.”
“Peek inside?”
“Rudimentary, my dear Congreve. Simply time on task. We need to get eyes on this thing.”
“Yes, but, ‘we’? What do you mean by ‘we’?”
“I’ll complete that thought in a moment. Listen, Ambrose, I don’t like the looks of this at all. I’ve heard rumors these several months. The creation of a wholly new KGB unit. Independent. C
omposed of mercenaries, soldiers of fortune from around the world. Under the putative command of the cream of the Spetsnaz officers. But more likely by Putin. Or his surrogate.
“I’ve been ruminating on the subject prior to your arrival,” Congreve said. “Why not base such a force out here in the middle of bloody nowhere? Airlift troops and materiel on an as-needed basis. As far from prying eyes, above and below, as you can possibly get. Wouldn’t that make sense to you, Stef?”
“Indeed it would. What still does not make any sense, though, is why the hell KGB or Spetsnaz, or any units under their control, would even need such an isolated base camp. Especially since they’ve already got one almost next door to this monstrosity. What’s the distance separating the two?”
“Three or four miles, max. With this dense forest separating the two. My question remains. Why an isolated base camp when you’ve already got one right next door?”
“Right. Unless the new one was designed from inception to be completely off the books,” Halter said, scratching his grizzled chin, his concentration and focus almost giving off heat.
Congreve nodded vigorously. He said, “A surrogate leader. A surrogate army. A surrogate air force. Every bit of it off the books. Invisible and . . .”
Ambrose continued, “An army that answers to no one. A distinct new unit . . . to complement . . . and . . . compete with the KGB. A new combat entity that can’t be traced back to the Kremlin. Not the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard of. Putin seems to be full of ever more ingenious ways to rule the world these days, does he not? But, listen. What kind of man would he put in charge of such a new army?”
“Not one that I’m aware of, at any rate. I have no idea who could be put in charge of this . . . hybrid army. His existing officer ranks within FSB/KGB wouldn’t do it. Does he go outside? Hire that mini-Putin I spoke of earlier?”
“Hmm. I wonder. Let us speculate about that topic, my dear Halter. Alex Hawke used to talk to me about someone in Russian history called the Dark Rider. Who was the ‘Dark Rider,’ Professor? I mean, in history or mythology?”
Halter explained, “He who rose to the highest pinnacle of power. Uncommon strength, uncommon valor, uncommon virtue at a time when the country had veered in the wrong direction. He who would alter the course of the state set by those weak sisters currently in power. In ancient times, such weak leaders were known as the ‘Pale Riders.’ Considered weak, lazy, unpatriotic. I could go on. Yeltsin was one, for instance.”
“That doesn’t sound much like our boy Volodya.”
“Definitely not Putin,” Halter said. “He’s the living definition of a Dark Rider. So who is the man in the shadows?”
“Doesn’t make any sense, Stef. You’re now talking about two Dark Riders? Operating as one? Or set against each other?”
“It’s Putin. It’s not supposed to make sense. It’s a black op like nothing I’ve ever witnessed. Not only is it stranger than you believe, it’s stranger than you can believe.”
“Who, then? Someone in opposition to Putin’s reign?” Congreve said. “Mounting a challenge?”
“Men like that don’t live long enough to oppose anything or anyone. Whoever the hell he is, we know one thing. Putin is well aware of whatever the hell is going on here. I will tell you, knowing Putin as I do, that once this fellow has fulfilled the mission he’s been given, he finds himself in the cemetery business.”
“But he’s vital to Putin. For the nonce, anyway.”
“He is. We need to find out why.”
“And we need to find out who.”
“I think we’re on the same page, Ambrose.”
The growing excitement between the two old colleagues could be felt in the room.
“Oh, we’re totally on the same page,” Congreve said. “What next?”
“We dress up like gypsies, get a wagon and mule, and begin the long trek across Siberia to the remote outpost of Tvas. Are you game?”
“My wife won’t be thrilled. She’s already going to be miffed I’m late for supper this evening.”
“I’m happy to do this all by myself. I told C some of what I’ve just revealed to you. At first, he wouldn’t let me even think of going out there. Afraid I would not come back, I suppose. I am his valuable asset, let’s be honest.”
“Or, at minimum, you’d be exposed as a double agent and thus end your enviable record of clandestine aid to British intelligence. Groveling naked on the stone floor of some prison, begging for a bullet.”
“Thanks for that image. If I end my career or my life in this effort, I shall have no regrets. It has been my life’s work, and I do believe I’ve made a difference. At any rate, in the end Sir David and I were in full agreement. We both agreed that the ends justified the means. This will be an MI6 operation, start to finish.”
“Would the old bastard balk at my tagging along?” Congreve said.
Halter laughed. “Why, Ambrose, I’m surprised at you! Use that big brain of yours. Why do you imagine you’re here? Who do you think suggested this visit?”
“This whole thing was C’s idea? Very devious of him, I must say.”
“He’s a spy, for heaven’s sake, Ambrose. Remember?”
“How could I forget? Well, there you have it. I suppose you and I are back in the Great Game at last, my old friend. The ‘Cambridge Two,’ I suppose the history books will call us. No?”
Halter looked away, lighting the cigarette that had been dangling from his lips for the last half hour. Congreve saw his eyes come to rest on the painting of Stalingrad hung above his desk.
“With only the whole world hanging in the balance . . .” he murmured quietly. Having moved on to one of his other worlds within worlds, Ambrose surmised. Halter, a true genius, was nothing if not a complicated man. Ambrose had the strangest sensation. He suddenly felt as if the man had left the room.
“I must be getting home,” Ambrose said.
“I suppose so . . . yes.”
“We can and will win, you know, Stef; with God’s help, we will,” Congreve said, rising from his chair and stretching his back out. He was tired, and he had a long drive homeward on a dark night.
“God’s help?” Halter murmured, lost in thought. “Is that what you said?”
“I’d best be getting home,” Congreve repeated.
“What? Oh, yes, of course. I’ll ring for Optimus and have him show you out.”
Halter sounded odd, as if something, some looming dark cloud, was sliding over him. A premonition, perhaps. And Ambrose got the impression he’d perhaps overstayed his welcome. Not an auspicious beginning to a very dangerous travel plan.
“Please don’t bother Optimus, Stef,” Ambrose said quietly, making his way to the door. “I know my way out.”
CHAPTER 60
Key West
The yacht Blackhawke was now under constant twenty-four-hour guard at Naval Air Station Key West.
The impending Cuban mission, code-named Operation Rumdum, was now an official CIA/MI6 combined combat operation. It was felt this hurriedly put together spec op had but two possible outcomes: it could either avert war with Russia; or it could initiate the commencement of worldwide nuclear hostilities. A black cloak of secrecy surrounded Rumdum. Hawke, his crew, and the land-side support teams were all operating under a strict code of silence.
Blackhawke, no longer deemed a private yacht and now officially considered an active U.S. warship by the Pentagon, had departed the Port of Miami forty-eight hours earlier. She’d been provided with a protective navy destroyer escort for the short voyage. She was now moored down south at NAS Key West on Boca Chica Key.
Located just four miles east of downtown Key West, the naval air station had originally been built to combat piracy in the Caribbean. It was now located on a small, low-lying island covered in thick mangroves. A giant white sphere, the massive radar station, loomed up out of the thickets, along with other white, low-lying buildings.
Primarily a state-of-the-art training facility for air-to-air
combat fighter pilots of all military services, the base also supported operational and readiness requirements for the Department of Defense and Homeland Security (Coast Guard) and was host to several tenant commands, including Strike Fighter Squadron 106, Fighter Squadron Composite 111, and the U.S. Army Special Forces Underwater Operations School.
Strike Fighter 106 command was now on full alert. Should the new warship encounter an unforeseeable degree of hostility en route, or when engaging in combat operations, pilots would be aloft in under five minutes.
Blackhawke was taking on stores and ammunition for the naval assault operation now under way. She was undergoing a complete combat-readiness refit. Certain modifications to her hull, superstructure, and armaments, and minor glitches in her defensive radar systems were now either fixed or being repaired. In addition, her offensive and defensive air missile systems were receiving a substantial upgrade. This, in order to defend her against attacking enemy fighter aircraft or land-based SAM systems surrounding the enemy objective. And eliminate threats from enemy installations.
What no one had witnessed, at 3 A.M. that morning, was an unmarked black truck with blacked-out windows arriving at the gangway ramp leading from the docks up to the ship’s main deck. Sixteen hand-picked commandos, the baddest of the bad, emerged from the vehicle quickly and in single file boarded the boat. In less than thirty seconds all the men in black had disappeared inside Blackhawke and the black truck sped away under cover of darkness.
Three veteran crew members from Hawke’s “yacht” had been assigned to prevent any incursion from the sea, above or below the surface. One of them, an ex-SEAL Team 5 UDT demolition expert, named Scott McBain, patrolled underwater in the one-man sub. Scottie’s job was to prevent swimmers or enemy minisubs from attaching explosive devices to her hull.