Before taking retirement at a fractional pension in 1993, Yuriy had worked for the cream of the KGB crop, Directorate S-Illegals-of the First Chief Directorate. The real spies. No diplomatic cover, no embassy to which you can run, no deportation if caught but rather imprisonment or death. He’d had some successes, but nothing that had cast him into the stratosphere of the KGB’s upper echelons, and so at forty-five years of age he’d found himself unemployed on the streets of Moscow with a set of skills that left him few career paths: contract intelligence and security or crime. He’d chosen the former, opening up a consultation firm that catered to the hordes of Western investors that had in the early days of post-Soviet rule flooded Russia. Yuriy owed, at least obliquely, many of his early successes to the Krasnaya Mafiya, the Red Mafia, and its biggest gangs, the Solntsevskaya Bratva, the Dolgoprudnenskaya, and the Izmailovskaya, all of which had wasted even less time than had foreign investors in pillaging Russia’s chaotic economy. Of course, the Krasnaya Mafiya was unconcerned with the subtle niceties of business conduct, and investors from Europe and America were only too aware of this, a circumstance Yuriy was only too happy to exploit himself. That was the operative word back then-exploit-and the only difference among himself, the Mafia, and the common street hood was the methods each employed to obtain the desired ends. For Yuriy, the method was simple: protection. Keep visiting businessmen alive and out of the hands of kidnappers. Some of the lesser gangs, too small to run their own sophisticated protection and extortion games, had taken to kidnapping well-dressed Europeans or Americans staying in Moscow’s finest hotels, then sending a ransom note along with a severed ear or a finger or toe-or worse. The local militia, underpaid and overwhelmed, was of little help, and more often than not the victim was killed, ransom paid or unpaid. There was no honor among kidnappers. Only brutal pragmatism.
Yuriy had hired former KGB colleagues and paramilitary types-mostly former Spetsnaz commandos who’d been similarly disenfranchised-to escort clients to and from their meetings and make sure they left the country alive and still in possession of all their parts. The money had been good, but as Moscow’s economy (both official and underground) had burgeoned, so too had the cost of living soared, and while many entrepreneurs like Yuriy were seeing more money than they ever thought existed, they were also seeing it bleed away into the volatile market and an insanely high cost of living. It was sad irony to make so much money while having the cost of bread rise right along with your income.
By the late nineties Yuriy had saved enough money to see his three grandchildren through university and into self-sustaining adulthood but not enough money to retire to that idyllic remote cottage on the Black Sea he’d been dreaming about for twenty years.
The opportunities came, slowly at first and then with more regularity, just before, and then after, the events of September 11. On that morning America awoke to a fact the KGB and many non-Western intelligence services had long known: Islamic fundamentalists had declared war on America and her allies. Unfortunately for the United States, these fundamentalists had in the last half-decade evolved from the disorganized and irrational madmen they were so often depicted as in Western newspapers to organized, trained soldiers with a clear goal. Worse still, they had learned the value of intelligence networks, agent recruitment, and communication protocols, all things that had traditionally been advantages at the sole disposal of national intelligence agencies.
For all her achievements and boons, America was the archetypical giant, blithely ignoring arrows and stones in favor of the notional cannon on the horizon, the mini-9/11s that were few and far between, and impossible to quickly consign to the back pages of The New York Times or off the fifteen-minute rotation at MSNBC or CNN. Historians would forever be arguing whether American intelligence could have or should have heard the galloping hoofbeats of 9/11, but the escalation certainly could have been tracked, going as far back as the first World Trade Center bombing in 1993, up through the 1998 bombing of the U.S. embassy in Kenya and the attack on the USS Cole in 2000. Only to the CIA had these been isolated incidents; to the affiliated terrorist cells that had carried them out, they’d been battles within a war. It was only when war had been loudly declared on the United States-in both word and deed-that the U.S. intelligence community started to realize these arrows and stones could not be ignored.
Worse still, the U.S. government and CIA had only in recent years steered themselves away from what Yuriy had dubbed the “golem mind-set”-the obsessive focus on the enemy giant’s head while ignoring its fingers and toes. Of course, that would never fully change, especially when it came to Public Enemy Number One, the Emir, who had become by design as much as by default, Yuriy believed, American’s golem. Nations needed definable enemies, someone they could point to and cry “danger!”
Of course, Yuriy had little to complain about. Like so many of his countrymen, he’d benefited from this new war-though only recently, and with much reluctance and not a little regret. Starting in the mid-1990s, cash-bloated Islamic fundamentalist groups had begun knocking on Russia’s door, seeking to hire errant intelligence officers, nuclear scientists, and Special Forces soldiers. Like so many of his countrymen, Yuriy had answered the door, but he was old and tired, and needed only a bit more money for that Black Sea cottage. With luck, tonight’s meeting would solve that issue.
Yuriy shook himself from his reverie, stepped back from the railing, and continued across the bridge, then down two more blocks to a neon-lit restaurant bearing the name Chiaka in both Arabic and Cyrillic. He crossed the street and found a park bench in the blind spot between a pair of streetlights, then sat down and watched. He lifted his collar against the wind and shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his greatcoat.
Chiaka was a Chechnyan restaurant, locally owned and operated by a Muslim family who’d thrived under the aegis of the Obshina, or Chechen Mafia. Similarly, the man he was meeting-known to him only as Nima-had likely slipped into Russia by the graces of the Obshina. No matter, Yuriy reminded himself. He’d dealt with the man twice before, once to consult on a relocation of what they had called an “associate,” and more recently as an intermediary for a recruitment. That one had been an interesting affair. What these men wanted with a woman of that particular caliber he had no idea, and he didn’t care. He’d learned long ago to stifle such curiosity.
He watched for another twenty minutes before satisfying himself that nothing seemed out of place. No watchers about, police or otherwise. He stood up and crossed the street and entered the restaurant, which was brightly lit and spartanly furnished, with black and white vinyl tiles, round Formica tables, and hard-backed wooden chairs. It was the late dinner rush, and almost every table was occupied. Overhead, speakers emitted the tinny sound of Chechnyan pondur music, similar in sound to that of the Russian balalaika.
Yuriy scanned the restaurant. A few customers had looked up upon his entry but had almost immediately returned to their meals or conversation. While Russians weren’t a common sight in Chechnyan restaurants, neither were they rare. Despite their reputation, Yuriy had never had much trouble with Chechnyans. For the most part they were live-and-let-live, but woe betide the person they decided to kill. Few organizations were as brutal as the Obshina. They liked their knives, the Chechnyans, and they were handy with them.
In the rear, down a short hall, he saw Nima sitting at the last booth against the wall, beside the kitchen door and the bathroom. Yuriy walked back, held up a “wait a moment” finger to Nima as he passed, then slipped into the bathroom to wash his hands. His hands were perfectly clean, of course; his interest lay primarily in confirming that the bathroom was unoccupied and offered no alternative entrances. Care and caution that the normal person would think excessive had kept him alive as an Illegal for many years, and he saw no reason to change his habits now. He dried his hands, then took a moment to ensure that the Makarov 9-millimeter pistol was seated safely in its holster in the rear waistband of his trousers, then walked out and sa
t down in the booth, facing the front of the restaurant. The swinging kitchen door was to his left. While Yuriy had been in the bathroom, Nima had removed his sport jacket. It lay draped across the back of the booth. The message was clear: I’m unarmed.
Now the Arab spread his hands and smiled at Yuriy. “I know you’re a careful man, my friend.”
In return, Yuriy opened his sport coat. “As are you.”
A waiter appeared, took their drink orders, then disappeared again.
“Thank you for coming,” Nima said.
His Russian was good, with only a slight Arabic accent, his skin light enough that he could pass for a local with some Tartar in his blood. Yuriy absently wondered if the man had been schooled somewhere in the West.
“Of course. It’s my pleasure.”
“I was unsure if you were available.”
“For you, my friend, always. Tell me: Your colleague arrived safely at his destination?”
“He did indeed. The woman as well. As I understand it, she is everything you told us she would be. My superiors are very pleased with the help you’ve already offered. I trust the compensation was satisfactory? No problems?”
“No problems.” In fact, the money sat securely in a Liechtenstein account, admittedly earning very little interest but safe from the prying digital eyes of curious intelligence and police agencies. How he would move the funds once he needed them he hadn’t decided, but there were always ways, especially if you were careful and willing to pay for such services. “Please pass along my thanks to your superiors.”
Nima tipped his chin. “Of course.” The drinks came-vodka for Yuriy and sparkling water for Nima, who took a sip, then said, “We have another proposal, Yuriy, something we believe you are uniquely qualified for.”
“I am at your disposal.”
“As with our other two arrangements, it is a delicate matter, and not without some risk to yourself.”
Yuriy spread his hands and smiled. “Anything worthwhile in life usually is, yes?”
“Very true. Of course, as you know…”
From the front of the restaurant came a shout, then the shattering of glass. Yuriy looked up in time to see a man, clearly drunk, pushing back from his chair, a plate of unidentified food resting on his upraised palm. The other customers stared at him. The man uttered a string of what Yuriy assumed were Chechen curse words he felt best described the subpar quality of his meal, then stumbled toward a waiter in a white apron.
Yuriy chuckled. “An unhappy customer, it seems…” His words trailed off as he realized Nima had never turned in his seat to watch the commotion but was instead looking squarely into Yuriy’s eyes with something akin to regret. Alarm bells began ringing in the former KGB officer’s head. Distraction, Yuriy, an arranged distraction.
Time seemed to slow.
Yuriy leaned forward, his hand reaching behind him toward the Makarov in his waistband at the small of his back. His fingers had just reached the gun’s checkered grip when he realized the swinging kitchen door to his left was standing open, a man-shaped figure standing at the threshold.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” he heard Nima say in some distant part of his mind. “It is for the best…”
Over the Arab’s shoulder, Yuriy saw another waiter walking toward them, holding up a tablecloth, ostensibly going through the motions of folding it.A curtain to shield the deed… Yuriy saw movement in the corner of his eye. He rotated his head to the left in time to see the figure in the doorway-another waiter in a white apron-raising something dark and tubular in his hand.
Somewhere in a still-calm, analytical part of his brain, Yuriy thought, Makeshift noise suppressor… He knew he would hear no noise, see no flash. Nor would there be any pain.
He was right. The 9-millimeter Parabellum hollow-point bullet struck him just above the left eyebrow before mushrooming into a tangled lump of lead that turned a softball-sized chunk of his brain into so much jelly.
10
GODDAMN IT,” former President of the United States John Patrick Ryan muttered into his morning coffee.
“What is it now, Jack?” Cathy asked, though fully aware of what “it” was. She dearly loved her husband, but when a topic attracted his attention, he was like the proverbial dog with a bone, a trait that had made him a good spook and an even better President but not always the easiest of souls to get along with.
“This idiot Kealty doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. What’s worse, he doesn’t care. He killed twelve Marines yesterday in Baghdad. You know why?” Cathy Ryan didn’t answer; she knew the question was rhetorical. “Because somebody on his staff decided that Marines having loaded rifles might send the wrong message. Goddamn it, you don’t send messages to people pointing weapons at you. Then get this: Their company commander went after the bad guys and whacked about six of them before he was ordered to pull back.”
“By whom?”
“By his battalion commander, who probably got instructions from brigade, who got his from some lawyer Kealty’s goons slipped into the chain of command. The worst part is he doesn’t care. After all, the budget process is under way, and there’s that flap over those friggin’ trees in Oregon that has his undivided attention.”
“Well, for better or worse, a lot of people get their panties in a twist over the environment, Jack,” Professor Ryan told her husband.
Kealty, Jack seethed. He’d had it all figured out. Robby would have been a great President, but he hadn’t considered the twisted mind of that old Ku Klux Klan bastard who was still waiting to die on Mississippi’s Death Row. Jack had been in the Oval Office on that day-what had it been? Six days before the election, with Robby comfortably ahead in the polls. Not enough time to set things back in place, the election in chaos, Kealty the only major candidate left standing, and all the votes cast for Robby voided by circumstance. So many voters had simply stayed home in confusion. Kealty, President by default; election by forfeit.
The transition period had been even worse, if that was possible. The funeral, held at Jackson’s father’s Baptist church in Mississippi, was one of Jack’s worst-ever memories. The media had sneered at his display of emotion. Presidents were supposed to be robots, after all, but Ryan had never been one of those.
And with good damned reason, Ryan thought.
Right here, right here in this very room, Robby had saved his life, and his wife’s, and his daughter’s, and his as yet unborn son’s. Jack had rarely known rage in his life, but this was one subject that caused it to erupt like Mount Vesuvius on a particularly bad day. Even Robby’s father had preached forgiveness on the subject, proof positive that the Reverend Hosiah Jackson was a better man than he would ever be. So what fate suited Robby’s killer? A pistol round in the liver, perhaps… might take five or ten minutes for the bastard to bleed out, screaming all the way to hell…
Worse still, rumor had it the current President was contemplating a blanket commutation of every death sentence in America. His political allies were already lobbying for him in the media, planning a public mercy demonstration on the Washington Mall. Mercy for the victims of the killers and kidnappers was something they never quite addressed, of course, but for all that it was for them a deeply held principle, and Ryan actually respected it.
The former President took a calming breath. He had his work to do. He was two years into his memoirs and in the home stretch. The work had gone quicker than he’d expected, so much so that he’d also written a confidential annex to his autobiography that would not see the light of day until twenty years after his death.
“Where are you?” Cathy asked, thinking of her schedule for the day. She had four laser procedures scheduled. Her Secret Service detail had already checked out the patients, lest one come into the OR with a pistol or knife, an event so unlikely to happen that Cathy had long ago stopped thinking about it. Or maybe she had stopped thinking about it because she knew her detail was worrying about it.
“Huh?”
“In the boo
k,” his wife clarified.
“The last few months.” His tax and fiscal policy, which had actually worked until Kealty had applied a flamethrower to it.
And now the United States of America was muddling along under the presidency-or reign-of Edward Jonathan Kealty, a silver-spooned member of the aristocracy. In time it would be fixed one way or another, the people would see to that. But the difference between a mob and a herd was that a mob had a leader. The people didn’t really need that. The people could do without it-because a leader usually came along somehow or other. But who chose the leader? The people did. But the people chose a leader from a list of candidates, and they had to be self-selected.
The phone rang. Jack got it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jack.” The voice was familiar enough. Ryan’s eyes lit up.
“Hi, Arnie. How’s life in academia?”
“As you might expect. See the news this morning?”
“The Marines?”
“What do you think?” Arnie van Damm asked.
“Doesn’t look very good.”
“I think it’s worse than it looks. The reporters aren’t telling the whole story.”
“Do they ever?” Jack wondered sourly.
“No, not when they don’t like it, but some of them have integrity. Bob Holtzman at the Post is having a conscience attack. He called me. Wants to talk to you about your views-off the record, of course.”
Robert Holtzman of The Washington Post was one of the few reporters Ryan almost trusted, partially because he’d always been straight with Ryan and partially because he was a former naval officer-a 1630, the code the Navy used to designate an intelligence officer. While he was at odds with Ryan on most political issues, he was also a man of integrity. Holtzman knew things about Ryan’s background that he’d never published, despite the fact that they would have made juicy stories, perhaps even career-making stories. But then again, maybe he was just saving them for a book. Holtzman had written a few of those, one a bestseller, and had made decent money from the effort.
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