by JT Brannan
‘But of course, my president,’ Manturov replied. ‘It is an honor to be a part of it.’
The president wafted away the thick dark smoke with one hand. ‘Must you smoke those filthy things?’ he complained. He reached into a drawer and brought out a humidor, offered a thick cigar to Manturov.
‘No,’ Manturov said, blowing his smoke in the other direction. ‘Thank you, but I prefer these. They taste of Russia.’
‘Russia, you say?’ Emelienenko asked with a raised eyebrow. ‘They smell of the factories and the pits, Boris Borisovich. They smell of the gulags. We are moving forward into a new reality, my friend. Perhaps we need to leave the past behind.’
Look who’s talking, Manturov thought glumly. You want to take us right back to the days of the Soviet Union. But it is the people who will suffer from such unbridled ambition.
It is always the people who suffer.
Emelienenko lit a cigar with a gold lighter, then snapped it shut, took a big puff of the aromatic smoke, and exhaled it slowly.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing, my friend,’ the president said with a smile.
‘Things went even better than expected in Ukraine,’ Manturov commented, ignoring Emelienenko’s comment. ‘Soon they will be back in the Russian fold completely, eh?’
‘Yes indeed, Boris Borisovich; and all according to the will of the people.’
He was right, too, Manturov realized; such had been the success of the Russian propaganda machine that it seemed that the vast majority of Ukrainians welcomed the Russian advances, even if it meant giving up what they had come to think of their as their post-Soviet freedom. Of course, the near-destruction of parts of the country had played its part, what Emelienenko thought of as the ‘softening-up’ process. But then Russia’s cyber warfare specialists had gone to work with abandon, convincing a significant proportion of the population that the government was rife with corruption, that the electoral system was rigged, that Russian aid money was being siphoned into the pockets of the ruling elite. It hadn’t been hard to manipulate the media, and the result had been a perfect example of the Gerasimov doctrine in action.
‘And what will the world think when unification is discussed?’ Manturov asked.
‘They will accept it,’ Emelienenko said simply, ‘as they will be forced to accept a great many other things.’
‘Of course,’ Manturov agreed. ‘They will not be left with much choice, will they?’
Emelienenko just shrugged his shoulders and smiled, and Manturov moved on once more. ‘I see that coalition forces are already moving into position in Turkmenistan,’ he said. ‘I presume the aim is to keep the build-up there covert, so as not to alert the Iranians?’
‘That is the aim of the coalition,’ Emelienenko said, ‘yes. But whether they can achieve such secrecy,’ he added with a smile, ‘is another thing altogether, is it not?’
‘It is,’ Manturov agreed, stubbing out one cigarette and automatically lighting another. ‘I am surprised you are not going to the UN meeting today,’ he noted, changing the subject. The UN general assembly meeting on the fate of Iran was, after all, the only thing the media was talking about at the moment.
Emelienenko waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘The general assembly?’ he asked. ‘It’s not worth my time, not when I have so much else to do here. Sergei will do a fine job in my stead.’
Sergei Chokhov was the foreign minister, and a valuable aide of the president’s; Manturov knew that he was a pro-Emelienenko man through and through.
‘I will attend the security council meetings that will result though, of course,’ Emelienenko said. ‘I will be flying out tomorrow morning. And that is where the real fun will start, eh, my friend?’
‘Yes indeed, my president,’ Manturov agreed. ‘And you are still flying to Warsaw after Christmas?’
‘Of course,’ Emelienenko said with a wide smile, ‘it is important to me to meet with my closest allies.’
Manturov didn’t share his president’s humor, knowing the real reason for his meeting with Józef Rojek, the Polish president. It was brave of the man though, Manturov admitted, he would give him that; brave, or perhaps stupid.
Emelienenko took another puff of the large cigar, and then decided to get down to business proper. ‘You said that our project is going well, Boris Borisovich,’ he began, ‘and you are right. It is going well, and it is for the greater glory of Russia that it continues to do so. Tell me – are you ready to do your part?’
‘I am prepared for my trip,’ Manturov confirmed.
‘Good,’ Emelienenko said. ‘You have spoken to Mr. Thrakos already?’
‘Yes indeed. And it seems that he is still receptive to our proposals.’
‘It is important that he does not waver,’ Emelienenko told him. ‘I want those units stationed in Athens, and I want full access to Salamis Naval Base for our fleet.’
‘It will be done as you say,’ Manturov said, thinking only that it was madness. Sheer madness. But the ball was rolling, and there was no stopping it now.
Project Europe was an irresistible force, gathering momentum with every passing hour.
He had long given up trying to argue against the plan, ever since being summoned to see the president at Novo-Ogaryovo several weeks ago. After Manturov’s confrontational call with that sociopathic SVR colonel, Emelienenko had read him the riot act. He had told him about the project, sworn him to secrecy, and essentially told him that if he refused to go along with it, he would be taken in front of a firing squad and shot in the morning. Man-management had always been one of Emelienenko’s strong points, Manturov thought with dark humor.
And then his secretary had been brought in on espionage charges, alongside one of his White House security guards, and for a short time, Manturov actually thought he might be shot, if the president decided that he was actively involved.
Luckily, Emelienenko hadn’t been so zealous, and Manturov had been allowed to go about his work, part of which was to liaise with the new Greek PM about stationing Russian forces on the mainland, ostensibly in order to protect the state from riots and ever-increasing street violence. Presumably, for now at least, he was worth more to the president alive than dead and – despite his principles – Manturov was happy to accept that.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my president,’ said Manturov as he stubbed out the remnants of his cigarette in the ashtray on Emelienenko’s desk, ‘I must ask for your leave, I still have some things to take care of back in the office.’
‘Of course,’ Emelienenko said, his icy blue eyes flashing as he stood and shook hands with his prime minister. ‘And good luck in Greece. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors.’
5
‘We reject the demands made by the United States entirely,’ summed up Ahmed Abedini, Iranian Minister of Foreign Affairs, ‘and we repeat our declaration of innocence.’
The seven days had passed, and the long-awaited extraordinary meeting of the UN General Assembly had finally been convened. Clark Mason watched, barely listening to the man as he rehearsed his own speech in his mind. This was his time to shine, and he wanted to put his best foot forward; after all, this meeting would make every major news network in the world.
‘There has still been no independent investigation,’ Abedini continued, ‘by an unbiased party, into the attacks in Britain. And know this,’ he exclaimed with a raised finger, ‘if an attack comes on Iran, then we will open the gates of hell onto those who would try and do us harm. Iran cannot be invaded, and if impetuous minds rule here, then a lot of people will die as a result, we will see to that. And we will do everything – and I mean, everything – to protect our people, our government, and our way of life. Take this as the warning it is, and think hard on it.’
There followed an impassioned speech from the newly-empowered British prime minister, James Langdon, in which he demanded support from the international community for America’s proposed resolution, citing once again detai
ls of the atrocities that had led everyone here.
And then it was Clark Mason’s turn, as author of the proposal, to make one final argument in its favor.
‘It is telling,’ Mason said with his deep, confident tones, placing his hands on either side of the lectern, ‘that President Nabavi is not here to make the case himself. It seems he appears to think he has already lost. Perhaps,’ he added, ‘he thought he would be arrested as a war criminal here in New York, or maybe a terrorist, if the vote didn’t go his way?’
Mason turned his gaze across the room to Abedini. ‘Which I suppose means that he sees you as expendable, perhaps?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow, drawing muffled laughter from the crowd.
‘I’m making a joke, of course, but the fact that President Nabavi is not here in person speaks volumes about his leadership. Despite his words, he clearly does not care for his country, or else he would be here in person, to defend it. But,’ Mason continued, his voice growing louder, more commanding with every passing second, ‘his cowardly behavior is exactly what one would expect from the leader of a terrorist state, a state that has waged war on the world, without having the courage to declare it first.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘the United States has the courage to say what it means, and to do as it says. We want to declare war on Iran, and we ask the other members of the UN for their support. Our coalition forces are gathered, with countries as far ranging as Britain, Australia, Germany, South Africa, France, Poland, Italy, New Zealand, Canada, Japan and Israel already committed alongside us, with many more sure to follow. Our plans are made, our troops are ready to roll. All we need,’ he said with open arms, ‘is your approval.
‘Now, we do not ask this for revenge – although I am sure, if we are honest, some of us may harbor such feelings in our hearts – but for protection. Because if they have done it once, they will do it again. And if they are allowed to get away with it,’ he said, banging his fist down on the gilded lectern, ‘then why wouldn’t they? We need to take down their system, in order to protect your wives, your husbands, your children, and all of the people that we represent, from the far-reaching terrors of this tyrannical regime.
‘And so now we vote,’ he said, ‘and I hope you all do so with clear heads, and a clean conscience. Thank you.’
Mason returned to his seat, once again letting the applause wash over him in wave after wave.
Whatever the outcome, he thought as he sat down, at least the world would remember his name.
An hour later, Clark Mason watched as the figure of Rasul bin Ghary, Secretary-General of the UN, approached the podium, and his heart started to quicken.
This was it; this was what he had been waiting for.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ bin Ghary said, ‘one week ago, demands were made to Iran; if declined, a vote would be put forward to enact UN Resolution 2405 (2020), Approval of Military Action Against Iran. Iran declined, and we now have the result of the subsequent vote.’
He looked down at the papers he had placed on the lectern before him, and cleared his throat.
‘Of the one hundred and ninety-three member states represented here, there are one hundred and thirty-six votes in favor of the resolution, thirty-five against and twenty-two abstentions. The two-thirds majority has therefore been reached, and the resolution has passed, subject to ratification at the security council.’
Mason nodded his head in satisfaction; the first stage had been cleared, and now there was only the obstacle presented by the Security Council.
‘An extraordinary meeting of the Council will be convened,’ bin Ghary continued, ‘for tomorrow, twenty-second December. Thank you for your time.’
Mason turned in his seat, pumping handshakes with all those around him. The potential loss of life that would result from this decision did not go through his head for even an instant. He had achieved what he had set out to achieve, and he saw today’s meeting as a victory, both for the United States, and for him personally.
And the world was now one more step closer to the war he had promised it.
6
Cole had been watching the SVR headquarters from his vantage point in the trees for over twenty-four hours before he made his move, and had been planning the operation for several days now.
His daughter had located Directorate S within the huge, sprawling complex; it occupied the nineteenth and twentieth floors of the high-rise block that lay at the western base of the Y-shaped main building. Dementyev’s office was on the twentieth floor, facing out onto the Butovskiy Lesopark that Cole had used as his surveillance point.
Michiko had found the colonel’s home address, an expensive town house located near the Kremlin, between Old Arbat and Prechistenka, and Cole had at first wanted to intercept the intelligence chief there, or at least somewhere en route; it would be the easiest place to take him, as it was the least secure. Indeed, the first plans drawn up by Barrington and Cole involved disabling Dementyev’s vehicle on one of the quiet streets nearby, killing his security force and kidnapping him with similar tactics to how they’d rescued Veronika Galushka. The only problem was that, according to Michiko’s technical surveillance, Dementyev wasn’t leaving Yasenevo.
They’d left it a day at first, and then another; but it looked as if Dementyev had taken up residence at SVR headquarters. And with time running out, Cole had therefore made the decision to stop waiting for the man to move, and instead infiltrate the SVR compound itself.
Barrington had objected – that was, after all, how Navarone had been caught – but Cole had overridden her objections. It was dangerous, yes; but Navarone had rushed in quickly, by himself. Cole would have the luxury of prior surveillance, and a team behind him.
It was far from ideal, but it was impossible to predict Dementyev’s movements; he left no electronic calling-card that Michiko could remotely interrogate and – without a family – the man seemed obsessed by work. So, Cole figured, if the target worked and lived at Yasenevo, then that is where Cole would hunt for him.
There was always the possibility that Dementyev would choose the exact time of Cole’s infiltration to finally leave the compound, but that was a chance they would have to take. But even if Dementyev did leave, at least Cole might still be able to access the man’s office, and his private computers, which might be just as beneficial as talking to the man himself.
And so Cole and the team had studied maps and satellite photographs of the compound, and gradually come up with a plan.
While Cole and Devlin had made their way into the woodland that surrounded the SVR headquarters, entering the park from a country lane on the far western side under cover of darkness, the forgery department at Force One had gone to work on identification papers.
A full set, including what was hoped to be the most current and up-to-date type of SVR identity card, was couriered out from Forest Hills to Moscow, where Kurt Hejms had brought it to the surveillance point. As a Delta operator, Hejms had had no problem slipping through the dense woodland and finding Cole and Devlin’s position.
The men were near the edge of the park closest to the SVR compound, fifteen feet up a tree, well hidden in the branches and foliage. Hejms had dropped off the package and then made his way back out again, returning to the Moscow safe house to look after Veronika Galushka.
Cole and Devlin had both used high-power binoculars to watch over the SVR buildings, monitoring the comings and goings. They had eyes-on Dementyev’s office, and found that – although he had a regular stream of visitors – he rarely left. There seemed to be residential accommodation in one of the compound’s other buildings, but Cole couldn’t be sure if Dementyev made use of it or simply slept in his office. Barrington and Gary Hart, another veteran Delta Force operator, were watching the main gate from another surveillance site on the opposite side of the compound, and hadn’t reported Dementyev leaving at any time during the day or night.
The freezing temperatures had made the surveillance particularly uncomfortable, but i
t was nothing Cole and Devlin hadn’t experienced before; surveillance was always cold and unpleasant, and they were well used to it.
In fact, Cole had been resting in the branches of the tree, in the pitch-black, subzero temperatures of the Moscow night, when he’d received word from Vinson that – seven time zones away, in New York – the United Nations General Assembly had finally given their verdict on the US proposal. It had been accepted and passed to the Security Council, which was of no surprise to Cole, although – as a solider – he felt a heavy weight on his heart. Nobody ever won a war, he knew that too well; and a positive vote at the upcoming security council would only ensure that a lot more people would die.
The news spurred Cole on, and he was glad when the time came for him to move in; and so, in the hours before dawn, he descended from the tree canopy and made his way to the road that bordered the western edge of the compound.
It didn’t seem to be accessible to the public, and was bordered on both sides by razor wire atop ten-foot-high fences. Cole assumed it was a private road for SVR security forces, and this was borne out by his surveillance; armed patrols drove past regularly, and sometimes there were also foot patrols with dogs.
But – under cover of darkness – Cole timed it right, avoiding the patrols and moving swiftly over both sets of fences until he was in a wooded corner of the compound itself. He had worried about motion detectors or infrared sensors, but the fence didn’t seem to have any; the circumference of the compound fence was probably too long to justify the expense and subsequent maintenance that would be required. There was just the razor-wire, alongside the occasional security camera, neither of which presented too much of a problem.
Cole worked his way into the block of trees, and – careful to keep an ear open for any foot patrols – took his backpack off and got changed out of his winter utility clothing and into a decent but inexpensive suit and a long woolen coat.
Then he quickly buried the bag, put on his hat and gloves, and waited in the dark for eight o’clock, and the start of a new shift at the office.