by Tom Clancy
Foley shook her head vigorously. “No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying one guy told that story to British intelligence and it made it into his file. Again, this was single-source intel, and they were never able to get any confirmation. You know how it is, there is a bushel of chaff out there for each grain of wheat. I looked into our file on the Zenith murder investigation, and we came to the conclusion that there was no Soviet hit man killing bankers and intelligence agents in the West.”
Ryan said, “The Brits pinned it on German terrorists.”
Foley said, “That’s right, the Red Army Faction. An apartment in Berlin was raided by police, several terrorists were killed, and evidence was found linking them to the so-called Zenith killings.”
It was quiet in the room for a moment. The three people sitting in front of Ryan could all tell he was thinking back to some point in the past, but they patiently waited for him to speak. Finally he said, “I was never convinced they had the right culprits.”
Foley said, “But Mr. President, remember, after the fall of the Iron Curtain, hundreds of ex–KGB spies were only too happy to tell us about their exploits. We have a lot of information about KGB operations personnel in that time period. There was never any proof Zenith existed, and no one ever mentioned the name Talanov. The Russians did their own investigation and came up blank.”
“It could have been run off-book. Or Zenith might not have been a KGB asset, but something else,” Ryan said.
“What else?” Canfield asked.
Ryan shrugged. “I’d like to know what the SIS has on this matter.”
Foley tapped her pen on the notepad on her lap for a moment. “Excuse me for saying this, but this isn’t like you. You’ve been at this too long to chase rumors.”
“Indulge me, Mary Pat.”
She shrugged. “You’re the President. But remember, that was thirty years ago. Some of the players aren’t going to be around anymore. Others likely have forgotten.”
Ryan thought it over. “We could ask SIS for a look at the raw data on the Zenith case.”
“Whatever you say. I’ll assign someone to it as soon as we get the files.”
Jack said, “How ’bout we bring in someone from outside to go over it? Someone who was active back then. Someone who knew the Soviet Union. The players, the bureaucracy. The times.”
“You have anyone in mind?”
“What about Ed? Do you think he’d be interested?”
“Are you kidding? He’d jump at the chance.”
“Great. We can get him some office space next door in the OEOB.” The Old Executive Office Building was maintained by White House Office of Administration, and it contained many offices used by White House personnel. “He can go through the paperwork on the case, see if he can find anything that would either tie Talanov to Zenith or rule him out.”
Foley stood to leave. “If you don’t mind me saying so, this sounds personal.”
“You’re right, it is. That event was very personal to me at the time. But this is more than that. We all admit we know so little about the second-most-powerful man in Russia. If he was, in fact, an active KGB assassin thirty years ago, that is damn well germane to the present. And if this turns up nothing at all, then at least we know we gave it a look.”
Mary Pat said, “I’ll call Ed as soon as I get back to my office.”
24
Chief of CIA Station Keith Bixby had spent the morning in meetings in the U.S. embassy, and now, just after lunch, he had begun a surveillance detection run that would take him into the midafternoon. He had a meeting at four with an Italian businessman who owned a small trucking company that smuggled contraband back and forth from Russia.
As chief of station, Bixby found it a little unusual to be having clandestine meetings with agents, but this was nothing if not an unusual situation. Every warm body on Bixby’s staff was working, either here in Kiev or in other parts of Ukraine. He also had nonofficial cover operatives working in country, but right now most of the NOCs were off near the Russian border and in the Crimean peninsula, trying to get intelligence about the Russians and their intentions.
Kiev Station did not have the number of personnel Bixby needed, but this was not due to the fact it was some far-flung outpost forgotten by the CIA. The problem was, rather, that most every Russian- or Ukrainian-speaking case officer was already employed in Russia or Ukraine, and the CIA could not crank out Ukrainian-speaking case officers fast enough to meet the intense demand.
As the drums of war beat louder and louder, Bixby took on more and more responsibility to help his office keep up with the workload. This meant he had to leave the embassy himself, and travel the streets on long SDRs, and meet the occasional bad person over a bad meal. This Italian smuggler wasn’t terribly important, especially considering how the Russians looked like they would be attacking soon enough, but he did provide intel, so Bixby decided he’d meet with him.
The COS was only twenty minutes into his SDR and had just stopped at a bus stop in front of the massive and magnificent Cathedral of Saint Volodymyr when a man approached him and stood close. The man wore a coat with the hood up, and a scarf was wrapped over his mouth.
The CIA station chief looked the hooded man over. Suspicion was an occupational hazard, but it could also prove to be a lifesaver for someone in his position.
The man lowered his scarf. “I’m John Clark. We spoke last week.”
Bixby looked over Clark’s face, and he recognized him from the one or two pictures he’d seen of the old CIA legend. Still, he remained on guard. “I’m not sure how you could have misconstrued anything in our conversation as an invitation.”
Clark chuckled. “No, of course not.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?”
“I just thought I’d pop over for the borscht.”
Bixby’s eyes flitted left and right. “Why don’t you come back to my office so we can talk?”
“Actually,” said Clark, “I’d prefer to keep this between the two of us.”
Bixby thought it over for a moment. “All right, then. We’ll need to keep moving. Let’s go for a walk.”
Clark followed Bixby up Taras Shevchenko Boulevard for a few blocks, and then into the Alexander Fomin Botanical Garden, next to the university.
Here the two men walked along a wide path between trees that were not yet showing any life after the long winter. The blustery weather, as well as the fact it was a workday, meant there were very few visitors walking the pathways. Still, Clark wasn’t comfortable with the location. He spoke softly. “Not exactly secure here. I assume the local opposition knows your job at the embassy.”
Bixby, on the other hand, was relaxed. “We’re fine.”
Clark looked around. It looked peaceful, but he had no idea who or what was out in the trees. “Directional mikes?”
The younger CIA man said, “No doubt about it.”
“Then why are we here?”
“The thing about the FSB is this. They are everywhere, but they aren’t superhuman. We’ve determined it takes them a good ten minutes or so to set up any type of surveillance. Right now there are probably four guys scrambling out of a van up by the metro station ahead, pulling mikes and walkie-talkies out of bags, trying to get into position ahead of us. I always try to get the important parts of our conversations out of the way quickly, so that by the time the listeners are in place we’re out of here.”
“Okay,” Clark said, and he pulled his hood forward to further hide his face from any cameras that might try to catch him meeting with the local CIA station chief.
Bixby said, “First things first. Tell me why you are in Kiev.”
“I’m a concerned citizen who thought he might be able to help out.”
“I hesitate to say this, Clark, because you’re an American hero and all. But that’s a load of horseshit.”
Clark chuckled. He liked this guy. “I am worried about Gleb the Scar. When we spoke the other day, I got the impression y
ou didn’t have enough to go on to check this guy out the way he needed to be checked out.”
“That’s true. I’ve got FSB running all over the place. A new personality from Russian organized crime operating in the city is interesting, but at this point it’s not actionable, especially with a war looming.”
“I thought perhaps I could help.”
“Help how?”
“I’ve got a friend or two over here. I speak Russian. I retain TS clearance, and I follow orders.” He shrugged. “This isn’t exactly my first time out of the block.”
“I can’t take responsibility for you, Clark.”
“Not asking you to. I’m not asking for classified intel, either. I’m just asking for your blessing, and an open channel so I can get anything important back to you.”
“You know, I’ve heard of walk-in agents, but I’ve never heard of a walk-in case officer.”
Clark wasn’t making the headway he’d hoped. He changed the subject. “What’s going on down in the Crimea? Is the Ukrainian military ready for a Russian invasion?”
Bixby shrugged. “I can only give you an unclassified answer. I know you retain clearance, but I haven’t figured out what the fuck your deal is yet.”
“Hey, like I said, I’m not asking for anything sensitive. I’m just an American tourist thinking of going on holiday in Odessa.”
Bixby shook his head. “Okay. Well… I would suggest you go to Maui, instead. Maybe you could get a senior discount on a hotel room there. Crimea is going to blow up soon. The Russians are ready to invade, just looking for an excuse. The Ukrainians are moving troops into the region to dispel them—that’s in the local news, so I’m not giving you anything TS there—and it’s as likely as not the Russians will use the Ukrainians’ movements as a provocation for them to go in.”
“Because of all the Russian nationals living in the Crimea.”
“Yep. You probably know those Russian nationals only got their citizenship because Moscow handed out passports to Ukrainians of Russian heritage. It was an FSB op all the way, setting the stage for the invasion. They called it ‘passportization.’ The Russians began offering passports to civilians in the Crimea with Russian heritage. They are creating a land of Russians in Ukraine, and then they will say, ‘We have to come in to protect our citizens.’ They did exactly the same thing in Georgia a few years ago. There were two autonomous regions inside Georgia, South Ossetia and Abkhazia. The FSB went in and discreetly distributed passports to a percentage of the population. Then the Russians used the fact there were so many Russians in these regions to justify sending in their army to kick out the Georgian Army.”
“And you make it sound like there’s nothing that can stop it.”
Bixby shrugged. “I believe they will attack, and I believe they will take the Crimea. That is the low-hanging fruit. What I am worried about is the whole country falling. Russia sees the Ukrainian nationalists in power as a clear and present danger to Russian citizens in the country. Volodin might just march his forces all the way to Kiev.”
Clark said, “What could I do that might help you out?”
Bixby stopped in the path and looked at the older man. “You aren’t alone, are you?”
Clark did not answer at first.
“Look, man. I sure as hell don’t have the time, the energy, or the resources to check you out. The only thing I could do would be call someone in Ukrainian border control and get your visa revoked.”
“I’d rather you didn’t do that,” Clark said. “No. I’m not alone. I’m here with Domingo Chavez.”
Bixby’s eyebrows rose. Chavez was also well known in the Agency. “Are you here on some sort of a commercial contract? You working for one of the oil companies?”
“Nothing like that. Believe me, I’m not getting paid to be here. But I want to help. I’ve got a couple other hands, and a local guy who worked for me in Rainbow. We are set up to look into Gleb the Scar and his operation here, but I don’t want to get in the way of anything you are already doing. We can provide you a little skilled labor. That’s all.”
They started walking again, and Bixby shrugged while he walked. “Look. I appreciate the effort you made in putting together a crew and coming halfway around the world, but I’m not a trusting guy. This is my turf you are on, and although I don’t have the manpower I wish I had, I’m not prepared to cut you in on my operation.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Clark said. He took a card out of his pocket. On it was the number to his satellite phone. “If you change your mind, I’ll be around.”
Bixby took the card as he walked, and slipped it into his coat pocket.
As they neared the metro station, Bixby started moving away from Clark on the footpath. He was nearly ten feet to Clark’s right when he nodded to a spot in the trees on Clark’s side of the path. “We’ve got company. An FSB flunky is getting into position over there.”
Clark said, “There’s a second guy behind you. They don’t have their mikes or cams set up yet.”
Bixby did not look. Instead, he kept his eyes on the path in front of him as he said, “See ya around, Clark. Try and stay out of trouble. I’ve got enough problems.”
Clark himself looked at the ground. No one watching them from distance would know they were together. Clark went around the left-hand side of the metro building for the stairs, where he descended belowground to catch a train.
Bixby walked to the road and hailed a taxi to take him back to the embassy. He’d need to start his SDR all over again before meeting with the Italian businessman.
25
President Jack Ryan lay on his bed in Blair House. It was midnight; he knew this because the grandfather clock in the hall outside the master bedroom had just chimed the hour. He was to be awoken at six a.m., barring anything happening in the middle of the night that would need his attention, so he was hoping sleep would come soon.
But he didn’t think it was likely. New developments this evening were keeping him up. Jay Canfield at CIA reported that Russia had moved a mechanized battalion into Belarus. This was no invasion; on the contrary, they did it with the full backing of Minsk. Ryan knew Minsk did whatever the hell Moscow wanted. The authoritarian leader of Belarus was completely in Volodin’s back pocket.
No, the troop movements weren’t troubling because of what might happen in Belarus; rather, they were troubling because Belarus bordered Ukraine to the north.
Jack had asked Jay if the mechanized battalion in Belarus could put Kiev in jeopardy, and Canfield’s response was still running through Jack’s mind:
“Yes, but frankly, even the Russian troops on Ukraine’s eastern border can jeopardize Kiev. Defense spending in Ukraine hasn’t even been enough for the upkeep of the equipment they have. The Russians can take the Ukrainian capital from either direction.” It seemed to Jack as if each day brought a potential invasion even closer. Jack had sent Scott Adler, his secretary of state, to Europe to drum up support on the diplomatic front to try and stop a Russian invasion before it began, but so far Adler had received much in the way of private platitudes but little in the way of public diplomacy from the European nations.
Ryan had a meeting planned with Secretary of Defense Bob Burgess in the morning to discuss the military ramifications of a Russian invasion of Ukraine, and he knew he needed to start planning for what was beginning to look more and more inevitable.
With everything on his plate right now, Jack knew his focus should remain on the present. But try as he might, Mary Pat Foley’s throwaway comment earlier in the day concerning a rumor of an assassin called Zenith and a spate of killings thirty years earlier had his mind wandering back to those days.
He had not thought of Zenith in a long time. In the four years Jack was out of office, he had worked on his memoirs. This had been a slow process, made slower by the fact that many of the things Ryan had done had been classified, and he therefore could not very well put them in his book.
But the Zenith affair—they called i
t the “possible Zenith affair” at the time because no one ever proved there was, in fact, a Zenith—was an event that not only was classified but had been all but stricken from the record. Jack had not spoken of Zenith to anyone for thirty years.
And this made it all the more surprising when Mary Pat mentioned it in the context of a current crisis.
There were so few mysteries left from the Cold War. When the Iron Curtain dropped, virtually all the answers poured out like the Curtain had been a floodgate.
But despite the Russian government investigating the matter, the questions surrounding Zenith had never been resolved.
Jack knew Mary Pat had been right; this wasn’t like him to chase details on a single piece of intel. Ostensibly, he wanted to see if Talanov was somehow involved in the Zenith murders; if he was, this would be an important piece of the puzzle and part of developing an understanding of his background and his personality. But if Jack was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he had ordered the look into the Zenith case mostly because it had been one of the few remaining question marks of his career, and if Roman Talanov had something to do with it, however unlikely that might have been, Jack damn sure wanted to know.
He closed his eyes and willed himself to fall asleep. Tomorrow he would need to be fully involved in the dangerous present; he didn’t have the luxury of lying awake tonight to think about the dangerous past.
* * *
Sandy Lamont was worried about his young and high-profile employee for a couple of reasons. Number one, since returning from the West Indies, Jack had been working so hard he was starting to look like a bit of a zombie, and Lamont was concerned that one of the principals of his firm might pass young Ryan in the hall and then pull Lamont into his office to read him the riot act for abusing his employee.
And the other reason Sandy was concerned was that he was getting calls from Moscow, all basically saying the same thing. Some of the work they had been doing on behalf of Jack Junior was starting to earn them unwarranted attention from the local authorities.