The Russian Endgame

by Allan Topol

  Their meeting took place outside of the Russian President’s country house. Orlov and Kuznov were walking along a dirt trail that climbed into the hills in a wooded area adjacent to the house. Two beefy security agents were following behind far enough back so they couldn’t hear the conversation.

  Orlov began by recapping how he had arranged the Dalton assassination, leaving out his killing of the trucking company clerk in Pittsburgh and the fact that the Pakistani shooter’s wife had seen Orlov when he went to the man’s house. Those were loose ends that could lead back to Orlov. Kuznov didn’t have to know about them.

  Instead, in an effort to put Kuznov on the defensive, Orlov dwelled on Valerie and the fact that she refused to honor her commitment to Kuznov.

  “Well it was a long time ago,” Kuznov said, sounding as if he was willing to forgive her. Did the brutal spy master have a soft spot for this young American he’d slept with, Orlov wondered. Was Kuznov human after all? Kuznov continued. “But I figured you’d find a way around her unwillingness to help. Breaking into her computer was a good move.”

  “What have you heard from our intelligence people in Washington?”

  “The Americans have bought the story that the assassination was the work of Jihadists, perhaps Al Qaeda. Using the Pakistani and leaving the Koran in the cabin were good moves. Also, they’ve no doubt traced the grenade launcher to one of their shipments to Pakistan. As of now, you are in the clear.”

  Orlov noticed Kuznov’s choice of the word you, not we, and his emphasis on it. Distancing himself personally from the assassination.

  “True,” Orlov said. “And I believe we are better off with Treadwell in the White House than Dalton. So the operation achieved something beneficial from our point of view.”

  “Agreed. Have you spoken to Zhou since the assassination?”

  Oh, oh, Orlov thought. Now comes the tough part. “I was just in Beijing. I flew to Moscow from there yesterday.”

  “What’s the date for my meeting with Zhou? When’s he coming to Moscow?”

  Might as well put it on the table, Orlov thought grimly. Try to put on a positive spin. “He wants me to do just one more thing. Then he’ll come to Moscow.”

  As Orlov expected, Kuznov exploded. “That fucking liar,” he shouted. “Zhou promised you that if you assassinated Dalton, we’d have the meeting and the alliance. He has no intention of meeting with me or forming an alliance. He’s just yanking me around. Mao always pulled the same crap with Stalin and Kruschev.” Kuznov reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Tell Zhou I said to go fuck himself. You can even use my cell phone.”

  Orlov felt like a tennis ball being slammed back and forth between Kuznov and Zhou. This wasn’t what he had in mind when he forced his way in to see the Russian president at Kuznov’s house along the lake. Although it was a small comfort, he recalled what his brutal taskmaster had said in KGB training. “In real life, things rarely go as planned.” In an effort to mollify Kuznov and get the project back on track, Orlov decided to focus on PGS. “Let me explain what Zhou wants.”

  “Okay. Go ahead,” Kuznov snarled.

  “Have you heard of the new long-range missile system the Americans are developing? Prompt Global Strike, or PGS, they call it.”

  Kuznov looked interested. He put away his cell phone. “On my last visit to Washington, when Dalton took me to Camp David, he told me about it. He did it in a threatening way, telling me that just because he was pulling troops out of distant locations didn’t mean the United States was dropping its guard. He explained that with the Prompt Global Strike system, the U.S. had the capability of hitting any spot on the globe, even a specific room in my country house, with a powerful bomb; and they would do that from California. ‘A game changer,’ is what he called the PGS weapons system.”

  Kuznov’s words were music to Orlov’s ears. “What did you tell him?”

  “I said, ‘Don’t threaten me. If you move forward and construct this system, you’ll be starting a new arms race. We’ll expand and enhance our nuclear arsenal. And if you dare to unleash PGS, we’ll respond with nuclear weapons against American cities.’”

  “Our planes would have to get through their air defense systems.”

  “True.”

  “But if we had the PGS technology, we’d be at parity with the United States.”

  “Correct. As soon as I returned from Washington, I appointed Vladimir Drozny, one of our top aerospace engineers, to begin work on our version of PGS.”

  “How close is he?”

  “Still years away. Why?”

  “Zhou wants me to steal PGS from the Americans. He offered to help me by providing detailed bios for the five American engineers working on their development project in the Epsilon Unit of Rogers Laughton. Once I have those, I’ll zero in on one of the five and make him disclose it. For Russia to have PGS would be an incredible boost to our military capability.”

  Kuznov slowed his pace. “I’m well aware of the value of PGS. What troubles me is whether Zhou will share it with us, or whether he’ll keep it all for himself.”

  “I can understand your suspicions,” Orlov replied. “But if I steal PGS, I’ll be in control of the technology. I won’t turn it over to Zhou until he comes to Moscow to meet with you. He’ll be begging you to share it with him. You’ll be in the driver’s seat.”

  “You make it sound so easy. It won’t go that way. Not with Zhou.”

  Orlov, now on a roll, was feeling more self-confident. “Sure there are risks. But with PGS as the prize, the stakes are now huge—the payoff great.”

  Kuznov stopped walking and turned toward Orlov. The security agents halted as well.

  “For you, the stakes truly are huge,” the Russian president said.

  “If you don’t succeed, if I don’t get the PGS technology and my meeting with Zhou, I’ll have you arrested and thrown into a jail cell. And then…”

  At a distance of twenty yards, a deer with large antlers came into a clearing and nibbled some greens on the ground.

  Kuznov removed a pistol from the holster at his waist, aimed at the deer, and fired. Wounded, the deer staggered back into the forest. Kuznov fired another shot and brought it down.

  “I’ll come into your cell,” Kuznov told Orlov. “I’ll fire the gun myself. And one shot will be all it will take.”

  Orlov’s blood ran cold. He knew that Kuznov meant it.

  Beijing

  President Zhou played tennis with the same incredible intensity that he did everything. Today, on a brutally hot and humid Beijing day, he was playing with a lieutenant thirty years his junior and a member of the Chinese army team. Zhou liked playing with this lieutenant. Unlike Androshka, whom Zhou easily defeated, the lieutenant was a formidable opponent. Zhou always won, but just barely. Usually six-four or seven-five. Zhou was convinced that the lieutenant took enough off his game to let Zhou win, but he didn’t care. That was still preferable to losing.

  The court, which Zhou had constructed in back of the president’s house immediately after his return to Beijing, was red clay which he had imported from France. He had grown fond of playing on red clay at Cap d’Antibes because it was so much easier on the knees and joints. The expense involved was irrelevant.

  They were in the second set. Zhou, having won the first, seven-five, was leading five-four and serving at deuce. Through the corner of his eye, Zhou saw Captain Cheng, dressed in civilian clothes, a suit and tie, approach the side of the court. Cheng sat down on a chair at courtside.

  Zhou now wanted to end this match as quickly as possible. He had to find out what Cheng had learned in the United States, but he refused to stop until it was over.

  Zhou hit a strong first serve to the lieutenant’s backhand. The return was a short ball. Zhou moved up quickly and blasted it toward the corner. The lieutenant hit the ball in the air, firing it back directly at Zhou, who raised his racket, as much from self-defense as to make a shot. The ball bounced off Zhou’s racket, h
it the net cord, and landed on the other side. The lieutenant made a furious charge to get to it. Too late.

  “Add in,” Zhou called.

  Zhou’s next serve was perfect. Just nicking the center line. The return was high, coming down close to the baseline. Zhou let it bounce. Too close to call in or out with any certainty. Zhou shouted, “Out!” The match was over.

  Zhou, sweating profusely, shook hands with the lieutenant at center court. “Tomorrow, same time,” Zhou said.

  “I’ll be here, sir.” The lieutenant headed toward the exit.

  Zhou approached Cheng, who tossed him a towel and held out a bottle of water.

  Zhou dropped his racket and collapsed into a chair next to Cheng. While Zhou drank greedily, security guards and tennis court maintenance officials moved away.

  Zhou finished the bottle of water. Cheng held out another one. Zhou took it and clutched it in his hand. “Tell me about your trip.”

  “I had no difficulty getting in and out of the United States. I used a phony passport and wore civilian clothes, pretending to be a Chinese investor. I’ve just come from the airport.”

  “Did you meet with our American friend?”

  “In San Francisco. He flew out from the east. We both stayed at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. I’m sure no one saw me when I went to his room at three a.m.”

  “Good. What did he tell you?”

  “First, he wanted me to pass along his congratulations to you for becoming the president of China. He would have preferred to come to Beijing and express this personally, but he thought under the circumstances, it was better not to.”

  “He’s right about that.”

  “Still, he hopes to see you again soon.”

  “What did he tell you about Dalton’s assassination?” Zhou asked impatiently.

  “He said that the Americans are convinced a Muslim group, probably Al Qaeda, was responsible for Dalton’s assassination. The words China or Russia have not even surfaced in Washington, and our friend has access to the highest levels in the American government.”

  Zhou drank some more water. “Excellent.”

  “But I did learn something else from our American friend.”

  “What’s that?”

  Cheng looked around as he spoke.

  “Craig Page will be replacing Norris as CIA Director. Treadwell has decided on the appointment. He’ll announce it any day.”

  “You sound concerned.”

  “Well I thought…”

  “You thought wrong,” Zhou said emphatically. “I’m glad Page will have the job.”

  Zhou was confident that if he monitored and supervised Orlov, then he and Orlov would be able to steal the PGS technology from under Page’s nose. Once and for all, he would soundly defeat his nemesis. As CIA Director, Craig Page would be disgraced.

  Yes, that was what Zhou wanted: to thoroughly disgrace and humiliate Page in front of his American countrymen. The whole world. Zhou had learned well one of Mao’s lessons: disgrace is more damaging to your enemy then death. He must live with it and face others.

  But apart from his victory over Page, Zhou would have the PGS technology. With it would come military superiority over the United States. No one could stop him from launching the war to establish China’s world dominance.

  PART THREE

  * * *

  One Month Later

  Washington

  For Craig, it was a great thrill to be sitting in the Director’s corner office on the seventh floor of CIA headquarters with the floor to ceiling windows looking out over the bucolic Virginia countryside. He could still recall when he started at the agency and was in awe of the Director. Today was a heady experience. At eight this morning, his first day on the job, he received greetings from everyone he saw beginning with two men on the reception desk who simultaneously said, “Good morning, Mr. Director,” as Craig passed through the marbled floor lobby to the elevator.

  All that was fine, but now the work began.

  His first meeting was with Betty.

  “I’m ready for you, boss,” his one-time mentor said as she entered his office, a smile on her face.

  “You can call me Craig,” he replied, laughing.

  “Okay, now, we have to talk about the Dalton assassination.”

  “What have you learned?”

  “I’ve combed through the files of all the law enforcement agencies involved,” she said, as she took a seat in front of his desk.

  “Good. Can you give me some bottom lines?”

  “Sure. The weapon used was a grenade launcher manufactured in the United States. Based upon serial numbers, we know that it was shipped to Pakistan as a new weapon six months ago.”

  “A wonderful expression of gratitude on their part. Why didn’t we just leave it here and save them the cost and trouble of transporting it.”

  “The Koran found in the cabin was published in Pakistan.”

  “What do we know about the assassin?”

  “Man by the name of Asif Pasha. He lived in Manassas, Virginia. Moved to the United States from Pakistan about a year ago. Married. No children. To our knowledge, no known Jihadist connections. We have his wife stashed at a CIA protective house outside of Leesburg.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “She wanted it. When I sent two of our agents to interview her, she refused to tell them anything about her husband but said her life had become a living hell since this happened. She couldn’t go outside. People were screaming at her. Putting up signs with obscenities in front of her house—by the way, she speaks very good English. When she said, ‘I have to get away from all this,’ the agents called me. I told them to take her to the safe house.”

  “Good move.”

  “That evening, I went out to talk to her. She wouldn’t say a word. You want to give it a try?”

  “You mean the strong domineering male might succeed?”

  “No. Actually, I was thinking of you as a used car salesman.”

  “Very funny. You want to go with me?”

  “I think you’re better to go alone. But don’t try and bludgeon this woman. I don’t think that will work.”

  “Okay. I’ll go out this afternoon. Any success yet in decoding the encrypted message between Zhou and his brother?”

  “The techies are still working on it. The Chinese are good. Our people think they’ll eventually crack it, but they don’t know when.”

  “That’s what they kept telling me in Europe.”

  “Speaking of which, did Giuseppe get your old job?”

  “I had to bring around the Germans and French, who wanted it to be one of their intelligence people. And Jacques is pissed at me. He believed the job should be his. But the answer’s yes.”

  “Good. I like Giuseppe. Good luck this afternoon.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  Craig sat down in the living room of the safe house with Asif’s widow, who was dressed in western clothes, a navy skirt and white blouse, her black hair uncovered. She was scowling and glaring at him.

  “My name is Craig Page. I’ve just been appointed Director of the CIA.”

  “I read that in the newspaper,” she responded curtly. “I should be honored that you came yourself.”

  Craig ignored the sarcasm. “I think we can help each other.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “I want to find out who persuaded your husband to fire that grenade at President Dalton’s helicopter, and I think you do, too.”

  “What difference does it make to me? I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I had no idea Asif was planning to kill the president.”

  She paused to take a breath. From the way she said it, Craig believed her. She continued, “Yet my life is ruined. I can’t live here. I can’t return to Pakistan.”

  “But,” Craig was speaking softly, “if I find out who planned the Dalton assassination, the attention will shift to them away from your husband.”

  “That sounds good. Howev
er, you can’t possibly believe it. Asif Pasha’s name will be carved into history and vilified like Lee Harvey Oswald and Sirhan Sirhan. I’m his wife. People will spit on me when I walk into a supermarket.” She sounded depressed. He couldn’t blame her.

  If he wanted to persuade her to talk, Craig decided his only chance was to offer her a way to change her life.” If you cooperate with me, I promise to relocate you with a new identity at the government’s expense in California. You will be able to start a new life.”

  She looked at him with suspicion. “Why should I believe you?”

  “I’ll put it in writing.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “I could have the paper signed by the Attorney General of the United States.”

  “I don’t know him. This could all be a trick.”

  Craig was losing patience. He’d have to change his tack. “Listen, Mrs. Pasha. I can only give you my word. There are no ironclad guarantees. But right now, your situation is hopeless. Either you cooperate with me, or I’ll have my men drive you home to Manassas. We’ll send you right back to the people who will spit on you in the supermarket. Either you cooperate with me or face them. Take your pick.”

  For a moment, a heavy silence settled over the room. Finally, she said, “Put it in writing. If you sign it, that’s enough. I’ll take my chances.”

  Craig breathed a sigh of relief. Then he took a pad and pen from his briefcase and wrote out exactly what he had promised. He handed her the paper.

  She was nodding. “What would you like to know?”

  Craig decided not to record the conversation. He thought she’d talk more freely that way. “How did your husband get involved in this? Did he belong to a terrorist group? Did he meet someone in a mosque? Whatever you know.”

  “Asif was a secular man. He never went to a mosque. He despised the Jihadists.”

  “Could he have become religious recently?”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  Craig continued. “But they found a Koran in the cabin.”