* * *
Markova sat in the arm-chair feeling distinctly awkward, unsure where the conversation was heading and suspicious of her questioner’s motive. Although she had been allowed to shower and change, sitting opposite the most powerful man in Russia while dressed in ill-fitting top and jeans was far from ideal. Bearing in mind she had been kidnapped and held against her wishes, it also didn’t feel right to accord him the deference appropriate to his rank.
General Morozov was known to Markova only through Grebeshkov’s occasional comments and the persona he revealed in the media: tough and uncompromising, yet still regarded as a moderate, he had won Grebeshkov’s respect if not quite his friendship. Stocky, but not overweight, the General’s physical appearance belied his fifty years, an old scar running down his left cheek somehow adding to his no-nonsense air.
For a good five minutes now Morozov had stuck with the pleasantries, skirting around the difficult questions while asking if Markova needed anything. She had managed to maintain a polite exterior, gradually becoming more frustrated, impatient for Morozov to get to the point. This was not the direct approach she had anticipated and she sensed he needed something specific from her, something that could perhaps even help buy her freedom.
“You should be thanking me for saving your life, Major,” said Morozov, finally deciding he’d been congenial long enough. “If my men hadn’t taken you off the street someone else would have done so, and it’s rumoured you were to be Alekseyev’s second target and not that pig of a Colonel. I would be lying if I said I can protect you indefinitely.”
“I don’t need anyone’s protection,” said Markova testily. “Nor am I the enemy you seem to believe.”
“That may well be true, Major, but you obviously know far more that you’re telling. Drugs and more physical methods tend not to be that reliable, and I would prefer that we try to work together. You gave us Wilhelmshaven but we can find nothing to explain its relevance to General Grebeshkov’s murder – that would be a useful start.”
“And if I tell you everything, then what?”
Morozov gave a thin smile, “I doubt it would be healthy for you to return to Moscow. Once I understand exactly why someone wants you dead, then we can work out where you’ll be of most use – a favoured member of Grebeshkov’s team certainly has the requisite skills.” His tone abruptly hardened, “When Russia was falling apart, five of us worked together to save our nation, risking everything; now just Golubeva and I remain. I need to know why General Grebeshkov was murdered, and whether I am likely to be next.”
Markova had already made up her mind, the General’s words only reinforcing her own concerns. It might be foolish to put her trust in Morozov, but she really had very little choice. And what harm could it do now anyway?
It was a complex tale to explain quickly. General Morozov asked the occasional question but was generally content just to listen, not needing to take notes. Markova left out any mention of Anderson and Nikolai, preferring not to muddy the waters still further.
“The CIA,” said Morozov, once Markova had finished, thinking out loud. “Do they know about McDowell and Hanson?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Markova replied, sticking with the truth as best she knew it. “Of course, it’s always possible that McDowell is actually working for the CIA.”
Morozov frowned, “Is that likely?”
“Probably not,” responded Markova with a shrug. “He had contacts there once and it would be best to assume that McDowell, and through him Sukhov, have inside knowledge of any relevant U.S. intelligence investigation.” She gave a wry smile, “McDowell is always pretty thorough in that respect.”
Morozov remained persistent, “And no-one thought to warn the British about a possible attack on London?”
“As far as I’m aware, no-one in my section has been in contact with any Western intelligence agency.” Markova said it with emphasis, almost daring Morozov to challenge her assertion. Not that she was actually lying: officially, Nikolai had nothing to do with her and Anderson could hardly be considered an intelligence agency.
The General gave her a studied look then chose to move on. “Why London, and not Paris or New York.”
“I’m not sure; it might even just be a diversion.” She lapsed into silence and it was several seconds before Morozov spoke, his tone returning to its earlier congenial mode.
“I appreciate your co-operation, Major. Golubeva’s people already have effective control of the SVR and Grebeshkov’s murder has now opened the door to the FSB; the GRU east of Moscow is similarly of unclear allegiance. For the moment, I have a certain authority but give the President another three months and I too will be redundant.”
“That’s not what the protestors in Moscow seem to believe,” Markova observed pointedly.
Morozov merely reacted with a shrug of frustration, “Government policy is now entirely in the hands of the President and despite what you may believe, I have no wish for it to be otherwise; the army’s role has been to ensure stability and that is all. Sadly, some of Golubeva’s supporters now see me more as a threat and are stirring up animosity to ease the final transfer of power; we are all on borrowed time here, your colleagues in the FSB suffering more than most with four section heads culled in less than a week.”
“Then it would seem we are definitely on the same side after all.”
Morozov appeared to have reached the same conclusion. “Golubeva is clearly working to some secret agenda and I need to understand why Evgeny Sukhov visited Khabarovsk and Vladivostok. The Commander of the Eastern Military District seems to have allied himself with the President, along with everyone else of consequence in the Far East; worryingly, there have been persistent rumours of military redeployments, but none have been authorised and the relevant satellite data may well have been doctored.” Morozov gave a shrug of resignation, “I sent two of my best men to Vladivostok to investigate but it’s been three days and I’ve heard nothing back; I have to assume they’re most probably dead. Golubeva must either be over-confident or desperate to have gone to such extremes.”
Markova nodded in understanding, “So maybe it’s nothing to do with London at all. Could Golubeva be looking to interfere in North Korea?”
“More likely it’s Mongolia or even China… Pursue your investigation into Sukhov, Major, and maybe we can both come out of this in one piece.” Morozov gave a wide one-handed gesture at their surroundings. “There is a limit to what I can do without compromising my own safety. This house is the best I can offer; that and half-a-dozen staff. There is also a direct link to GRU Headquarters at Khodynka; they are loyal, at least for the moment.”
He stood up: now the decision had been made, he was keen to return to more urgent matters. “I am not a patient man, Major. We are all taking a risk here and I expect to see results. You have a week; after that I will need to rethink whether such risks are actually worthwhile.”
Bray, England – 21:20 Local Time; 20:20 UTC
Pat McDowell didn’t consider himself a romantic but if ever settled down then Yang’s lifestyle – indeed this house – would do very nicely indeed. Yang’s home did in fact have certain similarities to the Vice-President’s hideaway outside Washington: waterfront property, large secluded plot, beautifully furnished, just a short distance from the capital – but in reality the two just couldn’t compare. The Bray house exuded old-fashioned elegance, from its entrance hallway and curved staircase, to the landscaped gardens and the River Thames beyond. Grade II listed, nine bedrooms, three storeys, swimming pool and a hundred yards of river frontage – it was simply breathtaking. And this was merely one of Yang’s four residences, his second in the UK and worth barely a quarter of his London residence.
Yang Kyung-Jae was only one of the five men whose millions had turned August 14 into a genuine threat, but if anyone deserved to be called its leader, McDowell judged it to be Yang. He was certainly the driving force, yet pragmatic enough to pick others who could turn
the cabal’s ambition into a reality. To date their success had been far greater than any of the key players had believed possible, the coup in Russia a reward for the many sacrifices made. Golubeva’s elevation from covert manipulator to President of Russia had been totally unexpected, her sudden rise to world prominence a concern, no-one quite sure how she would handle such power. Yet so far she had continued to prove a worthy asset, still mindful of the debt she owed and fully prepared to play her part.
The second phase of the cabal’s dream was more complex than had been required with Russia, where its own internal divisions and the fears of Russia’s East European neighbours had been profitably turned against it. August 14 had been a convenient vehicle for Russia but this time the tactics were less extreme, the target far more stable, and a dozen tangled threads needed to be pulled together to ensure a successful and effective outcome. If one failed, no matter; more than one, and a year’s planning would most likely be wasted. The timing of each individual event also had to be precise; a couple of days out and the steady build-up of momentum would be irretrievably lost. The budget had been set at a generous hundred million dollars – a fortune to some but when put against the cabal’s total wealth of well over twenty-five billion it was considered an acceptable expense for such a laudable aim.
McDowell and Yang sat in the large study, a half-empty bottle of scotch resting on the table between them. A liking for good whisky was about all they had in common, although the physical differences between them were not that extreme – McDowell; forty, six foot four, muscular; Yang: sixty-three, five foot ten, and a regular user of pool and gym.
It was two hours since the main meeting had broken up, with six of the ten participants preferring to make use of the ultra-secure video-link rather than attending in person. Paige Hanson’s American associates now had their ‘unbreakable commitment’, the various elements already moving into place.
“The symposium at Wilhelmshaven,” Yang said, giving McDowell a questioning look. “I sense you were more concerned than you let on.”
“Concern’s too strong a word,” responded McDowell, picking his words carefully. “Despite Sukhov’s assurances, I’m not so convinced the proposed changes are irrelevant, and with this leaked report linking me to Hanson, that makes her a serious risk.”
Yang drank down his scotch in one. “Let’s not worry about what we can’t control. Which leaves us with Hanson; I assume you have a suitable solution in mind?”
McDowell nodded, “It makes sense to resolve the problem as quickly as possible before it too is taken out of our hands.” He didn’t elucidate further, knowing from past experience that Yang wasn’t interested in hearing the exact details. He had put his faith in McDowell and the American had never yet let him down, a good chunk of the total investment put aside to reward McDowell and his accomplices. A total payroll of just forty-five men and women – it seemed a ridiculously small number, and a mere fraction of the total personnel involved in bringing Golubeva to power.
The three basic principles this time around were the same as with Russia, even though the means of achieving them were rather different: an external threat, an internal crisis and a complete lack of faith in the government’s ability to solve either. Most governments were quite likely to face such a scenario at some time during their administration, and the key was to ensure that each discrete component was sufficiently potent to complement and reinforce the others, as had been achieved with Russia.
It sounded easy enough, as long as you also had an enormous amount of luck and the right sort of inside help. In Russia’s case that had included significant elements within the SVR; this time, they had decided to be rather more selective, personal ambition and selfish greed ensuring McDowell had a tentative foothold within America’s Intelligence Community. And if that wasn’t enough, then there were always the basics of blackmail and extortion.
McDowell, however, did have one immediate concern that was entirely personal. The police and the various intelligence services were once again searching for him, and there was a limit to how many times he could chance his luck. The UK was now too great a risk, and even a return to the U.S. would be dangerous. McDowell had grown used to bypassing the security forces, but his options were daily becoming more limited.
Yang seemed to read his mind, “Do the British know you’re back in the UK?”
“They have a good idea,” McDowell confirmed, “but they don’t know enough to cause concern. Hanson created the problem with her mention of London but she’s also done us a favour, keeping everyone’s focus well away from the main event.”
Yang poured them both another drink, moving the topic of conversation on to something more mundane. He liked McDowell, and even though placing him in total charge of the second phase had been a risk, it was a well calculated one. The American had well learnt the lessons of Russia, growing into his role as each month had passed. Yang had quickly come to respect McDowell’s judgement and he trusted him implicitly – or as much as Yang trusted anyone.
If there was a weak link, then it wasn’t Pat McDowell. Initially Yang had been concerned that McDowell might have certain reservations as to their target, a natural reluctance born out of misplaced patriotism – after all he had served in the U.S. military. But such worries had been totally unfounded, McDowell more intrigued than fearful of the challenges ahead.
In terms of wealth, Yang’s three billion made him the poorest of the five members of the cabal, but their hopes and ambitions were the same. Just four more days and they would start to see whether the months of planning had actually been worthwhile. And that wasn’t even the end, just the beginning of the final chapter.
Whatever the eventual outcome, and however history judged him, Yang had no regrets. Success, wealth, respect – he would gladly discard them all if it would guarantee victory.
The Trust Of The People Page 7