by Tom Clancy
The Antiguan fell onto his back on the concrete alley, and Jack kept up the attack, kneeling over him and raining several more blows.
When it was clear Dreadlocks was unconscious, Jack looked around. The man in the black jersey was running off into the night, clutching his arm. A third man rolled around, holding his knee and cursing incomprehensible profanities, and the fourth man was facedown and out cold.
Jack looked in the other direction. Sandy Lamont stood there, just twenty-five feet away, staring at the carnage and the man on his knees in the center of it.
Jack stood and began moving up the alley. “Let’s get out of here.”
—
They were back in their hotel twenty minutes later. Sandy had pulled a few airplane bottles of rum out of the minibar with a shaking hand, and he poured them into a glass. Jack sat with him in his room. He had a beer in his hand, but he hadn’t even taken a sip yet.
Sandy Lamont just stared at Ryan. “Who the hell are you?”
Jack touched his fingers to the bridge of his nose. It was just scraped a little; no blood flowed. His knuckles were scraped and bruised as well.
He’d come up with an answer to Sandy’s question on the quiet and uncomfortable walk back to the hotel. He said, “The Secret Service put me through a hell of a lot of training. Been doing it for years, but when I refused their protection, they really stepped it up . . .” Jack shrugged and smiled. “Hell, I guess I’m half a ninja by now.”
Sandy said, “That’s bloody marvelous. Those bastards were going to kill us.”
“No. They were going to knock our heads together, but don’t make this bigger than it was. They are used to intimidating people down here. They probably work for any drug dealer, shady money launderer, or pimp who pays them. They aren’t assassins. Just assholes.”
Sandy downed the rum. His hands still shook.
Jack was worried about the next part. “Any chance we can keep this between you and me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’d rather Hugh Castor didn’t know about this.”
Sandy just looked out the window at the ocean for a moment. “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea. He’d blame me for the entire thing.”
“Why?”
Sandy shrugged. “He’s pressuring me about you already.”
“Pressuring you? What do you mean?”
“Oh. Bloody Gazprom. He makes a right ruckus every time he hears you are digging into them.”
Jack thought back to Sandy warning him away from the giant Russian corporation. “So that was Castor talking, not you.”
“Sorry, mate. Orders from the boss. I do see his point. We can do good business without going toe-to-toe against the real seat of Russian power.”
“Aren’t you overstating it a bit? I would think the Kremlin would be the seat of Russian power.”
Now that the subject had turned to business, Sandy was back on level ground. He recovered quickly. “Think about it, Jack. Gazprom not only is owned by the Kremlin, but it also is directly tied to the bank accounts of the siloviki in the Kremlin. Castor has always been against us doing anything to provoke the Kremlin, and I’d say fucking with their meal ticket applies.”
Ryan looked out over the sea. “I think Castor should let these investigations go where the facts lead.”
“If you want to know the truth, Jack, I do, too. Old man Castor has his eyes on the bottom line, so he’ll go to bat for any Russian oligarch who’s trying to sue some other Russian oligarch, as long as Volodin and his siloviki aren’t involved.”
“But the siloviki is involved in a lot of underhanded stuff.”
“I think he’s just scared of Volodin and his thugs. He’d never admit it, but all of his tenacity just seems to drift away when the facts lead toward the Kremlin.”
Jack was frustrated by this, but it was nice to see that Sandy was frustrated as well.
Sandy said, “I won’t mention the fisticuffs down here. On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I want you to teach me how to do some of that.”
“It’s a deal,” Ryan said.
22
With all the badges, business cards, equipment, and swagger of a group of independent journalists, Clark, Chavez, Driscoll, Caruso, and Biery landed at Kiev’s Boryspil International Airport just after nine in the morning. They were met by a man Clark had hired to use as a fixer for the duration of their operation.
Igor Kryvov was a former member of Ukraine’s Security Service’s Alpha group, a paramilitary Spetsnaz force used for hostage and counterterror scenarios, and he’d also served as an assaulter on Domingo Chavez’s team in Rainbow. He was now retired from that life, having picked up a disability during a training accident when his main parachute failed to open and his reserve chute caught high winds that sent him slamming awkwardly into the ground. He’d broken both legs and shattered his pelvis, and he’d nearly bled to death from the compound fractures.
When he learned his injuries would prevent him from returning to active duty with Rainbow, he took a job as a beat cop with the Kiev municipal police, and while doing so, he earned a master’s degree in criminal intelligence. For a short time he was an investigator for the Ministry of Internal Affairs, but he had no interest in the corruption rife within the organization. His insistence on playing by the book soured his relationship with his employers, so now he was in the private sector, freelancing in security work and taking jobs as a fixer—essentially, a glorified tour guide for foreigners doing business in the city of 2.8 million.
As a result of his injuries, Kryvov walked with a slight stoop and a pronounced limp, but despite his surgeries and his long history of professional violence, he always wore a smile on his face.
“Colonel Clark!” he said as he shook John’s hand on the tarmac. “Good to see you again.”
“Hi, Igor. I really appreciate you agreeing to work with us.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been so bored driving CNN reporters around from one protest march to the next. Getting to be with you guys for a few days sounds like fun.”
When Chavez came down the steps of the Hendley Associates Gulfstream, Kryvov grabbed the smaller Mexican American and yanked him into a bear hug.
“Good to see you, Igor.”
“You as well.”
The forty-five-year-old was introduced to the others, and within minutes he had all their equipment packed up in the van. Igor knew the men weren’t journalists, but Clark had told him only that he was coming over to do some “poking around.” The Ukrainian quite reasonably assumed the men were CIA, but operating under nonofficial cover.
Kryvov was known around the city as a man who worked with foreign press, so Clark knew the ex–Rainbow man could help them establish their journalistic covers. This, along with his knowledge of the local criminal element, made him a perfect fit for the Campus team, since they needed to be dialed in to some of the darker sides of the city in order to learn what was going on over here with the Seven Strong Men.
The entourage left the airport and drove to a rented third-floor flat in an old building on the right bank of the Dnieper River. Though the Americans were tired from the flight, they wasted no time before beginning the lengthy process of preparing their safe house. They swept for bugs using tiny devices hidden in their camera equipment, and they chose routes in the building and in the neighborhood so they could escape quickly if necessary.
Gavin Biery set up his operation in the living room. From the very beginning, Clark had stressed to the team the importance of maintaining their cover. Biery set up his workstation with that in mind. Not only were the computers encrypted and password-protected, but the Campus-related applications were hidden on the machines, while digital editing software and several news-related websites ran openly. This way, even if someone got past the security, they would still think they were looking at the work of an editor or cameraman for a traveling news team.
Gavin fired up his two l
aptops, and from here he gained access to the CIA’s SIPRNet and the Ukrainian SSU network. He also set up a computer that functioned as a digital radio receiver, and this he attached to a speaker system. The radio was able to pick up and decrypt transmissions from local police, although only Kryvov spoke Ukrainian fluently.
They got around this limitation to some degree with the use of translation software, so that the data Gavin pulled up from the Ukrainian police network would be instantly and automatically converted to English. It sounded great in theory, but in practice the software was hit-and-miss. Gavin had to read every sentence multiple times to figure out what was being conveyed, and much of it was just gibberish.
While everyone else was getting settled into their new digs, Ding Chavez took Igor Kryvov aside. “Look, Igor, you and I have known each other for a long time, so you know me to be a straight shooter, right?”
“Sure, Ding.”
“I’ve got something to ask you, so I’m just going to ask you. I know you are Ukrainian, but you come from a Russian family. What do you think about all the rumors going on about Russia these days?”
“You mean the rumors that Russia is going to invade?”
“Exactly.”
Kryvov said, “I am Ukrainian of Russian origin, true. But that doesn’t mean I want to be ruled by Moscow. Volodin won’t stop until he destroys the last vestiges of liberty in this hemisphere, so he and his cronies can control everything.
“You have to understand, Ding, there are three types of people in this country. The Ukrainian nationalists are mostly in the west. The Russian nationalists are mostly in the east. And then there are the Ukrainians of Russian descent who want nothing to do with the Kremlin at all. I belong to that category, and we are everywhere. I have seen enough war to know that I don’t want to see any more, especially on my doorstep.”
“That’s good to know,” said Ding. The men shook hands. “I’m sure we could all use a primer on the local organized-crime scene as well.”
“I’ll tell you guys everything I know.”
While everyone prepared the apartment for their stay, Kryvov relayed story after story about the security situation here in the city. According to Kryvov, in the past months Kiev had turned into nothing less than a haven for Russian spies and Russian organized crime. Other crime groups—Chechens, Georgians, and Ukrainian Tatars—were also active in the city, but the word on the street was everyone was now working for the Russians.
Organized crime at the street level, a phenomenon that had declined in Russia, seemed to be on the rise here. Many saw the upswing in criminal activity, violent extortions, and assassinations as just an inevitable result of the political strife the nation was experiencing, but to an old hand like Kryvov, it seemed like something much less organic was going on.
“These new Russian guys in town are bribing local officials to vote in ways that benefit Russia. They are paying off other crime organizations to increase their activity, which causes the local police to be overburdened. They have beaten up, threatened, and kidnapped some journalists who were reporting negative stories about the Kremlin as well. What we are seeing, as near as I can tell, is Russian organized crime here in Kiev doing the work of the FSB.”
Kryvov told the men of The Campus he had never heard the name Gleb the Scar, but he knew some locals who could provide them with more information.
Clark listened to everything Kryvov said about the situation on the ground here in Kiev, then he said, “When I was with Rainbow, the Russians were some of our best partners in NATO. They worked with us on terrorism issues, nuclear proliferation, regional security matters.”
Kryvov said, “There are still good Russian soldiers, needless to say. Good diplomats as well, believe it or not, but that’s just because there aren’t enough siloviki to staff all the embassies with diplomats as well as spies. But Volodin leads everyone by the nose, pays off his supporters by allowing the level of corruption that exists.”
Driscoll asked, “Mr. C, what is our first step?”
Clark said, “Tomorrow I am going to reach out to the local chief of station, Keith Bixby.”
Chavez was surprised by this. “Reach out to him? Isn’t that a little risky? How do you know he won’t just make some calls and get you picked up by the local cops for wandering around on his turf?”
“An educated guess. I’ll tell him I’ve come to help, and I’ll impress upon him that I am a private citizen and I know I’m a private citizen. He seemed like a pragmatic guy. I think he’ll be glad to get another set of eyes in this town.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Biery asked.
Clark shrugged. “If I’m wrong, this could end up being a short trip.”
23
After being uprooted by the radiation scare at the White House, Cathy and the kids decided to move back to their home in Maryland for the cleanup. Jack, on the other hand, wanted to continue working in the West Wing, so he moved across Pennsylvania Avenue to Blair House, the official guest residence of the White House.
The cleanup across the street in the White House residence began almost immediately. Most solid surfaces needed a thorough cleaning with Decon 90, a powerful detergent containing a three-percent solution of potassium hydroxide. The surfaces were then revarnished or repainted, and retested for the polonium isotope to ensure there were no lingering traces.
But the bathroom Golovko had visited had to be completely destroyed. The enamel of the toilet and the sink had been penetrated by the material emanating from Golovko’s body, and this could not be cleaned by detergent, so the enamel surfaces were removed and smashed into small pieces, and these pieces were stored at a special processing facility in a lead-lined container. The half-life of polonium-210 was a relatively short 138 days, meaning the material could be more safely handled and disposed of only after letting it sit for several months.
While this was taking place, similar decontamination operations began at Golovko’s Capitol Hill hotel, on board the aircraft that took him from Kansas to Washington, and in both his hotel in Lawrence and the rooms affected at the University of Kansas.
While jackhammers were tearing the radiated bathroom fixtures out of the White House residence, Jack Ryan was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office when he took the phone call letting him know that Sergey Golovko died in the ICU at George Washington.
He hung up the phone and headed over to the sitting area in front of his desk, where he sat down and relayed the news to Scott Adler, Mary Pat Foley, and Jay Canfield. They were meeting today to discuss Volodin’s announcement concerning the expanded powers of the FSB, and the news of Golovko’s death, while no surprise, only made the topic of conversation timelier.
Ryan rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “The KGB is back. Call it whatever the hell you want to call it, dress it up in designer suits and give it a Madison Avenue PR department, but it’s the same old gang we all know and hate.”
Mary Pat Foley said, “You know, one could make the argument that the new FSB is more powerful than the KGB ever was. The KGB did not have real decision-making power within the Soviet Union. Not like many think. Their job was to advise the Communist Party. They didn’t call the shots. But now . . . now the intelligence officers both spy and run the show.” She paused. “It’s worse now.”
Ryan said, “The question is, how will the promotion of Talanov change things?”
Jay Canfield responded, “We can expect action on all fronts. Talanov’s reign at FSB has been characterized by his use of proxies as a force multiplier for his agency. Rebel groups in Georgia, union workers in Ukraine, organized-crime groups working for him in Chechnya and the Baltic.”
Foley agreed. “Every intel agency does this. Hell, we use proxy forces to some extent, but Talanov is going back to the KGB model by making it the centerpiece of his foreign intelligence strategy. Volodin is trying to pull all the bordering nations into Russia’s direct control, so you can be sure Talanov will execute his marching orders with an eye toward des
tabilizing countries that don’t toe the Kremlin line.”
Scott Adler said, “Volodin’s aim is to institute something like a new Warsaw Pact. Once that happens, in addition to hundreds of millions of people losing their liberty and self-determination, Europe will be completely squeezed.”
Ryan said, “When I talked to Golovko he was very concerned about Talanov. He said it was particularly suspicious how he came out of nowhere to lead the FSB.”
“I agree with him,” Foley said. “When Volodin made this announcement I reached out to other friendly agencies to see if they had anything substantive on Talanov that we didn’t. Of course, we’ve looked into him before, when he was picked to head FSB, for example, but I wanted to make sure no stone was left unturned concerning him.”
“What did you learn?”
“Little officially,” Foley admitted. “He was the head of the FSB in Novosibirsk, the largest city in Siberia, before coming to Moscow last year and taking over as head of internal security. We did a full workup on him as a matter of course, but there are a lot of blanks. We found rumors that he was ex-GRU, and he was in Chechnya, but nothing conclusive. He is the most opaque intelligence chief Russia has had since back in the Soviet Union days.”
“Sergey confirmed he was GRU,” Jack said, and Mary Pat jotted a note down on a pad in her lap. Jack asked, “How has Talanov stayed so low-profile?”
“It’s not that surprising, really. Look at Volodin himself. We know he was KGB in the mid to late eighties, then FSB for a short time. When the Soviet Union fell apart, he went into banking, made a few billion, and then dabbled in politics in his home of Saint Petersburg. He’s been such a high-profile businessman for so long it’s easy to forget he used to be a spy.”