Stalin's Final Sting

by Andrew Turpin

  Severinov clenched his fists tightly on the table, his knuckles white. “I will be crucified by the Kremlin,” he said. “You have no idea.”

  “That’s the general idea,” Johnson said in a disinterested tone. He could see that Storey was reading a message on his phone and was wanting to interrupt. “What do you have, Seb?” he asked.

  Storey indicated toward Severinov. “You may not want to hear this, but he’ll be flying back to Moscow in another couple of hours. He’s got another jet coming to pick him up.”

  Johnson felt as though he had just been kicked in the guts. “What? Afghanistan isn’t going to prosecute him?”

  Storey shook his head. “I’ll tell you later, but seems they just want the bastard out of the country as quickly as possible. Not sure if Putin’s been pulling strings or making threats.” He indicated with his thumb toward Severinov. “They’ve declared him persona non grata in Afghanistan, though, for what he did during the occupation, I’ve just been told.”

  His phone beeped again as another message arrived. He read it. “The government is citing the destruction of villages and their populations through helicopter attacks and arranging the systematic torture of prisoners at Pul-e-Charkhi and other detention centers,” Storey continued. “They’d probably like to declare Putin persona non grata as well but can’t.”

  Johnson felt a little dizzy as the news sank in. How could Severinov get away with it? This was a joke.

  He tried to look for the positives. The episode marked the end of Severinov’s ambitions regarding the Afghan oil and gas assets, anyway—Johnson was certain of that—just as surely as Zilleman and Donnerstein’s ambitions had been quite rightly thwarted. The Ministry of Mines and Petroleum had already announced they were canceling the bid presentations scheduled for that day, and indeed the whole process, in view of what had happened—two of their main bidders had disappeared.

  Johnson nodded at Storey. There was no point continuing the interview. “Okay, I’m finished with questions here. There’s nothing much more to ask. At least, not that will make a difference,” he said. “You can take him away.”

  One of the two soldiers flanking Severinov indicated to him to stand, which he did, eyeballing Johnson.

  “You will regret this,” Severinov said. “Remember my words.”

  Johnson shrugged again. “I doubt it. My only regret is that you’re getting a lot less than you deserve, unless your man Putin suddenly does something sensible for a change.”

  Severinov turned on his heel and walked toward the door, one soldier on either side.

  After the door had closed behind them, Johnson turned back to Storey. “Any news on what is happening with Putin?” he asked.

  “He’s flying back to Moscow shortly as well. Karzai’s canceled the meeting.” He smiled.

  “Some good news at last. Excellent,” Johnson said. The story of Putin’s rebuke by Karzai, a minnow in world politics by comparison, would provide a great backdrop and justification for the story he wanted to tell to the media.

  “The only downside is Putin lives to fight another day as well, then,” Storey said. “What a pity.”

  “Indeed,” Johnson said. “It is.”

  Chapter Forty

  Friday, June 14, 2013

  Moscow

  Severinov paused at the door that led from his house onto the expansive granite patio with intricate inset patterns that spanned the front of the property. He gazed down over his carefully manicured lawns and the swimming pool to the Moscow River beyond, all bathed in sunlight.

  He knew he was lucky to be back home rather than incarcerated in some cell beneath the deceptive blue skies of Kabul, a city that, in the past twenty-four hours, he had come to dislike intensely.

  From his seat beneath a white canvas canopy to his left, Vasily called out in a growly voice. “Yuri, are you all right, comrade?”

  Severinov jumped a little. “Not really. We need to talk.” He walked over to his colleague, who had accompanied him back from Kabul, and sat down. He picked up the ice-cold glass of his favorite Beluga vodka that one of his house staff had placed on the table for him and took a sip.

  After his excruciating interview at the hands of Johnson and company and his subsequent release, Severinov had gone straight to Putin’s aircraft, which was on the tarmac at Bagram, for a debriefing.

  Putin had initially appeared to view the entire episode as something that should be blamed on the ex-mujahideen Javed Hasrat, the American investigator Joe Johnson, and Karzai’s Kabul government.

  Karzai’s decision to cancel his meeting with Putin seemed to have focused the president’s anger firmly on the Afghan leader rather than on Severinov. He hadn’t even mentioned the Fedorov prisoner exchange issue, to Severinov’s relief.

  However, just as Severinov was about to leave Putin’s aircraft to return to his own Cessna Citation X, the president had casually switched tack—a not unfamiliar strategy.

  There was a complex set of clauses and options in the sale and purchase agreement under which Severinov had obtained the three original oil and gas fields in western Siberia that allowed the Russian government, under exceptional circumstances, to claw back rights to all of the output from those fields.

  Putin told Severinov he was unilaterally declaring an exceptional circumstance and would exercise one-third of those options as a penalty for the failure to secure the Afghan investment. It would deal a hammer blow—albeit not a terminal one—to his cash flows and his ability to repay debt obtained from banks to finance other acquisitions.

  It was impossible to argue: Severinov undoubtedly had Putin to thank for the Afghans’ decision not to detain him. Karzai’s security forces had taken the view that they had probably irritated the Russian leader enough already without adding fuel to the flames by imprisoning one of his oligarchs and former KGB colleagues.

  “I don’t know where all this is going,” Severinov said, glancing across at Vasily. “I have visions of losing all this.” He indicated with a sweep of his hand the house and land that stretched out in front of him.

  “I think it will be okay. The dust will settle,” Vasily said.

  “I’m not sure. It’s embarrassing.”

  Already The New York Times and CNN had run stories about the destruction of his plane in Kabul, referring to Severinov as Stalin’s secret grandchild—the cat was out of the bag. Johnson must have briefed them. There had been a wave of follow-up calls from other journalists to the Besoi Energy offices, which his communications director was so far ignoring. It was a matter of time before it became known that his late half brother was Stalin’s illegitimate son.

  His defense with the leadership would have to be that it hadn’t been him who had talked about it—something he had been expressly forbidden from doing.

  The problem was that nothing that tarred the memory of Russia’s leader during the Second World War was to be tolerated. Severinov himself didn’t want to do such a thing.

  He feared that if the coverage got out of hand, the penalty imposed by Putin might rise dramatically, and he could lose the entirety of the three oil and gas fields.

  It was also to be hoped that whoever had supplied the nuggets of information about the Stalin connection to Johnson did not have access to any other of his secrets.

  The big concern that Severinov had was the risk that Johnson might actively stir up a storm against him in the way that he appeared to have done in Washington against the US energy secretary Donnerstein, who had been very publicly hounded out of his job.

  “What do you want to do?” Vasily asked, picking up his own drink.

  “We need to make a plan,” Severinov said. “I’m not going to reach Javed now, I accept that. But I’m not going to let Johnson get away with what he’s done. I’ll need your help with that.”

  “You want to do something now?”

  “No, not now. That would be too obvious. We’ll look at it in the future.”

  Severinov sank back into the plu
sh cushions of his patio armchair, clutching his vodka.

  “Well, here’s to the next operation,” Vasily said. He raised his glass.

  “Yes. To the next operation. To the Motherland.” Severinov reached over and clinked glasses with Vasily, then downed the Beluga in one swallow.

  Epilogue

  Saturday, June 15, 2013

  Bagram Airfield

  “What did you say?” Johnson shouted, the blistering roar from the F-16 fighter jet’s engines gradually fading as it climbed into the blue above the mountaintops surrounding Bagram Airfield. The planes had been taking off in close succession for the previous ten minutes, making conversation difficult.

  “I was saying, three and a half out of four isn’t bad,” Jayne said as she clinked her can of Coca-Cola against Johnson’s. They were standing outside a Burger King kiosk at the base’s PX shopping area, waiting for Seb Storey and Frank Rice, whom they had arranged to meet for a farewell chat.

  “What do you mean?” Johnson asked.

  “You’ve nailed Watson and Donnerstein—they will certainly go to prison, and you’re already getting the credit for that. You’ve nailed Javed, who’ll be in a hell pit at Pul-e-Charkhi. And you’ve destroyed Severinov’s chances of doing that massive oil and gas deal,” Jayne said. “That’s three and a half.”

  “Yes, Watson—what a huge relief that has been,” Johnson said. “I never thought I’d get the chance, and then I thought he’d gone under the train. I’ve got mixed feelings about Javed, despite everything he’s done, and it’s something of a disaster that the Afghans aren’t going to put Severinov behind bars too. That would have been four out of four. He’s now going to be spitting blood. Free to come back at us.”

  Jayne shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll bet he tries,” Johnson said.

  There was another deafening roar as yet another F-16 took off from the nearby runway, forcing them to put their conversation on hold again. A group of US troops walked past and headed into the nearby grocery store, doubtless looking for a few home comforts to compensate for having to spend extended periods away living in hot, uncomfortable, and dangerous conditions. Most servicemen seemed to be coming out of the store with arms full of energy drinks, chocolate bars, and cigarettes.

  Johnson felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to find Storey and Rice standing there, a grin on both of their faces.

  When the noise from the jet abated, Storey put one hand on Johnson’s shoulder. “I just wanted to say thanks before you fly home,” he said. “You did a good job.”

  “Thank you,” Johnson said, shaking Storey’s hand. “I wouldn’t have been alive to do any job if it hadn’t been for you and your team pulling me out of that building.”

  “Yes, agreed,” Jayne said to Storey. “I would have been left completely stranded without you guys. We both owe you.”

  “Let’s call it teamwork, then,” Storey said, turning to Johnson and indicating toward Jayne. “You owe a lot to this lady, Joe.”

  “You’re right there,” Johnson said. “Not for the first time.”

  “People forget quickly,” Storey continued. “With all the current battles going on against the Taliban and the Haqqanis, they forget about the horrendous things that happened during the Soviet occupation and how bad the Russians really were. Nice to see at least some justice being handed out.”

  “Not quite what I wanted,” Johnson said.

  “I know. But almost. Keep it in perspective. I think you’re the kind of guy who’s never satisfied.”

  “True,” Johnson said. He knew it was true—he hated seeing anyone who deserved justice walking away free, especially when it involved the kind of large-scale genocide perpetrated by the Soviets on the Afghan people.

  “I need to go,” Storey said. “I need to get on a chopper flight back to Wilderness soon. Keep in touch. I’ll leave you with Frank here.” He shook Johnson’s and Jayne’s hands, flashed them a salute, and with a nod of the head, disappeared around the corner.

  Johnson turned to Rice. “I guess we’ve cleared out the opposition for you when they restart the bid process—the Russians and the Swiss Americans,” he said with a grin. “You’ve got to be happy with that.”

  But Rice wasn’t smiling. “Not quite, unfortunately.”

  “Why, what’s happened?” Johnson asked.

  “You haven’t heard what happened, obviously. The Afghans are handing the bid to the Chinese, without an auction. So we’re out of it too.”

  Johnson tried not to roll his eyes, and he could see out of the corner of his eye that Jayne had her hands on her hips.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Johnson said.

  “I guess Karzai must have just felt hugely embarrassed by the US and Russia and looked in a different direction?” Jayne asked.

  “Yes,” Rice said. “I heard Karzai was in a complete rage and ordered the mines minister to sign the deal with the Chinese.” He sighed. “They got it for over a billion dollars less than we would have bid. It’s a travesty—not least for the Afghan people. A billion dollars would build a lot of hospitals and schools. But never mind, the circus moves on. We’ll find another deal.”

  Rice took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Johnson. “The payments for you and Jayne have gone through. I’ve added bonuses for you both for all the additional work you’ve done and for the danger you put yourself into. It was much appreciated, even if we didn’t get the result we wanted. And it’s not every day you scalp a US cabinet member.”

  “Or a top CIA officer,” Johnson said. He unfolded the paper and read it, then pulled back in surprise. Rice had almost doubled the promised fees.

  Jayne leaned over and looked the sheet. “Wow,” she said.

  “You didn’t need to add that much,” Johnson said. “It’s really—”

  “Take it and run,” Rice interrupted, with a wink. “My client’s paying. We’re investment bankers, remember?”

  Their conversation was interrupted yet again by the low-pitched raucous drone of another plane, this time a C-130J cargo turboprop, as it took off behind them.

  “What’s your plan?” Rice asked, when the C-130’s engine noise had faded. “Have you heard back from the ICC yet about that contract?”

  Johnson still hadn’t heard from the ICC. But it was something he had been mulling over in his mind for the previous several hours. Given events over the past couple of weeks, did he now actually want to spend longer in Afghanistan and do the job?

  In that moment, he suddenly decided.

  “No, I haven’t heard, and I don’t want the contract now anyway,” Johnson said. “I’m heading home.” He glanced sideways at Jayne. “I need to see my kids. And I think we’ve done well enough with nailing 1980s war criminals here in the last couple of weeks. Someone else can deal with the post-2003 inquiry.”

  Jayne nodded. “We’ve done our bit,” she said. “The ICC will have their work cut out with the more recent allegations.”

  Johnson knew she was right. One of the biggest problems would be the unwillingness of Hamid Karzai’s government to fully support the ICC’s work and make information available, not least about the wartime activities of many senior politicians and military leaders. Some of them were seen as potential candidates for president and vice president in the elections due to be held the following year, 2014. That seemed like a bureaucratic nightmare.

  Suddenly, Johnson found the idea of a four-and-a-half hour flight to Dubai from Bagram, and then on to JFK and back home to Portland, very appealing. He would take a break, and maybe use some of Rice’s bonus payment to book a holiday somewhere with Carrie and Peter. Then he would think about finding another project to work on, maybe somewhere less dangerous. Afghanistan had been a fascinating place to operate, but he had remained constantly aware of his own mortality, every minute of every day. As a single father, he found it difficult.

  The list of incoming work inquiries had continued to flow. His interest had be
en piqued by a couple of Nazi-related proposals in particular, which would take him back to his old stomping ground, but there were other options too. Hopefully Jayne could join him, if the right project came up. He had found himself enjoying working with her yet again. She was professional, tough, resourceful, and yet had a sense of humor about her that helped get them through the most difficult of situations. Johnson felt he owed her a lot.

  “I need to go now,” Rice said. “My flight leaves in fifty minutes.”

  Johnson pocketed the payment note that Rice had given him and shook hands. “Thanks very much,” he said. “You’ve helped me bury a few ghosts from my past.”

  “Yes. Just a pity about the Russian,” Rice said.

  “Don’t worry. I feel there will be another chance,” Jayne said.

  Johnson gave a thin smile. “Hmm. You’re probably right,” he said. “You usually are.”

  Other books in the series and reader updates

  If you enjoyed Stalin’s Final Sting, you’ll love The Afghan, another thriller that is a prequel to the entire Joe Johnson series and especially to Stalin’s Final Sting.

  The good news is that you can get a FREE ebook copy of The Afghan — normally priced at $2.99/£2.99 (paperback $9.99/£9.99) — from the link below.

  The Afghan is a thriller set back in 1988 when Johnson was still in the CIA. Most of the action takes place in Afghanistan, then being occupied by the Soviet Union, and in Washington, DC. Many of the characters and storylines that span both books emerge during this period.

  While being an entertaining read in its own right, The Afghan also answers many of the questions that readers might have about the origins of the conflicts between Johnson, Robert Watson, Severinov, and Javed.

  You will also discover how Johnson’s controversial affair with his current investigative colleague Jayne Robinson occurred in 1988.

  Here’s the blurb for The Afghan:

  A Cold War attack by Soviet helicopters on an Afghan village. A knife-edge CIA operation that goes wrong. And a vengeful mujahideen tribesman, armed with Stinger missiles.