Curiously, although the readiness of all units in the Western Military District was being increased one notch, only two other units had received orders: the 53rd Anti-Aircraft Rocket Brigade with the potent S-400 air defense system, and the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division. Vasiliev raised an eyebrow. The 2nd Guards was the only division-strength motor rifle unit in the Army, with all other motor rifle divisions being downsized to the brigade level. Comprising a motor rifle brigade and tank brigade, the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division was one of the most formidable units in the Russian Federation Army. Vasiliev read further, identifying the destination of all three units — Kaliningrad Oblast.
Most in the West were unaware of Kaliningrad Oblast, a region of Russia separated from the rest of the country. Home to Russia’s Baltic Fleet, Kaliningrad Oblast is surrounded by Lithuania to the north and Poland to the south. Ground transit to and from the oblast is controlled by Lithuania and Poland, with visa-free travel to the rest of Russia possible only by air or sea. As Vasiliev prepared to mobilize his missile battalion, he knew Lithuania and Poland might attempt to prevent the transfer of so much firepower into Kaliningrad Oblast.
It was infuriating, being forced to obtain the permission of foreign governments for travel between two autonomous regions of Russia. It was Russia’s sovereign right to station whatever troops and military equipment it desired in Kaliningrad Oblast without the approval of another country. But years earlier, when Russia announced its intentions to send advanced surface attack and air defense systems to the oblast, the Baltic States and NATO had objected. Now, Russia had a much stronger military and could press the issue.
Vasiliev smiled. NATO will not be pleased.
9
MINSK, BELARUS
Defense Minister Boris Chernov gripped the leather satchel in his lap as his limousine wound through the Belarusian capital, moving along sweeping boulevards flanked by imposing Soviet bloc — style buildings, a reminder of the city’s rebirth following World War II. During Minsk’s liberation from Nazi occupiers, eighty percent of the city was razed to the ground, then rebuilt in the 1950s to Joseph Stalin’s liking. Chernov’s sedan passed the House of Government, a monumental example of Stalin-era architecture, comprising symmetrical boxy buildings of varying heights, with the wings of the complex wrapping around an expansive front courtyard. A twenty-three-foot-tall statue of Vladimir Lenin, a tribute to the country’s past and indicative of its current alliances, rose in the center of the courtyard, greeting those entering the National Assembly of Belarus.
The Republic of Belarus, situated to the west of Russia, beneath the Baltic countries and above Ukraine, was Russia’s most steadfast ally. Since the establishment of the country in 1991 following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, there had been only one president, Alexander Lukashenko, and his five-term presidency along with accusations of voter fraud resulted in some Western journalists labeling Belarus as “Europe’s last dictatorship.” Lukashenko’s firm grip on power would be a key factor in fulfilling his end of Belarus’s pact with Russia.
Chernov’s car pulled to a halt in front of the Residence of the President, where Chernov was greeted by his Belarusian counterpart, who led the way to President Lukashenko’s office. The Belarusian minister of defense glanced at the satchel in Chernov’s hand before retreating, leaving the two men alone.
Chernov settled into a chair beside Lukashenko’s desk. After the standard greetings and diplomatic exchange, he broached the sensitive reason for their meeting.
“Have you made a decision yet?” Chernov asked.
“You request much,” Lukashenko said, “and my support will place me in a precarious position during the next general election. If this does not turn out well…”
Chernov listened as Lukashenko highlighted the risks to himself and his country; it was clear he was preparing to request more from Russia than had been offered. At the end of his soliloquy, Lukashenko made his demand.
“Your offer of a twenty percent reduction in natural gas and oil prices is insufficient. A fifty percent reduction is required, for a term of twenty years.”
Chernov replied, “Your current prices are the cheapest in Europe, only forty percent of what other countries pay. You already receive a steep discount, which should be factored in.”
“Let us be clear,” Lukashenko said. “Your low prices benefit Russia, keeping Belarus on the teat of the sow, dependent on your… generosity.”
Chernov hadn’t expected Lukashenko to address their delicate relationship so directly. Although Belarus was a staunch Russian ally, its loyalty was due in part to its energy dependence on Russia, receiving all of its oil and natural gas from its eastern neighbor, and the Russian monopoly of Gazprom controlled the entire natural gas infrastructure of Belarus. Beneath the offer of reduced prices lay Russia’s threat. There would be consequences should Lukashenko refuse Russia’s request.
Chernov conceded Lukashenko’s point. “Russia benefits from your dependence on our natural resources, but Belarus benefits more. Your economy thrives due to the low prices, and your country will benefit even more as we reduce the costs further. We are willing to offer an additional twenty-five percent discount, guaranteed for five years.”
“That is insufficient. I cannot commit for less than a forty percent reduction for fifteen years.”
“Thirty percent, ten years.”
Lukashenko studied the Russian defense minister for a moment, then said, “Make it thirty-five percent for ten years, and we have a deal.”
“Agreed,” Chernov said, pulling a folder from his satchel, withdrawing a thick document. He flipped to the last page and signed it, then slid the agreement to Lukashenko.
The Belarusian president skimmed the document, searching for the terms of the agreement. Looking up, he said, “This agreement is already filled out with the terms — a thirty-five percent reduction for ten years.”
Chernov smiled. “We knew you would drive a hard bargain.”
“I’ll have to review this agreement in more detail before signing.”
“That’s understandable,” Chernov said. “However, we’d like a commitment within forty-eight hours.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
10
ZAPORIZHIA, UKRAINE
From across the crowded street, Randy Guimond watched a dark gray sedan grind to a halt along Lenin Avenue, stopping in front of Korchma, a quaint restaurant specializing in traditional Ukrainian food. From the sedan stepped a middle-aged man, who, after a quick glance in both directions, entered the small restaurant. The man had a lot to learn about surveillance, Guimond thought, although his own knowledge of the profession would have been a surprise to his co-workers at Metinvest, an international Ukrainian mining and steel holding company; Guimond’s public identity and employment with Metinvest was a front. His real employer was the SVR, better known as the successor to the KGB.
Guimond waited a moment, then returned the carved wooden jewelry box he’d been examining to a disappointed shopkeeper and headed across the street. Upon entering the restaurant, he paused briefly, taking everything in: staff dressed in authentic Ukrainian clothing, four couples to the right, a family of six to the left. The interior of the restaurant was decorated with trinkets and heirlooms reminiscent of a rural Ukrainian village, but what interested Guimond most was a small room in the back, closed off from the rest of the restaurant. He nodded to the hostess as he made his way to the door, knocked, then entered.