The young president pushed open the door to his office and stopped short. Putin was waiting for him, seated in a chair beside the desk, running his fingers through the soft fur of that damned tiger he had adopted as a pet. The thing was no longer a little cat and it lay sprawled on the crimson carpet, purring contentedly and twitching its tail. The steady, evil eyes of both Putin and his Siberian tiger were locked on Ivanov. It did not look like anything was wrong with either of them. Fuck. Had Putin been toying with him?
Andrei recovered quickly and smiled, closing the door and moving to his desk as if nothing extraordinary was happening. There was a murmur of a growl from the tiger. “Good morning, Prime Minister,” he said. “I am delighted to see you looking well. And I see that we have an extra guest today. Mashenkia is getting huge.”
Putin returned the smile. Not a muscle in his face twitched and he spoke with perfect clarity. “Yes. Unfortunately, I cannot keep Sweetie at home in Novo-Ogaryovo much longer. Her front claws have been removed and we keep her calm with a low-grade hypnotic. Still, her weight and teeth make her very dangerous, so she is going to be moving to a zoo soon. Isn’t she beautiful?” His hand ruffled the short hair on the face of the beast, a blend of white around the eyes and mouth, and orange with black stripes.
“How are you feeling?” Andrei sat down. “All of Russia will be pleased that you are recovering so remarkably well.”
“Excellent. Long walks with Sweetie help. I do miss my judo exercises, but I seem to get a little better with each day.”
“Stefan told me that you wanted to see me, and I was just dropping off my jacket before going directly to your office.”
The slender face of Vladimir Putin gave away nothing. It never did. An American president once said that he could see into Putin’s soul, but he was wrong. As far as Andrei could determine, the old KGB chief had no soul.
There was a brief knock, the door opened, and the secretary, Veronika Petrova, swirled into the room, her face studying the documents she carried. She glanced up and saw Putin, then caught the look from Andrei that warned her to say nothing important. “Oh! Good morning, Mr. Prime Minister,” she said. “And here is Sweetie! What a beauty!”
“Hello, Niki.” Putin said. “I won’t be long; then you and Andrei can get along with the business of running the country.” His mouth remained a straight line. It did not require genius to determine that Andrei was enjoying the sexual favors of the tall, shapely blonde. Putin had seen the photographs. The liaison meant nothing to any of them.
“May I pet the tiger?” Niki approached to within a few feet of the cat.
“Yes. Move very slowly and speak in a loving voice. Show no fear.”
Niki reached out her hand and stroked one of the strong forelegs, feeling the bristling hair. “What an amazing creature, Mr. Prime Minister.” She rose and moved back slowly, then went to stand beside Andrei and handed him some papers from a leather briefcase carried over her shoulder. “Your schedule for the day, sir.”
“Tell me about Saudi Arabia,” Putin snapped. Andrei was momentarily off balance. Veronika took a step back, as if she might disappear into the woodwork.
Ivanov shrugged. “It did not work out, Prime Minister. The priest we had picked to replace the king was assassinated. Then our organizer, the banker Dieter Nesch, called me a while ago to say that the rebellion was over, but that Juba was pressing ahead to steal the last available nuclear warhead. He might explode it in Israel.”
“What is our own exposure now, Andrei?”
“We are pulling out of it entirely. There will be no trace, no accounts or electronic data of any sort, that might indicate that we were ever involved. I have dispatched SVR teams to eliminate Nesch and Juba, who are the only links to us.”
Putin stopped petting his cat. “You promised that this plan of yours would work.” The question was blunt.
Andrei spread his hands on the broad surface of his desk. “It was worth the risk. The money we spent was a pittance in comparison to what we might have gained.”
“Yes,” Putin replied. He stood, brushed the front of his slacks, and made a clicking sound. The tiger rose in a fluid motion, a threat by its mere existence. “Andrei, my young friend, you are doing a very good job. I knew that you would excel, which was why I picked you for the position over many older and more experienced candidates.”
Andrei Ivanov also stood, relieved that Putin was leaving and taking the beast with him. “Thank you, sir.” The old gentleman was not going to do anything.
Putin finally broke into a smile. “Yes. I always have admired aggressive plays, as you know. The only way Russia will achieve its former glory is to take a chance now and then. What Juba does with Israel is no concern of ours. But I want you to recognize that there is another truth at our level of politics,” he said.
“What might that be, Prime Minister?”
“Failure is unacceptable.” Putin snapped a leash to the collar on his tiger and led it out the door. He did not want the cat to be startled.
Andrei stared at the door as it closed, feeling a wave of satisfaction. Despite the implied threat, Putin was toothless and Sweetie was nothing but a cat. Neither had claws.
Niki Petrova withdrew a small pistol from her leather case, pointed it at the back of his head and pulled the trigger twice.
53
RIYADH
MAJOR HENRY TSANG ARRIVED a little early at the Marriott, looking fresh in a charcoal gray suit with faint stripes, a white shirt, and a tasteful tie. At the reserved table, he chose the seat that would allow him to keep his back to the wall. Silverware gleamed in the bright artificial light and soft jazz music spilled through speakers hidden in the ceiling. He shook out a cigarette and lit it. Swanson would arrive in a short while but Tsang had things to arrange beforehand.
Tsang ordered a carafe of hot water and slices of lemon, promising to order breakfast when his friend arrived. After the waiter vanished through the swinging doors to the kitchen, Tsang slid a small microphone into a small arrangement of flowers and pointed it toward the chair in which Swanson would sit. Everything said at the table would be transmitted to a recording station in a blue surveillance van parked outside the hotel. The pager on his belt buzzed one time as the listeners confirmed that everything was working, picking up the sounds of the restaurant.
The waiter returned. Tsang put a slice of lemon in his cup, poured in the hot water, and settled in to wait, calmly smoking his cigarette and enjoying the drink. It was nine fifteen on Sunday morning where he sat, which made it four thirty in the afternoon back in Beijing, where things were busy and final decisions were being made and orders were being cut. This time tomorrow, his country would be at war.
Ranking people were awaiting his report of this backchannel meeting.
He was here. Where was the American?
KYLE SWANSON WAS STRETCHED out comfortably on a plush sofa and Jamal Muheisen was in a large leather chair, absorbed in a paperback whodunit mystery. Jamal turned the pages slowly, killing time. Swanson stared at the white ceiling. “Hell of a prison, huh?”
“Yeah,” Jamal replied. “Fuckin’ A-rab dungeon. You want me to call for some fresh coffee?”
“Unh-unh,” grunted Swanson. “I’m coffeed out.” He got up and went to the window to watch the cars and trucks go by. He could not hear the buzz of the traffic below because the huge office was soundproofed. A few military vehicles rolled past in small convoys, but the capital city was returning to normal. The morning sun was shining brightly.