He nodded to himself in satisfaction.
These men were quite obviously out of their depth, which was exactly what he had intended. Centuries of tradition inclined officers in Russia’s armed forces to see themselves as a superior caste — as sacred guardians of the State set high above the grubby, inconsequential world of commerce and private enterprise. It was a fable, of course, he knew, but one that held a powerful grip on every Russian military man’s mind. Breaking this myth was essential to his plans.
Voronin motioned to a set of leather high-backed chairs arranged in a conversational semicircle around a mirrored glass coffee table. “Please sit down, gentlemen.”
Warily, they obeyed, though clearly uncertain of the proper etiquette involved here. Everything about this unusual situation indicated that their “host”—civilian or not — stood far above them in wealth and position and power. In the circumstances, his extravagant politeness seemed somehow ominous.
Voronin himself casually strolled around the room while another group of his servants served drinks — vodka, whiskey, or brandy to each guest’s preference. There was a moment of worried silence as each man suddenly realized he’d been offered only his personal favorite brand. The implication was clear and chilling: Their formidable host undoubtedly knew a great deal about them. Far more than he should.
Once the four men had their drinks, the servants withdrew. As the doors closed behind them, grim-faced bodyguards took up their posts at every entrance. Slight bulges marked the weapons concealed under their suit coats.
Voronin moved out to the middle of the room. For a long moment, he studied his guests without speaking. Under his silent, pale-eyed gaze, they fidgeted slightly in their chairs, adjusting ties or shirt cuffs or quietly clearing their throats — all telltale signs of anxiety.
At last, he broke the increasingly uncomfortable silence. “I know that you must be wondering why you’re here.”
After glancing at his colleagues, the oldest man among them, a colonel in the Ministry of Defense’s 12th Main Directorate named Krylov, nodded carefully. “Yes, sir.”
Voronin smiled broadly. “It’s quite simple, Mikhail Sergeyevich. You’ve all been temporarily assigned to my firm, the Raven Syndicate, for a very special project — a project of enormous importance to the Motherland… and to President Zhdanov personally.”
His guests exchanged puzzled glances. There were occasions when officers in the ground forces or even air force pilots might find themselves posted to private industrial firms — to provide professional advice on the development of new armored fighting vehicles or combat aircraft, for example. But that was never the case for soldiers from their particular, highly specialized, and tightly controlled branches of the armed forces. Like Krylov, two of them served in the 12th Main Directorate, which was directly responsible for the security of Russia’s nuclear weapons stockpiles. The fourth man was a weapons specialist in the Strategic Rocket Forces, which controlled its ICBMs.
Krylov put his drink down untasted. “I don’t quite understand what it is you expect us to be able to do for this Raven Syndicate of yours, Mr. Voronin. For one thing, our respective security clearances strictly forbid the disclosure of any information—”
“Your clearances forbid the unauthorized disclosure of information,” Voronin interrupted. He shrugged. “But as it happens, I’ve been granted the necessary authority by the president himself. You now work for me. And for me alone.”
He smiled again, this time at the shock on their faces. “Relax, gentlemen. I’m aware that this situation is unprecedented, but I think you’ll find the terms entirely acceptable.”
“How so?” Krylov asked bluntly.
“From this moment forward, your pay will be ten times that of your regular military salaries,” Voronin said. “And you will earn substantial bonuses upon the successful completion of this special project. Bonuses on the order of two hundred million rubles each.”
One of the younger officers whistled involuntarily. Two hundred million rubles was the equivalent of roughly 250,000 American dollars. Like everyone responsible for Russia’s nuclear weapons and strategic missiles, they were better paid than those serving in conventional branches of the armed forces — but a promised bonus of that size still represented nearly ten years’ pay.
Krylov frowned. “Your offer is generous indeed. But what exactly do you want in return?”
“You’ll be thoroughly briefed,” Voronin assured him. He snapped his fingers once. An aide hurried over from the far end of the living room with a briefcase. Opening it, the young man handed out copies of a single page document and pens. “But first, I must ask each of you to sign these agreements.” His voice hardened slightly. “You’ll find them perfectly clear and quite easy to understand, without any of the usual legal gibberish.”
The four officers turned pale when they saw what he meant. In the plainest possible terms, they were being sworn to absolute secrecy for life. Any breach of security involving the operation code-named MIDNIGHT, however small, however unintentional, would result in death.
Voronin nodded coolly to them. “Let me assure you that I mean what I say. If you betray me or my secrets, there will be no appeal to any higher authority. There will be absolutely no recourse or reprieve. And should it prove necessary, I will personally act as your only judge, jury, and executioner.”
Nick Flynn took the steps of the mansion’s wide, curving staircase two at a time. Besides several suites set aside for Quartet Directorate agents who needed rest and recuperation between field assignments, the upper floor held several other rooms used on relatively rare occasions — including a private study that had once belonged to the prominent New York banker who’d first had Avalon House built. As the decades passed, the room’s leather chairs had grown rather worn and shabby, though they were still comfortable. Four allocated its funds to operations, not fashionable décor.
Two other men were waiting for him in the study. One was Fox. The other was a short, older man with a high forehead and wispy tufts of bright white hair. They rose to greet him.
“Nick, this is Professor Gideon Ayish,” Fox said quietly. “He’s just flown in from Jerusalem.”
“Oh?” Flynn asked, shaking hands with the newcomer. He hid a moment’s surprise. For an academic type, Ayish had one hell of a grip.
Somehow, the other man read his mind. “I may not be in the first flush of youth, Mr. Flynn,” he said good-naturedly. “But perhaps that doesn’t mean as much as it seems, eh?”
“I’ll let you know when I get the circulation back in my fingers, Professor,” Flynn told him with a quick grin of his own.
They all sat down. “Gideon is Four’s head of station in Israel,” Fox explained. “But before joining us, he had a very active career in the IDF — serving with some of its most lethal and effective special operations units.”
Flynn nodded his understanding. The Quartet Directorate drew its personnel from a variety of sources. Some were disenchanted veterans of various official intelligence agencies. Others, like him and apparently this guy Ayish, too, were ex-military, usually with a set of very specialized skills. A small number were recruited directly from civilian life by Four’s talent scouts.
He looked from one man to the other. “So does this little get-together have anything to do with my plan to put people on the ground inside Iran?” he asked.