“You would do well to guard your attitude, Doctor,” Sassani said. “Remember that I hold the keys to Evin Prison.”
“And I hold the keys to the morgue.”
“I will expect a call the moment you have the information.” He turned to leave but stopped and spun on his heels. “Or you will not need a key to gain entry into this place.”
30
The president of the Russian Federation took a long, contemplative breath and looked deeply into the eyes of each of the five generals seated in front of him. Where the American White House had a quaint Oval Office with cozy furnishings conducive to comfortable fireside chats and quiet conversation, Yermilov’s Kremlin office was large, rectangular — as a proper room should be — and furnished with a proper oak conference table meant for getting things done.
For all practical purposes, a large swath of Eastern Ukraine was already Russia. It was certainly Russian. All the good citizens there needed to know was that the Kremlin would back their resistance to a heavy-handed Kiev. As far as Yermilov was concerned, he was merely helping freedom fighters return to the fold of their mother country as he’d already done in Crimea. It did not hurt that these regions were sitting on rich supplies of fossil fuel.
“Comrade Colonel General Gulin,” Yermilov said, waving an open hand to give the man the floor. “If you please.”
The officer stood, straightening his crisp uniform tunic, replete with medals, including the red ribbon with a gold star, the Hero of the Soviet Union medal he’d won during the campaign in Afghanistan. In his early seventies now, Colonel General Gulin had retained an erect military posture. Thick hair piled up on his head as if he’d just removed a hat. Fiercely dark eyes and caterpillar brows gave him the angry-uncle look of Comrade Brezhnev — which made him perfect to bring the rest of the generals and admirals in line for Operation ANIVA.
The general cleared his throat and then looked once more at Yermilov before beginning.
“Malware is already in place at various key locations in Ukraine’s banking system and much of her utility sector. Their Navy is little more than a fleet of rusty buckets, allowing us to increase pressure in the Sea of Azov with little resistance. Admiral Bylinkin has stationed the frigate Grigorovich in the Sea of Azov. The Black Sea Fleet frigates Essen and Makarov, along with destroyer Smetlivy, are en route from Novorossiysk. Four additional corvettes and three frigates from the Baltic Fleet are currently steaming through the Turkish Straits to take part in our exercise. Within days we will double the mechanized forces in Klintsy and Valuyki. Forces loyal to Russia, already inside Ukraine, will also take part in the exercise, pushing north and west toward Kiev. They will, no doubt, come under attack from Ukrainian forces. On your order our troops will press south across the border to intervene, acting as peacekeepers amid the ensuing violence…”
Yermilov’s mind drifted as this hero of the Soviet Union went over ANIVA with the rest of the staff. They were all aware of the specifics, but Yermilov wanted them all to know that he was aware — and still behind it. The Soviet action to move nuclear missiles into Cuba was called ANADYR, after a northern town on the Chukchi Sea, on the other side of the world from the coast of Florida. He’d chosen the name ANIVA for this operation, after the small village on Sakhalin Island, north of Japan — far away from Ukraine.
America’s Keyhole and other spy satellites would observe troop enhancements and naval buildup, but Yermilov didn’t fret over that. They’d been at this game for years. Yermilov was a better chess player than his predecessors were. He was already two or three moves ahead of Ryan — and with everything going on off the board, the Americans would not even know they were beaten until the game was already over.
“I realize that some of you have concerns,” Yermilov said when General Gulin finished. “But they are, I believe, unfounded. Russia has an inherent right to conduct military exercises as we see fit. They do it. We do it. Everyone is happy. Everyone is prepared. Our Russian brothers and sisters in Ukraine expect us to rescue them from the yoke of oppression. It is our duty, is it not?”
A resounding chorus of “Yes” went around the table.
Admiral Bylinkin of the Black Sea Fleet leaned back, lips pursed, as if he’d eaten a sour lemon.
Yermilov’s gaze settled on the man.
“What is it, my friend? Do you have something else?”
“No, Gospodin President,” the admiral said. “I would only point out—”
“So you do, in fact, have something else to say?” Yermilov interrupted.
The admiral slumped noticeably in his seat. “No, Gospodin President.”
“By all means, continue,” Yermilov said, now that the man was off balance.
“I realize that Ukraine is not a signatory to NATO, but considering President Ryan’s bluster and bravado, he does not seem to know this.”
“Perhaps,” Yermilov said. “Ryan certainly has the will. And he does possess the means, militarily speaking. But I do not believe he will have the time. Events on the world stage are unfolding, even as we speak, that will most certainly render Jack Ryan so busy at home that he will have no time to fret over matters abroad, to worry with a country that is not a member of NATO. His hands are full.” Yermilov smiled broadly, pushing up from the table to signal that the meeting was over. “It will not be long before he has too much to carry.”
At the far end of the office, seated along the wall instead of at the table, Maksim Dudko tapped a pen against the cover of his leather folio binder. The muscles under his right eye twitched with the anticipation.
You have no idea, my friend, he thought. I will yet be invited on your little fishing trip…
This conversation was far too sensitive to be held in Elizaveta Bobkova’s embassy office, even in the wee hours of the morning. Too many ears there. Too many spies, doing what spies did best.
Bobkova had worked for Russian intelligence long enough to know that spies did not customarily murder people from the opposing team, certainly not in their home country. Traitors were one thing, but this just did not happen, at least not on purpose. Still, her orders were crystal clear — follow through or be recalled to Moscow. After that? That weasel Maksim Dudko said he was in possession of kompromat—a file of compromising information in the form of photographs, bank accounts, proof that she was padding her pockets like the rest of them were doing. Stowing away a little money wasn’t a crime the president would worry over. However, if such an indiscretion were to leak, Yermilov himself would be embarrassed. In Stalin’s day, disobeying an order — or obeying one and making the boss look bad — meant long and brutal conversations with the NKVD while locked in the dungeons of Lubyanka Prison. After a short but detailed confession admitting to treason, if the bones in your legs were still intact enough to hobble, they marched you through the gates of the Communarka killing grounds. Now such matters in modern Russia were handled with a subtler, though equally brutal, hand.
There was simply no way for her to refuse the order from Dudko, no matter how insane. She would take care of this like the professional she was, and then deal with Dudko when it was over. Two could play the game of kompromat. A man like him stank with the rot of conspiracy. There would be mountains of dirt. The weasel had actually referred to her as Lizon’ka, the more familiar, diminutive form of Elizaveta. Only her grandfather got to call her that.