“My government is grateful for your efforts to restore order in Europe, Madam President,” the Russian said suavely. “And we share your view that this Alliance of Free Nations is a threat to the region’s stability. After all, if it were not for pressure from the militaristic Poles and their black-market hired soldiers, the Baltic states, Romania, and the rest would gladly see reason.”
Barbeau’s eyes narrowed. “And just how do you define reason, Gennadiy?” she asked pointedly.
He smiled broadly. “I mean, of course, that the nations of Eastern and central Europe could again assume their traditional role as neutral buffer states between the great powers — rather than serving the geopolitical ambitions of the Polish madman Piotr Wilk and your own former president, Kevin Martindale.”
“Martindale’s a criminal,” Barbeau shot back, touched on a sore point. “His actions are in no way condoned by my government.”
Gryzlov’s own gaze hardened. “If I thought otherwise, Madam President, our conversation today would be proceeding along very different lines.” He relaxed. “As it is, I am confident that our vital national interests coincide on this issue. Restoring the proper balance between NATO and Russia is the key to European peace and security. But this cannot be achieved unless we stop Poland’s efforts to build a ramshackle empire. If not, we may find ourselves again dragged to the edge of an abyss because some petty Polish client state sees war as an alternative to domestic unrest or self-imposed catastrophe.”
Barbeau regained her composure. She was not going to let this bastard rattle her again, she decided. Nor was she going to let him smooth-talk her into making any commitment she might regret later — like saying something Gryzlov could later claim gave him the green light for another military adventure against Warsaw.
“I agree that the instability of some of the countries in this new alliance worries me,” she said carefully. “But I think you exaggerate the short-term risks.”
“Do I?” Gryzlov replied, arching an eyebrow. “With the example of this terrible accident at the Cernavodă nuclear reactor before our very eyes?” He shook his head. “What more evidence do you need of the dangers posed by these backward countries?”
He raised his eyes as if to heaven. “If it were not for a miracle, your true allies in Western Europe — the Germans, the French, the Italians, and all the others — would even now be submerged by waves of refugees fleeing the radioactive contamination caused by Romania’s criminal negligence.”
Oh, good God, Barbeau thought disgustedly. How stupid did this clown think she was? “There are rumors that that reactor was sabotaged by Russia-based hackers,” she said dryly.
“If so, the gang in Bucharest must be reading too many spy thrillers,” Gryzlov said coolly. “Cernavodă’s design and construction flaws and management failures are matters of record. Read the reports from the IAEA and other responsible organizations if you doubt me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Besides, blaming foreigners is always the first resort for any government eager to hide its own incompetence.”
“Perhaps so,” Barbeau retorted. “But blackmailing President Dumitru by threatening to cut off Russian natural-gas exports just adds fuel to that particular fire.”
Gryzlov actually laughed. “What of it?” he asked. “Like any rational power, Russia will use whatever leverage it can to woo countries away from Poland’s dangerous embrace.”
He shrugged. “You should follow our example and further tighten your own restrictions on trade and commerce. Your Congress is too hesitant. Too weak-willed. You must show those now looking to Warsaw that the price of ignoring America is too high.”
“What Congress will or won’t do is an internal political matter,” Barbeau snapped, stung by the Russian’s barely concealed taunt. “It’s certainly not any of your business.”
“You have my apologies, Madam President,” Gryzlov said, though without an ounce of genuine contrition in his voice. “You are correct. Your disagreements with Congress are not my concern.” He smiled slyly. “But then neither should you criticize business decisions we make about our natural-gas exports to Romania. Gazprom is, after all, a wholly Russian-owned corporation.”
For a moment, Stacy Anne Barbeau fought the temptation to unleash every expletive in her formidable arsenal. Slowly, with enormous difficulty, she regained control over her temper. Gryzlov had set a cheap rhetorical trap and she’d walked straight into it. That was bad enough. But arguing the point with him further would just put her in the position of someone wrestling with a pig: you both got dirty and only the pig enjoyed it.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to smile sweetly at the Russian. “I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. President.”
“Excellent!” Gryzlov said with a wide, false smile of his own. “In that case, I look forward to our next discussion. I am sure it will be… illuminating.”
Once the connection to Moscow was broken, she sat glowering in silence for a few moments before spinning toward Luke Cohen, her White House chief of staff and longtime political adviser. The tall, rail-thin New Yorker had been hovering off-camera through the whole conference. “Well?”
“He’s up to something,” Cohen said flatly.
Barbeau snorted. “No kidding.” She spun back to stare at the blank screen again. “And we’d damned well better find out what it is… before it bites us in the ass.”
Frowning, she turned back to Cohen. “Pull together a special interagency group of economic, intelligence, and military analysts, including Cyber Command. Grab the best people you can find and get them focused on the situation in Eastern Europe. Tell them to flip over every goddamn rock from Moscow to Prague if they have to.”
Cohen nodded. He hesitated. “Should I bring Nash in on this?”
“Christ, no!” Barbeau said. “With a lot of help from staff, that moron might be able to find Bucharest or Budapest on a map.” She shook her head in disgust. “But I doubt if he’d know which was which.”
It had taken her months, but she had finally been able to force out the last holdovers from the Phoenix administration — the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Air Force general Spelling, and CIA Director Thomas Torrey. Her replacement for Torrey, James Buchanan Nash, was an amiable nonentity, a former senator from Virginia. His onetime colleagues had confirmed him largely on the strength of his prior service in U.S. Navy intelligence. What most of them didn’t know was that Nash had spent most of his short naval service on “detached duty” in Guam, supervising the base bowling alley because his superiors had seen that as the safest place to park a junior officer with solid political connections but severely limited competence.
Despite that, Barbeau had made him her CIA director because she’d wanted someone politically reliable heading the agency — someone malleable enough to do what he was told without protest. Jimmy Nash might be dull-witted, but he looked good on television and in front of congressional committees… as long as he had aides close by to feed him the answers to tough questions. Best of all, the new CIA director had never been part of that aging prick Martindale’s faction or an admirer of the late, totally unlamented, and lunatic former Air Force Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan.
“Okay, I’ll keep Nash in the dark,” Cohen agreed. “That won’t be hard.” He jotted down a few notes to himself on his ever-present tablet computer. “Anything else?”
Barbeau nodded. “Put the fear of God and the FBI into everyone in that working group. I don’t want any leaks — not to the Hill, not to the press, and especially not to anyone connected with Sky Masters or Scion. Whatever intelligence they dig up about Russian plans stays inside the White House. It doesn’t go floating around. Got it?”