For a split second, Truznyev saw red. What no one else knew, most especially not Gryzlov or Tarzarov, was that he had orchestrated that war with Poland — secretly funding a band of Ukrainian terrorists in the hope of luring his hated successor into a political and military quagmire. Then, or so he had fondly imagined, Russia’s elites would see the terrible mistake they had made in backing a madman like Gryzlov. And once that sobering realization took root, they were bound to come, hats in hand, humbly begging him to reclaim their nation’s highest office.
But his plan, brilliant though it was on paper, had backfired — foundering on human weaknesses he could never have anticipated. How could he have imagined any American president so cavalierly betraying a longtime NATO ally, let alone showing herself willing to buy Gryzlov’s restraint by ordering the deaths of her own countrymen?
Grimly, Igor Truznyev fought to keep the cauldron of rage and shame boiling up inside from showing on his broad face. Why risk making Tarzarov suspicious now? If the veteran Kremlin insider saw the value of keeping in touch with those like Truznyev who were currently out of power, why rock the boat? Besides, these clandestine meetings gave him valuable insights into the otherwise secret deliberations of Gryzlov’s government.
And if nothing else, Tarzarov’s patronage over the past few months had lined his pockets quite nicely. In the years since he’d been forced out as Russia’s leader, Truznyev had used his skills and his contacts to build a substantial business empire, including a highly competent private intelligence network. His plan there was twofold. Money was the mother’s milk of political success, especially in post-Soviet Russia. But the dirty little secrets he and his personal agents uncovered were bound to be even more useful… when the day of reckoning with his political enemies came.
With that in mind, he changed the subject.
“I see from the news out of Romania that you’ve put my guys to work, Sergei.” He winked. “I told you they were good. Maybe a bit unkempt and ill-disciplined, like so many young people these days, but still very effective, eh?”
“So it seems,” the older man agreed tersely.
“But their parents and boyfriends and girlfriends keep asking me where on earth you’ve stashed them,” Truznyev said, watching Gryzlov’s chief of staff closely. “Naturally, I tell them I haven’t the faintest idea.”
A thin, utterly humorless smile flickered across Tarzarov’s narrow, lined face. “I can only imagine how much pain it causes you to offer the unvarnished truth, Igor.”
“Very funny,” Truznyev said. He kept his eyes fixed on the other man. “Still, I hear rumors. Strange rumors. People talk of a mysterious ‘treasure cave’ being built out somewhere in the east.”
“Do they?” Gryzlov’s chief of staff said coolly. He shrugged. “Slovo serebro. Molchaniye — zoloto. Words are silver, silence is golden.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say,” Truznyev noted acidly. “You don’t have to deal with the constant whimpers and complaints. ‘Please, sir, where is my boy Sasha? Where is my lover Ludmilla? Are they well? When will they e-mail me?’” He scowled. “The litany never ends. And frankly, it’s getting on my nerves.”
Tarzarov looked back at him without any discernible emotion. “Then you tell them all they need to know.”
“Which is?
“That their loved ones serve at the pleasure of the state, wherever the state requires,” the old man said. “And that the sensitive nature of their current work demands total seclusion — for the time being.”
“Yes, well, that won’t exactly offer their families much comfort,” Truznyev said.
“You surprise me, Igor,” Tarzarov said. “I would not have thought you so sentimental.”
“I’m not. I’m only tired of being kept in the dark.”
“Oh?” The older man raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You’ve been compensated for your assistance. In fact, richly compensated. True?”
“True,” Truznyev agreed.
“Then be content with your pay, Igor,” Tarzarov told him brutally. “And stop prying into state secrets that are no longer your concern.”
For a moment, Truznyev stood rooted in place, transfixed by anger and shame. Once, with the mere wave of a hand, he could have exiled this dry stick of a man to Siberia or had someone put a bullet in the back of his skull. Slowly, he took another deep breath. Patience, he told himself. The time would come when such insults could be avenged.
He started walking again, keeping pace with Tarzarov along the winding path. With an effort, he kept his voice level. “I presume, then, that you have a specific reason for contacting me? Some further need for my services as a private citizen and businessman?”
The other man nodded. “I need more specialists.”
Now, that was interesting, Truznyev thought. “How many exactly?”
“Perhaps thirty or forty more,” Tarzarov replied. “Of the same type and with the same skills and abilities.”
Truznyev whistled softly in surprise. “So many?” He shook his head doubtfully. “That’s a tall order, Sergei. Gifted computer hackers are in high demand, especially in the private sector.”
“The needs of various criminal enterprises do not concern me,” the older man said flatly. “Tawdry schemes to steal credit-card numbers and drain bank accounts will have to wait.”
Truznyev ignored the gibe. “So now that Gennadiy sees the damage a few lines of cunningly written code can do, he grows more ambitious, eh?”
“What the president intends is well beyond your need to know,” Tarzarov reminded him. “The question is: Can you provide the people we require?”
“It will be difficult. And expensive,” the former president warned.
“How surprising,” Tarzarov said dryly.
Truznyev shrugged. “You can’t expect iconoclasts like these komp’yuternyye botanikov, these computer nerds, no matter how patriotic, to flock to government service — especially now that the word’s gotten around that you’ve put the first batch I found you in cold storage somewhere.”
“And how do you suggest we overcome this… reluctance?”
“With money, of course,” Truznyev said. “You’ll have to up the signing bonuses you offer substantially.”
“Which will increase your own referral fees,” Tarzarov said tartly.
The former president shot him a vengeful smile. “Of course.” He eyed the older man narrowly. “You may also find it necessary to reimburse certain… businessmen… at least those who rely on these experts in certain extremely profitable sidelines.”
Tarzarov frowned. “You seriously expect us to pay off the Mafiya?”
“Why not?” Truznyev said bluntly. “It’s been done before. And many times.” He smiled again at Gryzlov’s chief of staff. “As you know yourself, Sergei.”
The older man frowned.
“Look, the math is simple,” Truznyev pointed out. “You can pay off the crime bosses to keep them happy. Or you can waste even more time and money on futile police raids. Because we both know the police will never find anyone the Mafiya decides to keep for itself.”
The older man sighed in exasperation. “Exactly how much is this all going to cost, Igor?”
“Well, that’s an interesting question,” Truznyev said carefully. “For a start, you’ll have to at least double the signing bonus you offer each hacker. Figuring a minimum of thirty people, that’ll mean—”
Deeply immersed in their discussion, he and Tarzarov moved farther along the walking trail, haggling over the price Russia’s government would pay for its new “special information troops.” What neither of the two men noticed was the very small, brown, birdlike shape silently swirling through in the sky above them. It was a palm-size glider, an ultralight spy drone equipped only with a sensitive microphone and a few cell-phone components serving as a communications relay.