Even better, their employees had served as an ideal pool of potential candidates when Sergei Tarzarov and his master, Gryzlov, had needed computer experts. Discreet poaching from the Dominion Tower’s other tenants had helped Truznyev fill their quotas and line his own pockets with the fees Tarzarov paid him.
But now, watching the news reports from Poland, he was beginning to regret sending so many hackers into the service of his hated successor.
“Rioting continues virtually unabated in the heart of Warsaw, Łódź, Kraków, and other major Polish cities. While it is not yet known how many people have been killed or injured in the unrest, it is clear that Polish police have made thousands of arrests. In an effort to calm the situation, government officials have stressed that the banks will reopen as soon as possible, but they have so far proved unable to offer any firm schedule. Journalists gathered outside the official residence of President Wilk report that he is in urgent consultations with—”
“Sukin syn! Son of a bitch,” Truznyev muttered, stabbing at his remote to mute the smooth, urbane tones of the BBC’s late-hour newsreader.
Moodily, he leaned back in his leather office chair, watching images of angry mobs and looting flicker across the big-screen television mounted across one wall of his sleek, futuristic office. Much as he despised the Poles and their mercenary allies, nothing he saw made him happy.
He swore again, softer this time. It was bad enough that Gryzlov had succeeded in breaking the NATO alliance last year. That was a diplomatic and foreign-policy victory that had eluded generations of wiser and saner Russian leaders. But now it appeared that this cyberwar campaign of his might actually tear Poland apart and, at the same time, destroy the new Eastern European defense pact the Poles had forged. If so, the younger man would be more popular than ever — and virtually impossible for Truzynev to unseat, whether in an election or an inner-circle Kremlin coup.
That fact that Gryzlov was achieving these victories with the aid of computer specialists he himself had provided only rubbed salt in his wounds.
Truznyev shook his head, angry with himself. Helping Sergei Tarzarov find hackers had made sense, especially considering the sums the cynical old Kremlin insider had offered. But he had been foolish to do so without learning more about Gryzlov’s plans.
Well, he thought bitterly, it was time he stopped acting out of ignorance. It was essential that he uncover more details of Gennadiy Gryzlov’s cyberwar operation, including the truth about this purported “treasure cave.” Otherwise, there was no way he could accurately judge the younger man’s chances of pulling off yet another unexpected political triumph — let alone figure out some way to discreetly sabotage the upstart president’s scheme.
He picked up his phone. “Vitaliy,” he snapped to his assistant. “I want Akulov and Ivchenko in my office. Now!”
While waiting for his two most senior subordinates to arrive, Igor Truznyev contemplated the orders he would give them. Yuri Akulov and Taras Ivchenko were veteran intelligence officers. In their youth, they had served with him in the old KGB. When the Soviet Union collapsed, they’d followed him into the FSB and later acted as his eyes and ears inside the spy agency after he became president. Faced with the choice of sucking up to the new regime when Gryzlov took power, they’d opted instead to stick with Truznyev.
He nodded to himself. Akulov and Ivchenko were hard-nosed, competent, and thoroughly reliable. Each man still maintained a wide range of personal contacts inside Russia’s intelligence services and armed forces. Both also had extensive experience in dealing with the criminal underground. Given enough time and money, he was confident they could ferret out the information he required. Equally important, he was sure they could do so without tipping off Tarzarov or Gryzlov that he was poking his nose into their precious secrets.
“Let’s just see what you’re really up to, Gennadiy, you little prick,” he muttered. “And then I will decide if it’s worth the risk of throwing a little sand into your gears.”
President Stacy Anne Barbeau looked across her Oval Office desk at Edward Rauch, her national security adviser. Her professional politician’s smile stayed about as far south of her eyes as her deliberately thickened Louisiana accent was from the Mason-Dixon Line. “Just so we’re clear, Ed, I don’t want any bureaucratic bullshit. I want straight talk. If you don’t know the answer to something I ask, you fess up like a man, you hear me?”
“Yes, Madam President,” Rauch said quickly. With Luke Cohen on his way to Moscow, the slightly built, gray-haired man was in charge of the interagency working group tasked with analyzing the situation in Eastern and central Europe. From the deep dark bags under his eyes and the pallor of his skin, Barbeau judged he was taking his responsibilities seriously.
“Good,” she said, allowing a little more warmth to creep into her expression. Rauch had spent most of his working life writing dry, academic papers on U.S. defense policy for different think tanks headquartered inside the Washington Beltway. Facing the real world, where there were no simple, black-and-white answers, must be a hell of a shock to his system.
“The usual Russian huffing and puffing aside, I assume we’re pretty sure Moscow is behind this Polish banking meltdown?” she asked.
“We are,” Rauch agreed. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Nothing else makes sense. Criminals with the skills to pull off a computer hack like this would have every incentive to be subtler. They could have gone in, cleaned out a bunch of high-value accounts, and then vamoosed, leaving no one the wiser.”
Barbeau nodded grimly. Concluding that Gennadiy Gryzlov was screwing around with the Poles again wasn’t much of a stretch. What mattered most to her was how much danger the Russian president’s “virtual” aggression posed to the United States and its remaining interests in Europe.
Even with support from Martindale’s Iron Wolf and Scion mercenaries, Poland and its allies were unlikely to win any open clash with Russia. But the Poles, in her experience, had never been an especially logical people. And real wars had a way of spreading uncontrollably. Seeing the Poles, Czechs, and others batted around by Moscow was one thing. Watching the violence spread to engulf long-standing American allies like the Germans was another.
She decided to cut straight to what worried her the most. “Are there any signs this digital war is going live?”
“No, Madam President,” Rauch said decisively.
That was a surprise. Barbeau stared coldly at him. “I really hope you’re not spitting in the wind here, Ed.”
He shook his head. “Not in the least. So far, every piece of satellite imagery we’ve got and all of our NSA signals intercepts show zero unusual military activity on either side.”
“None?”
“Not a peep, Madam President. All ground forces in both sides above the battalion level are still in garrison, without any sign they’re moving to higher alert status.”
Barbeau chewed on that for several seconds. “Okay, so if there aren’t any tanks, infantry, or artillery on the move, what about Russia’s fighters and bombers? Or the Poles? Gryzlov and Piotr Wilk are both so fricking air-minded that any clash between them is sure to start with bombing raids or fighter sweeps.”
Again, Rauch shook his head. “Aside from routine air patrols, there’s nothing going on that we can detect. Neither side appears to be preparing for serious combat.”
Okay, that was weird, Barbeau thought. She didn’t like it when foreign leaders started acting unpredictably. She would have bet money that Gryzlov’s cyber attack was only the prelude to a conventional military offensive. And if not, she would have put just as much money down on the probability that Piotr Wilk would react violently to any Russian provocation.