Which left open one obvious and deeply disturbing possibility. If the Poles weren’t willing to retaliate openly, they still had other options.
“So what’s going on at Powidz?” she asked. Since learning last year that Kevin Martindale’s Scion mercenaries, high-tech drones, aircraft, and combat robots were based there, the Polish Special Forces base had become a high-priority target for U.S. intelligence. Rauch hesitated. “Spit it out, Ed,” Barbeau snapped. “I wasn’t screwing around earlier, you hear? If you’ve got any indications that clown Martindale and his merry men are planning something, I need to know. And right now! Not later, when it’s too late, and I’ve got Gennadiy Gryzlov screaming in my goddamned face.”
“It’s just that we’re not sure how to interpret the data,” Rauch told her warily. “Our satellites picked up signs of some kind of attack on Powidz a couple of days ago.”
“Before this cyberwar hack against the Polish banking system?” He nodded. “Jesus Christ,” Barbeau snarled. “And no one in your working group thought this was important enough to report to me?”
Her national security adviser winced. “Our best analysis was that this was only a pinprick raid, Madam President,” Rauch said. “Based on the photos, it looks as though someone targeted Powidz with a few heavy mortar rounds, but the damage inflicted appears to have been minor.”
She gritted her teeth, fighting down an urge to savage the pallid little man. Firing him now would only draw press and congressional interest she didn’t want or need. “Well, then, according to your best analysis, Dr. Rauch, who the hell fired those mortar rounds?”
“The NSA intercepted Polish military police transmissions indicating possible Chechen involvement,” Rauch said cautiously.
Barbeau snorted. “For Chechen, read Russian,” she said.
“In all probability,” Rauch agreed.
“So let me get this straight,” she said carefully. “First, the Russians plastered a really important Polish military base with mortar rounds and now they’ve hacked the shit out of the whole Polish banking system?” Rauch nodded. “And in response, the Poles are doing nothing?”
“Yes, Madam President. At least from what we can see.”
Stacy Anne Barbeau blinked in disbelief. “Does any of this match up with your previous analysis of probable Polish reactions to renewed aggression by Russia?”
“No, ma’am. Not to the slightest degree,” the national security adviser admitted.
“Should I be worried about that, Ed?” she asked carefully.
Rauch took a deep breath. “Oh, hell, yes, Madam President,” he said. He grimaced. “Obviously, President Gryzlov has started a new war against the Poles and their allies, but all we’re able to pick up so far are tiny flickers of flame and smoke here and there.”
“Like a coal-seam fire,” Barbeau realized. “The kind that can burn undetected underground for decades or even centuries.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Right up to the moment it explodes onto the surface. Which is precisely what worries me about this situation.” He looked back across the desk at her. “Either the Poles and their Iron Wolf auxiliaries are being uncharacteristically passive, or—”
“They’re planning something big in retaliation,” Barbeau finished for him. She shook her head in dismay. “Something really fucking big.”
In Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva’s considered judgment, the setting for her private meeting with Romanian president Alexe Dumitru was impressive. A blend of ornate Venetian and French neoclassical architecture, the palace was a marvel of splendor and grace. While the nineteenth-century building had only narrowly survived the barbarism and architectural lunacy of the Ceauşescu regime, years of painstaking work had succeeded in restoring its glories, along with many of the artistic and historical treasures looted by the communists. Most of the palace was now a national museum, but one wing served as a residence for Romania’s head of state.
Cotrocenti’s Unification Hall, used for conferences with important foreign leaders and diplomats like her, was especially beautiful. White marble walls and columns bore intricate decorations in gold leaf, and a stained-glass ceiling showing scenes from Romania’s history bathed the enormous room in natural light.
In stark contrast to the ornate backdrop, however, Russia’s dark-haired chief diplomat found her host far less imposing.
Once tall and robust, Alexe Dumitru now seemed a pale and shrunken caricature of himself. The stresses and strains imposed by economic and political crisis were visibly aging him. Considered impartially, she supposed that was a shame. But it was largely Dumitru’s own fault for deciding to turn his back on Romania’s traditional ally, Russia, in favor of this half-baked coalition cobbled together by the Poles. Perhaps now he would see the error he had made and make amends to Moscow. And if not, Titeneva thought coldly, he would fall — bringing other, more sensible, men and women to power in Bucharest.
Donning a thin smile, she slid a thick document across the table toward the Romanian leader. “In light of recent events in Poland, I think you will find my government’s most recent offer a very reasonable one, Mr. President.”
Dumitru raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh?” He glanced down at the front sheet of the proposed diplomatic agreement between the Russian Federation and Romania and then handed it off to one of his aides without reading further. Warily, he looked back at her. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to summarize what President Gryzlov now demands?”
“Demands is a harsh word,” Titeneva said primly. She shrugged. “But I will not quibble over a mere matter of semantics.” Still smiling politely, she leaned forward. “Stripped to its essentials, my government’s revised proposal is very simple. We are still willing to supply your country with the natural gas it so desperately needs and to do so at a price your economy can afford—”
“If we break our agreement with the Alliance of Free Nations and instead sign a defensive pact with you,” Dumitru said impatiently.
“Of course,” Titeneva replied calmly. “Poland has made itself our enemy. Why should you tie your country’s fate to that of Piotr Wilk’s misguided regime? Will your people thank you for leading them down such a blind and dangerous path?”
“With respect, Madam Foreign Minister,” the Romanian said stiffly. “Somehow I fail to see any difference between this ‘new’ proposal of yours and the ultimatum your master tossed at my feet eight days ago.”
Titeneva shrugged again. “Why should there be any substantial change in our position? The relative balance of power between our two nations remains much the same, does it not? Without the energy supplies we alone can provide, Romania faces a bleak and unhappy winter. Warsaw cannot help you. We in Moscow can. Your choice should be an easy one.”
Seeing Dumitru’s face darken, she held up a hand. “But President Gryzlov is willing to make one additional concession, as a gesture of friendship.”
“Which is?”
“The cataclysmic collapse of the Polish banking system should make clear the danger we all face from criminal computer hackers,” Titeneva said, keeping any trace of emotion out of her voice. “Accordingly, the defense pact between our two countries would include a guarantee of aid from Russian cybersecurity specialists against this new terrorist and criminal threat.”