“Yeah, they’re just peachy-keen,” he retorted. “Right up to that point where they drive you nuts.” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Like the general, for example.”
Charlie’s mouth turned down. “We don’t know that yet. Not for sure.”
Macomber shrugged. “Maybe not. But it’s for damned sure that he’s getting awfully close to the line between sane and crazy — assuming, for argument’s sake, that he’s not already way, way over it.” He looked closely at the slender woman. “You heard Piotr Wilk and most of the other AFN leaders have declared martial law, right?”
She nodded. The news coming down from on high wasn’t good.
No one knew how long it would take the various national computer emergency response teams and Scion’s technical specialists to flush the Russian viruses that were screwing up power transmission systems across most of Eastern and central Europe. That left Poland’s president and his counterparts in an ever-worsening bind. The longer their people were left without electricity, the colder, hungrier, and more pissed off they were likely to get. In the circumstances, deploying military units to help maintain order and distribute emergency supplies was probably the least-bad option, but it certainly wasn’t something anyone would celebrate.
“Well, our friend Patrick out there has been pinging Wilk, Martindale, and me every few minutes, telling us we should deploy the Iron Wolf CID force to stamp out any new riots,” Macomber said grimly.
Charlie’s eyes widened. “But that’s—”
“Crazy, yeah,” he finished for her. “See the problem?”
THIRTEEN
Luke Cohen forced himself to look pleased when Gryzlov’s long-suffering secretary ushered him into the Russian president’s inner office. It took one hell of an effort. Serving as Stacy Anne Barbeau’s White House chief of staff and longtime political confidant had put calluses on both his ego and his conscience, but dealing with this mercurial son of a bitch was even tougher.
First, Gryzlov had waited for days before replying to his repeated back-channel requests for a private meeting. Then, after Cohen flew all the way to Moscow, Russia’s leader left him cooling his heels in the American embassy, pleading “the press of urgent state business.” Now, more than a day later, he’d abruptly summoned the tall, skinny New Yorker to the Kremlin — ignoring the fact that it was already close to midnight.
Cohen decided he was getting really tired of dominance games.
Smiling broadly, Gryzlov crossed the room to greet him. “Mr. Cohen, as always, it is a great delight to see you.” He shrugged apologetically. “I regret, of course, both the unavoidable delay and the late hour. But, sadly, my life is not my own.”
Irked though he was, Cohen had to admire the other man’s ability to lie his ass off without breaking a sweat. For a second, he was tempted to call Gryzlov out, just to see how the Russian would react. Instead, he settled for murmuring the usual diplomatic pleasantries while they shook hands.
Politely, the Russian president waved him into a chair and then sat down facing him.
“And now what can I do for you?” Gryzlov asked easily. He smiled. “Feel free to speak candidly. As you see, we are the only ones here. There are, as you would say, no inconvenient witnesses.”
Cohen nodded, thinking fast. He’d met with Gryzlov last year, to covertly brief him on what turned out to be a disastrous attempt by U.S. Army Rangers to capture the Iron Wolf mercenaries fighting for Poland. At the time, the Russian had insisted on speaking his own language, relying on a Foreign Ministry official to translate for him. Cohen assumed that was because the Kremlin leader’s English was rustier than his CIA bio claimed. Now it was clear Gryzlov had been playing some other game instead.
Maybe the Russian president had wanted a witness at last year’s briefing as insurance against the Americans getting cold feet and aborting their Ranger mission at the last minute. If so, the fact that he was willing to meet privately now could be a positive sign.
The theory was worth testing, anyway. Besides, the president had ordered him to press Gryzlov hard.
“President Barbeau is very concerned about the situation in Eastern and central Europe,” Cohen said carefully.
“Yes, I know,” Gryzlov agreed. “She told me so at great length during our last video conference.” He shrugged. “Naturally, I share her worries. The political turmoil in this self-styled Alliance of Free Nations should trouble everyone who wishes to preserve peace and order in Europe.”
Cohen hid a frown. If the Russian leader really wanted a frank exchange of views, what was up with all the phony-baloney platitudes? There was no way he could slink back to the White House and report he’d only heard the usual pile of diplomatic bull crap. Not if he wanted to keep his job. Not to mention his balls. Making allowances for her subordinates’ failures was not one of Stacy Anne Barbeau’s strongest suits.
He leaned forward. “Forgive me for speaking bluntly, Mr. President, but while that’s a nice sentiment, it rings kind of hollow just now. Because you and I both know that Russian hackers are behind this wave of cyberwar attacks.”
“Is this an official accusation by your government, Mr. Cohen?” Gryzlov asked. His expression was veiled.
Cohen shook his head. “No, sir. If it were, you’d be hearing it from President Barbeau herself.” He looked the Russian leader squarely in the face. “But at this juncture, she would rather avoid unnecessarily increasing the tension between our two countries.”
Gryzlov nodded in appreciation. “She is a sensible woman.”
“Which isn’t the same thing as someone who will turn a blind eye to what you’re doing,” Cohen said firmly. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. President. One that could easily spark a new war between Russia and Poland and its allies. Or create a terrible humanitarian crisis as governments and other civil institutions collapse across Eastern and central Europe.”
The Russian reacted with an amused chuckle. “Your talent for melodrama is remarkable, Mr. Cohen.” He shook his head. “As it happens, Russia is playing no such game.”
“Our intelligence analysts say otherwise,” Cohen shot back. “They say some of the malware used in these attacks bears clear signs of Russian origin. Apparently, the techniques the hackers use are like a set of digital fingerprints.”
“Every country has its own criminals,” Gryzlov said, with a shrug. “Mine, alas, is no exception.” He smiled. “Perhaps your intelligence analysts should learn to discern between state action and criminal conduct.”
“You can’t seriously claim that a few crooks with computers just took down most of the electrical grid in eight separate countries?” Cohen said in disbelief.
Gryzlov shrugged again. “How should I know what criminals are capable of?” He spread his hands. “Or it may be that this catastrophe is only evidence of criminal negligence by those in authority. Perhaps these power companies were skimping on necessary maintenance and now it has caught up with them. Widespread electrical outages are not uncommon, after all, even in more advanced nations.”
Cohen snorted.
“You think that unlikely?” the Russian asked, raising an eyebrow. He looked speculative. “There is one other possibility, of course.”
“Like what?” Cohen asked.
“That this power transmission crisis was deliberately orchestrated by Piotr Wilk and his puppets,” Gryzlov said calmly.
For a moment, Cohen just stared at him, unable to believe he’d heard the other man correctly. “With respect, Mr. President,” he said at last. “That is absolutely and totally crazy.”