“Is it?” Gryzlov asked, with a cynical smile. “After all, these governments are under considerable pressure from their own people, who are unhappy at being dragooned into a war pact led by Wilk and his mercenaries. But now these blackouts have given the Poles and the others an excuse to declare martial law, have they not?”
He snapped his fingers. “So much for dissent or political protests now, eh? With the push of a few buttons and the stroke of a pen, these fascists have gained the ability to crush all opposition to their plans. In a day or so, the lights will come back on… but I strongly suspect you will see their soldiers and tanks still patrolling the streets.”
Cohen didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The Russian leader was either off his rocker or, far more likely, just toying with him. Like most of those close to Stacy Anne Barbeau, he had no particular fondness for Piotr Wilk or Kevin Martindale, but he also knew they weren’t idiots. Trying to pull off a Machiavellian maneuver like that was only a recipe for disaster, and both men were smart enough to know it.
For several more minutes, he sparred with Gryzlov, trying his level best to make the Russian leader understand the U.S. knew what he was doing and strongly disapproved. In the end, he came to the dispiriting realization that Gryzlov honestly didn’t give a damn.
“Cheer up, Mr. Cohen,” Gryzlov told him at last. “Nothing that happens in these tiny, troublemaking countries should have any lasting effect on the relationship between Russia and the United States. President Barbeau and I have worked hard to rebuild the ties of friendship and close cooperation damaged by past leaders.” His eyes were cold. “Surely, neither of us would be foolish enough to jeopardize this progress. Not for the sake of a few minor countries so utterly inconsequential to your own great nation’s genuine interests.” There was a knock at the door. “Come!” Gryzlov snapped.
His private secretary came in, looking apologetic. “Mr. Cohen’s embassy car is downstairs, Mr. President.”
Gryzlov raised an eyebrow, obviously pretending to be surprised. “So soon?” He glanced at his watch. “Ah, I see. It’s well past midnight. Where does the time go?”
The Russian president got to his feet, forcing Cohen to do the same. “While I regret that we were not able to come to a full meeting of minds tonight,” he said, “I am certain that, eventually, you and President Barbeau will come to share my perspective on these regrettable, but relatively unimportant events.”
He put his hand on the American’s shoulder, gently but unmistakably guiding him toward the door. “Please, allow me to walk you to your car.”
“That’s quite all right,” Cohen said tersely. Being given the bum’s rush was bad enough. Seeing Gryzlov standing on the steps of the Kremlin’s Senate Building waving a not-so-fond farewell as he drove off would only add insult to injury.
“Oh no,” the Russian said, with a quick, slashing grin. “I insist. It will give me great pleasure.”
It was an ambush.
Luke Cohen figured that out as soon as he and Gryzlov walked outside into the frigid night air. Oh, his car from the American embassy was there all right. But it was surrounded by television news crews and other journalists. Bright klieg lights snapped on, spotlighting them. Cameras flashed in the darkness.
“Oh, shit,” Cohen muttered.
“Courage, Mr. Cohen,” Gryzlov said quietly, still wearing his practiced politician’s smile. He gestured toward the crowd of waiting reporters. “It appears that someone leaked the news of our meeting to the press. I hope it was not one of your people. If it was one of mine, you may be sure he will get what he deserves.” He shrugged. “In the meantime, we shall just have to make the best of it, true?” Helplessly, Cohen nodded. “Excellent,” Gryzlov said. With the American still in tow, he stepped up to a bank of microphones.
“While I am surprised to see you all here tonight, perhaps it is for the best,” the Russian leader began, favoring the assembled journalists with a dazzling smile. “First, let me say that the news of these terrible blackouts affecting our closest neighbors to the west is deeply unsettling. While Russia has justifiable grievances against a few political leaders in these countries, no civilized person can view the suffering of so many tens of millions of innocent people with anything but compassion.”
He paused briefly for dramatic effect and then went on. “Accordingly, I wish to make it clear that Russia is ready to offer immediate economic aid and technical assistance to those in distress. For the time being, we are willing to set aside any disagreements we might have with their governments.” Sighing, he shook his head. “At a time of such tragedy, petty political disputes must obviously give way to simple human decency.”
Listening to Gryzlov’s obviously prepared and practiced litany of falsehoods, Cohen tried desperately to keep the anger and humiliation he felt from showing on his face. Sure, this was a setup, but now that he was boxed in, all he could do was hope to get out without further compromising the United States.
“Is this offer of aid and assistance something you and Mr. Cohen discussed tonight?” one of the reporters asked.
Gryzlov glanced quickly at the American standing beside him and then turned back to the assembled press. “You must realize that I cannot answer such a question,” he said with the hint of a smile. “Mr. Cohen is President Barbeau’s White House chief of staff, and her personal representative to me in all matters concerning this sudden crisis. Our meeting this evening was entirely off-the-record. So it would be highly improper for me to reveal any of the substance of our private conversation. All I can tell you is that we had a very full and frank exchange of views on a number of issues.”
“Including this sudden wave of cyberwar attacks on Poland and the other Eastern European countries?” a voice called out from the middle of the press gaggle. “The ones some say are the work of computer hackers paid by your government?”
Cohen recognized the skeptical face of Simon Turner, the BBC’s longtime Moscow correspondent. He darted a glance at Gryzlov, half expecting to see the Russian leader irritated by this impudent, but extremely pertinent question.
Instead, Gryzlov laughed. He wagged a finger in mock reproof. “You have been visiting too many conspiracy-theory websites, Mr. Turner.” He smiled broadly. “You should remember that Russia has long sought an international arms-control treaty to ban this form of warfare. My country’s only interest in cyberweapons is purely defensive. Our energies and our resources are entirely devoted to safeguarding our computer networks against attack by others — not to inflicting harm on innocents.”
The veteran BBC reporter wasn’t quite ready to yield, however. “Those are fine sentiments, President Gryzlov, but they seem a bit out of touch with current events. A number of independent experts have verified that—”
“Anyone with access to a computer can write anything they wish,” Gryzlov interrupted with a sly smile. He made a careful show of not looking in Cohen’s direction before he continued. “But if it comes to making wild accusations, I should remind you that only one great power currently has a military unit specifically dedicated to creating such weapons. And the last time I looked, my government had no control over the Pentagon’s Cyber Command.”
Cohen felt his face flush angrily.
“Are you suggesting that the Americans are responsible for these attacks?” Turner asked incredulously.
“Not at all,” Gryzlov said in mock surprise. “I merely point out the dangers of casting aspersions without facts.”