“And yet your analysts are paid to answer difficult questions, are they not?” Gryzlov asked with deceptive mildness.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Kazyanov agreed hurriedly. He hesitated for a second or two and then went on. “Well… the consensus seems to be that it might have been the CIA—”
“Bullshit,” Gryzlov snapped. “Are you really that stupid, Viktor? Do you genuinely believe the CIA would try something so audacious? Or authorize its agents to kill so mercilessly?” He shook his head in disgust. “Haven’t you been paying attention to your own damned reports? The dickless cretins Barbeau put in charge of the CIA are far more interested in handing out rainbow-colored condoms at Langley gay-rights celebrations than in conducting high-risk operations like this one.”
He stared coldly at Kazyanov, savoring the sudden rush of power as the bigger man physically wilted into his chair. “No, this was Martindale’s doing. He’s the only one out there ruthless enough to order this kind of ‘wet work’ on our soil.”
Kurakin spoke up. “That would certainly explain those brief radar contacts made by the S-400 battalion at Feodosia.”
“Precisely,” Gryzlov said. “It was one of Martindale’s damned stealth aircraft, probably the same STOL transport he used at Perun’s Aerie. And it slipped through our whole air defense network without anyone laying a finger on it.” His eyes were hooded. “I am getting very tired of watching our vaunted ‘defenders of the Motherland’ screw up time and time again.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Perhaps our radar crews, SAM units, and fighter pilots need another taste of the lash.”
Neither Kazyanov nor Kurakin said anything to dispute him.
And they are wise not to, Gryzlov thought icily. Thanks to hacked acquisition and targeting software installed in Russia’s most advanced SAM regiments, some of Martindale’s Iron Wolf mercenaries had escaped his carefully laid trap at the Perun’s Aerie cyberwar complex. And unable to trust his own weapons, he’d been forced to concede a draw to the American and his Polish paymaster, Piotr Wilk. Furious, he’d made sure that heads rolled.
The first of those to fall had been Colonel General Maksimov, once his own mentor at the Yuri Gagarin Military Air Academy. Maksimov had been forced to resign as head of the Aerospace Defense Force for “medical” reasons. When the general suffered a fatal stroke a few months later, Moscow gossips had darkly whispered the old man’s death wasn’t natural. Gryzlov considered it revealing that so many of his countrymen were willing to blame poison for a seizure actually triggered by deep personal shame and public humiliation. On the other hand, there’d been nothing natural about the sudden deaths of more than a dozen top software engineers in Nizhny Novgorod — unless, of course, you understood that taking a bullet in the back of the head was the natural and inevitable consequence of treason and incompetence.
For a few seconds, he pondered ordering another round of courts-martial and executions, starting with those lazy buffoons at the 22nd Guards Spetsnaz Brigade and eventually moving on to the blind, deaf, and dumb Su-27 fighter pilots who’d failed to intercept Martindale’s stealth aircraft. Not yet, he decided. None of those he might punish were going anywhere. Let them sweat.
His decision made, Gryzlov looked up from his brief reverie with a scowl.
Kazyanov, who’d been caught mopping at his own brow with a handkerchief, froze. His face turned gray with fear.
“Get out, Viktor,” Gryzlov said with a heavy sigh. Verbally abusing the other man was still mildly amusing, but the experience was beginning to pall. Sooner or later he was going to have to get rid of Kazyanov. And the minister of state security knew only too well that men in his position — with access to so many secrets — rarely lived long enough to enjoy retirement. Gryzlov made a mental note to have Kazyanov put under even closer surveillance. It would never do for poor, old Viktor to imagine he could successfully defect.
When the door closed behind Kazyanov, Gryzlov turned back to Kurakin.
“How badly has our security been compromised?” he asked bluntly.
“I’ve reviewed the files those two spies accessed,” Kurakin said. “Whoever did this must now be aware of RKU’s existence… and at least some of our capabilities.” He shrugged. “If there were any doubt, cyber specialists from the FSB’s Q Directorate detected in-depth probes of different commercial and governmental databases within twenty-four hours after the incident at Bataysk. But they were unable to trace those probes back to any identifiable source.”
“Which really tells us all we need to know about who was responsible,” Gryzlov said dryly. “Martindale’s Scion operatives were poking around for more information about RKU.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Kurakin nodded. He hesitated, knowing how little Russia’s leader liked hearing unwelcome suggestions. “It might be best to delay implementing Shakh i Mat until we can build in more layers of operational secrecy. If Martindale or the Poles pass their information on to the Americans—”
“Checkmate will proceed on schedule,” Gryzlov said, cutting him off with a sharp, decisive rap on his desk. “Whatever personnel files and equipment records were stolen from Bataysk could not have compromised our operational plans. Meanwhile, your forces are already in position. Delay now would only increase the risk of the Americans stumbling across some of our people by accident.”
Again, Kurakin nodded. There was truth in the president’s blunt assertion. While internal security in the United States was so lax as to be almost nonexistent, there was always the chance of one of his teams being caught in a routine traffic stop gone wrong or in some other slipup.
“Besides, Vladimir,” Gryzlov continued with a smile. “The fact that Martindale knows he has a new Russian ‘competitor’ is essentially meaningless. Even if he somehow persuades Barbeau and others that he’s telling the truth, what can they do?” He leaned back in his chair. “That is the beauty of our plan, is it not? We are co-opting the same tactic of plausible deniability so often used by the Americans to evade responsibility for Scion’s own actions.”
Privately, Kurakin suspected almost no one would swallow Gryzlov’s claims of innocence once the Americans figured out what was really going on. Oh, he supposed that a few neutrals and a handful of the weaker Western-allied powers might be willing to choose a convenient lie over the inconvenient truth. But no major world player would buy the idea of a freelance, rogue Russian military corporation operating outside Moscow’s command and control.
Still, he concluded, handling the inevitable diplomatic and military fallout from this operation would be a problem for the president to solve later. His particular and immediate task was simpler. His job was to make sure that RKU’s attacks were structured to cause maximum confusion and to inflict as much damage as possible in a short period of time. The more confusion, the longer it would take the U.S. to pin this operation on Moscow. And the more damage his forces caused, the more difficult it would be for the Americans to retaliate effectively against the Motherland.
Kurakin came back to the present moment. Wisely or unwisely, President Gryzlov had made his decision: Operatsiya Shakh i Mat would proceed. Julius Caesar’s comment on crossing the Rubicon, declaring war against Pompey and the Roman senate came to mind. Alea iacta est. The die is cast. So now, as a loyal soldier, he must do his best to make sure that die landed with the winning number faceup.