“Of course you do,” Pender agreed demurely. “And we have celebrity interest too. They’ll throw on a ‘Remember Konstantin’ T-shirt which we’ll provide, plug their new movie, raise a fist to ‘Free Russia.’ And maybe even go to Washington and get star-screwed by assorted politicians.”
“Any problem areas?”
“Three.” Pender checked his computer screen. “There will be 148 feature stories running on the Red Menace across the globe in the next week or so. All but two follow our take to the letter. One in Spain. One in New York. The fellow in Spain is particularly tenacious, but he’s also been working for two years on a scandal involving the royal family. Tomorrow he will receive documents that will rekindle his interest in that story.”
“And the fellow in New York?”
“His wife has suspected for some time now that her husband is being unfaithful to her. Tomorrow she will also get a present that will show her instincts were right. That will take her hubby out of the game completely. Divorces can be so messy and time-consuming. I speak from experience, unfortunately.”
“You just had these things lying around?”
“I have files on virtually every journalist worth a damn. We collect secrets, craft half-lies, and anonymously release those items when it best serves our clients.”
“You said there were three problem areas?”
“Senator here in the States who fancies himself an expert on Russian affairs. Word is he plans to call for hearings on the matter using a very skeptical prism.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Next time he steps into a public men’s room we’re going to Larry Craig him.”
“So Senator Craig was set up?”
“Who knows? Who cares? But it’ll take this senator right off our backs.”
“And what do you call that tactic?”
“The ‘I’m screwed’ maneuver,” Pender said smiling.
“An apt name.”
“I actually prefer a more subtle approach where the target doesn’t event realize what’s happened. You recall reporters were embedded with troops in Iraq?”
“So they could see the war firsthand?”
“No, so they could be told the story only from the point of view of the Pentagon. That was my idea, and every general and administration official involved has personally come here and kissed my ass for coming up with it.”
“You know your field well, Dick.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Where was that?”
“I started out in the White House Press Office.”
Creel pointed to a large worktable in the war room where two people were laboring over some written materials.
“Explain.”
“That’s the ‘Tablet of Tragedies.’ We recently discovered that one of our competitors was hired to put something like this together during Persian Gulf One to help convince the West to defend Kuwait. It worked brilliantly there. So we thought we’d use the same concept here. But instead of printing hundreds of thousands of glossy copies we opted for handmade rudimentary stuff. That’ll give it a realistic homegrown feel to balance the high-tech attack so far. We’ll only make a dozen but send them out to optimal targets for maximum effect.”
“Boots on the ground,” Creel muttered thoughtfully.
“That was to be on your end,” Pender pointed out. “I can make anyone believe a lie is true. However, there’s no substitute for real blood spilled.”
“I have the boots quite figured out. In fact you’ll see evidence of that very soon.”
“What about the other piece of the equation?”
“What about it?” Creel said sharply.
“Only that you said you would advise us of the timing of it.”
“Have I advised you yet?”
“No.”
“Then it must not be time!”
A moment later Creel was gone. Pender had helped make the man a fortune during the cold war, and when that dried up, they’d engineered numerous smaller global conflicts until the first Iraq War had literally fallen into their laps followed by the lucrative second Iraq War. But as he’d recently told Pender, “The Americans are completely tapped out. And the EU’s in a peace mode, pouring their money into education, infrastructure, and health care instead of defense. The idiots never stop to think that it would be damn hard for the kiddies to go to school and Grandma to the doctor if they can’t protect their countries from ending up pledging allegiance to Allah. But with all that going against me I’m going to win this war.”
And Dick Pender would never bet against the man.
CHAPTER 20
SERGEI PETROV WALKED DOWN THE STREET, his collar upturned against the chill that had descended on New York in the last two days. He’d just finished a taping for a local television show, recounting the considerable horrors that he’d witnessed under the Putin/Gorskhov regimes as the number two man in the Federal Security Service before fleeing the country. The westerners ate up what he was selling and paid well for the privilege, Petrov had found, far better than playing lapdog to dictators disguised as presidents. He didn’t know where the Red Menace campaign had originated from and didn’t really care. Gorshkov was evil. Petrov’s homeland was going in the wrong direction. Whether all the horrors that had come to light recently were true or not he also didn’t care about. Some of them probably were. That was good enough.
He felt for the gun in the pocket of his coat. Petrov was a careful man. He knew he had become a target. If Gorshkov had a top hit list he would be high on it. He always went out armed, never strayed from public places, and his trained eye was ever watchful. He would never drink or eat whenever anyone else was present. He would not die as Litvinenko had. There would be no polonium-210 cup of tea for him.
He walked to the corner and hailed a cab. One drew to a stop beside the curb; the driver looked out.
“Grand Central Station,” Petrov said. The man nodded and he climbed in. As he did, the rear door on the opposite side opened and a man jumped in. At the same instant another bulky gent pushed Petrov from behind and slid in next to him. The doors closed and the cab raced off.
Petrov didn’t even have time to look at his kidnappers. They pressed against him, their bulk pinning his hands to his body, his gun remaining in his pocket. The knife slashed once against his throat even as he felt another blade bite deeply into his right side. And then another bite and then another.
He fell forward as his life drained away.
The cab drove out of town and into Westchester. Next to a small, dark park it stopped and the three men climbed out and into a waiting SUV. It drove off, leaving Petrov’s still body lying on the floor of the cab.
Written on his forehead with a black Sharpie pen was one word in Russian. Its English translation made perfect sense.
Traitor.
Back in the SUV Caesar took off his hat and mask. This was Nicolas Creel’s opening salvo in the “boots on the ground” department. Caesar had one more task to complete tonight. The SUV rolled on for a long time until they reached their destination. Arrangements had been made and money paid and they drove in without a problem. The SUV made its way to the very back edge of the place where a large crater had been dug in the earth. The men got out, opened the back of the truck, and slid out the body bag.
Caesar unzipped the bag and peered in at the face that looked blankly back at him.