Trapnell was bowled forward and over like a shot rabbit. He twitched a couple of times and then lay still.
Vronsky turned, no emotion on his face. There would be ample time for blame and punishment once they were safely across the border. “You two, fetch the body.” He indicated behind him with his thumb. “Clear up any blood.”
“Praporshchik Volochka.” He pointed to the woman who had called herself Anna Brezhneva. “We are moving straight to extraction. Get the vans here now.”
0800 hours, Wednesday, May 10, 2017
FYODOR FYODOROVICH KOMAROV, the President’s Chief of Staff and regular judo partner, was below average height, stocky with the pale blue eyes and fair hair of a northern Russian. He was usually the most unruffled of men but he was troubled that morning. In line with his KGB training he was systematic, paid careful attention to detail, and took nothing for granted. He was also utterly single-minded, whether in his service to the President, or as a key player in the group of St. Petersburg-based former KGB officers—known as siloviki—who had effectively taken over Russia from the reformers after Boris Yeltsin’s demise; men who bitterly regretted and resented what had happened to their beloved country ever since.
Komarov knew only one way: ruthless control. That was the old Soviet way. He also knew that the price of failure was high and that morning he had to manage the President’s reaction to yesterday’s kidnap of the Americans in Kharkov and the unanticipated death of Master Sergeant Trapnell.
Clutching his briefing papers and notebook to his chest, he knocked twice on the ornate, gilded double doors of the President’s office.
The doors were opened soundlessly by two soldiers in the ceremonial uniform of the Kremlin honor guard; tall, imposing and specially selected for their impeccable Slavonic looks, they were the men of the 154th Preobrazhensky Independent Commandant’s Regiment, the men who protected the President.
Komarov entered, paused momentarily, dipped his head in salute and then walked forward. The room was spartan, minimalist, the only concession to extravagance being the green curtains edged in gold and tied back with gold ropes. Behind the President’s chair there was only one decoration, the gold double-headed eagle of Russia on a red shield. The desk was huge but empty of any papers except, he noted, the report from Kharkiv. A long conference table jutted out at right angles from the desk toward the door.
Behind the desk sat the President; pale, bloodless face, high cheekbones, oval eyes cold, menacing and light blue. It was the face of a watchful fox with sparse, short, white-blond hair; a wiry, tough physique under his usual dark suit, plain navy blue tie and white shirt. Here was a man who worked out regularly and fought in the judo hall twice a week, described by his press spokesman as being, “So fit, he could break people’s hands when he shakes them… If he wanted to.”
However, his voice never failed to surprise Raskolonikov. For such an alpha male it was slightly high-pitched and nasal.
“Why did they kill the American, Fyodor Fyodorovitch?” the President demanded, using the formal patronymic. “The mission was to capture the group. I wanted them all alive on television so that I can show the world that NATO and the Americans are attacking our people from Ukraine. Not in body-bags with the Americans screaming terrorism.”
“I agree, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Komarov replied, putting his papers on the table in front of his chair. “Typical of those Special Forces prima donnas. Always promising the earth, but when they cock up, they do it spectacularly. I talked to Colonel General Denisenko, Commander, Special Operation Forces Command, this morning and left him in no doubt of your displeasure.”
The President said nothing, which meant he was still assessing how he was going to react.
“He tells me the Spetsnaz commander had no alternative once the American started running.”
The President frowned. “They should not have let him escape in the first place. Who was responsible?”
Komarov looked at the President. As an old and trusted associate he could say things others could not but he still had to be careful. “They underestimated the American. He was small but he fought like a devil. We now discover he was an Aikido expert.”
“So I see.” The President nodded at the file on the desk.
Komarov knew the President was a man who got into the detail and, as he had suspected, he had studied the report on the capture of the Americans.
“And I see he destroyed any prospects of fatherhood for the man he kicked in the balls.” The President smirked.
“We can turn this to our advantage, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Komarov replied. “Our people can make much of his injury in the news bulletins. Insist the shooting was in self-defense.”
The President nodded agreement. “Who commanded the team? The report omitted that important detail.”
“It was led by one of our best, Your Excellency, Major Anatoly Nikolayevich Vronsky, 45th Guards Spetsnaz Regiment. Awarded Hero of the Russian Federation twelve years ago for his gallantry in North Caucasus. Son of a Soviet tank officer who had to become a taxi driver to feed his family after the fall of the Soviet Union. He went as an exchange student to a US university after doing his military service. When he finished in America, he became a professional army officer before passing the selection process for Special Forces.”
The President was silent for a moment, his earlier anger dissipated. “A tricky operation, I accept, and Major Vronsky seems to have recovered from the initial setback in an exemplary fashion. He did well.”
He looked up at Komarov. “Convey my displeasure to General Denisenko. There must be no more mistakes if he is to remain as Commander of Special Operations Forces Command. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, Your Excellency.” Komarov would pass on the rebuke, but he knew the President well enough to see that he was secretly pleased. The execution of Trapnell would send a strong signal of Russian determination. “Your Excellency, may I now call the meeting?” He passed an agenda and updated brief to the President, who nodded his agreement.
The double doors were opened by the guards and the President’s Deputy, the Foreign Minister, Finance Minister, Interior Minister, Defense Minister and the Chief of the Russian General Staff entered.
The President remained seated.
“Sit,” he commanded.
Komarov took his habitual seat as note taker at the foot of the table. From there he could see the President directly. The others took their usual places at the conference table.
They waited for the President to speak, faces strained, wondering who would be his first target. He was a man who applied the principle of divide and rule to his allies and subordinates as much as to his enemies.
They did not have to wait long. The President looked hard at the Defense Minister who, despite his background as a minor Communist Party functionary and never having heard a shot fired in anger, was resplendent in the uniform of a General of the Army, complete with the ribbon of Hero of the Russian Federation displayed prominently among the multiple other ribbons on his chest.
“Alexandr Borisovich, I’ve read the report on the capture of the Americans in detail. I am not impressed that one was killed. We will turn it to our advantage but, be in no doubt, I will accept no more mistakes.”