Iron Wolf (20 page)

T
HE
K
REMLIN,
M
OSCOW

A
FEW HOURS LATER

The phone on President Gennadiy Gryzlov's desk beeped suddenly, interrupting him at the worst possible moment. “
Sukin syn!
Son of a bitch,” he muttered, trying to ignore the sound. But it was no use. His concentration was broken. Still swearing under his breath, he fumbled for the phone. “Yes! What the hell is it? I said, no calls!”

“It's Minister of State Security Kazyanov, Mr. President,” his private secretary said apologetically. “He is here in the outer office, asking to see you immediately. He says it is urgent.”

“It had damned well better be, Ulanov!” Gryzlov snapped. “I'm right in the middle of a serious foreign policy discussion, you know.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Gryzlov sighed. “Very well. Give me a couple of minutes.” He slammed the phone down and turned to the attractive, full-figured woman who was still bent across his desk. “Get your clothes back on, Daria. It seems I have other work to do.”

Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva looked back over her naked shoulder with a slightly provocative smile. “That is unfortunate, Mr. President.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed glumly. He zipped his fly and then moved around to sit behind his desk. When she had finished slipping back into her businesslike jacket, blouse, and skirt, he picked up the phone. “I'll see Minister Kazyanov now.” He looked up at Titeneva. “There's no point in your waiting for me. If poor little Viktor's actually managed to nerve himself up to come over here in person, he must really believe he's got something important.”

She simply nodded and went out by the side door.

Kazyanov hurried in moments later, a file folder clutched in his hands. As usual, the intelligence director looked nervous, with sweat already beading his high forehead.

“Well?” Gryzlov barked. “What's so damned urgent?”

“Two of our top GRU agents have gone missing,” Kazyanov said quickly. “They failed to make a scheduled contact yesterday and we have been completely unable to get in touch with them since then.”

“So?” Gryzlov said dismissively. “Agents go quiet all the time—for any number of reasons, some good and some bad. For all you know, these spies of yours might just be lazing around a swimming pool somewhere, taking an unauthorized vacation. Or maybe they got spooked by something and are simply lying low for a bit.”

Kazyanov shook his head. “With respect, Mr. President, not these two men. Colonel Lermontov and Major Rodchenko are both extraordinarily reliable, competent, and experienced field operatives. They would not abandon an important mission so easily.”

“All right,” Gryzlov said, shrugging. “I'll bite. Where were these missing paragons of espionage stationed?”

“Poland.”

The Russian president started paying attention. “Go on.”

“Their last message indicated that they were planning to penetrate a Polish military training area, at Drawsko Pomorskie in western Poland,” Kazyanov reported, sliding a map out of the folder and showing it to Gryzlov. “They'd picked up rumors of an important military exercise planned there—an unscheduled exercise.”

“Oh, really,” the president said, frowning. That
was
highly unusual. To avoid accidents and the risk of unintended escalation, it was common practice for both the NATO powers and for Russia to announce their important military drills, exercises, and war games in advance. “Was this a NATO maneuver of some sort?”

“No, sir,” Kazyanov said. “Before they disappeared, Lermontov and Rodchenko said the rumors they picked up indicated this secret exercise was supposed to be a strictly Polish affair.”

“But you don't believe the rumors?” Gryzlov asked, hearing the uncertainty in other man's voice.

“There are . . . incongruities,” Kazyanov admitted. “When we could not regain contact with our operatives, I asked my best analysts to examine our most recent Persona reconnaissance satellite images of the Drawsko Pomorskie region.” He handed the president a
series of photos from his folder. “These enlarged images were taken during a pass over the area three days ago. As you can see, they show a significant number of pieces of military hardware scattered around the training area—vehicles, tanks, guns, and even fighter aircraft.”

Gryzlov flipped through the photos. His mouth tightened. “These are all old American tanks and planes. Look at this one, an F-4 Phantom! They're not even in the Polish inventory! Hell, almost no one flies them anymore!”

“Yes, sir,” Kazyanov confirmed. “My analysts say that all of this equipment appears to be surplus. Which begins to explain what we picked up during a satellite pass twenty-four hours ago.” He slid another set of images across the desk.

The Russian president stared down them in silence. Each showed a collection of burned-out armored vehicles and wrecked aircraft. He looked up at his minister of state security. “Astounding.”

Kazyanov nodded. “It appears that every single piece of surplus military equipment was destroyed during this war game. Without exception.”

“Which Polish units did all this?” Gryzlov asked, still looking at the photos. “We may have to reassess their combat effectiveness.”

“That is one of the incongruities,” Kazyanov told him carefully. “We believe a Polish mechanized infantry battalion
was
assigned to secure the training area, but it does not seem to have been involved in the maneuvers themselves. In fact, we cannot find evidence that
any
unit of the Polish armed forces participated in this exercise.”

Gryzlov stared at him. “What?”

“Every piece of intelligence we can assemble—signals intercepts, agent reports, satellite photos, and the like—shows the rest of the Polish Army, including its Special Forces, posted at their ordinary duty stations,” Kazyanov said.

“My God, Viktor,” Gryzlov said, piecing it together as he stared at the pictures. “Do you realize what this means?”

“Sir?”

“You may just have uncovered the evidence we've been looking for!” Gryzlov said sharply, irritated by the other man's inability to
see what should be obvious to anyone with even a fraction of average intelligence. “Are you blind?”

“Mr. President, I'm afraid that I'm not following—”

“The terrorists, you idiot!” Gryzlov snapped excitedly. “The terrorists who've been attacking us! Who else could the Poles be training in such secrecy?”

K
IEV,
U
KRAINE

T
HE NEXT DAY

Fedir Kravchenko studied the faded signs on the buildings they were driving past. This section of western Kiev was a mix of drab Soviet-era apartment blocks, run-down shops, and old warehouses. Cars parked along the streets were mostly older models, some so covered in rust and graffiti that it was clear that they'd been abandoned for years. At least there were enough trees along the sidewalks and streets to soften the harsher edges of this impoverished neighborhood.

He spotted the bleached-out red, white, and blue tobacco kiosk he'd been told to look for and tapped Pavlo Lytvyn on the shoulder. “There, pull in and park. Then wait for me.”

Nodding unhappily, the big man obeyed. He found an empty spot just large enough for the ZAZ Forza subcompact he was driving.

“I don't like this, Major,” Lytvyn growled, hunched over the steering wheel. “I don't trust this
prykhyl'nyk,
this backer, of ours. If he's really an ally, why hide himself from us—working only through faceless intermediaries?”

Kravchenko shrugged. “We're operating outside the law, my friend. It's no great surprise that our anonymous patron wants to keep us at arm's length.” He sighed. “But we have no choice. We need this man's cash and connections to buy weapons and equipment.”

He popped open the car door and climbed out onto the sidewalk.

“I still don't like it,” Lytvyn said stubbornly, leaning over to talk through the little car's rolled-down passenger window. “For all we know, this guy could be a boss in the
Mafiya,
nothing but a criminal. We might be waging our war with dirty money—drug money, even.”

“All money is dirty, Pavlo,” Kravchenko said. “As is war, if it comes to that. Besides, what choice do we have?” He hawked and spat. “Go hat in hand to the government again, begging for their
help? The cowards in Kiev turned us down years ago and now they crawl before the Russians, pleading only to be left alone.”

He shook his head. “You might be right about our patron. He could be a criminal. But I think it's more likely that he is one of the big oligarchs, the billionaires, who raised and equipped our volunteer battalions during the 2014 war. Why else would anyone but a patriot back our cause now?”

Lytvyn scowled. “Oligarch. Crime boss. What's the real difference?”

Kravchenko grinned crookedly. “Weapons and explosives for us, instead of cocaine and heroin shipments for him.”

The big man looked unconvinced. “I say this meeting is too risky. Why do they forbid you to bring your own people? That's new and it stinks. This could be a trap.”

Kravchenko looked into Lytvyn's eyes. “Yes, that is possible. But if this is a trap, what can they really do to me?”

“They can kill you,” the other man snapped.

“Kill me?” Kravchenko repeated mildly. Then his maimed face contorted into a terrible, twisted smile that sent a cold shiver of fear down Lytvyn's spine. “No, they can't. Not really. After all, Pavlo, we both know that I truly died with the rest of our battalion three years ago, back on that cursed road between the trees.” He turned away. “Wait for me.”

“And if I'm right and this is a trap?” Lytvyn called after him.

“Then avenge me,” Kravchenko said over his shoulder, already heading toward the warehouse chosen for this clandestine rendezvous. It was set back from the street, down an alley littered with uncollected garbage and old crates. Boarded-up or broken windows looked down on the alley from both sides.

A sign in dirty, peeling white letters hung over a rusting metal roll-up door identified this as
URVAD TSENTR POTACHANNYA 20
—Government Supply Center 20. He scowled. This had probably once been one of the storehouses where the old Soviet-era bosses hoarded fresh food and luxury goods for the
nomenklatura,
the governing elite. Now it was nothing but a ruin.

He dialed a number on his cell phone. It was answered on the first ring. “I'm here,” he said flatly, and broke the connection.

The metal door squealed and rattled open, grinding upward.

It slid down behind Kravchenko as soon as he walked into the abandoned warehouse, banging down with a hollow echo on the cracked and pitted concrete floor. Lights came on, revealing a big black Mercedes sedan parked in the center of the empty building.

A man in jeans and a brown leather jacket moved in behind the Ukrainian. He must have been waiting in the shadows beside the door. “Your phone,” he said coldly. “You'll get it back when we're done here.”

Shrugging, Kravchenko handed him the cell phone and then held his arms out wide, waiting patiently while the sentry frisked him for weapons or hidden recording devices.

Satisfied that Kravchenko was clean, the other man stepped back and waved him toward the waiting car. “Go on.”

The rear passenger door of the Mercedes opened when he got within a few meters. A second man, this one wearing an elegant business suit and sunglasses, got out and stood facing Kravchenko. He was taller than the Ukrainian partisan leader, with gray, short-cropped hair and a square jaw. The business suit fit him perfectly, but he would probably have looked equally at home in a uniform.

“My employer is . . . unhappy, Major,” he said quietly.

“So am I,” Kravchenko retorted.

“You were given substantial resources to accomplish a specific objective—the liberation of the Russian-controlled areas of our motherland. To achieve this, you assured my employer that your actions would bring Moscow into direct collision with the United States, Poland, and the other NATO powers. Instead, the Russians now control half of our country, including most of our energy resources and heavy industry!”

“The West has proved more cowardly than I imagined,” Kravchenko admitted.

“Your lack of imagination has cost us dearly,” the man in sunglasses sneered.

“My plans were approved at every stage,” Kravchenko pointed
out coldly. “Your boss saw nothing improbable in the supposition that our attacks would lure Russia's leaders into repeated military action against Poland, action that would trigger direct NATO involvement in this region to our ultimate benefit. If
my
imagination failed, so did that of your employer.”

“It would be safer for you to avoid insulting him,” the other man said. His mouth tightened. “He is not a man inclined to forgive affronts—or failure.”

“I don't give a damn about my personal safety,” Kravchenko said bluntly. “I only care about winning. And killing as many Russians as possible.” He stared hard at the man in sunglasses. “My question is: Can your boss say the same? Or is he ready to quit now that things have gotten tough? Is he just a summer soldier? A patriot only when the sun is shining?”

“My employer is equally interested in victory,” the other man replied. “He only questions your ability to achieve it.”

“Then your boss needs to learn more patience,” Kravchenko said flatly. He shook his head in disgust. “For God's sake, we've lost a single battle, not the whole damned war! And even in losing, we've picked up a crucial insight into what makes this Russian leader, Gryzlov, tick.”

“Now you claim to see profit in defeat?” the other man asked skeptically.

“The Russians reacted exactly as we had hoped to Voronov's murder, lunging headlong into Polish territory like a maddened bull,” Kravchenko pointed out. “Our mistake was in assuming that Gryzlov and his generals would react the same way to our next attack. But we were too subtle for them.”

“Subtle?!” The man in sunglasses seemed amused. “There are many words I would use to describe the slaughter you inflicted on that separatist base.
Subtle
would not have been among them.”

“Think about it,” Kravchenko persisted. “The key difference between our two attacks was their distance from the Polish border.”

The other man snorted. “Maybe so, but having successfully occupied our country up to the Dnieper, Moscow is not likely to send
more soldiers and generals for you to shoot near the frontier. Not unless they were already invading the rest of Ukraine, which is not something we want!”

“True,” Kravchenko said. “But you miss my point. If the mountain will not come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain. If our Russian targets will not venture close to Poland, then . . .” He sketched out his new plan, which was far more ruthless than anything he had proposed before.

When he was finished, the man in sunglasses stood silent for several long moments, pondering what he had heard. At last, he nodded. “What you propose does have a certain brutal elegance, Major. It may even succeed. But you ask much of my employer—in time and in money and in other, less easily replaceable, resources.”

“Yes,” Kravchenko agreed. “I do.”

“Very well,” the other man said. “I will present your plan to him. I will even recommend that we proceed.”

“Thank you.”

“But you must understand something very important, Major,” the man in sunglasses warned. “My employer will not tolerate another failure. If your plan does not work, the consequences to you will be severe. Fatal, even.”

“If I fail, I would not wish to live anyway,” Kravchenko said simply.

Once the Ukrainian partisan leader was gone, the man in sunglasses slid back into the rear seat of the Mercedes. He took out his phone and began composing a short text message to his real employer, Igor Truznyev, in Moscow:
MEETING WITH GULL ONE SUCCESSFUL. NEW SALES PROPOSAL WILL FOLLOW. WILL REQUIRE CLOSE COOPERATION WITH WARSAW OFFICE PROSPECTS GOOD.