Power Play (20 page)

“They realize the Americans will respond at high speed. However, they intend to zap the nuclear football exactly at H-hour, rendering the US president helpless, and giving themselves a lot of time to deny all knowledge of the attack.”

“Holy shit!” breathed Rani. “Was that the missile they tested on Bolshaya Muksalma on Friday morning?”

“Correct. An updated Iskander-K, with a possible range of around two thousand miles. They think this smaller, streamlined bird cannot miss and that it will fly too low for the US antimissile system to catch it.

“Also, remember that first missile we discussed six months ago in Petrozavodsk?”

“The Makeyev design?”

“Yes. They bailed out on that. And then they all worked together on the Iskander. The Makeyev was always too big and kind of obvious. Its new slimmed-down version was not giving them enough range to hit Washington. The Iskander very definitely can.”

“This is unbelievable,” muttered Rani. “Are these guys insane?”

“Very probably. That’s why I’m sitting here.”

“Can you get into that computer again?”

“I’m not sure. It was very dangerous. If he’d walked in that door and seen me, I’d have been court-martialed and then shot.”

“How did you know he wouldn’t?”

“Well, I knew where he was . . . on the bridge, checking some electronics. And there was a call for him from Moscow, and I had it switched through to him. That’s when I got into the computer. I was pretty sure I had ten minutes.”

“One thing, Nikolai. Was this information fragmented? Or was it in one file?”

“One file, which was not in any way fragmented. Everything was edited together into one complete document. Like a corporate plan.”

“What was the file called?”

“‘FOM-2.’ And it had its own password . . . ‘Natanz.’ I managed to check that on the way out.”

“Jesus. Did you get the feeling this was a file that all the main guys had? Or was it just for Admiral Ustinov?”

“Funny you should mention that. But I did have the feeling this was some kind of a master file that everyone had. Somewhere in there was a list of Admiral Ustinov’s team, but I had no time to find it. I think Ustinov is the mission commander. This will be a Northern Fleet attack, when it starts. I think the admiral updates it personally and then circulates it.”

“Why does he want you tonight?”

“No idea. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he needed help with that FOM-2 file—bringing it up to date as a result of the test firing on Friday. There was no mention of that. And he does like to pace the room and dictate his reports.”

“Directly onto the computer?”

“Right. And he prefers me to do the typing, because I can correct his language and spelling as we go along. Matter of fact, I think that was one of the reasons he hired me.”

“Thank Christ he did. We might yet save the world,” said Rani. “Could you get a copy of that file?”

“No. He’s careless. But we have a full-time Internet security team on board. And they check everything and everyone, from the admiral down to the lowest seamen. I’m worried already they might know I’ve been into the file.”

“What are they targeting at Fort Meade?”

“The tallest building in the complex. It’s known as OPS 2A—eleven stories high, black glass, the place where they process the intercepts and cyber systems. That building goes up in smoke, the US of A will not know where the hell it is for probably six weeks. At least that’s what our man in the Pentagon reckons. The entire US armed forces would lose their way.”

“Is OPS 2A where the boss sits?”

“No. He’s in OPS 2B. Eighth floor. Most of the NSA high command is in there with him.”

“And Markova’s maniacs have no plans to hit that as well?”

“No. There was a note on that in the file. Seems they all agree that’s a step too far—murdering the most important intelligence and surveillance officers in the United States. They think, with some justification, the president might just take Moscow off the map for that. And that Markova might be remembered as the man who ended life as we know it.”

“That might still be his fate,” muttered Rani thoughtfully. “The Americans are capable of getting seriously pissed off—you push ’em too far.”

“That’s another reason we’re sitting here,” said Nikolai. “This has to be stopped.”

“Trouble is, we can’t stop it without getting fucking executed or something,” said Rani. “Only the Americans can stop it. Which, I guess, makes Mack Bedford the most important man in the world. I’m seeing him tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh. Where?”

“It’s a need-to-know situation . . . but not in Russia, obviously.”

“Right. There’s a major Chinese situation involved in all this. I don’t know enough, but I do know there’s a Dr. Yang here in Russia, possibly in residence at the monastery. He was going to the launching on Friday.”

“And who’s Dr. Yang?”

“He’s the director of design development at China Shenzhen Technology, the cyber-hacking kings in Guangdong Province.”

“Is this the critical path to the nuclear football?”

“Without a doubt. The Chinese are involved in this, much more than we know.”

“How did you find out?”

“There’s a section on them in that file. It was unclear, but they’re going to be involved in the launch of the missiles. God knows how. China’s farther away from Fort Meade than Russia.”

“I thought you said they were taking the missiles down to the western Caribbean?”

“They are. And that’s where China is going to help. But I can’t see how, and certainly not where.”

“What did the file say?”

“It was very disorganized on this subject. But there was an assessment by Admiral Rankov that went into the danger of launching an attack without nailing the president’s football. He suggested that unless that emergency comms system was dismantled, those missiles could represent the most deafening suicide note in history. Rankov says the Americans would react so fast, no one would know what had hit them.”

“Yeah,” said Rani, “but they wouldn’t know who to hit, would they? They got a couple of missiles coming at them from fucking Honduras, or Belize, or Nicaragua, or some other third world outfit, they can’t fire back, can they?”

“No,” replied Nikolai. “But they could, with some ease, identify the Russian-built Iskander-K, knock both missiles out of the sky, and then draw a bead on a major Russian Naval base like Murmansk or Severomorsk.”

“Hmmm,” said the Israeli. “Has China got any influence in Central America?”

“Not as much as the USA, except for maybe Venezuela.”

“Then I guess we’re back to square one,” concluded Rani. “But that does not diminish Beijing’s involvement, both with the cyber attack and the missiles aimed at the NSA. You’ve seen this material with your own eyes, and now we’ve got Dr. Yang standing at a top secret missile launch with the most prominent men in Russia.”

“The one thing I couldn’t work out was a time frame,” said Nikolai. “The only fact we have is they won’t launch until they can put that nuclear football out of action. And for that, they’ll need some really advanced data. Plus the codes, which I could tell we don’t have.”

“We’re talking months, not days or weeks,” said Rani.

“Correct. Months during which they’ll make even more perfections to the Iskander and probably increase its range.”

“And nail down the perfect site from which to launch it. I guess you’ll have to keep your ears open at all times to find that out, Nikki. And yes, I know you need to go. Your money will be on its way tomorrow.”

“How much?”

“Have I ever let you down?”

“Never. But I’m putting my life on the line for this. How much?”

“A lot of money.”

“How much?”

“For this? Probably a quarter of a million—if we can save Fort Meade.”

“What if we can’t?”

“One hundred thousand. This is very valuable.”

“I was thinking more.”

“Nikki, you are being paid very well. A grateful America will reward you in time. But you may have to defect, if you ever want to spend it.”

“I know. But then I’d be on the run from the FSB for the rest of my life. They’d try to hunt me down.”

“You have already taken that risk. And I believe you had a higher purpose—to save Mother Russia from nuclear mutilation by the Americans. And that you will probably achieve.”

“Do you think I could survive in Russia? I mean, go on with my navy career?”

“I hope so. But if you want my personal opinion, I would say it’s unlikely. This will get much deeper. We may have to get you out of here. But for now you appear to be safe. Just don’t get careless.”

“I understand. But there are so few people who know about this. Admiral Ustinov must realize I am one of the few. If they ever found out there was a spy, a Russian spy at that, and a trusted naval officer, well . . . ”

“Nikki, they may never find out there’s a spy. They may just decide the Americans were one jump ahead all along—they are, after all, the maestros of eavesdropping.”

“And that’s the main reason Markova wants to put their National Security Agency out of action. Funny how things go around in a circle, eh?”

“Always, but the main thing is to work safely. Take the greatest care when you contact me. And always give consideration to those times when no one else could have known except for you. That’s what often betrays a spy: when he spilled too many beans.”

“There’s something else as well. A girl. I’m hoping to get married next summer. She’s from my hometown, St. Petersburg. Our families have been friends for years. She’s twenty-four years old and very beautiful.”

Rani smiled. “What’s her name, Nikki?”

“Anna. Anna Melnikov. She’s a musician, a violinist, with the Kirov Ballet and Opera.”

“In St. Petersburg?”

“Yes, the Marinsky Theatre is home to the Kirov.”

“I think you are a very lucky man . . . but I have to ask, does she know about this? And your views about the present Russian government?”

“No. And if anything should happen to me, she must never know why. Her family would never get over the disgrace.”

“And yours?”

“The Chirkovs are rebels. My father agrees with everything we are doing. He thinks Markova should face a firing squad.”

 

It was cold now, overcast, and growing dark. Across the parking lot, the sallow-looking man in the black leather jacket was still astride his dark-red Ural Wolf motorbike, a 750-cc V-Twin Russian-made powerhouse. The handlebars were high, wide, and gleaming chrome, and the rakish-looking rider had the gear to match: studded leather trousers, cowboy belt from the US Midwest, and ex–East German border-patrol guard boots, black steer hide with a steel horseshoe running right around the heel.

Kurt Petrov had spent the past half hour taking photographs of the distant mountains. And now, with the light fading, he was still snapping, still staring into the distance. But only with one eye. The other was focused on the main entrance to the airport, the only way in and out of the passenger lounge.

At 6:45 p.m. he saw what he’d come for—the uniformed Russian Navy lieutenant commander Nikolai Chirkov exiting the building in company with a smartly dressed foreign visitor, about whom there was nothing remotely Russian, from the cut of his suit to his Burberry overcoat and leather briefcase.

He leaned down low in the saddle and aimed the long lens of the
camera straight at the two men, over the roof of the nearest car, firing off shots in quick succession.

Then they turned their backs, shook hands, and parted. It was all very swift. Kurt put down the camera and watched the Russian officer head for a black automobile and climb in. He took three more shots, then two more as the car pulled away, zooming in on the Russian license plates. He made no attempt to follow the car. No need. He knew precisely where it was going.

He then watched the foreigner, walking toward a waiting taxi. He kicked the Wolf 750 into life. He stowed the camera into the left-side holder behind the saddle and gave the cab a five-hundred-yard start before roaring out of the parking lot in effortless pursuit. He tracked it for several miles, all the way down to Vaskovo Airport, where the cab driver collected his fare and drove away.

Kurt Petrov parked and went immediately to the reception desk, where he showed his identifying badge and card. He was immediately escorted to a staff-only area with a straight view out to the private jet short-term parking area. And there, ten minutes later, he photographed Rani Ben Adan, in company with his pilot, making their way out to a waiting Learjet.

He never got a decent shot of either man’s face, but combined with the other set of pictures, taken at the other airport, he had most of what he needed. He also had a record of the tail numbers of the Learjet, and on his cell phone he requested details of the owners. The charter company was not relevant, but the organization that rented the aircraft was.

Kurt Petrov, field agent (FSB), worked for the one organization in Russia that answers only to the president. He now knew one impressive fact: that Learjet was currently chartered to the Israeli Embassy, Moscow. The passenger had signed in as a Mr. John Carter of Birmingham, England. The embassy was not at liberty to disclose any further details and indeed pleaded diplomatic immunity from so doing.

The Russian agent watched the aircraft take off and bank around to the south before he fired up the Wolf 750 and headed back to Severodvinsk. He wondered what the Russian Naval officer was doing in secret company with anyone from the detested Israeli Embassy.

Still, it was not the forty-nine-year-old FSB man’s job to find that out. He was a specialist in surveillance at the highest level, for Russia’s Federal Security Service, the counterespionage and border-protection force,
now reputed to have more power and freedom to act than the old KGB ever had.