Ghosts of War (3 page)

T
he sun was still above the horizon, fighting to remain, but had started its inexorable dip, the Black Sea below the helicopter reflecting its light, lending a spectacular flare of orange and red hues to the imposing grandeur of the palace perched on the cliff above it.

The helicopter went feet dry and swept inland, directly over the top of what could only be described as a work of architectural excess. A massive, ostentatious structure of granite and stone that sprawled over 160 acres, from the air it looked like something created from the botched memories of Marie Antoinette and the Mad Hatter. Or from a man who was fervently attempting to reconstruct the power of tsars of old. Springing out of the thick woods on the Russian coast, the building had an opulence that reflected an earlier time, when money and influence were meant to be displayed.

The AugustaWestland AW139 crested the eastern facade, flew over the top of a courtyard large enough to host the World Cup, then zeroed in on four helipads five hundred meters away.

Sitting in his leather seat, the chill fading from the untouched glass of vodka in his hand, Simon Migunov took one look at the mansion and realized whom they were going to meet.

He had never been to the Black Sea Estate, but of course he'd heard about it. Everyone in Russia had, but only a select few were allowed to actually visit, and for good reason: It was where any decisions were made that fell outside of the official records of Russian history. Which was a misleading distinction, as the true history of modern Russia was precisely decided here, outside of any official organ, at a place
that not even the Russian press would admit existed, even though it could be seen from satellites as clearly as the Great Wall of China.

Any sordid event that threatened to sully the rarefied air of the State Duma was discussed and decided here, under the canopy of a mansion that itself had been built using pilfered and hidden funds from the state. The stone construct, in fact, was the perfect embodiment of modern Russia.

The thought was unsettling to Simon, as were the two security men at the back of the helicopter, looking bored even as their jackets bulged with potential death.

Simon glanced at his . . . boss? peer? friend? and nodded at the courtyard below. Viktor Markelov smiled and said, “I told you it was important.”

“You said nothing of the sort. You said we were negotiating natural gas extensions with the Baltic states.”

Viktor flashed yellow teeth, then downed yet another shot of vodka. He said, “The Baltic states are on the menu, but their representatives won't be here. They aren't necessary for this conversation.”

Victor Markelov was the vice president of external business development for a Russian conglomerate called Gazprom, the largest oil company on Earth. Which, while impressive, didn't really do the organization justice. It was actually the largest company, oil or otherwise, on the planet. A quasi-state-run entity, it controlled the massive amount of natural gas flowing out of Russia and, in so doing, was a hammer used in Russian foreign policy.

To put it bluntly, Gazprom was a weapon. An enormous beast that couldn't really be compared to any other corporation on Earth, unless one turned to fiction, where it looked more like something James Bond would fight, with Blofeld at the helm.

Part profit-driven corporation, part state-run politics, part mafia-controlled interests, its whole was something that couldn't be adequately described. But, Simon knew, it could certainly be leveraged.

Simon represented the seedier mafia side. Viktor was on the corporate side—the money side. Noticeably absent in the posh helicopter was anything resembling the state.

That, Simon concluded, resided in the mansion by the sea.

The helicopter settled onto the second pad to the left, the others empty, the only thing visible a small caravan of black Mercedes. The chosen vehicle of the elite.

As the engines wound down, Simon said, “Have you been here before?”

“No. This is my first time.”

Simon flicked his head to the rear, toward the armed men, and said, “We must be careful. This meeting may be about more than gas.”

Simon's tendency toward such vigilance was born from direct experience. A Russian Jew, when the Soviet Union disintegrated he had been barely cresting twenty years old, scraping a living out of petty crime on the streets, but with a wily intelligence and a knack for survival.

The wall fell, and Simon had plied his trade in the chaotic free fall of the Soviet state, becoming a powerhouse working for an oligarch, using whatever levers he could to crush anyone who opposed him. Eventually, he had become the powerful head of an ever-expanding organized crime syndicate, working hand in glove with the new “democracy” of the Russian Federation. Then, as if on a whim, he'd been arrested by those same men. He'd spent a hellish year in a Moscow prison when his agenda no longer fit the desires of the state. Twelve months later, with no reason given, he'd been released.

He'd learned much during that time, the most important thing being that the state was fickle and could turn from provider to punisher at any moment. He was now back on top with Gazprom, doing enough underhanded business to end up on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list, but he understood his entire life was lived on a brittle shelf of ice. The man they were to meet inside the mansion had almost
had Simon executed once, and Simon felt an irrational terror that he had voluntarily given himself over for a second attempt.

Viktor smiled at the concern on Simon's face and said, “We have nothing to fear. I told you this would be a surprise. We are about to step into history. We were invited here because of what we have done with Gazprom. You for your inroads into the true power of the states, and me for my official expansion. We'll seize the day. Seize what is offered tonight.”

Simon glanced again to the rear, where the security men were, and said, “Careful what you seek, Viktor. I have seen what catching the tiger brings.”

Viktor slapped his leg and said, “Nobody cares about your prison time. That was the old days. When the oligarchs ruled Russia. This is a new age, where we rule. Gazprom is the single biggest weapon Russia has. We execute using our power.
Our
power. Not Russia's.”

Simon was amazed that Viktor actually thought his position brought him leverage. But, then again, he'd been burned once by the same hubris.

Viktor unbuckled his seat belt, and the three nameless aides to his left did the same. Simon sat for a moment, reflecting, letting them exit first.

In his youth, he'd worked as a dealer in an unauthorized poker den, carving a living out of the concrete and steel of a new Moscow and hiding his Jewish past. The men in the games would just as soon cut your throat as look at you, and he'd learned something significant from the manager who'd allowed him to deal the cards: If you couldn't recognize the sucker at the table, more than likely it was you.

He exited the aircraft behind Viktor's entourage and in front of the security men, taking a seat in a Mercedes limo next to a guy with a bulging neck wearing a suit that didn't quite fit.

After a short drive, they pulled into the courtyard they'd flown over and entered the fantasyland that was modern Russia—if one
were in a position to appreciate it. They walked through two gigantic wooden doors into an atrium that looked like a caricature of opulence, something from a Hollywood movie set, as if someone were trying too hard to show off their wealth. The only thing missing was a naked woman and a midget giraffe from a vodka commercial.

They climbed a granite stairwell wide enough for two cars to drive up abreast, the
clack
of their heels the only noise bouncing in the hall. Simon's trepidation increased with each step.

They reached the top and entered a hall with a dining table the size of the landing deck of an aircraft carrier, the far end set for six.

The security men motioned for them to sit, then retreated to the walls behind them. They did so, staring uncomfortably, no words spoken.

After a brief interlude, another entourage entered, four men striding as if they were late for a meeting, breaking the plane of the room with a purpose. Behind them was the man. The president of Russia, Vladimir Putin.

It was only the second time Simon had met him, and the first hadn't ended very well.

A
t Putin's entrance, the only thought that stabbed through Simon's brain was,
This is it. I'm dead.
He had no reason to think that, other than the memories of a year in a Moscow prison at the whims of a man who did whatever he wanted with the lives under his control. But it was enough.

While Simon and the others from the helicopter tried to compete for who could jump to attention the fastest, the men of the president's party stopped at an unoccupied chair like a rehearsed parade, the president at the head of the table. He took a slow look around the room, then said, “Thank you for coming here with such little notice.”

Viktor said, “By all means, Mr. President. We serve at your pleasure.”

Viktor glanced at Simon with a smile on his face. Simon wanted to smash it off. He now understood who the sucker was at this meeting, but he had no idea why he'd been chosen. He'd learned his lesson. Learned not to cross the path of the Russian government. Or he thought he had.

What had he done? He had several operations in play that could have drawn unwanted attention, but each would have taken no more than a whispered word and he would have quit. Stopped completely. What had he done to draw the ire of the president of Russia?

The president said, “I'm glad you feel that way. Tonight, we will do a lesson in trust. Something I have found valuable. A way to learn that no matter what we do individually, we do so as part of a greater system. Yes?”

Simon nodded weakly. Viktor said, “Yes, yes. By all means.”

Putin said, “But first, a toast.”

As if by magic, a man appeared with a bottle of vodka, poured a shot for each man, then set the bottle on the table.

Putin raised his glass and said, “We live in a complicated world, do we not? And yet sometimes we make it more complicated than it needs to be. A bear in the woods does not hesitate, searching for a decision. He either attacks or runs. Simple. So let us become like the bear. To simplicity in all things.”

Simon raised his glass and said, “To simplicity,” then downed the vodka in one gulp, wondering what hidden meaning was within the toast. No sooner had he set his glass on the table than the waiter began filling it again. A Russian tradition.

When the waiter had completed his rounds, Putin raised his glass again and said, “But the bear fights alone, and we do not. The wolf is a better analogy. When they attack, they do so because they can trust the member to their left and right. Trust that they will do what is right for the pack. We do the same, do we not?” He glanced around the room and said, “To trust.”

They downed their second glass and the security men came forward, each carrying plastic zip ties.

Putin said, “Trust is the cornerstone of our existence. Without it, Russia would have been lost long ago. I need you to trust in this test.”

The security men began cinching Simon's wrists to the wooden arms of the ornate dinner chair. Simon offered no resistance, noticing they took care to place the ties over the cuffs of his jacket. When they were done, the security men stepped back again. Simon saw that everyone from the helicopter was cinched like him.

President Putin spoke again. “I trust you men to work for the interests of the Russian Federation. I give you that trust.”

Simon felt sweat gather underneath his arms. He glanced at Viktor and saw the man grinning stupidly.

Putin continued. “I see that Ukraine has stated that they will no
longer buy natural gas from Gazprom. That unless we lower our prices, they will turn to the European Union for their energy needs. And now Lithuania and Estonia are rumbling the same way.”

Viktor flexed his hands and said, “Sir, they always say that. They have no choice but to use us. Nobody in the EU can compete with us.”

“They had no choice before, but they have been diligently working on a gas line. Something you failed to stop. Something I trusted you to stop. Even Belarus is talking to the West now.”

For the first time, Simon saw Viktor react, realizing he had skin in the game. He said, “Sir, yes, they are trying to wean themselves, but they cannot. We own all their energy needs. If we were to turn off the gas, they would freeze. Belarus would go bankrupt without our help, and they know it.” He glanced around the room for support, finding none. His voice cracking, he said, “Sir, we rule them with Gazprom. We rule them. . . .”

The president walked around the table, tapping the wood and saying, “Yes. Today, that is true. But tomorrow is a different story. Because of you. Isn't that correct, Simon?”

Simon jerked upright at his name, unsure of what to say. His role in Gazprom ended at feeding the organized crime beast. He had no control over who or what did anything on the world energy markets. But he also knew his life hung in the balance.

He said, “Sir . . . perhaps you are correct.”

Viktor's eyes flew open, looking at Simon in shock. And Simon saw the cards in his hand for the first time, realizing he was not the sucker in the room.

Putin said, “I know I am.”

The security men sprang forward, slapping a swath of clear plastic cling-wrap over the face of each Gazprom executive and pulling their heads backward, the plastic covering the mouths and noses of the men. Everyone except Simon. They wrapped the heads until each man was shrouded like a modern-day mummy.

Simon sat still, watching the men writhe and fight, their hands locked to the chairs. Putin said, “It's a shame, really. So many Gazprom men having a heart attack at the same time. Or perhaps it will be a leak of carbon monoxide in a hotel. Either way, there will be repercussions. Investigations of Gazprom chemical uses.”

And Simon realized why they'd used the flex cuffs over the suit sleeves. No bruising.

Simon sat in a surreal silence, surrounded by the opulence of gold and granite, watching the men to his left and right die horribly, while the president of Russia clinically studied the suffocation. Eventually, the men ceased moving. At a simple flick of Putin's wrist, the security men began dragging them away. His hands still locked to his chair, Simon waited.

Putin said, “Simplicity, as I said before. Firing them or arresting them on charges would have left them licking their wounds, looking to return the favor in the future. Do you agree?”

Simon caught the trap before he spoke. If he said yes, he was agreeing to his own death because he had been spared once before. If he said no, he was doing the same thing.

Putin didn't wait for an answer. He asked, “Do you believe in Russia?”

“Of course I do. I have proven that over and over again.”

“I know. You have been placed in prison for crossing me. Incorrectly, as it turned out. I regret that. Do you harbor any ill will because of it?”

Simon had no illusions of what had happened to him. He had been doing the bidding of the state, and when his actions had been deemed a risk—because of the man in front of him—he had been hammered. The Russian system wasn't built on guilt or innocence, but on who was more powerful. But he was not stupid enough to say that now, with his hands locked to a chair and four of the most powerful people in Russia now dead.

He said, “Of course not, sir. On the contrary, I appreciate the state realizing I was innocent.”

Putin picked up a butter knife from the table and played with it, saying, “You know it was I who released you.”

“Yes. Of course I do.”

Putin pointed the knife at the retreating corpses and said, “You understand why I did that? Understand the threat they represented?”

Unsure of what to say, Simon retreated. “If you thought it was necessary, I'm sure it was.”

Putin said, “I mentioned the wolf because I respect its dedication. Respect its loyalty to the pack. Do you?”

Sweat building, Simon, unsure of what turn the conversation had taken, said, “Yes. Of course.”

“Do you know the Night Wolves?”

The biker gang? What do they have to do with anything?
He didn't voice that, instead simply saying, “Yes, I do. I have business with them on a frequent basis. They are what is pure with our own society.”

Putin said, “We live in dangerous times. NATO is encroaching on our terrain every day. They cause one after the other of our former allies to join them. They fight us in Syria and prepare secretly for the demise of the Russian Federation here in Europe. You heard me mention Belarus. Have you any contacts there?”

Simon fought to keep up with the turns of the conversation. “Yes. Naturally, I have some elements there, but not in the government.”

Putin smiled and said, “The government is precisely my concern. The people of Belarus are a part of Russia, and yet the government continually makes overtures to the West. The Baltic states are letting NATO put military capability on our doorstep, and Belarus prevents us from building our own bases, despite the wishes of the people. The people are Russian. A part of mother Russia just like Crimea, yet the government of Belarus denounced our intervention into that area. They are vacillating cowards.”

Simon was growing more and more confused by the discussion. He had nothing at all to do with the geopolitics of the Russian Federation. He knew, of course, of the discussions of a union between Belarus and Russia—an ongoing struggle to join the two entities into one that had been executed in fits and starts since the demise of the old Soviet Union—but he certainly didn't understand the intricacies.

Putin leaned across the table, and Simon felt the full force of his commitment. “I cannot let Belarus fall into the hands of the West. They agree to treaties with us, then break them. Agree to cooperative engagement with an outstretched hand, then clench the hand into a fist, spurning us. We can no longer wait for their government to do what is right. Now is the time to strike. NATO and the United States are stretched thin by Syria and the rest of the Middle East. China is testing them in the Pacific, and ISIS threatens them at home. They have no tolerance for further foreign entanglements, especially with a country such as Belarus. In Ukraine, I saw what they would do given the chance, and the answer is, very little. Like in Crimea, the people of Belarus will welcome us. All I need is a reason to go in.”

Simon nodded, finally realizing where the conversation was headed.

Putin said, “You, dear Simon, will give me that reason. Just as you did once before.”