The Oracle Code (16 page)

27

Russian Army FOB (Forward Operating Base)

Command Center

Moscow, Russian Federation

February 15, 2013

Cherkshan stood in front of the map with the projected troop movements of the invasion force he was sending into the Ukraine tomorrow. If all went well, and he expected that it would, the Russian army would occupy a strategic position inside Krasnodon, one of the major cities in the Luhansk Oblast across the Ukrainian border. From there, they would move steadily across the country to take Kiev over the next few days.

He expected to have no more trouble taking Ukraine than the Americans had in taking Iraq either time they had invaded that country. What would be interesting to see would be the reaction from the rest of the world.

The general’s stomach churned as he looked at the map and the magnetic markers that represented the T-90 main battle tanks and armored divisions he was going to use to invade the Ukraine. No matter how easy the task ended up being, he was sending young men out to die. He had seen many of them killed in the unrest in Chechnya. It stuck with a man, especially a commander.

For months, the Russian army had been running maneuvers in the area just across the Ukrainian border. Enough so that the Ukrainian military border surveillance teams had grown lax in their observation. They hadn’t noticed that the Russian tanks they saw every day were different tanks, not the same ones they had seen before. The buildup of cavalry units had taken months as well.

There, in the nearby forests, the Russian army had built up units hidden beneath camouflaged netting. Planes had likewise been brought in to nearby military airfields and would be deployed to fly close-in support for the ground units and the army.

Everything was prepared.

In the morning, the Ukraine—and the rest of the world—would be greatly surprised, and people would die. But if Cherkshan had done his job properly, not as many people would die.

The trick was to achieve an early psychological victory by sending a mass of heavy armor in and supporting it with air strike teams to keep the Ukrainian people from being foolish. They had to be shown that resistance was futile, or they would get bloody.

Cherkshan intended to cut the number of losses, and he was depending on the people within the Ukraine who wanted a true leader and a true direction again. Nevsky hadn’t had to sell him on that part of the sales pitch. Cherkshan knew there were dissatisfied people in the Ukraine as well. Their own government had robbed them blind, left them nearly destitute. All he had to do was provide a reason for them to help bring their country back into the Russian fold.

It will happen. First the Ukraine will fall. Then we go after Greece.

Cherkshan’s phone rang. He took it from his pocket, expecting it to be Nevsky wanting to discuss some almost-forgotten detail of the campaign. Instead, it was Katrina, his wife.

“Hello. How are you, my dear?”

“I am well. I am wishing you were home instead of staying wherever it is you’re staying. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“Our daughter called.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.”

Cherkshan was slightly troubled by the announcement. He would have liked to have heard Anna’s voice for himself. When she’d hung up on him yesterday, he had spent hours worrying over her till she contacted her mother. He’d continued watching the news of the terrorist attack on the Afghanistan dig site. It was the first time Anna had ever been in such dangerous circumstances.

But that silence and refusal to communicate was the way it was between them. The incredible void between them refused to be crossed. He looked at the map again.

I can take the Ukraine in a matter of hours, but I have lost the ability to speak to my daughter.

“Where is she, Katrina?”

“In Kandahar.” His wife took a deep breath and let it out. “This distresses me, Anton. I have seen that city in the news. It is a very dangerous place.”

“Is she there alone?”

“No, she is with the American. Lourds.”

Cherkshan wondered if his wife remained so enamored of the American archeologist now. But he didn’t ask her that, as it would only distress her further.

“I have asked her to come home. She tells me that the situation over there is very dangerous and that she cannot. She is in hiding.”

Cherkshan paled when he heard that, and his thoughts immediately went to trying to find a way to protect his daughter and get her home. If he were able. The FSB had agents in many places, and Afghanistan was a hotbed of activity with the Taliban, the Americans, and the British. Much could be learned from observing everyone over there.

“I will talk to her, Katrina.”

“Do not be forceful with her, husband. She has her pride. If you try to take that from her, she will only reject...whatever help you try to provide.”

Cherkshan knew that his wife was going to say “reject you” but had decided at the last minute not to go that way. She was attempting to either save his feelings or not to ignite his fuse. He wasn’t sure.

“I will talk to her, and I will keep in mind what you have said.”

“Thank you. Please let me know what she says and if you are able to help.”

“I will.”

“Have you been reading her stories? The ones from the archeological dig?”

“I have not had time to pick up copies of the paper.”

“You should read them. They are very good. If it were not our daughter caught in the middle of whatever is going on over there, it would be very exciting.”

Cherkshan looked at the map on the wall and realized that his wife didn’t know what true excitement lay ahead.

“When you have time, I have sent the stories to you by e-mail. You should read them. You should know what our daughter is doing. I think you would be very proud.”

“I will make time.”

“Good. Now call our daughter and see if you can arrange to get her home. Safely.”

“I will, if she is willing.”

“Thank you.”

Cherkshan told his wife that he loved her, then he hung up the phone. He went to the desk that was not his own and sat there feeling out of place.

Then he went to his phone’s address book and selected his daughter’s number.

28

Safe House

Kandahar

Kandahar Province

Afghanistan

February 15, 2013

Showered and feeling refreshed, dressed in slacks and a nice blouse that one of Captain Fitrat’s men had procured, Anna stood at the window of the room she’d been given and looked out at the snow-covered alley. There was not much of a view.

You are safe here
, she told herself.
At the dig, you were in danger. In Herat, you were in danger. On the road, you were in danger. Here you are protected.

She thought of Captain Fitrat and his men, so able, so methodical. In some ways, the ANA captain reminded Anna of her father. He was very stern, very complete, and very watchful. But he was also polite and respectful.

Her father had always insisted on telling her what to do, how to behave, and, sometimes, what to think. Growing up in her father’s house hadn’t been insufferable. She loved him for the things he did that were not tied so closely to his job or to his sense of Russian patriotism. When he was just her father, that was when she loved him most.

Since the Taliban attack at the dig site, she had thought of her father a lot. She remained convinced that if she were battling for her life, he’d be there to fight alongside her. He would never let any harm come to her.

If he were able to stop it.

That was the problem though.

Retreating from the window, she went back to the small desk in the corner. Her laptop screen showed the current story of her flight across Afghanistan with Lourds while being pursued by their mysterious attackers.

She’d had to be judicious in her narrative. She hadn’t been able to mention the scrolls or where they currently were, but she had written about Boris Glukov’s murder at the hands of a man whom she suspected might be a Russian agent.

Although she had no concrete proof of the man’s identity, she felt compelled to make that assumption public. The man—Yakov, or whomever he truly turned out to be—moved and acted like many of the men her father surrounded himself with. They were capable, dangerous men with cold hearts and dead eyes, even though they could smile at a moment’s notice.

As a girl, she had often seen her father among such men. She had been impressed to see how he instantly commanded respect and obedience from those men that she instinctively knew were warriors. Her father had told her nothing of what he had seen or gone through. That was what he was like. Very close-mouthed about those things. When Anna had asked her mother about them, if that was what made her father so stubborn and narrow-minded, her mother had admitted that the general had never told her anything of those times either.

But her mother did mention her father’s nightmares and that sometimes he called out to dead men in his sleep.

Her brother, Rodion, however, had sometimes told her stories of her father’s experiences fighting the Chechen rebels. He filled Anna’s head with the images of the war her father had waged. He’d researched the military efforts in Chechnya and brought back copies of newspaper stories and pictures. Those stories, the way they had laid out the struggles between the Chechen and Russian peoples against the Islamic International Brigade, had deeply affected her.

For the first time, she’d understood the power of the written word. Those stories had allowed her to step into her father’s world and get a better understanding of why he was distant and aloof at times. She had a deeper insight into why he lived his life in such a regimented and organized way and why he’d demanded that others around him do the same thing.

Her father had lived a hard life and seen many horrible things. She had learned that. So she had taken up writing, trying to put into words her own feelings about the Russian war on the Chechen rebels and what she saw in her father.

At seventeen years old, she had gotten a story published in
The Moscow Times
. It had been the culmination of her perception of her father and of the ongoing struggle in Chechnya. It had almost won a prize and had become the basis of the relationship she currently had with the Russian newspaper.

The general had not approved of the story, and he had made his displeasure known. He said that the story made Russians everywhere appear weak, that it made him appear weak.

Anna had been crushed. She had wanted the world to understand the sacrifices her father was making.

If she had to point at any one thing that had fractured her relationship with her father, Anna knew that story would be the one. She had continued to occasionally write for the paper, though she only had a few pieces published afterward, because she had been young and there had been so much she hadn’t known. She only understood later that her first story had been published mostly because she was the daughter of a much-decorated general.

That had driven her to the United States, to the Columbia School of Journalism, where she hoped to further hone her skills and become a success. She had been driven to show her father that she could succeed on her own.

Now, though, she just had stories to tell, and she hoped to help people embrace the idea of a new Russia, one with more freedoms and bravery and more prominence in today’s world. Her father, she realized, wanted the old Russia, the one that he had grown up with, back.

Thinking about such things only made her sad. She supposed the melancholy was brought on by Boris Glukov’s death. Or perhaps it was how close she had come to her own.

Mortality was a fierce thing to face.

Her phone rang, startling her. She crossed to the desk and picked it up. The general’s face showed in the viewscreen. She hesitated just a moment before answering the call. She had already talked to her mother. Her mother knew she was all right, and her mother would pass the information along.

Was the call about concern or control? Anna knew this would be a toss-up. She didn’t know if she was prepared to deal with either. There was too much guilt with one and too much frustration with the other.

Then she thought of Yakov’s picture and the fact that none of her contacts had so far been able to identify the man. However, there still remained a few, and one of them was a military officer she had known for several years.

Lieutenant Emil Basayev wasn’t just one of her father’s officers. He was also one of her friends. And he worked in the intelligence division of the Ministry of Defense. Perhaps he could identify the man.

But that would mean that Yakov truly was Russian. She also hoped that the man was something else. An American CIA agent would not be so bad. Americans made good villains these days, with their heavy-handed approach to national politics, in the views of many.

But her father might also know who Yakov was. She had not asked for any favors in a long time.

She answered the phone. “Hello, Father.”

“Hello, Anna. I hear you are well.”

“I am, thankfully.”

“Your mother tells me you have had close calls that have not yet been reported on the television news or in your own news stories.”

Anna paced the floor, suddenly filled with nervous energy. “Yes. Several close calls.”

“You are still traveling with the American?”

“Professor Lourds. Yes. I have found him to be a brave man. He has saved my life during this endeavor. And his friends saved us today when we were pursued.”

The general was silent for a moment. “Someone is pursuing you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I have seen him with my own eyes.” Anna caught herself, feeling excited and guilty at the same time as she prepared to put out the bait for her father. She had done this kind of manipulation many times while pursuing a story. “I have even taken a picture of the man.”

“You must have been very close to him.” Her father did sound worried in that moment.

Anna clamped down on the guilt she felt. She couldn’t afford that emotion if she was going to be successful. “I took the picture of him before he murdered Boris Glukov. At the time, I did not know the man was bad.”

“Your mother is very worried about you.” Her father hesitated. “I am very concerned about you too.”

“Well, I thank you for your concern.” Anna started pacing again, suddenly angry with her father for not taking the bait. Then she sighed inwardly as she realized if anyone had ever been subjected to manipulation on a regular basis, it would be a Russian general. He was far more experienced than anyone she’d dealt with before. She felt foolish now for having tried in the first place.

“Your mother–and I–would like for you to come home. I can arrange safe passage from Afghanistan to Moscow for you.”

“Thank you, but no. My work is here.”

The general growled. “What story has the paper assigned you to? Surely there is nothing more to be gained by staying in Afghanistan. The dig was attacked by the Taliban. Several people died. You have written that story.”

“That story, yes, but not all the stories that are to come.” Anna strove to bottle her anger. Getting into a shouting match with him, as she so often had in the past, would do no good and would only leave her exhausted and stressed. “Boris Glukov was murdered.”

“According to the American professor.”

“It happened.”

“Anna, did you see it happen?”

He had her there and she knew it. She also resented it. Her editor at
The Moscow Times
had challenged her with the exact same question. “No.”

“Then Lourds may have been mistaken.”

“It’s hard to mistake seeing a friend get shot to death in front of you, don’t you think?”

Her father sighed. He sounded more tired than she had ever heard him. He was getting older, and that worried her, especially given the constant stress of his job and the politics surrounding it.

“Perhaps the American professor had his own reasons for telling this story.”

“Why would he do that?” Anna felt protective of Lourds. He was a good man. She liked that he was carrying around the engagement ring for his lover and that he wasn’t sure when he could ask her to marry him with everything else going on.

“The man seeks attention, Anna. His career depends on it.”

“No. He is not that kind of man. I know that much.”

“Just from meeting him yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Really, Father? How many men have you met who have risked their lives the very first time you met them to save someone else? How many men have you met who, on the very first day, have risked their lives to save yours?”

“Several.”

She realized then that had been the wrong question to ask. His job focused on men ready to lay down their lives. Her father had risked laying down his life for others more than once. Rodion had shown her the news stories.

She clung to her stubbornness because it was her only shield—and her only weapon. “Well, I have not. Thomas Lourds risked his life to protect me, and I am not going to desert him as long as I think I can help him.”

Her father was quiet for a moment. “So...am I to tell your mother that you are not coming home?”

“I have already told her that.”

“All right. But if you get into trouble that you see is over your head and beyond your ability to deal with, please let me know. If it is within my power, I will help you.”

Anna knew she had to give him something. He was her father. “I will. You have my promise.”

“Thank you.” He seemed a little more at ease. “This man that is pursuing you, Anna, you said you have a picture?”

“I do.”

“Send it to me, please. I will see what I can do to learn his name. Perhaps it will help you and Professor Lourds.”

“All right. Do you want me to send it to your personal e-mail?”

“No. Let me send an e-mail to you. Attach it to that one and send it back.”

Anna understood then. Her father—the general—was always watched.

“This is not to hide my involvement with you, Anna. Anyone who knows me knows I would do anything in my power to protect you.”

“I know.” Hot tears brushed at the back of her eyes, and her chin quivered a little.

“However, I want to keep our business private. You understand?”

“Yes. And thank you.”

“I only hope I can help.” He told her goodbye and that he loved her, then he hung up.

For a moment longer, Anna looked at the picture of her father on the cell phone. Then she wiped the tears from her face, not knowing why they were there, and turned her attention back to her computer.