Tsar (34 page)

“Quite true, Sir David. Now, these men,” Stefan said, flipping through slides of various Kremlin personalities, “are called the
siloviki.
The president’s hand-picked innermost circle. There used to be twelve, but two were recently eliminated for crossing the line. All are former military and KGB cronies of Rostov’s. They are like a brotherhood. A secret fraternity. They look the same, talk the same, think the same. And they now have unassailable control over the levers of power. They control the Duma, the parliament, all the governors and mayors throughout Russia, the legal system, the tax system, and, of course, the military and the KGB.”

“A one-party system?” Hawke asked.

“Exactly. Two-party politics is finished in Russia. The Kremlin now has unchecked power. They’ve got all the instruments at their disposal, and it is a very, very dangerous situation. Washington-Moscow nuclear tensions are at the highest levels seen since the end of the Cold War.”

“What’s Moscow’s current attitude toward the U.S.?” Brock asked, “I mean specifically.”

“Are you familiar with the Russian word
nashe
, Mr. Brock?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Roughly translated, it means ‘ours.’ As in ‘ours’ versus ‘yours,’ meaning American.
Nashe
is a buzzword in Moscow these days. Anything
nashe
, anything Russian, is good, anything American is bad. Music, politics, culture, what have you. It’s all about Russian pride reasserting itself.”

“So, negative feelings toward America.”

“Extremely negative. Within both the government and the general population. Everyone in Russia feels betrayed by America. The media is full of anti-American propaganda, of course. Day and night, because all media is state-run now.”

“What are they saying?” Hawke asked.

“That the Americans are stupid, greedy, and the cause of more instability around the world than any other nation. That they rubbed Russia’s nose in it at the end of the Cold War, but now Russia is strong and rich once more. And now the revanchists shall have their revenge.”

“Revenge?” Hawke asked. “Revenge for what?”

“For kicking their bloody arses in the Cold War, Alex. And then having the cheek never to let them forget who’s boss,” Stefan said.

“And do we have any idea how they intend to exact that revenge?” Hawke asked.

“No. Exactly what they intend, we’ve no idea. We’re hoping that Red Banner will help us find out.”

“The Pentagon doesn’t see them starting a shooting war,” Brock said. “They’re in no position to do that now. Someday soon, perhaps, but not now.”

“What about the so-called Third Man?” Hawke asked.

“Now you’re getting to it, Alex,” Stefan Halter said. “You’re referring to the three chaps Yeltsin met with at that Belarussian hunting resort. The vodka-fueled meeting where they unilaterally decided to abolish the Soviet Union. There was Kravchuk from the Ukraine and Shushkevich from Belarus. And a third man, as you say, who has never been identified.”

“But who has long been rumored as the power behind the throne,” C said. “A virtual Tsar who rules but is never seen or heard. A man who destroyed the old Soviet Union so that he might one day reign over the New Russia.”

Stefan Halter smiled at the group assembled. “He’s called the Dark Rider by the KGB.”

“Stefan,” C said, “perhaps a brief explanation of the Dark Rider concept would be helpful.”

“Certainly. Historically, two types of leaders rise to the pinnacle of power in Russia. In my country, we call these two types pale riders and dark riders. The pale rider is a benevolent soul, weak-willed, concerned more about the well-being of his countrymen than the welfare of the state. The last Tsar, Nicholas II, who forfeited his entire empire to the Bolsheviks in 1917, is a good example.

“A more recent example would be Yeltsin, a corrupt, good-hearted drunkard. A dark rider always comes on the heels of a pale rider. He is tough and single-minded, interested only in consolidating power and in the security of the state. The power of the state to enforce its will on the people is his raison d’être. He will sacrifice all, including personal ethics, honesty, and human lives, for the good of the state. Putin was a dark rider. But not quite dark enough for some. That’s why they got rid of him.”

“And Rostov?”

“So, too, is Rostov, a few shades darker. But rumored to drinking heavily lately and getting long in the tooth, I think. The natives are restless, from what I gather.”

“And the Third Man?”

“The darkest of the dark. It would save a great deal of time if I could tell you his identity. Unfortunately, I cannot. It’s the most closely held secret in the Kremlin.”

“Where do we start looking?” Hawke asked. “Russia is a sizable country.”

“My lack of an answer constitutes my single greatest failure as a counterintelligence agent, sir. I have no earthly idea. But I can tell you this. Rostov may be strong and tough, but he comes with strings attached. He is still a puppet. Perhaps one of the
siloviki
is pulling his strings. Or an outsider we know nothing about. But working in the Kremlin as I do, I sense a rising tide of anxiety inside the walls.

“Maybe the military has gained the upper hand and will attempt to seize power. Maybe there will be some preemptive Russian strike against the West. That revenge motive we discussed is very powerful right now. I simply do not know. But if you can learn the identity of the real power behind the throne, you will gain critical understanding of what is going on within the Kremlin walls. That knowledge is vital to Red Banner’s mission. Key to it, in fact.”

Hawke thought for a moment, then looked directly at Halter.

“Stefan, have you heard of a man named Korsakov? Count Ivan Korsakov?”

“Of course. Korsakov is one of the most interesting figures in modern Russia. Not so much beyond our borders, as he is a very private individual. An absolute genius, from an ancient family rich beyond measure. Beloved across the width and breadth of the country for his philanthropy, his kindnesses to the poor. But you won’t find his name on any schools or hospitals. Always anonymous.”

“What’s his background? Is he political?”

“Not at all. First and foremost, he’s a scientist and inventor. Recently nominated for a Nobel. But he’s a great businessman. A poet, a gifted composer as well. As I said, he’s a descendant of one of Russia’s oldest, most powerful families. The Korsakovs rose to the heights of power around the time of Peter the Great, who in 1722 made them barons and later counts. They conquered Siberia, for one thing, brought it under the control of the Tsars.”

“I see.”

“Why are you so curious about him, if I may ask?”

“His daughter, Anastasia, has recently become a friend of mine. She has invited me to visit their country estate outside St. Petersburg. I was thinking of going for a few days’ visit before my arrival in Moscow. I was wondering if it would be worth the time. Her father will apparently be there.”

“Alex, if you have the opportunity to meet and gain the confidence of Count Korsakov, you will have advanced the cause of Red Banner enormously. No one knows more about what really goes on inside Russia than that man. He is privy to the darkest secrets imaginable. He may even be able to lead you to the Dark Rider.”

C had lit one of his poisonous black cheroots. He inhaled, expelled a cloud of smoke, and said, “Just how close are you and the count’s daughter, Alex?”

“She’s invited me for some Christmas house party, that’s all. They have some kind of winter palace out in the countryside. Why?”

“Just curious. If you have a relationship with her, it could be very helpful to the cause.”

Hawke stared at his superior angrily but said nothing. C hadn’t put him in this position. He’d brought it on himself.

Pippa smiled at Alex. “She’s a painter, isn’t she? Anastasia, I mean.”

“Yes. She is.”

“I’ve seen her work at a small gallery over on Front Street. Male nudes. Some figure studies that looked vaguely familiar, Alex. Quite exciting. There was one large one that I almost thought could have been—”

Hawke’s eyes blazed.

“Pippa, may I speak with you privately for a moment?” Alex said. “Outside?”

“Of course,” she said, following him to the door.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” Hawke said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “I’ll be back momentarily.”

“Fucking hell, girl,” Hawke said to her when they were safely outside the sound-proofed room and away from the Marine guards. He had to restrain himself from slapping her face.

“What is it, Alex?” she asked, an innocent smile flitting across her face. “Have you fallen in love with this little Russian princess?”

“Damn it, Pippa.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, darling. You know I’d recognize your—I mean, you—anywhere.”

T
he president’s trim, blonde secretary, Betsey Hall, walked quickly down a short hallway to the small White House reception room, where the secretary of state and her security entourage had just arrived.

“Betsey, good morning!” Consuelo de los Reyes said, standing to embrace her good friend. The two single women often spent time in each other’s company. Dinner once a month at 1789, long one of Georgetown’s popular restaurants, and sometimes an evening of ballet viewed from the secretary’s private box at the Kennedy Center. They never talked politics. They talked men, and they were seldom complimentary.

“Madame Secretary, welcome,” Betsey said, shaking hands with her friend and smiling at the security team. “Good morning, everyone.”

“Is anyone else already in the Oval?” de los Reyes asked.

“Yes, but they were early. You’re right on time.”

“Who’s here? The vice president?”

“No, the McCloskeys are down in Miami. They’re taking that airship cruise to the Nobel ceremony in Stockholm. The president was invited, but his schedule didn’t allow it.”

“So, who do we have in there?”

“His crisis team. General Moore from the Joint Chiefs, CIA Director Kelly, FBI Director Mike Reiter, the new Director of National Intelligence, Simon Pinniger, and a couple of guests. Brits from MI-6.”

Consuelo’s eyes widened. “Alex Hawke is in there?”

“Sorry, no,” Betsey said, patting her friend’s shoulder. She knew how Consuelo felt about the dashing British spy. Their on-again, off-again affair had been rocky from the beginning. From the look on her friend’s face, Betsey knew nothing had changed. Off again.

“Who, then?” she asked.

“It’s Sir David Trulove and his new assistant station chief from Bermuda.”

“Bermuda? What’s his name?”

“It’s a she. Pippa Guinness.”

The secretary of state rolled her eyes and whispered in Betsey’s ear. “Bermuda. That’s where Alex Hawke is living now, damn Miss Guinness to hell.”

“I know, dear. Sorry.”

“How does the little bitch look these days?”

“Restless as an eel.”

The secretary laughed out loud. Then she straightened herself. “Oh, well. Nothing new, I suppose. He is who he is. What’s the weather like in there this morning?”

“We had a nasty nor’easter blow through here earlier this morning—Senator Kennedy—but now it’s all sunshine and roses in there. He’s in a great mood. Feisty.”

“He must not have seen the new polls this morning.”

“Of course he did. You know what he said?”

“Can’t even guess.”

“He said, ‘Well, I guess I’m never going to be popular, so by God, Betsey, I’ll just keep on being right.’”

The secretary laughed and headed toward the private entrance to the Oval Office. She was looking forward to her weekly meeting with the president. It was always informal, kept deliberately small, and anyone could bring up any topic they wished. And she was naturally curious about the crisis du jour.

President McAtee stood as the beautiful Cuban-American secretary swept through the door. The members of the president’s team all stood and extended their hands in greeting. Pippa also stood and smiled, but Consuelo pointedly ignored her.

“Conch, good to see you!” the president said. “Congratulations on your Mideast trip. I think we made a lot of progress.”

“I think we made as much progress as we can make with the Saudis and the Iranians, Mr. President. At least for the time being.”

When everyone was seated and the steward had served more tea and coffee, President Jack McAtee said, “Conch, I want to save your recent trip for last. We’re all looking forward to hearing your insights and points of view. But Brick is just back from a meeting in Estonia with our new ambassador there, Dave Philips, and picked up some insights into our Russian friends that I think we should discuss immediately. Brick?”

“Thanks, Mr. President,” the lanky, red-haired Virginian said in his slow drawl. He leaned back in his armchair and stretched out his long legs. The director was wearing, as always, beautifully polished cowboy boots with his navy suit.

“Based on my two days with Ambassador Philips, I’d say we’ve got trouble on the Russian front. Just a quick anecdote. Dave went to a reception at the French embassy in Tallinn with the Russian ambassador a week ago today. He’s become friendly with the guy, they’ve gone out drinking a few times. Anyway, the ancient Russian ambassador shows up in uniform. He was a general under Stalin. And he’s wearing his old uniform.”

“Odd,” the president said. “What’s that all about?”

“Dave asked him. He said all Russian ambassadors had received a directive from Rostov himself. From now on, they are to wear their military uniforms to all official state functions.”

“Speaks volumes,” General Moore said. “They are going to a war footing.”

“You believe that, Brick? War? With us?”

“It could all be posturing, you know, on the part of a resurgent Kremlin. Part of their new public relations campaign to climb back onto the world stage. They might be just sticking their toe in the waters of the Baltic. See what we’ll let them get away with.”

“What’s the military assessment, Charlie?”

General Moore handed each of them a thin blue folder marked “Most Secret.” Moore started speaking as the group began flipping through the folders.

“Here are the most recent satellite passes over Eastern Europe and the Baltic. And what you’ll see isn’t posturing, it’s Russian troops. Three divisions have massed along the Ukrainian border, here, here, and here. Another two divisions are poised here along the Estonian border. And most troubling of all, here you see five divisions moving into place at the Latvian and Belarus border. From our recent war gamers’ perspective, and from where those troops and tank corps are positioned, it’s a straight shot through Lithuania and back into Poland and the Czech Republic, where we’re deploying our antiballistic-missile batteries.”

Brick Kelly said, “Sir, you’ll remember that only recently, Rostov threatened to deploy cruise missiles in the tiny Russian enclave of Kaliningrad, if we go ahead with missile defense in his backyard.”

The president said, “Tell me again where Kaliningrad is, Brick? I swear I’m bad at geography. Always have been.”

Kelly got up and spun the globe. He stopped it at Eastern Europe. “It sits right there between Poland and Lithuania. One Kremlin ploy might be to say they were sending troops in to reinforce their threatened enclave. It’s all tap-dancing and saber rattling right now, but I don’t think we can afford not to take it very, very seriously, Mr. President.”

“Jesus,” the president said, loosening his tie. “Didn’t anyone see this coming?”

“It was a sudden movement, but clearly the planning for this operation has been under way for some time,” the CIA director said. “We should have caught something, but we didn’t. We’re playing catch-up ball in Moscow, Mr. President. It’s going to take a while before we can get our field-agent network back up to where we were during the Cold War.”

“Britain’s doing the same thing, Mr. President,” Sir David Trulove said. “As you well know, we’ve recently joined forces with Langley to create something called Red Banner. A secret division to deal with the resurgent Soviet—excuse me, Dr. Freud, I meant Russian threat. Based in Bermuda and headed up by Alex Hawke, whom I’m sure you remember.”

“How is Alex bearing up, Sir David? He was quite ill for a while, I know.”

“Well and good, sir. Living the good life in Bermuda these days until I darkened his door.”

“Yanked him out of early retirement, did you?”

“I keep him busy.”

“Give him my regards, will you?”

“I’ll do that, sir. Thank you.”

At that moment, Betsey Hall entered the Oval through her private door. Her expression was grim, and she went immediately to the president, bent from the waist, and whispered something into his ear. McAtee listened intently, nodded his head, and got to his feet.

“I need to take this call,” he said. “Urgent. No need to leave, sit tight. Please excuse me for a minute.”

McAtee walked behind the historic
Resolute
desk. In 1850, the British HMS
Resolute
had gotten lodged in Arctic ice and was long abandoned before being discovered adrift by an American fishing vessel that towed her to port. Congress purchased the vessel, refitted her, and presented her to Queen Victoria as a token of peace.
Resolute
served in the Royal Navy for twenty-three years. After decommissioning, Queen Victoria ordered two identical desks built from her timbers, presenting one to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880 and placing the twin in Buckingham Palace, where it stands today.

McAtee sat at the historic desk, flanked by the two flags, and picked up the receiver on the phone that was blinking.

“This is the president,” he said.

He listened impassively, his expression giving little away to anyone in the room who glanced his way. A few minutes later, he said, “Thank you very much. You’ll be hearing from me shortly.”

He stood and crossed the room, returning to his favorite chair by the fire. He sighed deeply and leaned his head back against the cushion of the chair. No one knew quite what to say, and a lengthy silence ensued.

“That was the governor of Kansas,” McAtee said. “Along with Bill Thomas at NSA. Last night, the mayor of Salina, someone I knew personally, was murdered in bed, along with her husband and two children. There are no suspects, and Monie Bailey didn’t have an enemy in this world. It was the work of terrorists. The husband was shot dead, the other three were gassed.”

“Gassed?” Mike Reiter said as he leaned forward. “Terrorists? In Kansas? Good Lord. Will you excuse me, Mr. President? I need to make a few phone calls.” McAtee nodded, and Reiter quickly left.

“A cell phone was left on Monie’s body. There was a message on it. It came from a member of a group calling itself the Arm of God.

NSA has already traced the call. It came from another cell. The caller was in an apartment complex in a suburb west of Tehran when the call was made. We have assets on the way to that building now.”

“Unbelievable,” General Moore said.

“It gets worse,” Jack McAtee said.

“Sorry. Go ahead, Mr. President.”

“The caller, whose voice was electronically altered, said that at precisely six o’clock Tuesday morning, Central Standard Time, that’s tomorrow morning, the town of Salina, Kansas, will no longer exist. He said evacuation of the entire population should begin immediately. Then he ‘allahued Akhbar’ three times and hung up.”

The room sat in stunned silence.

“Salina, Kansas,” Moore said. “Why? It doesn’t make any sense. There’s nothing there.”

“Except churches and schools and families with little girls and boys,” McAtee said, his expression blank.

Brick Kelly stared at the still-spinning globe. He stuck out a finger and stopped it, found Salina on the map of the U.S., and said, “This is interesting. Salina is in the absolute dead center of the country. Look. Right square in the middle of the north-south axis and the east-west axis.”

“A shot to the heart?” General Moore said. “Some kind of warning shot to the heart of America?”

“Maybe,” the president mused. He’d been thinking along the same lines.

“What does NSA think, Mr. President?” Sir David asked. “Is this threat at all credible?”

McAtee nodded gravely. “Very credible. They say I should authorize immediate evacuation. This radical group, this so-called Arm of God, has a blood-soaked history. They’re a Soviet-sponsored terror network headquartered in Iran. Lately, they’ve been training foreign fighters to infiltrate Iraq and Afghanistan with ever more sophisticated IEDs. And they’re the ones currently negotiating with the Russians on the purchase of new shoulder-fired missiles to bring our Ah-64 Apache choppers down.”

“The Russians. Why do they keep coming up?” Consuelo de los Reyes said, to no one in particular.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to call the governor,” Mc Atee said. “I’ll have to cancel the remainder of this meeting, I’m afraid. There are forty-two thousand souls in that town whose lives are at stake. I want to thank you all for coming and we’ll regroup soon, I promise. I’ll keep you abreast of this situation as it develops. Betsey will call your offices with a time to reconvene.”

The president stood, and so did everyone else. As they were filing out, he stopped Sir David and said quietly, “Could you stick around another minute or so?”

“Certainly, sir.”

When the room had cleared, McAtee said, “I want you to promise me something, David, all right?”

“Anything.”

“This man of yours. Hawke. He’s heading up that new division for you. What’s it called again?”

“Red Banner.”

“Right. I trust Alex Hawke. Completely. A couple of years ago, he single-handedly saved my life up on the inaugural platform. Not only mine but my wife’s and everybody in the damn government, most likely. We’ve got nobody like him, David, nobody who operates at his level. I want Hawke inside Russia. Tonight, if possible. If anyone can figure out what the hell these mad Russians are up to, it’s him. Quote me. Tell him I said that. And tell him there’s not a second to lose.”