Flynn studied it closely. It showed a bullnecked man in Russian military uniform with the twin red stripes and gold star of a major. The unit badge on his shoulder showed a winged golden crossbow on a black background, the emblem of Russia’s special operations forces. He frowned. That was the so-called electrician all right. He looked up at Fox. “So this guy’s Spetsnaz?”
“He was Spetsnaz,” the older man corrected. “His name is Viktor Pavlovich Skoblin.”
“So who’s he working for now?” Van Horn asked carefully.
Fox sighed. “That’s where the story gets somewhat murkier,” he admitted. “In a curious bit of symmetry, it appears that this man and the others you encountered in Vienna, all of whom have similar backgrounds in Russia’s various covert services, are currently employed by a brand-new private military and intelligence firm headquartered in Moscow.” His mouth tightened. “Apparently, they call themselves the Raven Syndicate.”
“Catchy name,” Van Horn said with a sniff. “If these guys are our new competitors, maybe Four should start calling itself the Falcon Group to get more up to date.”
Flynn smiled across the little table at her. “Or how about something along the lines of Eagle, Inc. Patriotic and catchy, right?”
Fox studiously ignored their byplay. “What matters,” he said patiently, “is that from what little we know about this Syndicate, it appears to have acquired the services of a substantial number of highly trained members of the SVR, GRU, and various other Russian black ops organizations.”
“Acquired how, exactly?” Flynn wondered. “Last time I checked, Moscow doesn’t exactly encourage people with those kinds of cloak-and-dagger skill sets to set up shop in the private sector.”
“Money, apparently,” Fox said bluntly. “And a great deal of it.”
“How much money exactly?” Van Horn asked.
Fox frowned. “It’s difficult to say. Corporate finance records in the Russian Federation aren’t at all transparent or reliable. But the best estimate by analysts I trust is that this Raven Syndicate has access to resources totaling in the hundreds of millions of dollars — and perhaps more.”
Flynn whistled softly. “And this group supposedly just popped into existence? Out of nowhere?”
“Like the dragon’s teeth sown by Cadmus and Jason in the Greek myths,” Fox said with a grim nod. “Which then sprouted into deadly warriors.”
“Maybe they’re being funded by the Kremlin on the sly,” Flynn said speculatively. “Zhdanov could be building himself another deniable special operations force, like the Wagner Group — only with a heavier emphasis on covert intelligence missions this time.” The Wagner Group, purportedly a private military company, was known to have extremely close ties to Russia’s Ministry of Defense and the GRU. Its “contractors” had fought in civil wars and low-level conflicts around the world, everywhere from the Ukraine to Syria, Libya, Venezuela, and half a dozen other countries. Not so mysteriously, their lethal work always tended to advance Russia’s national interests.
Fox nodded. “That’s a reasonable theory.” He frowned. “But there is another, even more troubling, possibility we need to consider.” He drew out another photo and placed it in front of them. This one was black and white and blurred, as though it had been taken surreptitiously by a concealed camera. “This is the only contemporary image we have of the man who heads the Raven Syndicate, Pavel Voronin.”
Van Horn leaned in closer. “He looks pretty damned young to be heading a business of that size, whether it’s a front group for Zhdanov or not.”
“Voronin is young,” Fox agreed. “Still in his early thirties. But he’s been very expensively educated.” He pulled out three more photos, these in color. Formal school portraits, they showed a much younger Voronin at different ages. He tapped the first. “This was taken during his time at Phillips Exeter.”
Flynn frowned. Located in New Hampshire, Phillips Exeter Academy was one of America’s oldest and most selective prep schools — with a long list of prominent and influential alumni. He nodded at the second picture, showing a somewhat older Voronin. “And this one?”
“As an undergraduate at Oxford.” Fox pointed to the last photo. “And that was taken while he was getting his MBA from Harvard Business School.”
“‘Expensively educated’ was an understatement,” Flynn said, shaking his head in amazement. “You’re looking at close to a million dollars on the hoof, minimum.” He looked across the table. “Who’s his father? Some bigshot industrialist? Or a high-ranking politico in the Kremlin?”
“Neither,” Fox said quietly. “His father was only a colonel in the KGB. And when the Soviet Union collapsed, he ended up holding the same rank in the SVR.”
“He’s the son of a spook?” Van Horn said with a toss of her head. “Not much mystery there, then. Odds are the Russian intelligence services were grooming this guy Voronin for years, planning to use him as a deep-cover agent.”
Fox nodded. “That is the most logical assumption, Laura. But if so, their plans miscarried.” He tossed a final photograph onto the desk. This one showed a much older, larger-boned man with a full head of thick white hair. “Instead, our best information is that Voronin went to work for this man, Dmitri Grishin — one of Russia’s richest and most influential oligarchs.”
“As what?” Flynn asked.
“On paper? As a personal assistant,” the older man told him. “In reality? We suspect he worked as Grishin’s top corporate troubleshooter, his personal hatchet man.”
Flynn shook his head. “I can’t imagine his father, the old-school KGB colonel, was real happy about that career choice.”
“I don’t imagine he would have been,” Fox said flatly. “But both of Voronin’s parents died soon after he returned to Russia.”
Something about the older man’s matter-of-fact tone sent a chill down Flynn’s spine. “Died how?”
“They burned to death in an apartment fire,” Fox said.
Van Horn’s mouth tightened. “An accidental fire?”
“If it wasn’t, the Moscow police arson investigators were never able to prove otherwise,” Fox told her coolly. “Hard as they tried.”
“Swell,” Van Horn said. She pulled out the grainy, black-and-white image that was their most recent photo of Voronin. “So you’re telling us that the son of a bitch in charge of this Raven Syndicate is a stone-cold psychopath.”
“Almost certainly,” Fox acknowledged.
Flynn sat back in his chair with a grimace. Learning more about Voronin was a lot like turning over a rock and seeing all sorts of creepy, crawling things wriggling away out from underneath. “What happened to his old boss, Dmitri Grishin? Nothing pleasant, I assume.”
“Grishin was assassinated a little over a year ago, quite probably on President Zhdanov’s direct orders,” the older man answered.
Flynn stared at him. “Assassinated? Why?”
“Because Zhdanov discovered that he was responsible for arranging the theft and attempted ransom of Russia’s stealth bomber prototype,” Fox said.
“That would be the high-tech plane you crashed in the ass-end of northern Alaska, Nick,” Van Horn reminded him with a cheerful grin. “The one the CIA thought they were buying.”
He snorted. “Yeah, thanks. I sort of figured that out on my own.” He turned back to Fox. “So the fact that this Voronin character is alive and definitely prospering in Moscow, after his boss was killed for treason, strongly suggests—”
“That he betrayed Grishin to the authorities and cut a deal to go free?” Fox finished for him. “Yes, it does.”