“You will do what you came here to do. You will prepare to launch three rockets.”
No one asked what was happening, though some had their suspicions about what was going to be loaded on their space vehicles.
Safronov was just as he said, an efficient and pragmatic man. He allowed the staff at the processing facility to go free because he did not need them any longer, and he needed his troops guarding the staff at processing to move to the launch silos to protect them from Spetsnaz. And he also knew this show of goodwill would make it more likely the launch control personnel would follow orders.
When he did not need the controllers any longer, however, he would have no incentive to let them live. He would kill them all as part of his statement to the infidels in Moscow.
The ESOC in Darmstadt reported the attack to its counterparts in Moscow, among others, and Moscow notified the Kremlin. After an hour of discussions over the phone, a direct link with the Kremlin was established. Safronov found himself standing in launch control with a headset on, conversing with Vladimir Gamov, the director of the Russian Federal Space Agency, who was at the Kremlin in a hastily organized crisis center. The two men had known each other for as long as Safronov could remember.
“What is going on over there, Georgi Mikhailovich?”
Safronov answered, “You can begin by calling me Magomed Dagestani.” Mohammed the Dagestani.
In the background on the other end of the line Safronov heard someone mumble “Sukin si.” Son of a bitch. This made him smile. Right now it would be sinking into everyone in the Kremlin that three Dnepr rockets were under control of North Caucasus separatists.
“Why, Georgi?”
“Are you too stupid to see? To understand?”
“Help me understand.”
“Because I am not Russian. I am a Dagestani.”
“That is not true! I have known your father since we were at Saint Petersburg. Since you were a child!”
“But you met my father after I was adopted from Dagestani parents. Muslims! My life has been a lie. And it is a lie that I will rectify now!”
There was a long pause. Men mumbled in the background. The director went in a different direction with the conversation. “We understand you have seventy hostages.”
“That is not correct. I have released eleven men already, and I will release another fifteen as soon as they return from the silos, which should be within a half-hour at most.”
“At the silos? What are you doing to the rockets?”
“I am threatening to launch them against Russian targets.”
“They are space vehicles. How will you—”
“Before they were space vehicles they were R-36s. Intercontinental ballistic missiles. I have returned them to their former glory.”
“The R-36 carried nuclear weapons. Not satellites, Safronov.”
Georgi paused for a long moment. “That is correct. I should have been more accurate in my words. I have returned two of these specimens to their former glory. The third rocket does not have a warhead, but it is a powerful kinetic missile nonetheless.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying I have two twenty-kiloton nuclear bombs, loaded into the Space Head Modules of two of the three Dnepr-1 delivery vehicles in my possession. The missiles are in their launch silos, and I am in launch control. The weapons, I call them weapons because they are no longer mere rockets, are targeting population centers of Russia.”
“These nuclear weapons you speak of …”
“Yes. They are the missing bombs from Pakistan. My mujahideen fighters and I took them.”
“Our understanding from the Pakistanis is that the weapons cannot detonate in their current state. You are bluffing. If you even have the bombs, you cannot use them.”
Safronov had expected this. The Russians were so dismissive of his people, after all. He would have been stunned if it were any different.
“In five minutes I will send an e-mail to you directly, and the subdirectors of your agency, that is to say, men more intelligent than you. In the file you will see the decoding sequence we used to render the bombs viable warheads. Share it with your nuclear experts. They will attest to its accuracy. In the file you will also see digital photographs of the altimeter fuses we stole from the Wah Cantonment armaments factory. Share them with your munitions experts. And in the file you will also see several possible trajectory plots for the Dnepr rockets, in case you do not believe I can return the payloads to earth wherever I want. Show that to your rocket engineers. They will spend the rest of the day with their calculators, but they will see.”
Safronov did not know if the Russians believed him. He expected more questioning, but instead, the director of the Russian Federal Space Agency just said, “Your demands?”
“I want proof that the hero of the Dagestani revolution, Israpil Nabiyev, is alive. You give me this, and I release several more hostages. When you release Commander Nabiyev, and he is delivered here, I will release everyone else here except for a skeleton crew of technicians. When you remove all Russian forces from the Caucasus, I will take one of the nuclear-tipped Dneprs offline. And when myself, Commander Nabiyev, and my men have safely left the area, I will relinquish control of the other weapon. This situation that you find yourself in can be behind you in a matter of a few short days.”
“I will need to discuss this with—”
“You may discuss this with whoever you want. But remember this. I have sixteen foreign prisoners here. Six are from the United States, five are from Great Britain, and five are from Japan. I will begin executing the prisoners unless I speak with Nabiyev by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And I will release the missiles unless Russia has quit the Caucasus in seventy-two hours. Dobry den.” Good afternoon.
72
In the beautiful library of Paul Laska’s Newport, Rhode Island, home, the aged billionaire cradled the handset of his telephone at his desk, and he listened to the low ticking of the Bristol mahogany grandfather clock in the hallway.
Time ticking away.
It had been five days since Fabrice Bertrand-Morel had reported that Clark had found Kovalenko and learned of Laska’s involvement in the dossier passed to the Kealty administration. In those five days Bertrand-Morel had called every twelve hours with the same story. The grizzled spy has not talked about his contacts, has not revealed whom he told or what he told them. Each time Laska added more questions for the French to ask the man, more things that, if only revealed, could create some sort of leverage for Laska in case the news of his conspiring with the Russians made it into the wrong hands.
It was no longer about defending the Emir, and no longer about destroying Jack Ryan, though Paul hoped for that even now. No, at this point the Czech immigrant was concerned for his own survival. Things had not gone according to plan, the FBI had fucked up the arrest of Clark, and FBM had fucked up the capture of Clark since he had already learned about Laska and passed that info on.
And now, Paul Laska decided, it was time to end this game. He lifted the phone from the receiver and dialed a number written on the blotter in front of him. He’d had the number since the beginning and he had doubted he would ever need to use it, but now it was unavoidable.
Four rings, and then a mobile phone in London was answered.
“Yes?”
“Good evening, Valentin. This is Paul.”
“Hello, Paul. My sources tell me there is a problem.”
“Your sources include your father, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“Then yes, there is a problem. Your father spoke to Clark.”