“Now you see? We’ll continue doing this on a large scale, unofficially declaring our total war, and more such nuggets of information will come our way. Anyone can be an asset for us.”
“Why do you call this a total war? We’re not firing a single bullet.”
“There will be losses of all kinds, even from the ranks of the diaspora. We will apply pressure on many people, and not everyone will survive without being caught, killed, tortured, and so on. But we can’t afford to care, Mishka, we just can’t. Not when we have twenty years of stagnation and obsolescence to make up for… not when we have to go to war and win!”
“Na zdorovie!” Dimitrov raised his glass and cheered, then gulped down another shot.
“Na zdorovie!” Myatlev followed suit happily.
“How many handlers do you have? How many can you send in the field?”
“I’ve sent our best so far, Smolin. I have others that I’m preparing to send. I found another gem, a captain by the name of Anatoly Karp. That one can turn Jesus Christ into a spy, Mishka. Given enough time, that one can turn you!”
Both men burst into laughter.
“But you only have a few, Vitya, how are you going big with just a few handlers? Abramovich doesn’t have the patience to wait for you to build your ranks.” Dimitrov’s cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a look of worry brought by the thought of the irascible and bellicose Russian president, eager to start his vengeance war as soon as possible.
“I am building an intelligence infrastructure, Mishka, just like we had in the old days. The handlers are leading the deployment, then the diaspora operates as a second level. Some of them are still willing to fight and give their lives for Russia, even if they’re now American citizens. And for those who won’t, well, the handlers can find ways to be persuasive. I’ve chosen handlers who don’t take no for an answer, and who won’t stop until they get the job done.”
“You’re the businessman, Vitya, this is right up your alley. Just be careful, because that’s what you said last time, that your plan can’t fail, and it did.”
Vitya ran his hand over his forehead and against his buzz-cut graying hair.
“I still don’t know what went wrong with that one,” he said quietly, after a few seconds of silence. “It should have never happened. I thought of everything. It was almost like I had an enemy out there, someone so decided to foil my plan that it almost felt personal. Someone who could see through the complexities of what I’d laid out to perfection on a global scale. Did you know they’re all dead? All the players? Apparently unrelated accidents of all sorts, but I’m no idiot, Mishka, they all died within less than a week,” he said, unaware he was wringing his hands almost convulsively, in a rare display of frustration and resentment. “If someone’s cleaning up, why am I still here?”
“I didn’t know they’re all dead,” Dimitrov replied quietly. “No one told me.”
“You were sick, Mishka, fighting for your life. I didn’t need to burden you with my nightmares. You have no idea how many nights I’ve spent awake in bed thinking of what could have gone wrong, and I can’t think of anything.” He rubbed his head again, then continued, suddenly refreshed and in control of his emotions, “But I promise you, this time we’ll get the job done.”
“Good,” a thoughtful, almost gloomy Dimitrov replied. “You focus on getting us the intel, while I work on getting the military ready for our war. They’re unprepared, untrained, sloppy. The commanders have grown lazy and fat, while their livers are giving up on them, dying of cirrhosis. Just like you found your handlers, I have to find my future generals.” He stopped talking for a while, sipping a few spoons of borscht. “We’re thinking a nuclear strike might be possible, preemptive, or defensive, but these men aren’t ready for any of that. Not yet, anyway.”
“Can you talk to Abramovich?” Myatlev asked, halfheartedly. The Russian president wasn’t open to such suggestions, nor was he willing to listen to the voices of reason.
“You know there’s no way I can get Abramovich to give us some more time. Any day now he could wake up one morning and decide he wants to push the button, and we better be fucking ready when he does, otherwise we’re finished… screwed to the bone.”
They both reflected quietly on that perspective for a while, eating absently, engulfed in their own troublesome thoughts. Then Myatlev changed direction.
“I love the idea of rebuilding Russia, Mishka, but I don’t like the idea of war that much. War can be bad for business, you know.”
Both men savored their food for a minute, then Dimitrov answered, “It doesn’t have to be. War creates a lot of need, and maybe you can help your country with that.”
Myatlev’s face lit up a little.
“Maybe it’s time to diversify my business portfolio. What do you anticipate the military will need?”
“Many things; I’ll make a list. Guns. Helicopters. Ammunition. New tanks, new ships, new weapons technology. Manufacturing the technology you’re going to steal for us with your new network of spies. Not to say that in the event of a nuclear strike, we have almost nothing, no protective equipment, limited countermeasures, and nearly no contingencies. The same goes for biological and chemical warfare; we might even go that route. Who knows what Abramovich decides to do…”
“Just send me your list and quantities, and let me know if you have a preference as to where these items should be manufactured. Whatever you need done, you’ll have done. You can count on me.”
“I am. And I hope you won’t forget your friends, when war brings its windfall your way.”
Myatlev filled their glasses with vodka to the brim.
“To a war that’s good for business, ura!” he cheered and downed his glass.
“To old friends and a new Russia, ura!” Dimitrov replied cheerfully.
The waiter gave them a few seconds to finish their round of drinks, then cleaned away the empty borscht bowls and brought in their steaks.
…51
Alex struggled to open Mason’s office door. A steaming, tall cup of coffee and her laptop bag kept both her hands occupied. Jeremy hopped off his chair and helped her get in.
“Thanks!” she said, smiling briefly in his direction. “Good morning.” She put her coffee cup down on Mason’s desk and the bag on the floor, next to the only open seat in the room.
“Good morning, Ms. Hoffmann,” Mason greeted her, briefly standing as a courtesy then sitting back down in his massive leather chair.
“Please, call me Alex,” she encouraged him.
“What do you have?” Jeremy asked. “What can you tell us?”
“I’ve spent two full days with the team. Friday we spent the entire day working on the Fletcher, yesterday we were there only half a day, then I joined them for a meeting here, in the seventh floor conference room. It was a project review, very helpful for my study.”
Mason watched her intently, waiting for her to cut to the chase.
“And?” Jeremy said. “Do you have anything we can use?”
“I think so, but you’re not going to like it.” She looked first at Jeremy, then at Mason, and continued. “Almost all seem to be likely candidates for this leak of information. The only one who seems the least likely to be our traitor is Faisal Kundi.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake…” Jeremy said, leaning back in his chair and pushing away from the table, failing to hide his frustration. “That’s just great… the one who made the most sense, the foreign-born national, the Muslim; are you saying he’s clean? How sure are you? And based on what?” Jeremy’s voice escalated with every rapid-fire question he threw out there.