“The country with the longest Caspian coastline is not Russia,” the President suggested. “It’s Kazakhstan.”
The DCI nodded. “And Kazakhstan’s part of the seabed accounts for almost 80 percent of the proven reserves. The Kazakhs will have more oil than all the Arab nations combined. The Chinese are indeed pursuing their Caspian ambitions through Iran. If the Russians push their plan, the Iranians — and, by extension, the Chinese — miss out with only thirteen percent. They won’t settle for that. So naturally, together they are trying to influence the Kazakhstanis. One might think this triple alliance is sensible. Especially from a cultural viewpoint, considering that the Kazakhs are both Oriental and Muslim. And having said that, I don’t believe it a viable option. I don’t think Richter’s assassination can be traced to China or Iran.”
“What the hell are you saying? None of the three key players in the region had anything to do with the murder?”
William Underwood cleared his throat.
“Mr. President, we have identified the most probable scenario of Clayton Richter’s death. The only person who could sanction the killing was Timur Kasymov himself.”
“The Kazakh President? It’s inconceivable! Do you understand the gravity of this implication, Mr. Underhill?”
“Sir, my agency does not make such assumptions on a whim. You may find the complete analysis in my report. Suffice it to say, this is the only option backed by current evidence. This act of terror was a signal of intent. A warning. The entire setup of the attack is pointing to the fact. There can be no other explanation for the ineptitude of the police, or the precise planning and execution of the attack. It demanded forehand knowledge of Richter’s visit, and there could be no chance of a leak. I’m afraid our list of suspects is extremely limited, Mr. President. Only Kasymov had the means to do it. And the motive. We’re facing the prime example of state-sponsored terrorism. For years we have been aware that the Kazakh government was supporting radical Islamic groups. Now one such cell has claimed responsibility for the assassination. When all the bits and pieces add up, they make for a very scary picture which is impossible to discount. It’s as though Kasymov wants us to know that he did it.”
“Dear God… What is the meaning of this?”
“Timur Kasymov is showing us that he’s breaking all the rules and playing by his own. He’s slapped us in the face, making our own covert plan backfire. I fear it’s just the beginning. Kazakhstan is rich with natural resources as it is, but as Kasymov’s regime seizes the Caspian oil, he knows he can build a force to be reckoned with. An aggressive force.”
The final words lingered in the air.
“The situation you’ve described is terrifying, but all too real. I hope you’re wrong.”
“I hope so, too,” the DCI replied. “But more often than not the most dangerous enemy is a former ally.”
The President reached for the report on his desk and dismissed his advisor. As Underhill walked down the West Wing, his mind was occupied with a different consideration. Perhaps even more essential than its mineral wealth was Kazakhstan’s value in geopolitics. This advantage displayed through the U.S. Army’s presence in Central Asia during the war on terror. From a military perspective, the location was unique. Not only Iran, Iraq and Afghanistan, but all of Europe, Russia and China lay within easy reach.
The efficiency of an advanced weapons system based in Kazakhstan would be unrivaled. After Clayton Richter’s death, Underhill knew, such a weapon might have fallen into the hands of Timur Kasymov. The true purpose of Seton Industries’ involvement in Kazakhstan was a joint military project. William Underhill found consolation in the fact that it was still years away from being functional. At least Kasymov would have no way of using it against the United States.
Inside the CIA, it was designated as Project R.
Renaissance.
PART I
1
Andrei Borisov had his cheek pressed into the grass with relentless force. Traversing the vineyard on the other side of the empty house, he had anticipated trouble, but not such an onslaught of violence. Shamefully, Borisov, an experienced bodyguard, had missed an attack from behind.
To the credit of his assailant, it had come like a lighting flash. A thunderous kick had walloped into his knee, and he toppled to the moist ground, his right arm twisted inside out behind his back, his own gun yanked from under his belt and pushed against his skull.
A knee dug into his spine, with the attacker’s body resting on top.
“Que fais-tu ici?”
The voice was soft and calm, but by the man’s breathing, Borisov judged that his assailant was hyped on adrenalin.
The pressure in his back increased, prompting him to start the explanation.
“I’m looking for—”
The man repeated his question, his tone stronger.
“Je…” Borisov’s mind raced. He fumbled for the appropriate words. His French was poor. “Je cherche Monsieur Constantine Sokolov.” Now the voice was close to his ear. Hissing with malice.
“Malheureusement pour toi, c’est une reponse incorrecte. Je m’appelle Jean-Pierre Youdine. Quelques minutes plus tard, les flics vont arriver.”
Despite what the quiet voice had said, Borisov was certain that it was the man he sought. He had proof in the pocket of his jacket! Inside the house, he had stolen two passports. One was French, in the name of Youdine, the other Russian, belonging to Sokolov. Both had the photo of the same man. The man holding the SIG-Sauer to his head.
But if the cops were really on their way, there wasn’t much time. Abandoning the futile efforts in French, Borisov said the next sentence in Russian. It was a gamble.
“The Metropolitan sends his blessing from Moscow.”
At these words, the man’s breath was cut short.
That didn’t prepare Borisov for what was about to come.
Harshly, the man twisted his arm, turning him face up, crashed the gun against his ribs and pinned him down again with his weight, one hand holding the gun, the other grabbing his lapel.
“You’re a spy! Who sent you?” the man shouted in Russian.
His eyes were as grey as stormy clouds and, full of rage, just as menacing. The sandy hair fell to his shoulders. Week-old stubble had darkened his face. Constantine was clad in a cotton shirt and jeans, simple clothes not dissimilar in style to those worn by the common townsfolk of Blois, except for their tragic black color.
Another knee strike, this one expertly delivered into Borisov’s liver, gave the question extra urgency.
“Je travaille—damn… I work exclusively for a Russian businessman. He sent me to relay a message for Constantine Sokolov.”
Something evil flashed behind the gray eyes.
“How do you know my name and address?”
Borisov’s mouth turned dry. “I…”
The man leveled the automatic between Borisov’s eyes. His finger wrapped the trigger.
“HOW DO YOU KNOW MY—”
“From the members of Free Action! I was to say the words: John 19:23. The Metropolitan told my employer that you’d understand the meaning.”
Rage disappeared from Constantine’s face, replaced by incredulity. He held the gun up.
And grabbed Borisov’s hair with his free left hand. Tearing it away from his scalp, Constantine Sokolov thrust the gun under Borisov’s chin.