The president flipped open the blue-jacketed briefing folder and looked up at the analyst. The man was in his mid-twenties, probably not long out of college. Were they really getting younger? More than likely not, but it certainly seemed that way.
The analyst nodded, “Good evening, Mr. President.” He pointed a small remote toward the oversized flat screen plasma television at the far end of the table. The screen flared to life, showing the Presidential Seal against a blue background. The analyst pressed a button and the famous emblem vanished, replaced by a passport-style photo of a stocky middle aged man with heavy Slavic cheekbones and graying whiskers.
The analyst nodded toward the screen. “At approximately three AM local time on Friday the twenty-second of February, this man — a Russian citizen named Oleg Yurievich Grigoriev — approached the front gate of the U.S. Embassy in the Republic of the Philippines and asked for asylum. The Marine guards called for the embassy’s emergency medical team, because it was obvious that Grigoriev had been shot several times.”
“That’s not standard procedure, Mr. President,” the national security advisor said. “Grigoriev is not a U.S. citizen or a member of the embassy staff. By the book, the guards should have contacted Manila emergency services and let the locals handle things. But the man was in shock, and losing blood fast. The guards figured he would bleed to death before the locals could get a medical team to the scene.”
Veronica Doyle jotted a note on the cover page of her briefing folder. “We should give State a heads-up on this,” she said. “We’re going to take some heat from the government of the Philippines for not following diplomatic procedure. They may want you to make a formal apology, Mr. President.”
“I don’t mind taking a punch in the nose over this,” The president said. “Human life outweighs political protocol. Period. End of sentence. If the Republic of the Philippines wants to make a ruckus over this, we’ll turn it back on them. I’ll do a press conference, and publicly ask President Layumas if she thinks our embassy guards should stand around and watch gunshot victims bleed to death in order to satisfy the niceties of diplomatic procedure.”
“I … uh … I don’t think there’s going to be a diplomatic issue, Mr. President,” the analyst said. “I don’t believe the locals even know that Mr. Grigoriev is in our custody. And the Operations Directorate doesn’t think we should tell them, sir.”
“Hold it,” The president said. “This hasn’t been reported to the Philippine locals?”
The analyst swallowed visibly. “Uh … no, Mr. President.”
Becka Solomon, the Secretary of Homeland Security, closed her briefing folder with a thump. “Why the hell not?”
“I’d like to take a crack at that question,” Brenthoven said. He pulled a small leather-bound notebook from the pocket of his jacket, flipped it open, and read for a few seconds. His eyes were still on the notebook when he resumed speaking. “The CIA has been interested in Mr. Grigoriev for several years, now. He was a soldier in the Red Army before the collapse of the Soviet Union, and a tank commander with the Soviet Iron Saber Brigade during the last eighteen months of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. His highest rank was Stárshiy Serdzhánt, or Senior Sergeant — roughly equivalent to Sergeant First Class in the U.S. Army. You’ll find a short dossier on the man in your briefing packages.”
Everyone except for the DI analyst and Brenthoven stopped to thumb through the blue folders on the table in front of them.
The national security advisor continued. “Mr. President, the CIA has fairly conclusive evidence that Grigoriev is a covert international operative.”
Doyle’s eyebrows narrowed. “You mean a spy?”
“More of a bag man,” Brenthoven said. “A courier, who hand carries sensitive documents and information back and forth between his sponsor nation and foreign countries they want to communicate with.”
“Isn’t that kind of thing usually handled by diplomats?” the president asked. “Wasn’t that the whole point of the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations? Governments send sensitive documents by diplomatic courier, because it’s illegal to detain a diplomatic pouch, or search its contents.”
“You’re quite correct, Mr. President,” the analyst said. “But there are cases in which a particular government might not want even its diplomatic corps to know what it’s up to. Circumstances that call for a higher-than-normal level of secrecy, or circumstances where a country’s leaders want to maintain maximum deniability.”
The secretary of homeland security looked at the analyst. “So that’s this man’s job? To bypass the Russian government’s legitimate diplomatic channels of communication?”
The analyst nodded. “Yes, Madam Secretary. That’s Langley’s assessment. Except we don’t think Grigoriev is working for the Russian government.”
General Gilmore stared over the tops of his black-framed glasses at the analyst. “If it’s not his own government, then who does our Russian friend work for?”
The general’s voice was quiet and even-toned. Like his round pleasantly-featured face, his voice seemed out of place in a professional warrior. He looked and sounded more like a librarian than a fighting man. But, appearances aside, he was a combat Soldier, from his boot laces to his regulation Army hair cut. The rack of ribbons above the left pocket of his uniform jacket included the Bronze Star medal, with the affixed “V” insignia for valor under enemy fire.
The analyst shifted his gaze to the general. “The … uh … The Operations Directorate thinks that Mr. Grigoriev works for Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov, the governor of the Kamchatka kray, on the Kamchatka peninsula in southeastern Russia.” The analyst paused for a second to let this strange pronouncement sink in. Then he continued. “Analysis of Grigoriev’s travel and spending patterns over the past year suggests strongly that he has been acting as the go-between for confidential negotiations between Governor Zhukov and certain elements of the government and military of the People’s Republic of China.”
The last word caught the president’s attention. “China? What does the Chinese government want with the governor of an obscure Russian province?”
“We don’t know for certain,” Brenthoven said. “We have very little hard evidence, but what we do have is frankly scaring the hell out of us, Mr. President.”
The president nodded. “Alright, Greg. Enough pussyfooting around. You’ve set us up for the bad news. Now, go ahead and deliver the knockout punch.”
Brenthoven closed his notebook and looked directly into the president’s eyes. “Sir, due to the extent of his injuries, Mr. Grigoriev has only been conscious for short periods of time since he came into our custody. It may be several days before we can interview him properly. However, during his brief periods of lucidity, he’s managed to let us know that he wants to negotiate a trade. He’ll tell us what he knows in exchange for political asylum.”
The president cocked an eyebrow. “If he crawled into our embassy with a bunch of bullet holes in him, there’s a good chance that this man qualifies for asylum whether he knows anything useful or not. What do we think he can tell us?”
“We’re not sure yet, sir,” the analyst said. “But he’s already revealed one piece of information that we didn’t have before.”
“And what would that be?” the general asked.
The analyst took a breath. “Most of the top positions in the government of Kamchatka are held by former officials of the Soviet communist regime. Sergiei Zhukov is no exception. In the eighties, he was a mid-level apparatchik in the communist party. That’s pretty much common knowledge in the intelligence community. But we didn’t know that Zhukov used to be senior security officer for KB-11.”