Following World War II, the Soviet Union took precautions to ensure it would never again endure the genocide of its people or the destruction of its cities, establishing a buffer zone of friendly Eastern European governments. The next time the West invaded Russia, there’d be advance warning as troops moved through the Eastern European countries on Russia’s border. Next time, the war would be fought on another country’s soil. Unfortunately, the buffer zone had eroded since the fall of the Soviet Union.
The Baltic States had joined NATO, and now Ukraine and Finland, also on Russia’s western border, were considering joining the Alliance. Numerous Russian experts were sounding the alarm. It was time Russia re-created a buffer zone of friendly provinces to the west, even if that meant employing its military. Two months ago, Kalinin had authorized a bold move, seizing portions of Lithuania and Ukraine, implementing a plot to keep NATO from intervening. The plan had succeeded at first, but America had reversed the table, forcing Russia to withdraw in humiliating fashion.
“Doing nothing would be a mistake,” Andropov said. “NATO will continue to encroach on our borders and you will lose the election. Bold action is required to rectify both situations.”
Kalinin considered the general’s words. Andropov wasn’t the first person to leverage the nation’s fears of a NATO invasion, as well as Kalinin’s election concern. Former Defense Minister Chernov had done so, convincing him to authorize the invasion of Ukraine and Lithuania. It hadn’t gone well. Andropov was insisting on a second round, implementing a different strategy to prevent the United States from intervening.
The proposed plan was too risky. A cornered animal with no chance of escape would often lash out. That was something Russia — and the rest of the world — could not afford. Kalinin was convinced the West didn’t understand Russians, and after Russia’s attempt to blackmail the United States had backfired, it was clear that Russians didn’t understand Americans. There was simply no way to know how the American president would respond. Finally, Kalinin made his decision.
“We will not proceed. The Zolotov option is too drastic, and without the Alexander class to provide additional insurance against an American response, the scenario is too volatile.”
Kalinin pushed back from the table. “Thank you for your input.”
6
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
It was after midnight when Christine pulled into her townhouse driveway, only a few miles from the White House. She’d been out later than planned. A quick call to share the news of her resignation with her best friend, Joan, had turned into an impromptu dinner and drinks. The evening had slipped by while they discussed Christine’s future, from both professional and personal perspectives. The topic of Jake Harrison eventually arose, and how she’d blown both opportunities to be with the only man she’d truly loved.
Harrison had proposed twice, once during their senior year in high school and again after she graduated from college. She’d accepted his ring the first time, but returned it the next morning. She wasn’t ready for marriage, headed to college on a gymnastics scholarship the first time he proposed, and embarking on a life in Washington politics the second. She’d asked him to wait, but apparently ten years was too long. By the time Christine was ready, Jake had proposed to another woman.
Harrison was a Navy SEAL now and their paths had unexpectedly crossed during the last few years. The time they’d spent together had rekindled her feelings for him, but unfortunately it didn’t matter. During their last opportunity to talk privately, she’d asked if he was happily married. Looking into his eyes as he answered, she’d seen his love for Angie and realized he would never leave her. It was a bitter acknowledgment; Jake was no longer an option. The time off from work after resigning would provide an opportunity to reevaluate her life.
Christine headed up the walkway and retrieved her mail, then entered her townhouse and stopped in the kitchen, placing her purse on the island countertop. As she opened her mail, her sixth sense tugged at her, drawing her eyes toward a kitchen drawer not fully closed. She examined her surroundings more closely. The pantry door was slightly ajar. Goose bumps formed on her arms. She put down the mail and checked the other rooms. In the living room, a couch pillow was askew. She stopped at the dining room entrance and flicked on the light. A man was seated at the table, staring at her.
“Good evening, Miss O’Connor.”
Christine froze, evaluating whether the man was a threat and whether to flee her townhouse. If it became a race to the front door, however, the man had a more direct route. She examined him more closely: medium height and weight, wearing a dark gray business suit and tie, with the jacket unbuttoned.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Christine detected a faint accent, one she immediately recognized. An image of her mom flashed in her mind, sitting on her sofa alongside Jake Harrison’s mother as Christine and Jake played in the living room, the two women talking while they drank tea. Both women were from Russia, and although the man’s accent was barely discernible, it matched the women’s.
He gestured to a chair on the other side of the table. “Please, have a seat.”
She eased into the chair, her mind churning; who was he, why was he here, and what were her options if he intended her harm?
“I have a new director,” the man said, “who sends his greetings.”
Christine pieced together the clues: the Russian accent and reference to a new director. He was an agent in Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service — the successor to the First Chief Directorate of the KGB — referred to as the SVR due to its Russian spelling, Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki. Christine hadn’t been aware that President Kalinin had selected a replacement director.
“And the new director is…?” Christine asked.
“Josef Hippchenko, promoted after Gorev’s unfortunate accident.”
“Accident?”
“A horrible boating tragedy on the shore of the Black Sea, claiming both Chernov and Gorev. Of course, you and I know what really happened, but it would not reflect well on the SVR if the public or our adversaries learned that our director was assassinated. We’d be held in even lower regard if they learned the killer was a complete … amateur.”
“I wouldn’t call it an assassination. It was more of a—”
“The exact terminology isn’t important. What’s relevant is that you killed Director Gorev. What’s even more relevant, and the reason I’m here, is that within the SVR there is a sacred code. Anyone who kills an SVR agent must pay the price.”
As Christine processed the agent’s words, she did her best to remain calm. “And that price is?”
“Quid pro quo.” He slid his hand inside his jacket and retrieved a pistol, which he leveled at Christine.
Christine’s pulse quickened, her thoughts racing through her options. She was unarmed and her gun was upstairs. There were knives in the kitchen, but it was unlikely she could get her hands on one, plus the adage—never bring a knife to a gunfight—flashed through her mind. She quickly concluded she had no viable option. Perhaps she could talk her way out.
“Gorev was a cruel, sadistic man. He deserved what he got.”
“I don’t disagree. However, it does not absolve you of your sin.” The man leaned back in his chair. “Fortunately for you, President Kalinin has directed us to refrain from retribution.”
“Why did he do that?”