Kremlin Storm, page 1
part #4 of Sokolov Series
Kremlin Storm
Book 4 in the Sokolov series
© 2018 by Ian Kharitonov. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Visit http://www.iankharitonov.com for new release updates and exclusive content.
OVERTURE
EXTREME WEATHER WREAKS HAVOC IN EUROPE
LEEDS, England — The British Prime Minister has sent an extra 1,000 soldiers to aid the rescue efforts in northern England. More than 15,000 properties in Yorkshire and Lancashire have been affected by severe flooding. Forecasts predict record rainfall and violent gales to hit the already-damaged area in the coming days. The latest storm battering Britain is the most devastating in 98 years, according to the Met Office. The heavy rain is expected to bring further misery to large parts of the U.K., with train services already facing disruption.
Kelly Allenby, 35, was rescued from the rooftop of her submerged Leeds home by boat.
“It’s a nightmare,” she said. “We’re all a bit shocked, really. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s as if Mother Nature declared war on us.”
Meanwhile, a different kind of freak weather is affecting the Continent. Widespread forest fires continue to burn in southern Europe. A sizzling heat wave gas set in across several European countries, producing exceptionally dry weather. Fires have ravaged approximately 100,000 hectares of land across the Mediterranean region. The blaze is sweeping through large swathes of forest and scrubland, forcing hundreds of residents to be evacuated from Italian towns, Balkan villages, and Greek islands. Over 150 wildfires are raging in the Spanish province of Murcia alone.
All-time high temperatures in the French and Swiss Alps are threatening the ski season.
Scientists claim that extreme weather could become the new normal. Last week in Israel, golf-ball-sized hail pelted the streets of Tel Aviv after a surprise thunderstorm.
1
In the cloudless morning sky above the Kremlin, a pair of Mi-24 Hind attack helicopters circled like vultures, prepared to strike. The gunships carried abundant firepower in the form of automatic machine guns, 30mm cannons, and 2,400 kilos worth of bombs and missiles. Both crews had standing orders to unleash their deadly load at the earliest hint of an approaching threat.
Not that the menacing choppers were ever likely to encounter any real targets in downtown Moscow. All the roads leading to the Kremlin had been sealed off by police cordons within a five-kilometer radius. BTR armored personnel carriers blocked access to Red Square. From the cockpits of the Hinds, the streets within the Garden Ring looked deserted, devoid of traffic. Hundreds of parked cars had been towed away. Local shops, cafés, and other businesses kept their doors closed, as instructed by the authorities. In the face of the overwhelming police and military presence, the city appeared dead. There wasn’t even a single pedestrian in sight. The fearful population had chosen to heed police warnings and stay in their homes. Anyone who ventured outside risked getting beaten up and arrested.
Such excessive security measures had been brought upon by the ceremony taking place in the Kremlin.
The Presidential inauguration.
The motorcade of the President-elect raced down the empty streets—a swarm of twenty motorcycles surrounding the Mercedes-Maybach S600 Pullman limo, led by a black G500 Guard, with two more G-Class SUVs in tow, sirens blaring. Speeding past the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, the procession swung off Kremlevskaya Embankment toward St. Basil’s Cathedral and entered the Kremlin through the Spassky Gate.
At five minutes to eleven, the Mercedes Pullman halted in front of the Grand Kremlin Palace. The rear door opened and Russia’s newly-elected President got out of the car.
Saveliy Ignatievich Frolov had won the election by a landslide 86 percent of the popular vote.
Voter fraud had doubled the actual level of his support, but it hardly mattered. Presidential elections in Russia had long become a formality. Victory was assured through a lack of alternatives. With the political landscape mopped up of dissent, and Frolov’s rivals acting as extras in a stage show, the Russian people had merely accepted the predetermined result.
The country no longer faced a period of uncertainty. In the last few tumultuous months, President Nikolai Alexandrov had stepped down from office, and then the nation had learned of his untimely death. Frolov had emerged as the likeliest candidate to maintain the status quo between the power-hungry oligarchs and steer Russia clear of looming chaos. He certainly had the experience to appease the different Kremlin factions, having risen through the ranks of the KGB Fifth Chief Directorate (Internal security against artistic, political, and intellectual dissension). Only the break-up of the Soviet Union had prevented him from becoming a full Politburo member. During Alexandrov’s term, Saveliy Frolov had held the position of FSB Director, masterminding policies to restore the country’s Soviet might.
Now he was about to rule Russia for the next six years.
The general in charge of the Kremlin Regiment greeted him, snapping to attention.
“Comrade President-Elect of the Russian Federation!”
Frolov gave a curt nod in reply, walking past him through the doors of the Grand Kremlin Palace exactly as the historic Kremlin Clock on the Spasskaya Tower chimed eleven sharp.
Despite Frolov’s geriatric age, the man brimmed with energy, his physical condition enhanced by injections of Meldonium. His face was still puffy from the recent Botox shots which had smoothed out the deepest creases etching his skin. An Italian-cut suit disguised his pouchy gut, while elevator shoes made him appear taller.
He climbed the fifty-eight steps of the massive Red Staircase which opened into Kremlin’s magnificent halls, already filled with expectant guests. The crowd on either side of the red carpet broke into rapturous applause as soon as Frolov entered St. George’s Hall. The ovation gave Frolov a narcotic effect of swelling pride.
St. George’s white walls, decorated with bas-relief and marble slabs, converged at a height of 17 meters, dwarfing the six gilded chandeliers which illuminated the 60-meter length of the chamber, the largest in the Grand Kremlin Palace.
Hundreds of men and women flanking his path ogled and cheered. Frolov nodded and mouthed thanks without breaking his stride.
Even at a brisk pace, traversing the cavernous St. George’s, St. Alexander’s, and finally St. Andrew’s took Frolov one minute and fifty seconds. He didn’t want the walk to end as he reveled in his moment of glory. The ceremony, too, was a televised show for the world to witness.
At the end of the gold-encrusted St. Andrew’s Hall, the red carpet reached a raised platform. The Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church stood waiting for Frolov next to the rostrum in the center of the platform. The President-elect joined Patriarch Galaktion to take the oath of office.
As he stepped behind the rostrum to face the crowd, Frolov slapped the Constitution with his right palm as if swatting a fly. When he began reciting the oath, his microphone-amplified voice clipped each word. His eyes narrowed into slits. It seemed like he was sending a veiled message to some unknown enemy.
“I swear in exercising the powers of the President of the Russian Federation to respect and protect the rights and freedoms of man and citizen, to respect and defend the Constitution of the Russian Federation, to protect the sovereignty and independence, security and integrity of the state, to faithfully serve the people.”
No sooner had President Frolov uttered the last phrase than the anthem of the Russian Federation reverberated around the hall. The anthem of the Soviet Union and the Bolshevik Party.
The anthem of Joseph Stalin.
2
A stand-up cocktail party followed the official ceremony. The waiting staff of security officers served beverages and hors d’oeuvres to the 3,000 guests.
One man stood apart in the crowd. The tall, athletic figure clad in the full uniform of an EMERCOM commander. The man attracted sidelong glances from the VIPs who were nursing their drinks and conversing in boisterous groups. His sculpted body projected masculinity. He’d been born to wear a uniform like the previous generations in his Cossack lineage. Instead of pursuing a purely military career, however, he’d chosen to work for the Russian agency analogous to the American FEMA.
He never took a sip from his champagne flute, not even a drop to moisten his lips. It wasn’t a teetotal lifestyle which explained his abstinence from alcohol. Rather, he found no cause for celebration. His piercing azure-blue eyes scanned the surroundings with a sense of detachment.
Major Eugene Sokolov was no stranger to the Grand Kremlin Palace. It was only a few months since he’d attended a secret meeting in St. George’s Hall. He’d been awarded the country’s highest military decoration for his role in a covert mission deep inside Kazakhstan. Because of the operation’s top-secret status, he couldn’t even acknowledge his prior visit to the Kremlin, much less wear the medal in public. He took no pride in his black-ops involvement and wished that it had never happened. It was during the Kazakhstan affair that Sokolov had first crossed paths with FSB Director Saveliy Frolov, becoming his personal enemy.
In Russia, things couldn’t get much worse than becoming an enemy of the FSB Director—aside from becoming an enemy of the President himself.
Sokolov’s presence at the inauguration was an act of defiance. He could have ignored the invitation, but Eugene Sokolov was the kind of man who stared danger in the eye.
“You don’t look very jubilant,” said Sokolov’s friend and boss, Daniil Klimov.
“I feel like we’re attending our own funeral.”
“A figure of speech, I hope.”
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
If the new President hated anyone more than Sokolov, it had to be Klimov. General Klimov headed EMERCOM, transforming it from a floundering bureaucracy to one of the world’s most efficient organizations. In the aftermath of the terrorist attacks in Moscow, he had forced Frolov to step down as FSB Director. Yet the moral victory had done little to stop Frolov’s rise to power. There was no doubt that Frolov would now exact revenge against anyone who had opposed him.
“Finding you here is the only good thing about today.”
“Somebody has to watch your back.” Sokolov grinned. “Besides, I’ve wanted to get a look at this place ever since I learned an interesting fact from my brother.”
“What exactly did Constantine tell you?”
“St. Andrew’s Hall is fake.”
“Come on. Seriously?”
“It’s an imitation.”
Klimov eyed the silk moiré-covered walls, stuccoed ceilings, and the splendor of gilded doors and pylons shining in the light given off by ten massive bronze chandeliers.
“You’re kidding me.”
“What you see here is not the original chamber built under the Czar. Stalin demolished it in the 1930s and converted the space into a Bolshevik conference room. These are just props constructed in 1999. They’re as phony as the election results. And so is everyone inside. Just look at all these people,” Sokolov said in a hushed tone. “Parliament members, governors, senators, judges, top military brass, celebrities … I don’t get to see them as often in the flesh as you do, but I’ve seen enough today. They disgust me. Nothing but a bunch of frauds and sycophants.”
“And also thieves, murderers, liars, and corrupt crooks,” added the general.
“Each of them is spineless, but collectively, they are Frolov. He’s simply the worst of them all. It’s impossible to win. But it doesn’t mean that every decent person left in Russia has to give up.”
“You’re right, of course. We must keep doing our job the best we can. The name of the man in the Kremlin shouldn’t make any difference.”
The crowd in front of Sokolov and Klimov parted like the Red Sea before Moses.
“Speak of the devil,” Sokolov muttered.
President Saveliy Frolov approached them. FSO bodyguards and state TV cameramen were escorting him. Despite the shoe lifts, the President was dwarfed by the two EMERCOM officers, who towered a good five or six inches over him.
“Ah, there you are, General. I’m so glad you could join us today. I might as well use this opportunity to break the news to you. As you know, the government is in need of a shakeup and I’m afraid that there is no place for you in the new cabinet. It’s not my choice. It is the will of the people. You showed your true colors when you sided against eighty-six percent of the population. In these challenging times, Russia has called for true patriots. Not political charlatans or traitors like you. Your time is up. I expect you to hand in your resignation tomorrow.”
Without another word, the newly-crowned ruler of Russia turned on his heel and marched off with his cohort, leaving a breathless herd of spectators in his wake.
A private banquet in the palatial Red Salon of the Kremlin was being served for the President and a select few of his closest confidants. A thousand other guests from the second tier were already flocking to the adjacent Manege building, where a day-long feast was about to begin.
St. Andrew’s Hall was emptying as Daniil Klimov stood there stone-faced.
“That was a quick resolution,” he said. “Our new President doesn’t waste time or mince words. Well, it was never likely that he wanted us to stay for dinner. At least the circus is over.”
“I don’t think we’re done with it yet,” said Sokolov, nudging his friend. “In fact, the show is only about to start.”
“What?”
Klimov followed Sokolov’s gaze.
A trio of guards was heading their way—dark suits, crew cuts, bulging muscles, and Neanderthal faces.
“Comrades,” said the lead security man, addressing Klimov and Sokolov, “you are asked to leave immediately. In case you’re unable to do it on your own, we’re here to see you out.”
Daniil Klimov, minister and general, let out a mirthless laugh.
“This is ridiculous,” said Sokolov.
The head goon motioned with his arm and the two of his henchmen stepped forward, showing intent to use force.
A fourth dan kyokushin karate master, Eugene Sokolov could make all three kiss the elaborately-parqueted floor before anybody blinked an eye.
He also knew when not to fight. Sometimes it was wiser to accept defeat. Keeping his fury under control, he accompanied a humiliated Klimov on the way out of the hall. As they moved along the red carpet toward the exit, Sokolov handed his champagne flute to a passing waiter.
It was then that he saw her.
Sokolov picked out her silhouette at the other side the hall and froze in disbelief.
She wore a floral-embroidered, long-sleeved Valentino gown. The silk-chiffon dress accentuated her slim figure, the warm undertone of her skin, and her jet-black hair.
One of the guards shoved him in the back, but Sokolov wouldn’t budge.
“Hey, move it!”
His mind barely registered the words. Instead, he stood transfixed by the woman who had disappeared from his life forever.
Sokolov called her name.
Their eyes met.
Panic flashed across her delicate Oriental features but she regained her composure in an instant.
But he’d also seen something else in those hazel-brown eyes—recognition. She wasn’t scared of him—she feared for him. It had to be the reason she was avoiding him. She darted away, trying to vanish in the crowd.
He was losing her—or was he losing his mind? Dizzying déjà vu came over him. A part of him couldn’t believe it was really her. There was something eerie about the Kremlin Palace. Months ago, he’d received his medal from the hands of the late Nikolai Alexandrov—or whoever had acted as his exact double because the President had already died. And now, could it be a case of mistaken identity? Impossible. He’d never fail to recognize her.
“What’s wrong, Gene?” asked Klimov. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I may well have.”
He shouted her name again, but his voice faded in the surrounding din.
“Asiyah!”
She was gone.
He spun sharply to chase her.
One of the guards blocked his path. Sokolov pushed his outstretched hand away but the security man grabbed his forearm in a vise-like hold.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled into Sokolov’s ear.
Sokolov broke his grip with a rigid shuto strike and thrust his open palm into the man’s solar plexus. The swiftness of the motion left the other FSO men bewildered as their comrade doubled over for no apparent reason.
Sokolov realized that Asiyah had followed the President into the Red Salon.
He gave the hunched guard, still gasping for breath, a pat on the back.
“Must be the weather. A storm brewing somewhere. Good thing we’re leaving early.”
3
Those who used to know him called Constantine Sokolov paranoid. Upon closer consideration, his decision to become a ghost made perfect sense. He lived life on his own terms, but life under a tyrannical government required basic precautions. Staying off the grid didn’t prove as difficult as it sounded. His political views had already alienated his former friends and colleagues. The social vacuum freed up a lot of spare time which he spent writing a book on Lazar Kaganovich, Stalin’s chief henchman. He required no validation to do his job, even if he was blacklisted from working in his profession.
Likewise, he shunned the cesspit known as social media. He could live without the needless online drama and trivial content. More importantly, all Internet traffic in Russia was monitored. People were routinely arrested for posts, comments, and retweets, so he avoided getting his name flagged. He possessed no debit or credit cards, or bank accounts that could be blocked. He lived off his cash savings and a virtual stash of Bloodcoin, a booming new cryptocurrency. His only family was his younger brother Eugene. To keep in touch with him, or anyone else still interested in his person, he used an anonymous messenger service. The encrypted app was popular with jihadis, white supremacists, human rights activists, and other assorted extremists, which suggested that it worked as advertised. Nonetheless, he limited its use to a minimum, mindful of a possible backdoor which FSB hackers could exploit.
