Moscow X, page 2
“I want to be in the game,” Procter said. “And I hear there is a vacancy, the new backroom shop running all the spooky Russia ops. Moscow X.”
“The Moscow X job? Artemis, the Director is not a fan of yours, not after—”
“The unpleasantness in Amman. And now Dushanbe.”
“Right. The unpleasantness makes you a hard sell.”
“Where else do you want to put me, then?”
Bradley looked up at the launchers. “I do want you working Russia.” “Well, then sell it.”
THE FALL MORNING WAS UNUSUALLY HOT AND WET WHEN PROCTER crossed the parking lot of the Original Headquarters Building. The Langley clock-punching crowd coursed around her like water. A two-year sentence in this prison camp, she thought, unbelievable. The upside was that if Bradley could convince the Director to give her the Moscow X job, she’d have a better shot at wrecking Russkies from Langley than just about anywhere. And she had so many beautiful ideas for how to fuck the Russians. She motored her Prius out of the compound toward the Vienna Inn, the dive bar that had hosted countless happy hours, ops celebrations, promotions, and even an Irish wake or two following funerals for Agency comrades. Procter planned to bed down there for a two-, maybe three-day bender.
Procter sped through northern Virginia, titillated by a lurid vision of chaos in Moscow set to the rich melody of Swan Lake. Had she been a religious woman, Procter might have believed the hand of God had painted it on her mind. She didn’t really know what to think about God, but she figured that by this point any reasonable deity would have a bone to pick with the Kremlin. After all they’d done, God wasn’t going to stop her from running a solid op sticking it to the Russkies.
- 3 -
Saint Petersburg
IN THE FIRST HOURS OF A WET SAINT PETERSBURG EVENING, A MAN in a well-cut suit exited a black government Mercedes and entered the lobby of a bank. Though his business that evening was robbery, he carried neither knife nor gun. His weapon was instead a stack of official documents, which permitted him to move a large quantity of gold bullion from the bank’s reserves, held in a vault four stories below the street and minded at that hour by a well-armed team of guards and several clerks, only a few of whom were presently asleep.
The papers authorized the suited man, Lieutenant Colonel Konstantin Konstantinovich Chernov of the Federal’naya sluzhba bezopasnosti, the FSB, Russia’s Federal Security Service, to transfer two hundred and twenty-one bars of gold from the bank to a strategic reserve in the east.
Chernov’s black Ferragamos clacked over the lobby marble, their spotless heels trailed by a large crew of regular policemen pulling carts and crates. The police had been unhappily conscripted by the FSB for an evening of manual labor. The bullion, after all, was heavy: each bar weighed just over twelve kilos. Bank Rossiya’s head of security greeted Chernov in the lobby. The man had been a colonel in the army; he knew the game. The FSB had dozens of spies inside the bank. The FSB made the rules. Chernov would do whatever he wanted.
They exchanged icy greetings. Chernov was dead-eyed and firm but polite, the paperwork was drearily official, and though the mood was tense there was neither argument nor bickering, not a voice raised in anger. Chernov had once been soldier and priest, so he knew there was no law but God’s and that God spoke this law through Russia alone. His orders that night would have been considered arbitrary, even illegal, in many societies, but to Chernov they might well have been God-breathed, no different from Holy Scripture or a Kremlin decree.
Chernov’s features were unremarkable except for his considerable height. He was pale, bald, and rosy-cheeked. His eyes were still and contemplative. The black suit was Savile Row via the dip pouch and well-tailored to his massive frame. His words were often the first hints of madness, and that evening few had yet crossed his lips.
From the lobby Chernov trailed the head of security to a spacious office overlooking the square. There they rolled through the evening’s first protest: whether Andrei Agapov, the bank’s principal shareholder, should be phoned at that hour to learn of the state’s requisition of a pile of gold bullion valued at nearly two hundred million dollars. “He should at least know what is happening,” the head of security said to Chernov, desk phone clenched in his white hands. He was set to dial Agapov but hung there, awaiting permission. Chernov nodded.
The head of security spoke to Agapov for a few minutes. He read high points from the papers. He gave Chernov’s name and rank and department. He asked Agapov for instructions. Then he hung up.
“Are you to refuse us?” Chernov asked, eyes lit with curiosity.
“No,” the head of security said, “but I’m to make it a challenge.”
“Do you feel that is wise?” Chernov asked.
They agreed that it was not. That the head of security would do exactly nothing to delay or complicate the transfer, but if pressed Chernov would insist resistance had been irritating, even formidable. Then they descended into the vault, where Chernov walked the rows, fingers gliding along the cages holding the gold bars, one of the police officers trailing behind to check the serial numbers against the papers they carried to make this robbery legal. Once Chernov was satisfied, his men began packing.
They filled the bottom of each crate, spreading a thick cloth over the gold. They added two more layers until they feared that the gold might buckle the crates. Then they sealed on the tops with wood screws, affixing premade labels to note the run of serial numbers each crate contained. The bank’s security men did not draw their guns; no one touched radios or phones. They stood dumbly at attention. What is to be done when the police are robbing you?
The head of security watched the crates scud by with the forlorn expression of a man watching the burglary of his own home.
And then, unable to help himself, he muttered about Chernov stealing Andrei Agapov’s gold.
Chernov turned to him. “You say this is Agapov’s gold?” His voice was measured, though he could now feel his blood twisting and sloshing through him like mercury. A hint of salt and metal flickered on the tip of his tongue.
The head of security examined his reflection in his shoes, his hands on his hips in anger, but he held his tongue.
“I asked,” Chernov said, “if it is your position that this gold belongs to Andrei Agapov.”
The man raised his head but did not meet Chernov’s eyes. “The paperwork admits as much.”
“Then I ask you this,” Chernov said. “Who owns Andrei Agapov?”
The head of security fiddled with his tie. He was sniffling, Adam’s apple bobbing away.
Chernov sighed. Few understood. “The lawless power of Russia redeems God,” Chernov said. “A failed God becomes one with Russia through this redemptive work. So it is God, ultimately, who owns this gold. Do you see?”
The man was swallowing harder now, fingers tugging at his tie knot. He did not reply. He did not meet Chernov’s gaze.
Crates slid past.
Chernov led the man by the shoulder toward an empty crate. A policeman was stapling a label onto the wood. Chernov told him to stop, give us a moment. The taste was thick now—had he bitten his tongue? He swabbed his mouth with a finger, but it glistened clean and clear.
“Ideas,” Chernov said, “are the only weapons capable of obliterating history, fact, and truth. As good Russians, you and I understand their power. In the last century millions of our compatriots nobly suffered under the banner of once-obscure ideas. I pray that many more will follow in the one to come.”
Still clutching the man’s shoulder, Chernov motioned to the empty crate. “Get inside.”
“What?”
Chernov’s grip tightened. He peered into the crate and down through the bottom into the dark hole in the Syrian countryside where they’d stuffed him for months. And he knew that the black vine stretching through his body was what this banker must feel now.
Chernov emerged from Syria to watch another crate slide toward the vault’s freight elevators. “Get in.”
A thin line of sweat dappled the man’s hairline. Chernov’s massive hand softly brushed the man’s earlobe and slid gently onto his neck.
“Please,” the man said. “Please.”
“Get in.”
Chernov’s thumb moved just inside the man’s ear. They looked at each other for a moment.
The man stepped inside the crate.
“Sit down.”
He folded up his quivering legs and sat.
Chernov stooped over him. “My idea of Russia is that of a body. A perfect, God-born, virginal body. Made of cells, just like our own. And these cells have roles. Each its proper function. If a cell does not function, then it must be cut from the body.”
“Please,” the man said. “Don’t.”
“Lie down,” Chernov said, “so you are snug.”
The man did. Then he shut his eyes.
Chernov picked up the top and stood casting a shadow over the crate. He chewed on his cheek until blood at last spurted into his mouth. “I have a message for Agapov from my master: We are worried that your cell no longer functions. That it seeks sinful freedom. That the stubborn former KGB general, the scrappy industrialist, the proud landholder, has become convinced that his own person, family, and money are separable from the Russian state. That Agapov, as an individual with rights and protections under the law . . . well, the old fool imagines now that he can do what he likes. But the loss of this gold tonight should demonstrate that the law is nothing but ritual, it is a glorious gesture of subjugation to our leader. Power and violence trump the law, and violence is what will come if Agapov continues to put his interests above those of Russia. Evil begins where the person begins. There is only the Russian nation, there are no people. There is no Agapov.”
Then Chernov slid on the top. He took a drill and brought it to full rev and drove the first screw into the wood.
“Oh God,” the man screamed, “oh God.”
- 4 -
RusFarm, outside Saint Petersburg
ANNA ANDREEVNA AGAPOVA HEARD THE WHINE OF THE BRAKES AND felt the mansion pressing down from above. She looked out the car window: Nearly every room was dark. They were always dark. Four of the staff shuffled cautiously down the wet marble steps under the glow of the lanterns and the brutal horsehead gargoyles. It always cheered her to see the consequences of her husband’s awful design sensibilities, but unfortunately none of the staff slipped on the slick stone. A squat woman opened the door and Anna put her blood-red Louboutin boots onto the gravel and stuffed her hands in her pockets.
She looked up at the house again, but now the sight of it made her angry, so she turned to squint at the lights illuminating the racecourse and the roofs of the stables beyond. How many horses out there now? Probably more than one hundred. Sleet was picking up, slivers in the quickening wind. And it was only October. God, she detested the Saint Petersburg winter. Wet and frigid and gunmetal-gray. The inspiration for a litany of suicidal Russian literature. Anna, like everyone else, simply called the city Piter. Eyes still on the stables, she asked the woman, “Where is he?”
“The office,” the woman said, “but he’s—”
“My dear,” her father’s voice broke in. She turned to see Andrei Agapov emerge from the foyer. The staff stood silent and stock-still in his presence. His white hair was neatly combed. He was well dressed in trim slacks and a cashmere sweater. But his eyes looked exhausted. His face had the pallor of an ashtray. Anna did not have details, but the urgency of this meeting and his relocation to RusFarm hinted at a man in the crosshairs of conspiracy.
“How was the trip?” he asked.
“Fine. Easy.” She stopped at the top of the steps, just before the threshold.
“I’d like to speak with you now,” he said. He motioned for the staff to collect Anna’s bags. The squat woman opened the trunk and stared. It was empty.
“I’m not spending the night here,” Anna said.
He waved Anna into the foyer with a scowl. She shook her head.
He tilted his to the side. “Just for a moment,” he said. “It’s cold. Come in, I’ll get my coat. Then we can talk outside in this snow”—he waved up at the sleet—“otherwise we might end up cleaning the damn stuff in endless Siberia.” Again he waved, and it said: Come on inside, little girl.
Anna smiled and blew frosty breath into the sky at the euphemism for jail time. She jerked her head away from the house. “I’ll wait out here while you get your coat. Maybe we talk at the racecourse or in the stable?”
Then Anna heard a faint buzz. She turned to listen and it grew louder. Blades beating the air. She knew this one’s sound. “The CIA?” she asked.
He laughed, shook his head, and went inside for his coat.
PAPAS FAVORITE HELICOPTER HAD ONCE BEEN OWNED BY THE CIA. IT was a Soviet-made, twin-engine Mil Mi-17 that Langley had flown in the opening days of the war against the Taliban in 2001. When the mullahs retook Kabul, they had captured this one and sent it to Moscow as a gift. Her father said he’d won it in a bet with the Minister of Defense. She’d never asked what he’d wagered.
In the helo they shared a flask of Papa’s favorite Dagestani cognac. There were several gun cases and sheaths—some quite large. A crate groaning with ammunition. What looked to be a rocket-propelled grenade launcher spread on the floor. Two silent pilots. The two Agapovs, father and daughter.
This cargo hovered upward, bound for the shooting range on Rus-Farm’s southern edge. A tattered moon peeked through the clouds. They did not even try to speak over the rotors. The helicopter paused for a moment before it swung into a descent. Anna steadied herself on a handle.
They stepped down through the wash of rotors and onto a gravel drive that led to the shooting range. The pilots unloaded the weapons. Her father sipped at his cognac while he watched. The sleet had grown into swollen snowflakes. “It’s been a while since we did some shooting together, Anya,” he said, hand on her shoulder. “I thought it might be nice.”
Papa clicked a switch and floodlights drenched the range. The pilots left the weapons on a wooden table behind the firing line and went to warm themselves in the helicopter.
Anna examined the armory. There was an MP-443 semiautomatic pistol, known as the PYa, or pistolet yarygina, the Russian military’s standard sidearm. Too boring for Papa’s collection—what was it doing here? There was an RPK-74 machine gun with the bipod and a Kalashnikov grenade launcher. Where was her favorite? Had he forgotten? She saw an ADS amphibious assault rifle. Then an ancient AK-47 fabricated for the initial Soviet military trials in 1947. It still worked.
Finally she found it: a velvety black case the length of a pen. She clicked it open and smiled at the tube. A lipstick gun. The Kiss of Death. The original design dated to the KGB days: single-shot, 4.5-millimeter, wildly inaccurate, not once used in the field. The techs had updated Papa’s model in the nineties. The sole operational purpose had been his amusement. The tube now fired a single nine-millimeter round. To make the guns easier to smuggle, the firing device had been designed so actual lipstick could snuggle over its top, underneath the cap. But Papa’s dusty model had long since lost its waxy pink hat.
He watched her turn it over in her hands. “You and that damn thing,” he said.
She clicked it shut and returned the case to the box.
Papa chose the AK-47. Steel targets hung downrange in front of an earthen berm the height of a two-story building. He fired, adjusting his aim until there came the sustained and satisfying clink of rounds meeting steel. Then the click of an empty magazine.
“Why are you at the farm?” she asked.
“I’ve got men doing a sweep up in Repino,” he said. “I’m worried it’s all wired up. Needed a place to work in the meantime. Here.” He handed her the AK-47.
Anna clicked in a fresh magazine. Flicked the safety off. She pinned the stock into her shoulder and reached under the gun with her left hand, fingers outstretched so she wouldn’t scrape her knuckles on the receiver. She quickly slid back the charger with her thumb. Anna looked downrange. She bent her knees, squared her shoulders, and leaned in a bit. She rolled her shoulder into the stock until it was snuggled near her collarbone. Gripped the magazine. Looked down the sight at the dangling steel plate. Squeezed the trigger. Her small frame swallowed the jarring recoil. Clink.
Twenty more rounds, eighteen clinks. Not bad, though Papa wouldn’t say a kind word about it. They went shooting when they were getting along well. And it had been a while. She flicked on the safety and set down the gun. He joined her at the table, handed her the flask, and produced a folder from the pocket inside his sheepskin greatcoat. He set it on her lap.
“You brought your Repino office in your coat, I see,” she said between sips. “What is this?”
“Something I should not have. But first I will tell you why I have it.” He took the cognac. “Yesterday evening, an FSB officer from Internal Security, a Lieutenant Colonel called Chernov, arrived at the bank with papers authorizing him to transfer my gold to a strategic reserve, supposedly a military bunker out east. Lies, of course. It was a robbery, pure and simple. They made off with over two hundred bars of my gold. Packed my head of security into a damn crate and shipped him to me with a psychotic message that I’m to bend the fucking knee. Poor bastard worked his fingers down to bloody nubs clawing at the walls of the box. Took almost three hours to get his wits about him so he could pass the message.”
Papa’s eyes were wolfish, fists balled so tightly that when he uncoiled them a spot of blood blossomed on his palm where he’d sunk in a fingernail. He sucked at the cut.
Anna sipped cognac until Papa could speak again.
Then he whispered, “This Chernov works for Goose, Anya. The message is from Goose.”
The name seemed to open her coat to the looming Piter winter. Vassily Platonovich Gusev. Goose. Former Director of the FSB, current Secretary of the Security Council, one of Putin’s closest advisers. Across three decades, her father and Goose had waged a proper Russian power struggle—long on blood, short on victory. The captains still stood, though, warily eyeing each other across the field.
