Treason, page 3
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?”
The man’s eyes moved over her body, coming to rest on her face. “You are even more attractive in person, and your resemblance to Kalinin’s deceased wife is remarkable. I see why he is enamored with you. But none of that will matter once Kalinin leaves office.”
“Why is that?’
“Kalinin’s order is valid only as long as he is president. The day he steps down as Russia’s president will be your last day alive.”
Instead of the agent’s threat spawning fear, Christine’s anger began to simmer. Her eyes went to the pistol, still pointed at her. “Last I heard, Kalinin is still president. So why are you here?”
“To deliver a message from our new director. He appreciates your role in his promotion, but he is bound to the code. He—”the agent paused, then spread his hands out to his sides,“—we will enjoy watching you live your remaining days in fear.”
“That’s it? You came here to scare me?”
“Actually,” the man said, “I was hoping for more.” He placed the pistol on the table and pushed it toward Christine, stopping when it was within her reach. He leaned back in his chair.
“If the situation were to get out of hand today, ending in your unfortunate death…”
Christine examined the pistol; it was halfway between them.
“Go ahead. Take it.”
Even if she reached it first, did he have another gun? She surveyed his jacket for another bulge, seeing none. Her eyes went back to the gun, which she suddenly recognized: a Glock 26, the same type she’d been given outside China’s Great Hall of the People. The same type she’d bought and was upstairs in—
The gun on the table was hers.
The realization must have played across her face, because the agent admitted, “Yes, Christine. It’s your pistol. You should take it.”
She looked at the gun again. The magazine was inserted, but there was no way to know if he’d stripped the bullets. Plus, if the gun on the table was hers, his was undoubtedly within easy reach. As she debated her odds of survival if she went for the gun, something the man said earlier echoed in her mind.
Fortunately for you, President Kalinin has directed us to refrain from retribution.
She didn’t need the gun.
Christine leaned forward. “Get out. And if you step foot in here again, I’ll put a bullet in you.”
The SVR agent stood and retrieved the pistol, releasing the magazine onto the table. It was loaded. “You should have taken the gun. You would’ve had a chance, however slim.”
Christine pointed toward the door. “Get out!”
The man slipped the magazine into his pocket. “Good night, Miss O’Connor.”
After the man left, Christine moved swiftly to the door and locked it, then evaluated her predicament. Despite her resignation, it appeared she couldn’t walk away from what she’d done in Russia. She grabbed the gun and headed upstairs, entering her bedroom closet. After retrieving a case from the top shelf, she lifted the lid and verified the Glock was hers; it was missing from the case, as was one of the two magazines. She pulled back the pistol’s slide, verifying the chamber was empty, then inserted the magazine and released the slide, chambering a round.
As she held the pistol, she took a deep, shaky breath and tried to focus. What happened in Russia wasn’t her fault. Gorev had tormented her, telling her she’d be fish food at the bottom of the Black Sea by morning. What was she supposed to have done? Let him put a bullet in her head and toss her into the sea? After what she’d been through, the danger she found herself in now was decidedly unfair. A rage began to build, her face becoming flush with anger. She placed the pistol in the top drawer of her nightstand and slammed it shut, knocking over a portrait of her mother.
Christine righted the picture, studying her mom’s features. She took after her mother more than her father, her mom’s Russian genetics dominating. She couldn’t argue with the agent’s comment about her resemblance to Kalinin’s wife, who had died of cancer not long after he was elected president. When Kalinin had shown Natasha’s picture to her in his Kremlin office, it was like looking into a mirror.
She was grateful Kalinin had intervened, delaying the SVR’s retribution. However, it appeared he didn’t have firm control of his SVR, with the new director sending one of his minions to torment her. Perhaps Kalinin should be informed. During her last visit to Moscow, he’d given her his personal cell phone number after inviting her to spend the weekend, hoping for a favorable answer. She’d declined the invitation, but still had the number. She checked her watch; it was 8 a.m. in Moscow.
Christine returned to her kitchen and pulled her cell phone from her purse. She scrolled through her contacts, selecting Kalinin’s personal number, then hit Send.
The phone went immediately to voicemail.
She selected Kalinin’s work number—his Kremlin office. As the phone rang, she realized she should probably be polite, but her anger was boiling over.
When the call was answered, Christine said, “This is American National Security Advisor Christine O’Connor. I have a message for President Kalinin. You tell him—”
“One moment please.” The secretary placed her on hold.
Christine’s frustration built further at the rude interruption, and she paced around the kitchen island while she waited.
The secretary spoke again. “Miss O’Connor?”
Christine picked up where she left off. “You tell President Kalinin—”
“You can tell him yourself. He is on the line.”
Christine’s words caught in her throat. Before she could continue, Kalinin spoke.
“This is President Kalinin.”
Christine collected her thoughts, deciding it was best to tamp down on her anger. “President Kalinin, thank you for taking my call.”
“It is my pleasure. How can I help?”
“One of your SVR agents broke into my house and threatened me tonight.” After providing the details, she said, “I want to thank you for intervening, sparing my life for now. But if another agent breaks into my home again, I’ll either kill him myself or have someone do it for me. I’m sure there are a few people in Langley,” Christine said, referring to CIA headquarters, “who’d be happy to oblige.”
There was silence on the line. As Christine awaited a response, she worried that she’d come across too strong. Kalinin had intervened to save her life after all, and perhaps she should have been more grateful.
Finally, Kalinin spoke. “Thank you for informing me. I apologize for this incident and will address the matter.”
Christine let out a slow breath. This had gone much better than it could have.
Kalinin then said, “Let me make amends for today’s unfortunate event. The next round of nuclear arms reduction negotiations is in Moscow in two weeks. Afterwards, I’d be delighted if you joined me for the weekend at my summer residence in Gelendzhik.”
It was Christine’s turn for silence. Kalinin was an attractive man and only ten years older than her. Age wasn’t an issue, but Kalinin was Russia’s president and Christine was America’s national security advisor. She had trouble wrapping her mind around the complications created by a liaison between them, much less an intimate relationship, even if it began after she resigned.
After a short wait, Kalinin said, “This is the third time I have extended an invitation. I will not ask again.”
On the other hand, in light of what she’d just learned, keeping Kalinin in the friends column seemed like a really good idea. But a weekend with Kalinin wasn’t something she could agree to on the spur of the moment. She stalled for time.
“I’ll have to discuss this with the president and his legal counsel first.”
“I understand. I look forward to hearing from you.”
The line went dead, and Christine exhaled between pursed lips. The elation she’d felt after handing in her resignation had evaporated. She’d been handed a death sentence, to be executed on Kalinin’s last day in office. She searched her memory for details on his term as president, recalling that the next Russian presidential election was less than a year away. A knot formed in her stomach.
7
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
President Kalinin hung up the phone, his eyes going to the man seated on the other side of his desk, who was wearing a disapproving frown. Kalinin addressed Josef Hippchenko, the new director of the SVR, whose meeting with Kalinin this morning had been interrupted by America’s national security advisor.
“Did you direct a visit with O’Connor?” Kalinin asked.
“I may have mentioned it to a subordinate.”
“I believe my order was clear.”
“It was,” Hippchenko admitted. “What’s also clear is the price she must pay. You are only delaying the inevitable. When you step down as president, I—or my successor—will give the order.”
“I will deal with that when the time comes. Until then, you will not harm her.”
“Why do you protect her? You barely know this woman.”
“That’s something I intend to rectify.”
“She killed your defense minister and SVR director, and not only are you going to let her waltz back into our country, you’re going to take her to dinner. If you establish a relationship with her and the public finds out what she did, you’re finished.”
“Then I recommend you ensure they don’t find out.”
Hippchenko chose his words carefully, trying to keep the frustration from bleeding through. “Do you remember one of the first mantras you learned when you joined the SVR? How to obtain leverage against your opponent? When it comes to sex, don’t underestimate a man’s stupidity. Men will risk their marriage, their career, and a lifetime’s reputation for a few minutes of pleasure.”
“I’m not talking about a few minutes of pleasure,” Kalinin replied.
Hippchenko slammed his hand on the president’s desk. “But the outcome will be the same!” He stood. “I will not be part of this folly.”
Kalinin glared at his SVR director. “Sit down.” When Hippchenko remained standing, Kalinin repeated, “Sit down!”
Hippchenko sank into the chair, his gaze locked on Kalinin.
The Russian president stared at Hippchenko for a moment, then pushed back from his desk, retrieving a bottle of cognac and two glasses from the credenza behind him. He placed the glasses on his desk and poured two drinks. He pushed one to Hippchenko. The SVR director took a sip, as did Kalinin.
Hippchenko spoke first. “I know how much you miss Natasha and that Christine somehow fills that void. But it is unwise to pursue a relationship with an American woman.”
“Christine is half Russian.”
“She’s American. She doesn’t even speak Russian.”
“Still,” Kalinin said, “her being half Russian provides an avenue for public approval should our … friendship be discovered. Besides, Russia has a long history of its leaders marrying foreigners. Peter the Great married a Polish-Lithuanian woman, Alexander III married a Dane, and most of the later Russian rulers, including the last tsar, married Germans.”
“The last tsar was executed.”
Kalinin stared at Hippchenko. “Bad example. But I believe I’ve made my point. A relationship with a foreigner would not be unprecedented.”
Hippchenko shrugged. “You are not a tsar, and things are different today. Public opinion is fickle, and it could easily turn against you.”
“I’m not planning on marrying the woman,” Kalinin replied. “I’m interested in a few social visits. Get to know her better. Afterwards, if we decide to pursue a relationship, I’ll reevaluate the matter.”
Hippchenko took another sip as he assessed the situation. “You have many political enemies, and some of them know that Christine killed Chernov and Gorev. They will use that against you if they learn you’ve established an intimate relationship with her. I recommend we keep your friendship with Christine discreet for now.”
“I agree. I’ve invited her to join me at Gelendzhik. I’d like you to make the travel arrangements so her detour to the Black Sea isn’t discovered.”
Hippchenko nodded. “It’s your political future.”
8
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
In his office in the Ministry of Defense headquarters in Moscow’s Arbat District, General Sergei Andropov studied the three men seated on the other side of his desk. Colonel Generals Alexei Volodin and Viktor Glukov, commanders-in-chief of the Aerospace and Ground Forces, respectively, along with Fleet Admiral Oleg Lipovsky, would have to commit their support for Andropov’s plan to succeed. Although he didn’t know how they’d respond, he was confident their discussion today would remain confidential.
The four men shared a common bond. They had dedicated their lives to protecting the Motherland, and all options to achieve that goal were worthy of discussion. Andropov’s plan would not be shared with the new defense minister, however. Andropov didn’t know Nechayev well enough to judge his reaction to today’s proposal, plus Andropov didn’t trust politicians anyway. Only the men who wore the uniform could be trusted to act in Russia’s best interest, unfettered by political ambition or public opinion polls.
With the three officers waiting patiently for Andropov to begin, he launched into his prepared remarks. “The opportunity to demonstrate the Zolotov option occurs in eighteen days. We will then have a long window of opportunity during which the United States, and by extension NATO, will be paralyzed. It will take years for America to undo what we’ve done. By then, the actions we’ll have taken along our border will be ancient history. NATO will realize we pose no threat to Western Europe.”
“The Baltic States will not agree with your assessment,” Admiral Lipovsky said.
“They should not be part of NATO to begin with!” Andropov snapped. “They provide no value to the Alliance, but NATO was eager to add them for the sole purpose of irritating us. Ukraine and Finland have expressed interest in joining NATO, leaving Belarus as our sole ally to the west. NATO will not stop until they have turned all of our neighbors against us. We will then be at the West’s mercy, like we were at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War. Everything we’ve achieved since then will be for naught.”
After none of the three men disagreed with his assertion, Andropov continued. “We are at a crossroads, presented with an opportunity that may not occur again. We’ve spent ten years implementing the Zolotov option, but without demonstrating its capability, we gain nothing from it.”
General Volodin reminded him, “It was supposed to be an insurance policy. It was not meant to be used offensively.”
“Times are different today. Our border security has eroded even further than when the Soviet Union dissolved. We must do something to keep NATO from encroaching on our doorstep. We can no longer leave it to the political whims of our neighbors. Regrettably, we must be more forceful.”
General Glukov replied, “You presented this option to President Kalinin, and he declined to pursue it.”
“Kalinin is weak. Chernov convinced him to proceed last time, but Nechayev is too new, unwilling to guide the president toward the correct answer. That leaves the four of us. We must make the decision for Kalinin.”
“What is your plan?” Glukov asked.
“We will demonstrate the Zolotov option, then secure our borders. The Zapad war games have been scheduled to coincide with this opportunity, providing over one hundred thousand mobilized troops that can immediately pivot to the west. NATO generals will still be drinking their morning coffee by the time we’ve seized our objectives, and additional Russian forces will flow into the seized territories within forty-eight hours. With the Zolotov option preventing the United States from interfering, NATO will have no choice but to cede the territory.”
