Collateral (Tier One #6)

Bocharov Creek 2

Sochi, Russia

September 19

1340 Local Time

Arkady Zhukov shrugged off his suit coat and folded it over his left forearm while he stood and watched Russian President Vladimir Petrov exercise. Petrov had converted what had probably been a very nice dining lanai into a self-indulgent, open-air fitness center. Very expensive-looking exercise contraptions of every shape and size were arranged in a U shape around a section of padded, open floor space. When the opportunity presented itself, Petrov liked to make a spectacle of his workouts, often inviting guests, VIPs, and even visiting heads of state to join him for a “training” session. Most refused to participate, but Petrov didn’t care. Exercising, per se, was a charade. The point was to create an asymmetry. Make his guests uncomfortable. Knock the other party off kilter so they became distracted, insecure, or both.

No one was immune to the treatment.

Once, Petrov had insisted Arkady conduct a post-op debrief in a dry sauna—heated to an unbearable eighty degrees Celsius—while Petrov sat naked, trimming his toenails. Another time, the President had demanded Arkady accompany him to a hydration therapy session, and he would not let Arkady speak until they were both hooked up to IVs with vitamin-infused saline flowing. It was growing harder and harder to get the Russian President’s attention, and the man was taking ever greater pleasure in pushing the boundaries of subservience and sycophancy. The unspoken message was clear: You may be standing beside me, but there is a canyon between us.

“I’m sweating and I’m not even working out,” Arkady said with a chuckle, his second attempt to get Petrov to engage.

The Russian President grunted, not in acknowledgment but from strain. The machine he was presently using, a seated chest press, faced away from Arkady so its user could look out onto the lush and manicured grounds of Bocharov Creek 2. Petrov loved Sochi and took every opportunity to govern from his half-billion-dollar summer “dacha” nestled on the coast of the Black Sea. Arkady recognized the allure. With its mild climate and Russian Riviera aspirations, Sochi glowed with an aura of self-importance, attracting money and power brokers like moths to a flame. But not Arkady—at his core he was a Muscovite. Strategic briefs somehow didn’t feel, well, Russian when conducted on a terrace with the sea breeze blowing in his face.

“If you prefer, I can come back another time,” Arkady said, making a quarter turn to leave.

Petrov finished his last rep, arched his back, and shook out his arms at his sides. Then, with a sigh, he climbed off the seat to face Arkady. “You should change into a tracksuit and join me,” he said with a humorless smile. “You could probably use the exercise, old man.”

“I’m retired,” Arkady said. “Old retired Russians don’t exercise.”

“You’re not retired. You’re just lazy, Arkady.”

A dozen clever, biting retorts populated Arkady’s mind, but he held his tongue. Petrov was in one of his moods and verbal sparring would only antagonize the Russian President. Petrov had lost his sense of humor years ago, and after all . . . tsars don’t self-deprecate. “Anyway, I don’t think I’ll—”

“What do you want, Arkady?” Petrov said, cutting him off as he walked to a new machine.

Arkady swallowed and forced his cheek muscles to relax.

One thing at a time, he reminded himself. With Petrov it was best to limit each interaction to one topic and one topic only. As of yet, he’d neglected to inform the Russian President that he’d lost six Zeta field operatives to American-led assassinations over the past two months. Now was not the time to break that news. And if he was honest with himself, the window for disclosure of the truth had probably closed. Best-case scenario, Petrov would see the repression of the information as a failure of professional judgment; worst case, he’d view it as treason. In Petrov’s mind, all Russian assets—even human ones—belonged to him. All intelligence was his to know. All decisions were his to make. In his mind, he was the nexus of all things within and touching the Russian Federation. For Arkady to interfere with or disrupt the flow of information was an unpardonable sin. And so, this morning, they would not be discussing Zeta’s recent losses in the shadow war raging with Ember. Instead, Arkady would chum the water with much more enticing bait for the great white shark eyeing him from two meters away.

“There’s been an interesting development in Ukraine I wanted to brief you on,” the spymaster said.

“Tell me,” Petrov said, adjusting a pin in the weight stack in preparation for his next set.

“I have a man embedded inside Ultra in Kiev . . . sowing dissention and stirring up trouble. Typical stuff.”

“A Zeta?”

“Yes.”

Petrov nodded his approval. “Remind me, what is this other group? Ultra, you say?”

“They’re Ukrainian ultra-right-wing nationalists, like National Corps and C-14, only more extreme.”

“In other words, a nuisance,” Petrov said, starting a set of seated rows. “Why are you wasting my time with this?”

“Because something interesting and unexpected has happened with this group . . . they’re planning to assassinate Ukrainian President Zinovenko.”

Petrov released the handlebars mid-pull and let the stack of weights slam home with a resounding metallic clang. “What! Are you serious?”

“Da,” Arkady said with a nod. “Dead serious.”

“Why would they do this?”

“Because, they are furious about the Donbas treaty. They think by ending the war and giving the separatists in the Donetsk People’s Republic autonomy, Zinovenko has betrayed them and betrayed Ukraine. My man has convinced Ultra leadership that Zinovenko is weak and that he’s a puppet—catering to western liberalism while at the same time taking Russian bribes. He’s promulgating the narrative that the Donbas agreement is only the first step and that Zinovenko plans to cede control of more Ukrainian territory in the coming months.”

A giddy smile spread across the Russian President’s face, the likes of which Arkady had rarely seen. Petrov clapped his hands together and then suddenly did a little celebratory dance to some imaginary party track before saying, “Glorious. I couldn’t make this shit up in my wildest dreams!”

“I know, but wait, there’s more . . .”

“More?” Petrov said, eyes wide with delight.

“Yes, they are planning the attack when the American Vice President arrives to sign the treaty. They want to kill Zinovenko and Tenet at the same time.”

The smile faded from Petrov’s face as the wheels in his head processed this new detail. Vice President Tenet’s assassination changed the calculus completely—the stakes, the opportunities, the risk of retribution, the geopolitical aftermath . . .

“Hmmm,” Petrov said and started to pace.

“What to do, what to do, what to do?” Arkady said, vocalizing what they both were thinking. “It’s a quandary, isn’t it?”

“Da,” Petrov said, walking to the railing and looking out into the garden. “My first inclination is to shut it down, but on the other hand . . .”

“I know. Your head’s in the same place as mine when I got the report.”

“How do they plan to do it? The security is going to be insane. I know these ultranationalists are fighters, but short of lending them a squad of Spetsnaz, I don’t see how they can pull it off.”

“They stole a Javelin missile from the Eastern front and plan to shoot it from a half-kilometer offset, outside the patrol perimeter. This weapon is not like a sniper round or a rocket-propelled grenade. It uses a seeker guidance system. It doesn’t have to fly a straight trajectory to hit the target.”

Petrov spun around, the giddy enthusiasm returned to his face. “Unbelievable! I love these Ultra guys. They’ve got balls . . . very big balls.” His gaze went to the middle distance while he considered, and then he nodded. “Okay. I like it, but what is our contribution?”

“Very limited. My man helps them plan the hit and makes sure they don’t chicken out at the last minute.”

“Good.”

“Most importantly, Ultra takes all the blame. It was their plan, they stole the missile, they take credit for the attack.”

Petrov nodded, the decision made. “Very well, I will send Prime Minister Vavilov to the treaty signing. That way we lose somebody important, too.”

“What?” Arkady said, a lump suddenly forming in his throat.

“It’s a fair trade, one Russian Prime Minister for one serving Ukrainian President and one future American President. Besides, Russia doesn’t need a Prime Minister. I was going to ask Vavilov for his resignation in the coming months anyway. This just accelerates the timeline and gives us ironclad plausible deniability on the world stage. In fact . . .” Petrov stopped midsentence.

Arkady felt a shift—one that caused gooseflesh to stand up on the back of his neck. “Go on,” he coaxed.

“I’m getting ahead of myself,” Petrov said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We wait and see if the operation is a success before we talk next steps. You have the green light, Arkady. Make it happen.”

“Mr. President,” Arkady said, a cautious timbre to his voice. “Are you sure about Prime Minister Vavilov? I’m certain we could identify another, less significant, cabinet official to attend.”

“No,” Petrov said, his voice a hard line. “It has to be Yuri. It should be Yuri. The timing is perfect.”

“Respectfully, I disagree. Vavilov is—”

“Is what?” Petrov snapped. “An important figurehead who in reality contributes nothing? A politician’s politician, patiently loitering in my shadow so he can drive a knife in my back when the winds change? Say it, old man—Vavilov is what?”

“I was going to say that Vavilov is a loyal and competent ally. That he has done everything you’ve asked of him and more, while playing his role perfectly without drawing undue attention to himself. He will be a hard man to replace.”

“Were you not listening?” Petrov shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “I don’t need a Prime Minister. Russia doesn’t need a Prime Minister. Russia needs me. Only me. Forever.”

Arkady inclined his head. “My apologies, Mr. President. You’re right, of course. I’ll set the operation in motion and keep you updated as things develop.”

“Very well,” Petrov said and walked back to the seated row machine. “On your way out, if you see Tatia, send her in with a lemon water. I’m thirsty.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Arkady said, turning to leave. “I’ll see if I can find her.”

He walked out of the gym and didn’t stop until he reached the Mercedes G wagon parked in the drive at the front of the property. The driver, one of Petrov’s staff, looked up from his mobile phone when Arkady approached.

“Airport,” Arkady said and let himself into the back seat.

The driver nodded, walked around the vehicle, and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Are you in a hurry, sir?” he asked, starting the ignition.

“Nyet,” Arkady said, propping an elbow on the armrest. “There’s no need to rush.”

“Was everything okay with your visit?” the driver said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“Everything was perfect,” the old spymaster said, looking out the window as they pulled away.

But this, of course, was a fiction. Everything was not perfect.

Far from it.

He pulled out his mobile phone and sent a simple text message to his man in Kiev confirming the assassination operation was greenlit: мечта. The reply from Gavriil Osinov, the most capable Zeta in his rapidly thinning ranks, came less than a minute later: пробудиться.

He exhaled audibly and returned his phone to his pocket. With that out of the way, his mind turned to Petrov and the conversation they’d had only moments ago. He’d not anticipated the Vavilov move, and he silently cursed himself for not seeing it. Prime Minister Vavilov was an important part of Arkady’s endgame. The man was feckless, but the Russian people liked him. Losing Vavilov now would make things much more difficult for Arkady later.

Petrov’s getting worse. Maybe it’s time? Arkady thought, scratching an itch on the side of his neck. No, not yet.

Not yet . . .