Collateral (Tier One #6)

The Kremlin

Moscow, Russia

September 25

0922 Local Time

Arkady had never seen the Kremlin buzzing like this.

Never.

The hallways were packed with men in uniform—their expressions granite serious, their heel strikes echoing as they moved with purpose up and down the hallways. Armed security personnel had seemingly been posted at every doorway, and administrative staff were zipping about like frantic drones in a rattled hive. And for a moment, Arkady just stood in the middle, taking it all in with the wide-eyed fascination of a child visiting Disney World for the first time.

If these idiots only knew the truth . . .

“Director Zhukov,” a voice said, and he felt a light touch on his left shoulder.

He turned to find Petrov’s assistant, Tatia, standing behind him.

“Hello, Tatia,” he said, smiling at the young woman. “They wouldn’t let me past this new checkpoint.”

“I know,” she said with an insider’s smile. “That’s because you’re not on their list . . . Thankfully, you’re on mine.”

He shrugged. “One can never be so sure. Opinion in the Kremlin changes like the seasons. I was wondering if I’d been excommunicated.”

“Quite the opposite,” she said, showing the uniformed soldier her gold Presidential badge. “From what I understand, you’re the man of the hour.”

The guard nodded at her, handed Arkady a temporary gold badge on a lanyard, and waved them past.

“Man of the hour, huh?” he said, resuming their conversation.

“Indeed. Your circle of admirers is small, but noteworthy.”

Interesting, Arkady thought. She’s been read in on the false flag Ultra operation in Kiev. Apparently, Petrov is not immune to pillow talk. I’ll have to keep that in mind . . .

“And what about you, Tatia? What circle do you find yourself occupying these days?”

“An interesting question,” she said, glancing at him sideways as they walked. “Is it possible for my heart to be in one place, while my body is trapped in another?”

“Oh, I think so,” he said, nodding. “A conundrum only a true Russian could appreciate.”

“Like deciding between tea or coffee?” she said, her voice dropping to just above a whisper.

“Yes, very much like that.” He slowed their pace, lest they arrive too soon. This conversation was just starting to get interesting. “As you know, I prefer coffee. While our President prefers tea. Which do you prefer, Tatia?”

“Well, this morning I had tea, and it was so hot it scalded my mouth,” she said, her heels clicking hard with each step. “As the day wanes and the sun begins to set, I could see myself yearning for a nice iced coffee to soothe the burn.”

“I completely understand,” he said, admiring her brazen and skillful attempt at tradecraft. They’d had so few interactions over the past year, and all of them had been in Petrov’s presence. He’d once thought he’d sensed her reaching out, but he’d written it off as coy posturing. That was not what was happening now. “Maybe sometime our paths will cross on the street and I can introduce you to my favorite café in Moscow. It’s quite a remarkable place. So many options, depending on your mood and palate.”

“What is it called, this place?” she pressed.

“Café Tchaikovsky, on Triumfalnaya Square.”

“I think I know it. It would be fun to try . . . someday.”

“I travel a lot, as you might imagine, but when I’m in Moscow, I often stop there after work on Thursdays.”

“And if I miss you?”

“Oh, not to worry. The barista who works on Thursday afternoons, Svetlana, is very knowledgeable, and she can walk you through the menu of choices and help you find something to your liking.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tatia said and flashed him an inscrutable smile.

She escorted him to the closed doors outside the Security Council Meeting Room, where they waited, both silently contemplating if the other’s overture had been made with malign intent. It was entirely possible a paranoid Petrov had tasked Tatia to open a backchannel dialogue with Arkady to probe for indications of treachery and betrayal, but her style seemed to lack Presidential coaching. Petrov was too vain to permit an underling, especially a bedfellow, to even hint at personal dissatisfaction in a relationship with him. And he was too controlling to let Tatia come up with this script on her own. And yet, if Petrov was capable of getting out of his own head, if only for a moment, he would recognize this would be the only approach capable of fooling Arkady.

He looked at her—standing perfectly still and tall, her lithe body at rest and yet her posture so brazenly confident.

“Were you a dancer?” he asked.

“Everyone asks me this question,” she said through a sigh, “and I’m always tempted to say yes. Men love their romantic visions of Russian ballerinas, but no, I was never a dancer.”

“Too bad,” he murmured.

“You’re disappointed?”

“Not with you, but with myself. It seems I’ve proven myself as shallow and predictable as the rest of my kind. Now you will forever think of me as no less boorish than the rest.”

She looked up to heaven and pursed her lips in the Parisian fashion, as if to say: C’est la vie.

Ah yes, there it is, he thought, resisting the urge to smile. She was a model . . . an Aphroditic beauty Petrov probably saw in a photograph, stalked relentlessly, and then wooed into conscripted service.

“You’re not like the rest,” she said at last, fixing him with her glacier-blue eyes.

“Oh?” he said. “How so?”

“You’re much more dangerous.”

And on that cue, the doors to the Security Council Meeting Room opened and a legion of flag officers in the finest dress uniforms filed out in twos and threes. The tension and energy in their ranks was palpable; he could practically taste adrenaline on the air. Most of them glanced at Tatia as they walked past—a programmed reaction in the presence of such beauty—but a small handful looked past her to Arkady. Those who did, men who knew him by name or reputation, offered silent, deferential nods. Tatia’s words from before echoed in his mind: Your circle of admirers is small, but noteworthy.

Arkady accepted the acknowledgments from Russia’s top military brass with stoic mutual respect, all the while wondering what the hell was going on. He’d not been told about this meeting, let alone been invited to it, nor had he heard whispers in his network about the agenda. His stomach immediately went to acid as thoughts of Russian jets bombing Kiev and Russian armor rolling into Ukraine popped into his head. He shifted his gaze into the room, where only one man remained. Seated at the head of a vacant conference table—a table as long as a city bus—sat Vladimir Vladimirovich Petrov, President of the Russian Federation. And he was smiling.

Oh dear God, what has he done? Arkady thought as Tatia closed the doors behind him.

“What is that look, old friend?” Petrov said, gesturing to the empty seat at his right hand. “You look like you ate a bad oyster.”

Arkady didn’t even try to put on a mask. This was no time for games. “What the hell is going on?”

Petrov laughed, incredulity ripe on his face. “What a ridiculous question, especially coming from you.” When Arkady didn’t respond, the Russian President’s expression turned serious. Like a stage actor performing his lines, he said, “The Prime Minister was murdered by terrorists in Ukraine, Comrade Zhukov. This brazen act will not go unpunished.”

“And who, Mr. President, do you intend to punish?” Arkady asked, taking a seat.

“That’s the trouble,” Petrov said, his eyes still smiling. “It’s very difficult to know who was behind this egregious plot. Some people are saying that a right-wing Ukrainian ultranationalist group was responsible for the attack, but I’m not so sure. I told our military commanders that an in-depth investigation would be required to discover the truth. But I also told them that something like this would never happen in a stable, uncorrupted Ukraine. I am deeply concerned for the safety and welfare of our Russian-speaking brethren living across the border, not only in the Donbas, but across all of southern Ukraine. There are reports of Russians being attacked in the streets of Mariupol and rumors of civil unrest brewing in Odessa.”

“I’ve heard no such reports,” Arkady said, meeting the other man’s gaze.

“That’s because the Western media is suppressing the truth. But rest assured, anti-Russian forces are coalescing as we speak. I told Admiral Kresinoff that I’m growing increasingly worried about the safety and security of our naval base in Sevastopol. Crimea could be overrun by these Ukrainian nationalists at any minute.”

“I see . . . and you have decided to do what about it?”

“Two things,” Petrov replied. “First, I’ve instructed our military commanders to send peacekeeping troops into Mariupol and our Navy to take control of the Black Sea north of the forty-fifth parallel. We simply cannot risk things spiraling out of control.”

“And second?” Arkady said, dreading what could possibly be coming next.

“I want your Zetas to conduct an operation to make it look like the Ukrainian military has fired missiles at our forces in Mariupol. I need justification to escalate and you’re going to give it to me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious.”

Arkady tasted bile. He swallowed it down and said, “Vladimir, please, don’t do this.”

His use of the familiar visibly irked Petrov, confirming that the strength of their bond was strained to the point of fraying. Twenty-five years of friendship, mentorship, and cooperation mattered little to a mind thoroughly and completely corrupted by power.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Petrov said with a frosty smile.

“If you do this, then you’re starting World War Three,” Arkady said, undeterred. “You caught the world by surprise with Crimea, and that time it worked. The Donbas treaty is another victory. But this obsession with reclaiming Novorossiya must end. We’ve pushed President Warner into a corner, and there is nowhere left for him to retreat. If you do this, mark my words, he will send American ground troops to Ukraine. Any moves we make, he will counter. And when shots are fired—which is inevitable—and American soldiers are killed, Warner will escalate. Under no circumstance will the United States and NATO permit us to annex southern Ukraine.”

“I’ve already spoken to President Erodan of Turkey and received his commitment. All it takes is one dissenting vote and NATO is powerless to act. Unanimous consent is required, and they will not have it.”

“Then Warner will act unilaterally. America doesn’t need NATO to challenge us.” Arkady shook his head. “Please, I beg you, let it go.”

“Get out of my sight,” Petrov said. When Arkady didn’t react, the President thrust an outstretched index finger at the double doors. “I said get out!”

The spymaster stood, nodded to Petrov, and began walking toward the exit.

“Do your job,” Petrov called after him, “or else you can spend the rest of your days thinking about this conversation from the basement of Lubyanka.”

“Understood,” Arkady said, without a backward glance. When he stepped out into the hall, instead of finding Tatia waiting for him as he’d hoped, a pair of uniformed MPs flanked the doors. He looked at them each in turn, his eyes asking the question: Are you here for me? But instead of taking him into custody, they nodded deferentially and closed the doors behind him.

He exhaled silently with relief and walked away with solid, confident strides. But in his mind, the ground was crumbling beneath his feet.