Collateral (Tier One #6)

Wane Pub

Kiev, Ukraine

September 30

0132 Local Time

After two hours, three changes of clothing, four vehicle switches, and a long painful crawl back and forth across Kiev, Gavriil finally arrived at his destination on a bicycle. Only once he’d stashed the bike in the alley behind a coffee bar just a stone’s throw from the Chinese embassy and entered the rear entrance of the basement pub did he allow bone-weary exhaustion to settle in on him.

He pounded on the heavy door of one of several GRU drop sites run by locals friendly to the Russian presence—this one belonged to a man who, more importantly, was a conduit to a safe room for the night.

“Go around to the front, you drunk,” an irritated voice commanded.

“I’m Danilo’s cousin,” he answered.

He heard two loud clicks as deadbolts were undone, and the door opened a crack. Gavriil pushed it open the rest of the way, entered a small mud room, and stomped his feet on the mat.

“How can I help you?” The old man glanced behind Gavriil, and seeing no one else at the door, brought his right hand from behind his back where it clutched an antiquated short-barrel shot gun. Then the man gave him a shrug and a stained-tooth smile, shut the door, and returned the weapon to a hook beside it. “Can’t be too careful these days. It is good to see you—it’s been far too long,” he said. “What do you need?”

Gavriil smiled and shook the old man’s worn hand. “You are most generous. Just some food to go, please,” he said, “as I’m afraid I still have some work to do.”

“Understood,” the man said. “I will prepare you some varenyky to take along. It’s delicious tonight—mushrooms and venison.”

“Sounds perfect, thank you. If it’s okay, though, I will wait here. It sounds as if you still have a crowd.”

“Of course,” the old man gave a bow of sorts, the ties of his apron disappearing beneath his grease-stained shirt and generous pannus for a moment. “I’ll be quick.”

Gavriil thanked him and clasped his hands behind his back. A moment later, the old man returned with a half-full bottle of vodka.

“We’ve poured from it, but it’s not old.”

“Thank you, comrade,” Gavriil said, then took a short pull from the bottle, swallowing very little so as not to dull his edge. “Ah . . . a wonderful end to a long day.”

The man seemed pleased, held up a finger, then dashed back into the kitchen, returning quickly with what looked to be a Styrofoam box in a brown plastic bag, the handles tied together.

“I put some sausage and cheese in, as well as some fresh bread. Enjoy.”

Gavriil nodded, placed the bag and bottle into the weathered leather satchel over his shoulder, then slipped outside and down a short, brick-walled hallway. A few paces later he passed through another heavy door that he heard lock behind him. The passage was dimly lit by exposed bulbs about every ten feet, but it ended at another door three bulbs later. He pressed down on the handle, opened it slowly, and entered a large storage closet behind the three conference rooms on the first floor of the Natsionalny Hotel. Inside, he shoved his long jacket and black cap deep into a trash bin, pulled out and donned a grey knee-length overcoat and businessman’s thin Karakul-style cap, then rolled his neck and closed his eyes a moment—becoming this new legend for his short stroll through the lobby. He dropped his brown leather satchel into a larger black leather shoulder case and slipped from the closet into the empty hallway between the conference rooms.

He passed through the gaudy lobby, nodding to the concierge, who looked disinterested but gave a courteous smile, and entered the center elevator. Two minutes later he used the key card in the shoulder case to enter the apartment style suite on the fifth floor.

Gavriil set his bag on the table, shrugged out of the overcoat, then arched his back, feeling the relief of the double pop between his shoulder blades. The smell of fresh-baked dough stuffed with savory meat filled the room as he opened his bag, and only then did he realize the gnawing hunger that filled his belly. He opened the Styrofoam container and popped one of the still hot pierogies into his mouth and was rewarded with a burst of juicy meat and spice. He rolled his neck again, this time received the satisfaction of another pop, then crossed to the closet. Opening the closet safe with the memorized four-digit code, he pulled an envelope out, which he tucked under his arm before reaching for the lockbox inside. He took both to the table and sat down, then shook the satellite phone from the envelope. As he swallowed another pierogi in one bite, he pressed “*1” on the speed dial and held the phone between his shoulder and cheek while placing his thumb on the biometric sensor of his steel lockbox.

“It seems you are well,” Arkady answered the call, his mood impossible to read.

“I am intact, but the operation did not go as planned.”

“I am aware.”

Somehow you are always aware. Somehow you always know everything.

When Gavriil said nothing, Arkady added, “There will be other chances. Are you compromised?”

“I don’t believe so, but we live in a world with cameras in outer space, so who ever knows?” He set aside the stack of envelopes thick with cash in a variety of currencies, and focused instead on the passports and other identification cards in the box. When he knew what his boss wished his next step to be, he would know which of his various legends to become.

“Indeed,” was all that Arkady said.

“My sniper and coordinator—have they checked in?”

“Yes.”

“Then all should be well. We eliminated Skorapporsky, so there will be no intelligence harvested from him. And since the Americans killed almost everyone else from Ultra, it seems they’ve erased our trail quite efficiently all by themselves.”

“That’s convenient.”

“We are tracking them, I hope?” Gavriil said as he chewed. He was so hungry, he couldn’t help himself. “Do you want me to plan a counterstrike?”

“I’m afraid that will have to wait. We have other problems,” Arkady said. “Turn on your television.”

Gavriil set the phone on the table and crossed to the kitchen bar to pick up the remote control. He turned on the TV and scrolled through the channels, shocked to see scenes of Mariupol in flames. He flipped to another channel, this one a local station reporting that Russian troops and armor were being deployed to southeastern Ukraine. He flipped to the BBC and the headline read, “US Prepares to Counter Russian Aggression in Ukraine.”

“What the hell is going on?” Gavriil said with both disgust and disbelief.

Arkady chuckled, apparently pleased by his angst. “While you were working, our brilliant leader decided now is the time to invade Ukraine.”

“For what reason?”

“To reclaim Novorossiya, of course, and he’s using the death of Prime Minister Vavilov as the excuse.”

“Oh shit,” Gavriil said through a breath. Then a terrible thought occurred to him. “Did you know Vavilov would be in Independence Square when you gave me the tasking?”

“The tasking, no,” Arkady said without hesitation. “The green light, yes.”

“Did Petrov?”

“Of course. It was his idea to send Vavilov in the first place.”

“I thought it was an oversight. A communication failure.” Feeling suddenly nauseated, Gavriil set down a half-eaten pierogi in the food container. “That’s what I told myself.”

“I know, that’s what we do. Pull the trigger, don’t ask why, and move on.”

“Then why are we discussing this now?”

“Because I need to be sure you’re both willing and capable of executing your next mission. I’ve sent you a file. Read it . . . I’ll wait.”

Gavriil opened his computer, logged into his anonymous email account, and saw a draft message, unsent and waiting in a folder. He clicked on it and read the mission objective and details. When he was finished, he stared at the screen with disbelief. Since becoming a Zeta, he had done many terrible, terrible things, but this . . . this was something else entirely.

“These orders appear to contradict themselves,” he said carefully.

“Da,” Arkady said.

Perhaps this was a test? The old fox did such things from time to time to assess loyalty . . . to measure resolve and test an operator’s willingness to follow orders.

“You seem uncertain, my son,” the spymaster said when Gavriil didn’t answer. “You are Zeta Prime now—more than just a foot soldier. I have shown you my willingness to embrace your thoughts and advice, so if you have something to say or a concern you wish to voice . . .”

Was this yet another test? The only thing more legendary than Arkady’s cunning was his disdain for incompetence. Gavriil again chose his words carefully.

“Executing these orders will kill dozens, if not hundreds, of my own countrymen.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And it will give Petrov justification to escalate and retaliate, perhaps even launch a full-scale invasion of Ukraine.”

“That is correct.”

Gavriil nodded. “So that is the intent . . . but if that’s his plan, then why leave evidence incriminating Russia? I have never done this before on a false flag—” He stopped midsentence, everything suddenly clear. The missile launch was Petrov’s operation; the rest of the design came from Arkady. “Ahhh . . . I understand.”

“Do you? Do you really?” Arkady said, his voice taking on an unusual timbre.

“I am to take the fall?”

“You and me both. Spetsgruppa Zeta will not survive the betrayal. Petrov is too clever and will understand that such incompetence could only be born of malign intent.”

“So, you would see him fall?”

“I will see the devil I have created undone . . . if it’s the last thing I do.”

Gavriil desperately wished that he could see Arkady’s face, though he knew it would provide little clue to whether he was being played by the chess master. He’d never learned to read the man—not really. Was he to be Arkady’s pawn, or his knight? He considered what he knew of Petrov, and then considered that information which he was not privy to. For certain, Petrov had a god complex, but he had also—almost singlehandedly—lifted Russia from the ashes. Surely he was . . .

Suddenly, the script flipped in his mind.

“It is naïve to think that if we do this, the Americans and their allies will simply allow Russia to conquer Ukraine and establish sovereignty,” Gavriil said.

“You are correct. The Americans are already repositioning assets as we speak. I predict they will deploy Marines to Odessa. Warner will draw the line at Mariupol. The juggernaut of war will be unstoppable. Once the Americans suffer losses, NATO will engage and war will spread across Eastern Europe. Tens of thousands will die, maybe hundreds of thousands, including civilians.”

“Then what in God’s name is the goal? To start World War Three?”

“The goal, my son, is that cool heads will prevail. That the commanders on the ground, and those giving counsel in Moscow and Washington, DC, do not let it come to that. And in the aftermath of a world war that almost was, regime change will finally be possible.”

“Do you really want Russia to fall?”

“No,” Arkady said with an incredulous laugh. “What I want—what I have always wanted—is for Russia to regain her former glory. That is why I chose Petrov, molded him, and pulled all the levers at my disposal to ensure his rise to power. But now, it has become painfully apparent that he is no longer the right man for the job. He is willing to risk everything he has accomplished—for what? For this dream of reclaiming a Novorossiya that never truly was in the first place . . . It’s nothing short of madness.”

“What we are talking about is treason.”

“No. What we are talking about is patriotism, Gavriil. Sometimes patriots must do the difficult things, must make impossible decisions, for the good of the nation. Russia deserves better than Vladimir Petrov. If we don’t intervene, this war will leave Russia in economic ruin and destroy our standing on the world stage. Two decades of progress and growth will be undone. We must turn the ship before it runs aground.”

“How can you be so certain it will work?”

“I’m not,” Arkady said and laughed again. “The only thing I am ever certain of is uncertainty. But that has never stopped me from trying, and it will not stop me now . . . So, are you with me? Is this a mission you can execute, my son?”

Gavriil hesitated, but only a moment. Was saying no really even an option? He supposed not. The smartest man he’d ever met had made a decision and made it in the interest of Mother Russia. “You can count on me.”

“I know I can,” Arkady said, but then added, “Ember will undoubtedly try to stop us. We cannot let that happen.”

“I understand,” he said, powering down his computer.

You outplayed me last time, my American friends, but not this time.

Not this time.