Collateral (Tier One #6)

Embraer Phenom 300

33,000 Feet Over Lublin, Poland

0145 Local Time

Arkady crossed his legs at the knees and accepted the cup of steaming black coffee from the attractive flight attendant in the short black skirt and starched white blouse. In regular times, he’d never drink coffee at this hour, but these weren’t regular times, were they? Tonight, he doubted his head would find the pillow, and if it did it wouldn’t matter—his mind was a cyclone of thoughts and emotions, too raucous and irritated for sleep.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said in flawless German, setting the coffee on the polished wood table beside his oversized leather seat.

She nodded and returned to the galley at the front of the executive jet.

His NOC for this trip was Herr Dieter Hemmler, founder and CEO of an industrial farming equipment manufacturing company that had opened a plant paying rock-bottom wages in Mykolaiv, sixty-five miles east of Odessa. Herr Hemmler was a hands-on guy, and with all that was going on in Ukraine had insisted on meeting with the principals in the operation. While the wealthy businessman did not see any reason to head east of Odessa—each mile of which took one closer to the conflict, and thus, danger—he had received permission from Ukrainian authorities to meet his local partners at Odessa International Airport’s VIP terminal, which a large sum of money had reserved for the meeting.

The beauty of the NOC was that Herr Hemmler and his company actually existed. Following a “failed” attempt on his life—carried out by Arkady’s Zetas operating undercover—the real Herr Hemmler had decided to manage his business from the privacy of a chalet in Austria. The international security expert Hemmler had contracted to provide body double services had been none other than Arkady Zhukov himself. In this role, Arkady freely travelled under Hemmler’s identity with zero chance of crossing paths with the man. The tail number, and even the paint scheme, of this Embraer Phenom matched Hemmler’s real jet, which operated out of Dortmund.

Arkady had taught his Zetas for years the importance of building covers and NOCs based on reality. That was how they stood up to scrutiny. The Hemmler NOC was the ultimate demonstration of this methodology. He scowled and indulged in a long sigh, thinking back to Zeta’s golden days . . .

Give the Americans another month, and I’ll have no one left alive in my ranks to teach such tradecraft to.

None of his operators knew the truth—that Spetsgruppa Zeta was much smaller than anyone realized. The list of operators in the field and their NOCs were small enough that he kept the complete dossier only in his head. Task Force Ember had inflicted tremendous damage on the operation, thinning his ranks by over fifty percent since the assault on the training compound in Vyborg last June. He had a small team operating in Mariupol, a handful of operators scattered around the world still embedded in their NOCs, one loose cannon he’d nearly pulled the plug on in Buenos Aires a year ago, and, of course, Gavriil and his team in Odessa. Thank God for Gavriil . . .

As if on cue, the satellite phone beside him chirped, snapping him from his brooding. He looked at the incoming number and took the call.

“Hemmler,” he said.

“I have an update for you,” Gavriil said, all business.

“Tell me,” Arkady said, sipping his coffee.

“We have a positive identification on a team of Americans heading into Mariupol. The Americans evaded capture—in fact, they killed an entire checkpoint contingent—but not before one of the soldiers sent photos to GRU. GRU notified Kuznetsov and he notified me. One of them is the American operator we believe to be in charge of Task Force Ember.”

“That is excellent news, but not surprising. How long ago was this?”

“Within the hour,” Gavriil said. “Do you wish me to go to Mariupol and intervene?”

Arkady took a long sip of coffee.

Whereas the previous Prime, Valerian Kobak, had been driven by passion and, should one call them . . . hungers, Gavriil was driven by the purest of motivators—the desire to win. His competitive nature was off the charts. But he still didn’t quite see the forest for the trees. Eliminating the Ember threat was important, but the operation in Odessa was more important. During his last meeting with Petrov in the Kremlin, the Russian President had ordered Arkady to do the unthinkable—target Russian forces in Mariupol with a short-range ballistic missile launched from Odessa. To all the world, the strike would look like Ukraine had attacked the Russian Army, giving Moscow the justification it needed to escalate the conflict and bring the full might of the Russian military down on its recalcitrant neighbor to the east.

But what Petrov did not know was that Arkady had other plans. Yes, Zeta would launch the missile, but he would leave behind evidence pointing to Russia. The attack would bring things to a head in Ukraine, but not in the way Petrov imagined. Petrov’s malice and mental instability would reverberate on the world stage, setting cogs of regime change in motion—thereby saving Mother Russia from Petrov and paving the way for another, more capable leader to return her to her former greatness.

“No,” he said at last. “You have your mission. Kuznetsov has his.”

“Yes, but I don’t think he understands who hunts him. I tried to explain what is coming for him, but he is so arrogant. He didn’t want to hear it.”

“So, you’re convinced Kuznetsov is the target?”

“Of course. Ember has been hunting our people for months,” Gavriil said, growing exasperated. “And this time they have a full team—a dozen operators.”

Arkady rubbed his chin. “In that case, I’m not so sure Kuznetsov is the target. They may be tasked to evacuate the American CIA ISR group in Mariupol.”

“Mariupol Maritime Logistics?” Gavriil asked.

“Precisely,” Arkady said. “Coordinate with your brother Zeta in Mariupol. If he isn’t already making plans, tell him I want Task Force Ember to receive a proper welcome. After that, I want you to focus exclusively on the mission in Odessa.”

“Understood.”

“How are things progressing?”

“The pieces are falling into place. The asset is en route from Crimea,” Gavriil said, “and I’m finalizing the warehouse contract tonight.”

“Excellent. I look forward to a full update in a few hours when I arrive.”

An uncomfortably long pause hung on the line, one that Arkady enjoyed very much.

“Arrive . . . here? You are coming to Odessa?”

“Da,” he said. “Our ranks are very thin. You have Zeus and Ruben, but I fear it’s not enough. I once operated like you. I still have some skills.”

“Certainly, of course.” Gavriil’s voice confirmed he didn’t know what to think of this twist. “Will you come to me or . . .”

“Meet me at the Odessa airport when you’ve finished your work,” Arkady said. “You can brief me en route to the storage facility.”

“And we stay together until the plan is executed?”

“Yes,” Arkady said, catching the eye of the flight attendant and raising his cooling cup. “God willing, we execute the mission and exfil together. We can discuss the next steps I alluded to during our last conversation on our journey back to Moscow.”

“I understand,” Gavriil said, no angst or regret in his voice. Valerian had been a terrifying weapon as Prime, but Gavriil’s measured, outcome-driven style would serve him well in the future—in the new Russia.

“I know you do,” Arkady said.

Then, as was his habit, he disconnected the call without waiting for a reply.

The flight attendant bent over to pour fresh coffee in his cup, making no effort at modesty as her blouse fell open. She smiled at him.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said.

If I were a younger man . . .

Of course, if he were a younger man, he would already be on the ground in Odessa, personally executing his plan to restore Russia to greatness himself. No matter. At least he would be alive to see it. That alone was more than he might have reasonably expected.