Novo-Ogaryovo (President’s Residence)
Moscow, Russia
President Barkovsky generally ate after nine o’clock Moscow time, in the company of his closest friends and young female playthings. But tonight he was dining alone and watching two men slugging and kicking each other in an Ultimate Fighting Championship event on cable television, in a private dining room adjacent to his bedroom. He’d just finished a pirozhki stuffed with boiled meat and sautéed onions when his chief of staff entered.
“We’ve just heard from our friend,” Mikhail Sokolov said.
Barkovsky motioned Sokolov to sit, which he did, as the president refilled his wineglass and poured one for his guest.
“These American fighters are nothing,” Barkovsky said, pointing to the television screen. “One of our Vympel soldiers could kill any of them with one quick blow. If I were not a president, I would fight in the ring myself and show these American bastards what real men are made of.”
He took a large gulp of wine and asked, “What does our friend have to tell us?”
“Petrov had visitors in England today. An FBI agent and a man posing as a U.S. State Department employee.”
“CIA?”
“Probably. But we have not been able to identify him.”
“And what was the purpose of this visit?”
“The FBI suspects Petrov of assassinating Senator Windslow.”
Barkovsky gave his aide a toothy grin. “This is excellent.”
“The CIA man, however, asked to speak privately with Petrov.”
The president put down his fork and wiped his fingers on a satin napkin. “And what did this stranger tell Petrov?”
“Our source did not know specifics. But it was about finding the gold.”
Without warning, Barkovsky slammed both fists onto the dining room table and uttered an expletive. “Do the Americans understand what this means?”
“I’m certain the CIA will cover its tracks if it helps him. There will be no evidence that we can use.”
“How is that possible? Aren’t our officers as clever as Langley’s drones? Tell London that we must identify this stranger. Now!”
Barkovsky let out a loud sigh. “Why do we still not know where the gold is hidden?”
“Petrov refuses to tell anyone, even Lebedev, his closest friend and advisor. And no one knows how he found where the treasure is hidden. Our friend says that Petrov is going to meet with the FBI agent and stranger tomorrow after he speaks in Oxford at a rally.”
“What rally?”
“About the journalist killing.”
Barkovsky waved his hand threw the air, dismissing it. “Let them demonstrate — in Oxford. Who cares about the goddamn British?”
For a moment, he didn’t speak. He was considering his options. “No one knows how Petrov found the location of the gold. He has refused to tell anyone where it is hidden. But now it appears that the Americans might be about to help him find it. This changes everything. We cannot risk having it fall into Petrov’s hands.”
He was pensive for a few more moments and then added, “If we kill the Americans, they will simply send someone else. That leaves me only one other option. If Petrov will not talk, then he must be killed. Better that his secret dies with him than to have the Americans learn where the gold is hidden.”
“There have been attempts on his life already and all have failed.”
A smug look appeared on Barkovsky’s face. “Do you think I am that inept? If I wanted him dead, he would be dead. Those attempts were meant to make him share his secret with someone else in case he was killed. But I underestimated his ego. Petrov is willing to go to his grave with his secret. So now it is time to let him!”
“If Petrov dies,” Sokolov said, “you will never know where the bullion is hidden.”
“That’s not true,” Barkovsky replied. “If he discovered it, there must be a way for us to learn it, too. It will simply take more time.”
“We could kidnap him. We could torture him.”
“And the world would condemn me. They would demand his release.”
“If you kill him, the world will also know, will it not?”
“Not if I give them a patsy.”
“But who?”
Barkovsky said, “His guests — the FBI Agent who was on the BBC. And the mystery man from the CIA. Let them appear to kill him and the world will blame them and the United States.”
“And the gold?”
“We will keep searching. What is important now is to stop the CIA from helping Petrov. Send word to London. We want Petrov killed and we want it to appear that the Americans did it.”
Barkovsky raised his wineglass and tipped it against Solokov’s. “To the success of the scheduled tasks!” he said. It was one of the first toasts that both men learned after they joined the Komsomol, the young Communist league. “A bullet in Petrov’s head,” Barkovsky said, raising his glass for a second toast. “And a pistol left in the hands of the Americans.”