Black Ghosts

CHAPTER 34

The Boeing 747 taxied gently to the end of the runway. For several moments, the white plane with its chrome underbelly and blue stripe running its length and converging over the cockpit and the inscription “United States of America” just stood there, as the pilots and the ground control exchanged the last procedural bits of information.

With a roar of jet engines, Air Force One began its sudden, urgent acceleration along the runway. The fuselage shook gently, the wheels rumbled, and then like a gigantic hippo leaping into the air, the plane took off. It banked at a steep angle, and President Bradshawe kept his eyes tightly closed. Only when the slope of the floor had leveled off, and the seat-belt sign had winked out, did he release his grip on the chair’s armrests and open his eyes. Below him was the chaotic jumble of streets and patches of green that is London seen from the air. But the president did not look down. And not just because of his vertigo. It was also that he’d had quite enough of the annoying little country falling away beneath him and was glad to see the last of it for some time. Royalty and pageantry and all that to-do about nothing, he thought.

He had endured a stiff and formal afternoon at Downing Street, followed by a stiff and informal dinner at the prime minister’s country residence, and a night on a stiff and intractable mattress in a room that made him feel claustrophobic. And, of course, he had endured the stiff and boring prime minister, whose snobbery and reserve he found almost unendurable. Even the loutish, inebriated over-familiarity of the Russian president was preferable to that.

And as for the breakfast he had been served! President Bradshawe reached into his pocket for his Rolaids but then remembered he had eaten the last of them that morning. He rang the bell for the flight attendant.

Sitting several feet behind the president, in the corner of the large flying office, James Fenton was quietly confident that things were well in hand. Based on the information Angela Baines had given him, he had decided to heed Larry’s warning. He had alerted only those who needed to know about the change in destination, and even then, he had waited until a few moments before Air Force One took off from Heathrow to make the necessary arrangements. The plane’s pilots and the American security men in Moscow were the only ones told of the change. Even the president himself was not yet aware that the plane would be landing at Domodedovo. Not that Fenton thought it would make much difference to him. As long as there was a camera where he was heading, he would go.

Just outside the office, in what looked more like a spacious lounge than the inside of a plane, sat Bud Hays. He was also feeling pleased with himself. He had enjoyed Angela’s favors a second time after dinner last night and was anticipating more of the same during their stay in Moscow. He watched her now, her body swaying as she walked across the floor to the bathroom. She really was a beauty; there was no doubt about that.

Poor Bud, Angela thought, looking back and smiling at her boss: He had no idea of what was about to happen.

Vladimir Ivanovich Konyigin loved television. On the second floor of what used to be the Supreme Soviet Building, in a lavish office decorated for Andropov many years back, when the chairman of the communist party was God, Konyigin and his top advisers were reviewing videotapes of the British news broadcasts describing the American president’s visit to Downing Street.

Fascinated, Konyigin watched every move, every gesture the American president made. Already, in his mind, he was rehearsing the signing of the treaty tomorrow. He knew this would be his biggest public relations coup ever. It would be a chance for him to bolster his failing popularity in preparation for the elections later in the year, his chance to show the Russian people and the world that he was a man of actions, not just words, that he could get things done.

He also knew what really mattered to his people was not the treaty itself but the influx of foreign investment and the gigantic American aid package which was Bradshawe’s bribe to him for getting this thing done.

He wanted to be sure that nothing could go wrong. He had already been briefed by Gregorin, his security chief and the head of the Presidential Guard, who was now sitting next to him in the conference room. He had a clear image of the day’s events mapped out in his mind. He could see it all now: the crowd of reporters and television crews at Sheremetyevo Airport as the president’s plane came in, the drive in the limousine, the reception with the Guard of Honor at the Kremlin, the signing of the treaty, the handshakes, the slaps on the back, the smiles of friendship… this would be for all the world to see.

Next to him, the security chief’s mobile phone rang almost unheard. Gregorin took the device out of the holster hanging from his belt and pressed it to his ear. After he had spoken and listened to the caller for a few minutes, he put the phone away and took a deep breath. He knew what he had to say to President Konyigin would not go down well.

“We’ve just heard from the American Secret Service. They want to change the arrival point to Domodedovo.”

“What!” thundered Konyigin. “Out of the question! All our arrangements have been made. They must stand.”

“The Americans say there is a security risk at Sheremetyevo,” the security chief said apologetically.

“But the airport is protected by the army,” snarled Konyigin. “How dare they question my authority? Tell them the arrangements stand.”

Gregorin cleared his throat. “I’m afraid they won’t listen, Vladimir Ivanovich. They have presented this as an ultimatum: Domodedovo, or they stay at home.”

Almost beside himself with fury, President Konyigin slammed his fist on the arm of his chair, causing a little cloud of dust to rise. “The arrogant bastards! Let them stay home, then.” He sat in silence, his face contorted by an angry frown.

The security chief waited. He knew the signs: Within ten minutes Konyigin would have calmed down, within fifteen he would agree to the change, and within half an hour he would once again be boring everyone with boyish, enthusiastic praise of all things American. It was only a matter of time.

Ten army trucks were approaching the Kremlin walls. They were moving at a slow pace, keeping a uniform distance between them. After entering the inner yard they came to a stop, lining up outside the yellow four-story building of the old armory. As the soldiers disembarked, Sokolov gathered the senior officers around him and gave them a brief address. This, he knew, was the most important speech of his career, and he was giving it to soldiers who believed they were there to make a movie. What an irony, he thought.

“Now I know this is only a movie,” he said, “but I want you all to behave at all times as though you were on active service, in a normal operation. The main film crew will arrive shortly. We will get into position in a moment. You are to instruct your men to refrain from talking to anyone but me. If anyone approaches them, for whatever reason, they are to get their weapons in a ready position and appear to be ready to shoot. It must look real, is that clear?”

They all nodded, smiling to one another. Sokolov had never seen officers and soldiers of the former Soviet Union comb their hair as much as this unit he had received from the Ukraine. It was as though every last one of them believed he would be discovered and taken to Hollywood, to live in Beverly Hills and sleep with all the movie stars.

“The Kremlin,” he continued, “must look occupied. We are also using hidden cameras, so it is important that appearances be kept up. Is that understood?”

They all nodded again. “Very well,” he said, “carry on.”

The soldiers formed three ragged rows of ten by their respective trucks. Each truck also carried a sergeant who now ordered the troops to stand to attention.

“At ease,” came the shouted command, and the men moved as one. “Attention!” came the order again, cutting through the cold air like a sharp blade. “By the right — form!” Each man now extended his right arm and placed his fist against the shoulder of the man next to him, shuffling his feet in small steps to bring him to the correct distance. Now the ranks were in orderly parade-like position.

While this was going on, Sokolov made his way to the building that was known as the Supreme Soviet. He knew it was now called something else, but since it was still the same building with its large gold insignia of the shield with the hammer and sickle in a laurel crown, it didn’t much matter. The soldier in the dark blue uniform of the Kremlin Guard stood in his path.

“Sir!” the guard said, chin out, Kalashnikov held closely to his chest.

“I’m here to see the chief of Kremlin security.”

The guard moved to the side like a well-oiled robot and pointed to a tall door in the whitewashed wall of the building. “Through there, sir.”

“I will show you in, sir,” said a second guard, walking toward the door. Sokolov was escorted to the office of Colonel Denisov, who looked at him with a complicitous smile. “Good morning, Colonel Sokolov. It is good to see you. Is everything proceeding according to plan?”

“Yes, indeed. Our men are assembling in the square outside. You may dismiss the Kremlin Guard immediately.”

“Very good,” said Denisov. The two men left the office together. At the door, Denisov seized Sokolov by the arm and said in a low voice, “Today will be a great day for Russia, my friend.”

“Indeed it will,” replied Sokolov.

“I will see that your men are in position,” the officer said, beginning to walk faster.

Sokolov stopped in his tracks. “Wait,” he said. “You get your men out of the Kremlin, I will put my men in. When you are done, wait for me in your office.”

“I thought we would—” began Denisov, but Sokolov cut him off. “I’m working on direct instructions from General Rogov. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, not at all. I will meet you back in my office as soon as I have instructed the men to return to barracks.”

Outside, the Ukrainians had formed as one large block in the center of the square, thirty ranks of ten men each. Under Sokolov’s instructions, each group of ten men was marched by its sergeant to a predetermined location within the Kremlin walls. Once he was satisfied that the Kremlin Guard had been replaced by his Ukrainian stand-ins, Sokolov returned to the office.

Denisov was waiting for him. “Is everything in order, sir?”

“I believe it is. One question: We are expecting no resistance, but should anything unexpected happen, I would like our men to be fully prepared. Do you have any antitank rockets available?”

“Indeed we do,” said Denisov. “Come with me.”

They walked to the armory. Denisov unlocked the door. Inside was a considerable stock of assault rifles and grenade and rocket launchers, including the deadly RPGs. As they headed for the door, Sokolov, walking behind Denisov, clipped a silencer to his pistol. A few feet from the door, he called on the man walking before him. “Colonel Denisov.”

Denisov turned quickly, eager to please. Then he saw the bore of the gun facing him.

“Colonel Denisov,” Sokolov said, “you are under arrest on a charge of treason.”

Denisov smiled — an involuntary facial reaction that rapidly changed to an expression of shock when he realized that Sokolov was serious. He reached for his gun, but before he had time to fire, Sokolov put a bullet in his chest. A shocked expression was still on his face as he slid to the floor.

“I was hoping that would not be necessary,” Sokolov said, looking at the dead body, “but somehow I knew it would be.”

One side of the armory had a small office, where Sokolov stowed Denisov’s body. Locking the door behind him, he returned to Denisov’s office and sat at the desk in his place. He took the telephone and dialed the number of the presidential bodyguard.

Ten minutes later, Gregorin hurried into the office, flushed and smiling apologetically. “Sorry to keep you — a slight emergency. The Americans have decided at the last minute they want to land at Domodedovo instead.”

Sokolov did his best to look surprised. “Really? And will they?”

“We are still discussing it. I’ll let you know what is arranged,” said Gregorin. “Now, how are things on the ground?”

“The Elite Corps is in position,” said Sokolov.

“Good,” said the security chief. Then he went back upstairs to try to placate President Konyigin.