Black Ghosts

CHAPTER 7

Peter Ivanovich Rogov sat at his wide wooden desk, reveling in the sense of renewed power this room gave him. He could almost hear the drumbeat of destiny fulfilling itself. His exile in Siberia had been an aberration, a glitch in the smooth, powerful flow of his life. He regarded himself as being in the saddle. A throne was but a chair; a saddle was power, and power would take him places, now that he held the reins.

Interrupting his mental ride into the near future, the intercom buzzed sharply. He reached over and pressed the winking button. “Colonel Yazarinsky has arrived,” said the anonymous voice.

“Send him in,” barked Peter, impatient for the next phase of the operation to get under way.

Yazarinsky’s uniform and jackboots made him look comical, too small and runtish to be a proper soldier. But there was nothing comical about his sallow face and cold eyes. He clicked his heels.

“Welcome back. Everything went well, I see,” said Peter, indicating the soundless wall of televisions, each in its dark wooden frame, each displaying a different channel.

“America’s underbelly is as soft as ever.” Yazarinsky’s voice was monotonous. “They were quite powerless to stop us.”

“And Boris?”

Yazarinsky chuckled. “Ah, yes, dear Boris. He played his part well. A noble man, he made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.”

Peter’s eyes twinkled. Yazarinsky’s ruthlessness amused him, much as the innocent antics of a young child amuse a world-weary parent, “And General Kozov?”

“The general caught his flight as planned, sir. He’s waiting for you downstairs.”

“Very good. Shall we go?”

Outside Peter’s quarters, a junior officer stood waiting. When the general emerged from his office, the young officer opened a metal door leading to a spiral staircase. The three walked down without a word. Only the sound of their leather heels echoed down the long shaft. The young officer stood holding the door again as Rogov and Yazarinsky entered the CIC room, which was still deserted and lifeless. The blank computer monitors stared at them defiantly. The eye of the Iris Identification Scanner gleamed expectantly.

A metal container, the kind used to transfer photographic equipment, sat on the table. Peter nodded to Yazarinsky, who opened the container. His face betrayed no emotion as he pulled out the grotesque, dripping, bloody thing that had once been connected to Kozov’s body. The junior officer had brought a towel and a waterproof sheet, on which the head was placed. From a first-aid kit he took a cotton swab and a small bottle of surgical alcohol, and as if it were something he did every day, he proceeded to wipe the coagulated blood from around the head’s right eye. When he was done, Yazarinsky picked up the head by its hair and brought it over to the scanner, the junior officer supporting the head from below with the towel. Together the two men positioned the head carefully, and at a nod from Yazarinsky, Peter typed the code into the keyboard next to him, activating the scanner.

A pencil beam of light came forth from the scanner’s eye. Yazarinsky and the junior officer repositioned the head so the beam bore directly into the dead eye.

Peter held his breath. His entire future was now in the hands of American ingenuity, since it was an American device that had been used to prevent electronic trespassing in the Ghosts’ headquarters. The last time Kozov’s eye had looked into the Very High Speed Integrated Circuit Signal Processor was when he was very much alive and visiting Rome Laboratories in Doral Air Force Base. It was then that they had scanned the general’s eye and entered his code. Now, if all went well, the machine would recognize the dead eye and unlock the computer system. If it didn’t, Operation Czar was over before it had really gotten started.

The scanner buzzed and hummed for a few seconds, and then a green light glowed on the console. Immediately the room burst into life. Thirty-two monitors glowed, flickered, and produced images. Some showed military installations, others showed systems diagnostics and menus. Across one wall, nine large computer-generated maps appeared on gigantic screens, showing color codes that indicated the locations of military installations, arsenals, airfields, and naval bases. One showed a computer-enhanced view of Russia from an orbiting satellite.

“Get this garbage cleaned up,” snapped Peter, flicking his hand at the bloodied head that now lay on its side on the table. The junior officer hurried to do his bidding.

Peter sat at a keyboard and typed a second password. The command center menu appeared. Peter nodded, satisfied. Then he went to the intercom and pressed the button.

“Sir!” said the anonymous voice.

“There’ll be a briefing session in ten minutes. I want everyone here.”

Ten minutes later, a half dozen officers were seated around the conference table in the glass cubicle at the far end of the CIC room. Peter stood at the head of the table.

“Colonel Yakov,” he said to a squat, mustachioed officer to his left. “We need a few more strikes by your people.”

“We have two more attacks planned, sir. Should we still make it look like the work of the Chechen resistance?”

Peter thought for a moment. “We should increase the circle. We want them to raise the level of their alert to at least code blue. That will enable us to get our troops into position right under their noses.”

“Who, then?” asked the officer.

“Make it anonymous. After all, who is not angry in Russia today?”

A grin appeared on all the faces around the table. Heads nodded in agreement.

“Make sure there are enough casualties that they can’t brush it under the carpet,” continued Peter. He raised his hand. “But at the same time, we don’t want them to overreact.”

“I understand, sir.”

“When you’re ready, bring me the final plans for approval.”

“Yes, sir.” The young officer looked relieved that the general was going to give the final approval; the responsibility wasn’t going to fall on his own shoulders.

“We need to get ready to mobilize. Once they declare code blue, they will start moving their forces, and we will not have too much time. I want the Second Armored Brigade from Sverdlovsk with the T-72s…”

For over an hour, the six officers watched and listened intently as Peter spoke and pointed at the maps on the wall behind him. Then he sent each of them by turns on his separate way, until only Colonel Sokolov remained.

“So, Andrei,” said Peter, looking intently at the tall, slim man in his immaculate black uniform. “What are your thoughts?”

“The operation is proceeding as planned,” said Sokolov. “We are still missing one piece of the communication array.”

“How soon will it arrive?”

“Very soon. We’re working on it now.”

Peter was glad to have Sokolov on board. He knew the colonel was as dedicated as he to restoring Russia to her former glory, and as realistic as he in acknowledging the only way that could be achieved was through strong, aggressive leadership. Russia was not made for democracy; she was built through the might and terror of the czars and would survive and prosper only under a new generation of czars, of which he, Peter, would be the first. Sokolov knew this better than anyone. Nevertheless, Peter was conscious of a slight area of tension between them, no doubt due to the colonel’s being overly concerned with sticking to procedure. The man was brilliant, Peter thought, but too inclined to focus on details, and lacking the necessary vision to see the big picture.

Sokolov cleared his throat. “General, may I speak candidly?”

“Yes, Andrei, what’s on your mind?”

“There is one aspect of the plan which still troubles me, and that is the final phase.”

Peter smiled indulgently. “Do not worry. I have given it considerable thought.”

“I strongly advise against the course of action you propose.”

“I remind you, Colonel Sokolov, that I am not proposing. I am ordering.”

“Of course, General.” Sokolov got to his feet and saluted.

“Carry on, Colonel. Oh, and could you have Colonel Yazarinsky come and see me in my quarters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember, my boy, Russians are at their best when they are afraid.”

A few minutes later, Peter was again seated at his desk in his private office. The intercom announced Yazarinsky’s presence outside, and then the door opened and the small man moved like a crab across the carpet.

“Any news of our American friend?” asked Peter.

Yazarinsky sat in the high-backed leather chair opposite Peter’s. “It seems there was a leak.”

“What did he find out?”

“That we had a contract with them that involved a communications array and that the death of General Kozov is related to this affair.”

“Where did he come by that information?”

“From someone in London.”

“Any idea who?”

“Yes, I have a name. He’s from the London office of the Foundation, an ex-MI5 operative named Donoven.”

“I see. And where is this Mr. Donoven now?”

“He was sent to New York to clean up after the assassination. He’ll be checking that the equipment we left behind is clean, and that nothing went wrong.”

“I see. When he returns from that laudable task, I think you two should have a little chat?”

Yazarinsky’s eyes did not blink. “Understood, General. And the American?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Yes, of course.”

“We’ll leave him for now. He has no one to pass that information to and he may yet prove to be useful to us.”