Cauldron

CHAPTER 25 Shadow War

Outside the windows of Nicolas Desaix’s office, Paris was aglow. Streetlamps, neon signs, and lighted residences burned away the darkness, turning the night sky a soft orange. Low-light sensors and infrared targeting systems rendered blackouts ineffective. Given that, the French government had decided to avoid unnecessarily alarming its citizens.

But the capital’s broad avenues, restaurants, and theaters were all deserted. The city was still under martial law curfew.

Three men sat in armchairs grouped around a low coffee table. A silver tray on the table held wineglasses for Desaix and for Jacques Morin, the head of the DGSE. Michel Guichy sipped Calvados — the dry apple brandy made in Normandy, his home region. Together, Desaix, Morin, and Guichy formed the triumvirate that ruled France and, through the Confederation secretariats, much of Europe. They were meeting to review progress in the war they had helped ignite.

Or perhaps the lack of progress would be a better description, Desaix thought bitterly. “So both the Americans and British have troops in Poland now?”

Guichy nodded. “Around Gdansk.” The dark circles and heavy bags under the man’s eyes testified to the long hours he spent in the Defense Ministry’s situation room and in traveling back and forth between Paris and the armed forces’ war headquarters on the German border. “Only lightly armed airborne units and Marine Commandos so far, but their heavier units cannot be very far behind. Days at best.”

Desaix scowled. Far from frightening the so-called Combined Forces away, Admiral Gibierge’s ill-conceived nuclear gamble seemed only to have spurred them on. He shifted minutely in his chair to face his other companion. “And the Poles?”

“They’re transferring their forces west at a rapid pace.” Morin was atypically blunt. Usually the intelligence director preferred to hedge his assessments. “When we attacked, four of the eight Polish divisions were in the east — watching the Russians. One of those same divisions mauled our 5th Armored two days ago. The Germans say another is already moving toward the battle area, and I see no reason to doubt them.”

Desaix received the news in silence. Though not formally trained as a military strategist, he knew how to “count rifles.” Once those new soldiers arrived, the allies would have eight and a half divisions on the line — six Polish, two American, and one British brigade. Even committing their invasion army’s reserve, the V Corps, would leave France and Germany with just eleven divisions to match against their enemies.

He supposed they could scrape together additional forces from France, Germany, and the Czech-Hungarian front, but not without grave risk. With casualties mounting, French and German civilians, already restive under prolonged martial law, were growing increasingly disillusioned. The latest troop call-ups had proved disappointing. Large numbers of reservists urgently needed to guard lines of communication and key installations had failed to report to their units.

To cover his growing dismay, Desaix took a sip of wine and rolled it around his mouth, automatically savoring the complex flavors before swallowing. Then, almost as though the wine itself had unlocked his mind, he saw the answer, a way to completely transform the bleak strategic situation they faced. He set his glass down and smiled.

“Do you see something amusing in all of this, Nicolas?” Guichy asked irritably.

“Not at all, my friend.” Desaix looked from one man to the other. “But I do see that we’ve been guilty of tunnel vision. These Polish troop moves are not a disaster for us. Far from it! If we move quickly enough, they offer us the chance to secure a decisive victory!”

Both Morin and Guichy stared at him, still uncomprehending.

Desaix explained what he had in mind, rapidly sketching out the broad outlines of his proposal.

Guichy’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “But what about the Boche? They’ll be furious! They’ll never approve such a move!”

“True, Michel.” Desaix nodded. He lowered his voice. “And that is why the Germans must not know what we’re about — not until it is too late.”

Vnukovo Airport, one of the four major landing fields surrounding Moscow, lay twenty-nine kilometers southwest from the city center, just off the Kiev Highway. Ordinarily only domestic flights and planes from the other former Soviet Republics used the field. International carriers were supposed to fly into either Sheremetyevo One or Two to the north.

So the unscheduled arrival of a four-engine Airbus A340 with Air France markings should have generated excited speculation among Vnukovo’s traffic controllers, ground crews, and mechanics. But not with hundreds of FIS agents and uniformed soldiers prowling every corridor, workshop, and office. Under Marshal Kaminov’s autocratic rule, the airport workers knew very well that the old admonition “Careless talk costs lives” meant their own lives — not those of others. They kept their mouths carefully shut.

Guided by instructions from the tower, the Airbus turned off Vnukovo’s main runway and stopped beside a waiting army honor guard, military band, and a line of long black limousines. Ground crewmen hurriedly maneuvered a mobile staircase into place at the forward cabin door.

Drums rolled, a hundred gloved hands slapped rifle butts, and gleaming bayonets flashed in the summer sun as the honor guard presented arms. Two flags — one Russian, the other French — dipped slowly in a salute.

Men emerged from the Airbus and walked slowly down the staircase toward a small party of Russian Army officers waiting on the tarmac. Some of the Frenchmen wore dark, elegant, perfectly tailored suits. Several more wore military uniforms representing the three different services.

With a crash of cymbals and a blare of trumpets, the band broke into “La Marseillaise.” After a long, roundabout journey through Confederation and neutral airspace, Nicolas Desaix’s handpicked ambassador and negotiating team were safely on Russian soil.

Major Paul Duroc stood at attention several paces behind Ambassador Sauret and his personal entourage, inconspicuous in civilian clothes among the other junior aides. With his hand resting over his heart for the anthem, he could feel the shoulder holster and automatic pistol hidden beneath his suit jacket. It was somehow reassuring — something solid to hang on to during his rapid fall from grace. The step down from independent special operations commander to this current posting as a glorified security chief was a long and humiliating one.

Fairly or unfairly, he’d been blamed for the Budapest fiasco. Even his capture of the chief Hungarian leader, Kusin, hadn’t been enough to stem his superiors’ wrath. Caught unprepared as their policies unraveled, the DGSE’s top brass had needed a convenient scapegoat. Someone high enough up the chain of command to be believable, but not powerful enough to turn the blame aside. They’d picked him.

So here he was, plucked out of disgrace for an assignment that required the appointment of a senior intelligence officer as a figurehead. Paris had shunted him off to Moscow with explicit orders to keep his mouth shut, his eyes open, and above all, to do nothing that might upset his Russian hosts. His instructions gave him permission to “liaise” with the Russian security services during the negotiations and nothing more. In short, the major knew he was supposed to be the perfect unobtrusive and inoffensive watchman.

Duroc locked his jaw against a sudden wave of anger. Very well, he would be a watchman. He would follow his orders to the letter. For now. And if he saw a chance to retrieve his reputation by breaking those rules? He shrugged inwardly. Then Paris and all its prissy bureaucrats could go hang.

Erin McKenna paused in the door to apply her name tag, eyeing the crowded reception hall ahead of her. It was a sea of tuxedos, dress uniforms, and evening gowns. Half of Moscow’s movers and shakers were inside, clustered around tables piled high with food, wine, and hard liquor. Music stands and chairs in one corner marked out the territory set aside for the big band the U.S. ambassador had engaged for tonight’s event. With the war heating up, America’s diplomats were spending more time trying to win the goodwill of the Russian political and military leadership — especially those who took their orders directly from Marshal Yuri Kaminov.

Hence this official “Gathering to Promote Peaceful Understanding Between the Great Peoples of the United States and the Russian Republic.” Yeah, right, she thought cynically. From what she’d seen since arriving in Moscow, Kaminov’s preferred method of achieving “peaceful understanding” was usually a bullet in the back of the skull.

Erin had been hoping that Alex Banich would come with her tonight, but he’d taken just one look at the guest list before shaking his head. “Too many of those guys already know me as Nikolai Ushenko.” He’d smiled wryly. “Why confuse them?”

His reasoning made sense, but it still robbed her of his company.

She circulated through the room, secretly enjoying the looks coming her way from the embassy staffers and guests alike. Prudence would have dictated wearing something drab and unnoticeable — anything in gray, perhaps. After all, as a suspected agent of the CIA she was basically a prisoner in the embassy and an embarrassment to the regular diplomatic functionaries. Under the circumstances, it might even have been more discreet not to show up at all. And for a time she’d seriously considered staying in her quarters, after all. But then a streak of defiance had surfaced. Why not, she’d thought, why not go out in a blaze of glory?

Glory in this context translated into a backless, emerald-green satin dress, high heels, emerald earrings, and upswept, elegantly styled hair. From the appreciative murmurs and discreet nudges she noticed in passing, it appeared she had achieved the effect she’d been aiming for. Undiplomatic, yes. Indiscreet, absolutely. But definitely stunning.

Erin took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and turned to survey the crowd.

She found herself face-to-face with a tall, good-looking man in uniform. A Russian Army uniform. Her eyes flicked down to the name tag stuck above rows of service ribbons and decorations she couldn’t recognize: “Col. Valentin Soloviev.” The name was familiar. Then it clicked. This was the officer Alex called “Kaminov’s hit man.” Strange. He didn’t look at all the way she had pictured him.

Erin was suddenly aware Soloviev had been inspecting her just as closely. “You are Miss McKenna?” He smiled briefly. “They tell me you’re a spy.”

“And you’re Colonel Soloviev. They tell me you’re a tyrant.”

“We sound like a terrible pair, don’t we?” the Russian colonel said dryly. “I cannot imagine why either one of us received an invitation.”

Erin found herself smiling almost against her will. She laughed. “Neither can I, Colonel. Perhaps we’re supposed to cling together under a little black cloud.”

She’d never seen gray eyes twinkle before. “I can think of worse fates, Miss McKenna.”

Off behind them, the band began playing Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine.”

Soloviev half turned toward the music and then swiveled back. He held out a hand. “Would you care to dance?”

She surprised herself by nodding. “I’d love to.”

He led her through the crowd to relatively open air near the band. Two or three couples were already there, swaying and spinning in perfect time with the music. Erin noticed her colleagues’ eyes widening as she and the tall Russian officer passed by. It amused her. Devil or not, Soloviev seemed to have a born aristocrat’s disdain for petty convention. High-ranking members of Marshal Kaminov’s inner circle were very definitely not supposed to hobnob with suspected American intelligence operatives.

He was also a first-rate dancer.

As they slowly spun across the floor, he murmured in her ear, “I must say that you are a most unusual espionage agent, Miss McKenna. A refreshing change from the usual, pipe-smoking Ivy Leaguers we see here in Moscow.”

She laughed, imagining Banich with a pipe clenched between his teeth. He’d look absolutely ridiculous. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Colonel, but I’m really just a boring commercial attaché. The only spies I see here are those men practically padlocked to the drinks table.” She nodded toward a little knot of Russians eagerly downing the ambassador’s vodka.

Soloviev smiled down at her. “Of course.”

They danced together, moving gracefully in oddly contented silence, until the song ended in a polite patter of applause. Soloviev held her close for just a moment longer and then stepped back, bowing. “My thanks.”

His lips brushed across the back of her outstretched hand.

Erin stiffened. Not because she was embarrassed by his oddly old-fashioned courtesy, but because he’d just slipped a folded piece of paper into her hand. The colonel straightened up. His face was quite calm, perfectly still. “I enjoyed myself, Miss McKenna. Perhaps we shall dance again one day.”

She nodded without speaking and watched him move off into the crowd. Still bemused, she noticed that many of the women looked after him with just a hint of longing and most of the men with a mix of admiration and jealousy. She forced herself back to reality. What the hell had just happened?

For the first time that evening, Erin wished she had dressed grayly and inconspicuously. It took her several minutes to find a quiet corner where she could study what the Russian soldier had passed her without being observed.

It was a brief note in strong, masculine handwriting. “I must see you again. Come running with me. Alone. At 6 A.M. on the day after tomorrow at the Novodevichy Convent. The matter is urgent.”

Erin looked up in astonishment, instinctively seeking Soloviev’s distinctive features among a blur of several hundred different faces. He was gone.

She refolded the note and headed upstairs for the chancery building’s Secure Section. Whatever was going on was not something she could keep to herself.

Thirty minutes later, Erin and Alex Banich sat in the Moscow Station chief’s office. Len Kutner stared down at the unfolded piece of paper lying on his desk. He tugged at the tight collar of his tux, loosening it slightly, and looked up. “What’s your read on this, Alex?”

“It’s a setup.” Banich was insistent. “That son-of-a-bitch Soloviev is trouble. With a capital T. Or maybe with a capital K — for KGB.”

“The KGB doesn’t exist anymore,” Erin pointed out.

“The hell it doesn’t!” Banich exploded. “They can call it the FIS, or whatever else they want, but it’s still the same damned thing.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t think so. He didn’t seem like one of them.”

“That’s the point.” Banich frowned at her. “Don’t forget, I’ve dealt with this guy before. Soloviev’s as smooth as silk. All smiles and easy charm right up until he plants a stiletto between your ribs!”

Kutner leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “Maybe so. But I still don’t see why one of Kaminov’s senior advisors would get personally involved in a sting op.”

“Because he’s the perfect bait. Highly placed and well connected. They know we’ll be tempted to play along just on the off chance he is genuine.” Banich shrugged. “All the more reason to give this one a pass.”

“But why now?” Erin asked. “The FIS has had me pegged as an intelligence agent for months. Why wait this long to come hunting me?”

“Because something’s in the wind. Something they don’t want us to know about. Maybe connected with Poland. Maybe not.” Banich turned to Kutner. “You saw my report on the airport clampdown. Not even Kaminov would throw that many security personnel around on a whim.”

“Yeah.”

“Then you can see what these bastards could have in mind. They must know we’ve got a network here in Moscow — one they haven’t been able to penetrate yet.” Banich nodded toward Erin. “Say they lure McKenna outside the embassy, pass her a few worthless state secrets, and then grab her red-handed. The FIS gets two big pluses from that. One, they disrupt our operations and force us to commit resources arranging a swap or a buy-back. Two, they can break her wide open under interrogation.”

He lowered his voice. “She knows too much, Len. My name. My cover. The trading company. Everything. And the frigging Russians would get it all.”

Erin flushed angrily at the implication that she would spill secrets so easily. But she had to admit that Banich was probably right. She was an analyst, not a field agent. She didn’t have the training to withstand prolonged questioning — whether under torture or drugs.

Still, he seemed far too inclined to view only the worst-case situation. Would he have been as adamant if the Russian colonel had contacted Mike Hennessy instead of her? She doubted it. Maybe somebody should point out the possibility that this particular glass might be half-full, not half-empty. “What if Soloviev isn’t setting a trap? What if he does have vital information to give us? Look, Alex, you say yourself that there’s something big happening inside the Russian government. Have any of your sources been able to tell you what’s up?”

He shook his head reluctantly.

“Then isn’t it worth taking some risks to find out more?”

Banich shook his head again, vehemently this time. “No, it’s not. I don’t care what the payoff seems to be. I don’t make sucker bets.”

She turned to Kutner. “So that’s it? We just walk away from a man who could give us access to Kaminov’s inner circle? Can we really afford to pass up a chance like this?”

The station chief didn’t answer her right away. Instead he studied the crumpled note in front of him one more time. When he looked up, he was looking at Banich, not at her. He grimaced. “I’m afraid Miss McKenna could be right, Alex. This may be one sucker bet we have to make.”