Countdown to Midnight

Seven

Built to Pavel Voronin’s exacting specifications, his country home was a far cry from the usual ramshackle rustic Russian dacha. Set on a hill ninety kilometers southeast of Moscow, it was surrounded by an extensive pine forest that belonged exclusively to him. The sprawling two-story steel-and-glass villa had wall-length windows offering unimpeded views of snow-shrouded woods and the frozen Moskva River, a wide silver-gray ribbon of ice. At the touch of a button, these windows could be darkened for privacy or energy efficiency, thanks to enormously expensive experimental electrochromic technology. Modernist furniture from the most fashionable designers filled every room, along with original paintings by Kandinsky, Rothko, and other renowned abstract artists. A spacious, glass-roofed atrium held a heated swimming pool and sauna.

To avoid spoiling the image of carefree luxury, the compound’s extensive security measures were kept discreetly out of sight of the main house. But anyone approaching uninvited would run head-on into defenses that included infrared cameras, motion sensors, razor wire — topped perimeter fences, armed Raven Syndicate sentries, and roving guard dog patrols. In a very real sense, Voronin’s opulent weekend retreat was also a heavily guarded fortress.

Clad in an impeccably cut tweed jacket, Voronin himself waited at the dacha’s front portico to greet the visitors he’d invited for this morning’s secret meeting. Behind him, a pair of solid bronze doors opened into the dacha’s central hall. Although it was well below freezing outside, powerful space heaters discreetly built into the portico’s spiraling steel columns kept him perfectly comfortable.

Precisely on schedule, the large black Aurus Senat L700 limousine he’d dispatched to bring his guests from Moscow appeared over the crest of the hill. All-weather tires crunched softly across compacted snow as it rolled smoothly up the long, open drive and pulled in under the shelter of the portico. Powered by a Porsche-developed, twin-turbocharged 4.4 liter V8 engine, the Senat L700 model was the Russian-made equivalent of a Rolls-Royce Ghost or a top-of-the-line Cadillac. These luxury cars were ordinarily reserved for very high-ranking political leaders. Owning one as a private citizen was a mark of extraordinary power and prestige.

At Voronin’s nod, two of his bodyguards stepped forward and opened the limousine’s doors. Somewhat hesitantly, four middle-aged men climbed out of the luxuriously appointed passenger compartment. For a moment, they clumped together at the foot of the steps leading up into the villa, plainly unsure of what they should do next.

“Gentlemen, my name is Voronin and I’m your host. Welcome to Raven’s Nest,” he greeted them politely. “I’d like to thank you for so promptly responding to my invitation.” Left hanging in the air was the fact that his “invitation” had been accompanied by direct orders from Russia’s president, Piotr Zhdanov. With a genial smile, he waved them on ahead of him through the main doors.

Immediately, a small army of servants bustled up to relieve them of their gloves, overcoats and fur hats. More staff led them deeper into the dacha’s interior and into a large, high-ceilinged living room. There, the four men stopped dead, plainly staggered by their first look at the pieces of expensive furniture and priceless art carefully arrayed around the room.

Voronin watched with carefully hidden amusement. He noted the quick glances each darted at these extravagant surroundings — glances that mingled curiosity with poorly concealed awe. He also observed that they all seemed distinctly uneasy in civilian business suits and ties instead of their more familiar and comfortable military uniforms.

He nodded to himself in satisfaction.

These men were quite obviously out of their depth, which was exactly what he had intended. Centuries of tradition inclined officers in Russia’s armed forces to see themselves as a superior caste — as sacred guardians of the State set high above the grubby, inconsequential world of commerce and private enterprise. It was a fable, of course, he knew, but one that held a powerful grip on every Russian military man’s mind. Breaking this myth was essential to his plans.

Voronin motioned to a set of leather high-backed chairs arranged in a conversational semicircle around a mirrored glass coffee table. “Please sit down, gentlemen.”

Warily, they obeyed, though clearly uncertain of the proper etiquette involved here. Everything about this unusual situation indicated that their “host”—civilian or not — stood far above them in wealth and position and power. In the circumstances, his extravagant politeness seemed somehow ominous.

Voronin himself casually strolled around the room while another group of his servants served drinks — vodka, whiskey, or brandy to each guest’s preference. There was a moment of worried silence as each man suddenly realized he’d been offered only his personal favorite brand. The implication was clear and chilling: Their formidable host undoubtedly knew a great deal about them. Far more than he should.

Once the four men had their drinks, the servants withdrew. As the doors closed behind them, grim-faced bodyguards took up their posts at every entrance. Slight bulges marked the weapons concealed under their suit coats.

Voronin moved out to the middle of the room. For a long moment, he studied his guests without speaking. Under his silent, pale-eyed gaze, they fidgeted slightly in their chairs, adjusting ties or shirt cuffs or quietly clearing their throats — all telltale signs of anxiety.

At last, he broke the increasingly uncomfortable silence. “I know that you must be wondering why you’re here.”

After glancing at his colleagues, the oldest man among them, a colonel in the Ministry of Defense’s 12th Main Directorate named Krylov, nodded carefully. “Yes, sir.”

Voronin smiled broadly. “It’s quite simple, Mikhail Sergeyevich. You’ve all been temporarily assigned to my firm, the Raven Syndicate, for a very special project — a project of enormous importance to the Motherland… and to President Zhdanov personally.”

His guests exchanged puzzled glances. There were occasions when officers in the ground forces or even air force pilots might find themselves posted to private industrial firms — to provide professional advice on the development of new armored fighting vehicles or combat aircraft, for example. But that was never the case for soldiers from their particular, highly specialized, and tightly controlled branches of the armed forces. Like Krylov, two of them served in the 12th Main Directorate, which was directly responsible for the security of Russia’s nuclear weapons stockpiles. The fourth man was a weapons specialist in the Strategic Rocket Forces, which controlled its ICBMs.

Krylov put his drink down untasted. “I don’t quite understand what it is you expect us to be able to do for this Raven Syndicate of yours, Mr. Voronin. For one thing, our respective security clearances strictly forbid the disclosure of any information—”

“Your clearances forbid the unauthorized disclosure of information,” Voronin interrupted. He shrugged. “But as it happens, I’ve been granted the necessary authority by the president himself. You now work for me. And for me alone.”

He smiled again, this time at the shock on their faces. “Relax, gentlemen. I’m aware that this situation is unprecedented, but I think you’ll find the terms entirely acceptable.”

“How so?” Krylov asked bluntly.

“From this moment forward, your pay will be ten times that of your regular military salaries,” Voronin said. “And you will earn substantial bonuses upon the successful completion of this special project. Bonuses on the order of two hundred million rubles each.”

One of the younger officers whistled involuntarily. Two hundred million rubles was the equivalent of roughly 250,000 American dollars. Like everyone responsible for Russia’s nuclear weapons and strategic missiles, they were better paid than those serving in conventional branches of the armed forces — but a promised bonus of that size still represented nearly ten years’ pay.

Krylov frowned. “Your offer is generous indeed. But what exactly do you want in return?”

“You’ll be thoroughly briefed,” Voronin assured him. He snapped his fingers once. An aide hurried over from the far end of the living room with a briefcase. Opening it, the young man handed out copies of a single page document and pens. “But first, I must ask each of you to sign these agreements.” His voice hardened slightly. “You’ll find them perfectly clear and quite easy to understand, without any of the usual legal gibberish.”

The four officers turned pale when they saw what he meant. In the plainest possible terms, they were being sworn to absolute secrecy for life. Any breach of security involving the operation code-named MIDNIGHT, however small, however unintentional, would result in death.

Voronin nodded coolly to them. “Let me assure you that I mean what I say. If you betray me or my secrets, there will be no appeal to any higher authority. There will be absolutely no recourse or reprieve. And should it prove necessary, I will personally act as your only judge, jury, and executioner.”

Nick Flynn took the steps of the mansion’s wide, curving staircase two at a time. Besides several suites set aside for Quartet Directorate agents who needed rest and recuperation between field assignments, the upper floor held several other rooms used on relatively rare occasions — including a private study that had once belonged to the prominent New York banker who’d first had Avalon House built. As the decades passed, the room’s leather chairs had grown rather worn and shabby, though they were still comfortable. Four allocated its funds to operations, not fashionable décor.

Two other men were waiting for him in the study. One was Fox. The other was a short, older man with a high forehead and wispy tufts of bright white hair. They rose to greet him.

“Nick, this is Professor Gideon Ayish,” Fox said quietly. “He’s just flown in from Jerusalem.”

“Oh?” Flynn asked, shaking hands with the newcomer. He hid a moment’s surprise. For an academic type, Ayish had one hell of a grip.

Somehow, the other man read his mind. “I may not be in the first flush of youth, Mr. Flynn,” he said good-naturedly. “But perhaps that doesn’t mean as much as it seems, eh?”

“I’ll let you know when I get the circulation back in my fingers, Professor,” Flynn told him with a quick grin of his own.

They all sat down. “Gideon is Four’s head of station in Israel,” Fox explained. “But before joining us, he had a very active career in the IDF — serving with some of its most lethal and effective special operations units.”

Flynn nodded his understanding. The Quartet Directorate drew its personnel from a variety of sources. Some were disenchanted veterans of various official intelligence agencies. Others, like him and apparently this guy Ayish, too, were ex-military, usually with a set of very specialized skills. A small number were recruited directly from civilian life by Four’s talent scouts.

He looked from one man to the other. “So does this little get-together have anything to do with my plan to put people on the ground inside Iran?” he asked.

“Not directly,” Fox answered. He took off his glasses, polished them briefly, and then put them back on. “I’m afraid your proposal is still under debate, Nick. You’ve got Gideon’s vote, but there are a couple of others who aren’t yet convinced such a risky operation is worth it, especially since we can’t guarantee a payoff in actionable intelligence.”

Flynn frowned. One of the things that had drawn him to Four in the first place was Fox’s guarantee that he would be allowed room for independent action, without being continually held back or second-guessed by superiors. Coming as it did after he’d been railroaded by both the CIA and the Air Force brass for making them look bad that had been a mighty attractive prospect. He’d hate to find out it was all bullshit, like so many of the bogus promises made by armed forces recruiters through the ages in order to get their prospects to sign on the dotted line.

“If there’s such a thing as a sure bet in the intelligence business, I’ve never seen it,” he pointed out stiffly.

“True,” Ayish agreed. “Which is why I’m confident you’ll be given the green light before too long.” He shrugged. “Remember, there are few enough of us in Four as it is. Sometimes that makes it difficult for those of us held out of the field by age or injury to easily sign off on sending younger men and women into such grave danger. But the worriers will get there in the end. Just give them a little more time to wrestle their consciences into submission. Eventually, necessity will triumph over caution.”

Flynn sighed. “And in the meantime, I just sit here and twiddle my thumbs?”

“Not quite,” Fox assured him. “Thanks to new intelligence supplied by Gideon here, we might have a good chance to learn more about the Russians who seem to be working so closely with Tehran on this mysterious tanker project.”

“Really?”

“Really, Mr. Flynn,” Ayish said. Calmly, he outlined what he’d been told about the sophisticated surveillance operation now being run against Israel’s embassy in Vienna.

Flynn looked back at Fox. “And you think these mysterious watchers are some of the same guys I ran into?”

“The ones who killed Arif Khavari and almost blew your head off?” Fox nodded. “Yes, I do. The timing’s too coincidental for me to think anything else. These people must believe Khavari was working for the Israelis. Why else would anyone mount such an elaborate surveillance effort against their embassy within twenty-four hours of his death?”

Flynn nodded. “Yeah, I see how that fits.” His eyes narrowed. “So, what’s your plan?”

“Well, as a first step, we would need you to return to Austria,” Ayish said. “Once you’re on the ground there, the operation I have in mind becomes feasible.”

Flynn stared at him. “And exactly what kind of operation are we talking about here?” he demanded.

“A fishing expedition of sorts,” the professor replied evenly.

“With me as the bait,” Flynn realized.

“Yes,” Ayish admitted.

Flynn shot him a lopsided grin. “Oh, swell.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Just so you know, I did a lot of fishing with my grandfather when I was a kid. And I don’t remember ever seeing a worm that was worth spit when we were done.”