Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 56

General Oleg Proskurov was a careful man, a planner. He understood that even the smallest, most insignificant detail could throw off the greatest of undertakings. History was replete with brilliant men undone by seemingly minuscule factors.

And so, Sergun’s concerns about Baseyev troubled him. Baseyev was too important to lose.

Perhaps they were leaning on Baseyev too heavily. Perhaps he was feeling the stress of being too long in the field. His operations tempo had been excruciating. He had been asked to pull off not one spectacular feat but several. It would have taken its toll on anyone.

Proskurov had been thinking about the right way to deal with him. If Baseyev was beginning to crack, should they keep him in the game? Would a couple of days off help him catch his breath? Would he need more than that? A week? Could they even afford to take him out of play at this point?

The Americans were on the edge of getting in. He knew it. He could feel it in his bones. It was only a matter of time.

The attack on the White House was a national affront to their overinflated sense of honor. The United States could launch a thousand cruise missiles, but it wouldn’t assuage the anger and humiliation felt by its citizens.

For the last two weeks, Proskurov had been watching American television news. He knew what Americans were thinking and feeling. Even the most dovish among them was admitting that ISIS had grown into too great a problem to be ignored. They were clamoring for ISIS to be dealt with once and for all.

The American President, though, was weighing his options. Proskurov understood why. This was nothing to rush into. United States citizens would be baying for blood. They would demand a quick, decisive engagement. Shock, awe, and carnage. That’s all. No nation-building. Come in, kill all the vipers in the pit, and go home. They had no stomach for an occupation.

That was good. Russia didn’t want an American occupation either. It needed an exterminator, not a roommate.

As soon as ISIS was defeated by the Americans, Russia could fully crush the Syrian opposition. Then, with the Syrian regime back on its feet, Russia could extend its territorial ambitions in the region. As America receded, Russia would take center stage.

General Proskurov was in his late sixties. Up until this point, he hadn’t known if he would live to see such a thing in his lifetime. The idea of an ascendant Russia was beyond anyone’s imagination just a few short years ago. Then came Ukraine, and now Syria. Instead of shrinking, Russian influence was growing.

But Proskurov knew that as it grew, it was important to maintain stability at home. One of the greatest domestic threats Russia faced was from Islamic radicals. That was why it was so important to keep Sacha Baseyev in the game.

His penetration of ISIS and its inner core was a great accomplishment of the GRU. But his mission wasn’t over yet.

The GRU still needed him to secure the intelligence on all the Russian speakers who had come to train and fight with ISIS.

Where had they come from? How many had returned home? How many had stayed behind? How many had been killed or wounded? How were they recruited? Who had done the recruiting? Were specific plans in the works for attacks inside Russia? What and who were their targets? How did cell members communicate? How were they financed? And so on.

It was critical intelligence and no one was better positioned than Baseyev to secure it. Whatever Proskurov needed to say, whatever he needed to promise, he would. It was imperative that Baseyev complete his assignment.

The General looked out the thick, bulletproof glass of his Land Cruiser as they drove through the streets of Damascus. It was an intriguing city — exotic, but with enough modern conveniences to make it comfortable.

He liked it better than Moscow. That wasn’t saying much, though. He liked any place better than Moscow.

The only place he disliked more was his hometown, Dzerzhinsk. It was a hub for Russia’s chemicals industry. And with the chemical companies had come chemical weapons programs.

Dzerzhinsk, appropriately enough, had been named after the very first head of Russia’s secret police. Its soil and water were polluted. Birth defects and cancer were through the roof. It was said that the death rate in Dzerzhinsk was three times the birthrate. Only Chernobyl was more toxic. Proskurov shuddered at the thought of it. He was glad to have gotten out.

But while he had turned his back on Dzerzhinsk, Dzerzhinsk hadn’t turned its back on him.

A year into his first marriage he learned he was sterile. The doctors couldn’t identify a cause. He, though, knew exactly what had robbed him of the ability to produce offspring — Dzerzhinsk. His hate for the city of his birth swelled.

His wife ended up leaving him because of his sterility. It was a crushing blow. As only a true Russian can, he had drowned his pain in vodka and thrown himself into his military career.

He remarried years later. She had no children and didn’t want any. She was a good enough companion. She didn’t mind his long stretches away from home.

When he was home, she cooked for him and they made love. All told, it would have been cheaper to keep a one-room apartment and visit prostitutes in Moscow. But knowing he was tied to another human being somewhere in the world made his assignments abroad more bearable.

It didn’t, though, make any of them easier. Especially not this one.

Russia had gone all in on Syria. And after they had gone all in, they had doubled down. They didn’t intend to allow the Turks, the Saudis, or anyone else to dislodge them.

In addition to the recently arrived Slava-class guided missile cruiser Moskva, and three more Ropucha-class amphibious assault ships based at Tartus, Russia’s sole aircraft carrier, the Admiral Kuznetsov, was now in the Mediterranean along with her escort the Admiral Chabanenko, a Udaloy II — class destroyer.

Then there were the aircraft.

Ninety kilometers north of Tartus was the Khmeimim air base — accessible only to Russian personnel. In the last two days, a fleet of Su-35S supermaneuverable multirole fighters had been flown in. They were the most modern fighter aircraft in service with the Russian Air Force and this was the first time they had ever been put into operation outside Russia’s borders.

Two Tu-214Rs had also been flown in. The Tu-214R was Russia’s most advanced reconnaissance and surveillance aircraft. With all-weather radar systems and highly sophisticated electro optical sensors, the spy plane was incredibly adept at pinpointing hidden or camouflaged targets. It could also scoop up and monitor enemy communications and electronic signals.

Topping it all off, state-of-the-art S-400 defense missile systems had been moved into Syria to protect Russian assets.

The message Russia was sending to the rest of the world was crystal clear: Don’t fuck with us.

It was an enormous gamble, which made Proskurov’s task even more crucial. He would not be the man who let his country down.

Rolling up to the saltbox, one of the detail agents jumped out and opened up the gates.

After the SUVs were through, he closed the gates behind them. Inside the courtyard, the vehicles turned around so that they were facing out, ready to leave once Proskurov’s meeting was over.

The Spetsnaz operative opened the General’s door and the man stepped out with his laptop bag over his shoulder and a small cardboard box, which contained tea and a few other items from back home he thought Baseyev might enjoy.

Removing a key ring from his pocket, he unlocked one of the courtyard doors and stepped inside. There was a samovar in the kitchen. He wanted to fire it up and start heating water for tea.

He found making tea the old fashioned way relaxing. It also tasted better than using an electric kettle.

His favorite tea was Russian Caravan — a blend of oolong, Keemun, and Lapsang souchong. It had a smoky flavor to it that mimicked the tea of old, imported from China to Russia via camel caravans. During the long journey — sometimes a year to a year and a half, the tea absorbed its distinct flavor from the caravan campfires.

Placing the samovar in the sink, he filled it with water. Then, removing the sack of kindling and wood chips he kept in the cabinet, he packed the cylinder in the center with just the right amount of fuel.

Patting his pockets, he realized that he had left his cigarettes, and with them his lighter, in the car. There had to be a box of kitchen matches somewhere, though.

After looking through several drawers, he finally found them in a cabinet near the coffee mugs.

Placing the samovar on the stove, he removed a match from the box, but hesitated in striking it.

The hair on the back of his neck was suddenly standing on end. He didn’t know what, but something was wrong.

Setting the match and matchbox down on the counter, he turned to walk out of the kitchen. As he did, an enormous explosion detonated outside, shattering the windows and sending an enormous shockwave through the building.