High Alert

CHAPTER 3

In a secure Moscow enclave reserved for high-ranking government officials, General Alexei Ivanovitch Vysotsky was having an uneasy dream, watching a huddle of men whispering about him. They kept glancing in his direction, giving him unfriendly looks. One of them took an old-fashioned phone from his pocket with a rotary dial and spun the dial with his finger. The phone made a persistent buzzing noise.

"Stop that," Vysotsky said in the dream.

The man held the phone up and grinned at him, his mouth full of steel teeth.

The buzzing kept up. Alexei opened his eyes. The cell phone on the table next to his bed was vibrating in a circle. He reached for it.

"Yes."

He listened for a moment.

"Yes," he said again. "Right away."

He broke the connection and put the phone back on the table.

The director of SVR, Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service, sat up in bed and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. The call had summoned him to the Kremlin and informed him about the attack in Washington. It promised a bad day ahead.

Vysotsky used the bathroom. As he shaved, the face staring back from the mirror reflected the burden that came with power in Russia. The last year had left deep lines on his wide, peasant face, accenting the heavy eyebrows and dark eyes bequeathed to him by his forebears. His hair, once black as coal, was showing streaks of silver and beginning to recede.

He thought about the threats he was monitoring. The American Seventh Fleet was steaming toward North Korea. The separatists were creating trouble in Chechnya again. A new shipment of missiles had arrived in the Ukraine, courtesy of the West. And now the Chinese ambassador to Washington had been blown to bits as he entered the White House grounds.

Vysotsky had never met the ambassador, but he knew about him. It was his business to know. A personal friend of President Zhang, Ambassador Li had been adept at presenting a face of China to the world that was enlightened and friendly. He'd been skillful in diverting attention from the serpent coiled behind the public actions of Beijing.

Trouble, Vysotsky thought. Zhang will take action. Who will he blame? What will he do?

The President of the Russian Federation was certain to ask. Vysotsky needed to answer those questions for himself before he arrived at Vladimir Orlov's office in the Kremlin compound.

Vysotsky summoned his aide.

"Colonel Zhukov. Have the car ready. I am called to the Kremlin."

"At once, sir."

Zhukov clicked his heels together and left the room.

Alexei dressed quickly in a fresh uniform. Shoulder boards with three stars marked him as a Colonel General, promotion that had come with his elevation to Director of SVR. Alexei was now one of the most powerful men in the Federation, but he was under no illusions as to where the source of his power lay. In things that counted, not much had changed since the days of the Soviet Union. Orlov had lifted him up and could as easily cut him down. As long as Alexei found ways to advance the President's agenda for a resurgent Russia, he was reasonably safe.

When he'd finished dressing, Alexei called his headquarters in Yasenevo and started the process to discover who was responsible for the assassination. He'd find out, sooner or later. Once SVR began looking, few things could remain hidden.

A corporal stood by the door with a thermos of hot tea. There was vodka in the limousine if Vysotsky wanted it.

Alexei shrugged on a heavy greatcoat and donned his high peaked officer's hat. He held the thermos in one gloved hand and stepped out into the Arctic cold of Moscow. His limo idled in the courtyard of the residential compound, sending a steady stream of exhaust fog into the early morning air. He climbed into the back and pulled the heavy armor-plated door shut.

The heater was going full blast, but it was still cold in the car. He unscrewed the top of the thermos and poured tea. It was laced with brandy, the way he liked it. He sipped and felt welcome warmth slide down his throat. The car pulled smoothly away from the compound, heading for the Kremlin.

Vysotsky's lavish apartment was located in the district of Dorogomilovo, twenty minutes away from the Kremlin. By the time he arrived, he needed to have suggestions ready for the man who ran Russia.

He considered the implications of the attack. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain it could turn into something bigger than the death of an important diplomat. Everyone in Beijing was touchy, these days. By the time the car reached the walls of the Kremlin, he still wasn't sure what he was going to say. He'd take his cue from Orlov and hope for the best.

Vladimir Orlov's office was located in the green-domed Senate building in the northern end of the Kremlin compound. The snow had been cleared away in front of the building, exposing the icy stones of the courtyard. Two guards carrying AK 74s saluted as Vysotsky approached and held open the tall doors of the entrance for him. Inside, an aide took his hat and greatcoat.

"He's waiting for you, General," the aide said.

Vysotsky grunted and strode across the polished floor to the office of Russia's President.

Orlov sat at a desk inlaid with Ukrainian malachite, the same desk used by Khrushchev during the Cuban missile crisis. More than five decades had passed since Khrushchev had blinked and withdrawn the missiles. Orlov considered it one of Russia's deepest humiliations. It was why he'd ordered the desk brought out of storage and placed in his office when he'd come to power. He intended to redeem his predecessor's mistake while sitting behind it.

The President's office was a study in 18th century architecture, a remnant of the days of the Czars. A large crystal chandelier hung from a high, curved ceiling painted with beige triangles and squares outlined in white. Carved cornices painted white marched along the junction between wall and ceiling at studied intervals.

The floor was composed of inlaid hardwoods, much of it covered by a Persian rug woven in an elaborate floral pattern. The walls were lined with brown oak panels and tall, glass fronted bookcases. Displayed on the wall behind Orlov's desk was the golden double-headed eagle and crest of the Russian Federation. Two flags flanked the wall to either side of the eagle. To Orlov's left, a large window looked out over the courtyard.

The President of the Russian Federation was of average height, with manicured hands that were almost dainty. His eyes were blue and cold as the Arctic sky. He wore a perfectly tailored blue suit and a blue and white striped tie. An enameled pin with the Russian flag adorned his lapel.

Orlov was well muscled under his politician's suit, something he worked at in his private gym. He'd taken his cue from Mao and liked to show the public that he was a powerful man. He made sure he was seen doing things that enhanced his image of strength and masculinity. He'd been photographed hunting in Siberia, swimming the Moscow River in winter, arm wrestling with the Army champion.

When the Soviet Union collapsed, Orlov had resigned from the KGB and gone into politics. The system he'd grown up with was no more, but his ties to the fraternity of the Sword and Shield and his belief in its philosophy had never changed. Neither had his attitude toward those he considered to be Russia's enemies.

There were many of those, China and America first among them. The murder of the Chinese ambassador was an opportunity to increase dissension between them. It remained to be seen how the situation could be exploited.

Orlov understood the cruel and passionate love his country demanded and shared the paranoia toward outsiders that was ingrained in the Russian soul. Like many Russians, he believed that only a strong leader backed by a powerful military could restore the prestige Russia had once held. As other dictators had done before him, he'd used the trappings of democracy to give himself legitimacy.

Though Western propaganda often depicted Orlov as a KGB thug of limited ability, nothing was farther from the truth. Playing the game of Russian politics at Orlov's level required much more than cunning and the will to be ruthless. It also required a particular kind of dark genius. His presidency depended on managing the oligarchs and the military, the two factions that determined who led the Federation. Without their backing, no one could remain in power in modern Russia.

He had satisfied the generals by modernizing much of the Russian military. He'd improved conditions, increased pay and increased the size of the armed forces. Better equipment, better tanks, and new weapons were pouring off the production lines. Russian forces once again wore their uniforms with pride. The annexation of Crimea had pleased the generals. The military was firmly on his side, anticipating expansion into Ukraine and Eastern Europe.

The oligarchs had been a different kind of challenge. Orlov persuaded those who questioned his authority that patriotic duty required turning over some of their ill gotten assets to the state. Unspoken was the certain knowledge that doing their duty assured their health and well-being. Those who'd opposed him during his first term had met with unfortunate accidents or investigations and imprisonment. Others had fled the country in self-imposed exile. The message had been received. Things were now running smoothly.

All in all, it had turned out well for Vladimir Orlov.

As Vysotsky entered, Orlov half stood and gestured at a chair in front of his desk.

"General."

"Mister President."

"Sit down, Alexei."

"Sir." Alexei sat.

Orlov could be devious or not. This time, he chose directness.

"I want to know who is responsible for assassinating the Chinese ambassador."

"I have given orders to find out," Vysotsky said.

"I would expect no less. It will have occurred to you that this is an opportunity for us."

Alexei nodded, but in fact had not yet considered what particular advantage the assassination might offer. He hedged with his reply.

"The Chinese will be very angry," he said. "I don't think they will blame the Americans, but relations with Washington will be strained at exactly the time when the White House needs the help of Beijing with that lunatic in Pyongyang."

"What is the status of the American rescue operation?"

"Elements of the Seventh Fleet are nearing North Korea's territorial waters. Rice is serious about attempting a rescue. My information is that he will not allow the North Koreans to interfere with the operation. Any effort to do so will be met with all force necessary. There is a real risk of war."

"What about Yun? Do you think he'll take that path?"

"Something is seriously wrong with that man," Vysotsky said. "He's unpredictable, but in my opinion he can't back down. There are elements in his military watching for signs of weakness. If he doesn't stand up to the Americans, he risks being deposed. Their sub went down near the Headquarters of the East Fleet. Yun has sent ships to the area. Their job is to prevent anyone from getting close."

"The Americans will turn his little boats into scrap metal if he starts shooting at them," Orlov said.

"Unless China intervenes on his behalf. Mister President, this is a very dangerous situation. Yun has enough missiles to do serious damage to the Americans. If he uses them they will retaliate. Beijing will be very nervous after the events in Washington. If China decides to get involved, things could escalate quickly. You mentioned that this could be an opportunity for us. I agree, but war in Korea is not to our advantage."

Orlov steepled his fingers together and leaned back in his chair.

"You believe Yun will not allow the Americans to launch their rescue."

"I think it's likely he will not. But as I said, he's unpredictable. He may decide a magnanimous gesture is a better decision than the humiliation of certain defeat, assuming he understands the concept of defeat in the first place. I'm not sure that he does."

"What do you suggest, General?"

"Sir, I think we must find a way to intervene. Early winter and floods are already creating big problems in the North. Yun needs heavy machinery, food, fuel. We could bribe him. Offer him what he needs. Point out to him the international approval he would gain by allowing the United States to try and rescue their submariners. Offer some sort of ongoing aid he can use to help him maintain power."

Orlov laughed. "I had no idea of your diplomatic potential, General. A bribe. It might work. I agree that war on the peninsula is not to our advantage at this time. Beijing will see it as interference, however."

"The Chinese don't want a war in Korea any more than we do," Vysotsky said. "Yun might not respond to an offer from us, but Beijing could make the approach. Perhaps we could provide the supplies needed and the Chinese could take the credit. If they can persuade Yun to cooperate, it increases his obligation to them. Yun could claim that the sinking was an unfortunate accident and that he allowed the rescue in the name of common humanity. Both Yun and the Chinese would save face and avoid confronting the Americans. It also gives us a chip with the Chinese for the future."

"I see that I was correct in promoting you to your position."

"Thank you, Mister President."

"What happened to that American submarine?"

"It's possible they had a system malfunction, an accident."

"You don't sound very convinced, General."

"We picked up the transmission from the submarine's emergency buoy. Something happened to the computers and took all of them off-line within seconds. The sub never had a chance. There has been recent intelligence indicating that the Americans have developed an underwater weapon that can cripple a ship's electronic systems."

"They wouldn't use it against their own vessel."

"Of course not, but perhaps they were testing it and something went wrong."

"What is the status of your current operation in the Ukraine?"

Orlov was referring to a plan to kill the Ukrainian chief of internal security and counterintelligence. Vysotsky noticed that Orlov had used the word "your" rather than "our." The fact that Orlov had ordered the assassination would make no difference if the attempt failed. Vysotsky would be the one who paid the price.

"Everything is on schedule."

"Good."

Orlov stood. Vysotsky rose with him.

"Find out who killed the Chinese ambassador and why."

"Yes, Mister President."

Vysotsky came to attention, clicked his heels together and left the room.

Find out who killed the ambassador.

Back inside his limo, Alexei took out the vodka from the liquor compartment and poured a shot into a silver shot cup. Finding out who had killed the Chinese ambassador would be the least of it. Why he was killed was a different matter entirely.

He poured another shot and threw it back. He'd put Antipov on it when she got back from her assignment in the Ukraine.