Long Shot

12

NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, had existed for more than half a century, a security alliance founded upon the pledge of mutual defense in the event of an armed attack on any member state by an external party. It achieved its original goal, which was to corral Soviet expansionism in Europe. The demolition of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the reunification of Germany, and the end of the Cold War meant that NATO had won. In a sudden rush, the countries of Hungary, the Czech Republic and Poland, free of Moscow’s rule, joined the alliance. Since then, another seven former Soviet republics that had been members of the defunct rival Warsaw Pact came aboard. By 2009, NATO boasted twenty-eight member nations, from as large as the United States to as small as Estonia. Russia was reduced to being a second-rate power and a shattered empire. The Russian economy stagnated, so did the military budget, but eventually the big ship had righted itself. Now the Bear was stirring again, starting the long climb back into the game. It dealt first with the rebels in Chechnya, and then had tamed Georgia, and next took a big bite of the Ukraine. NATO did nothing. The time had come to pay attention to the northern front.

General of the Army Pavel Sergeyev, the chief of the general staff of the Russian Federation, could read that story just by looking at the huge map of Europe that dominated an entire wall of his magnificent office on Znamenka Street in Moscow. All of those upstart Warsaw Pact deserters were now having second thoughts: Moldavia, Romania, Slovenia, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia were quaking in their boots. He laughed to himself. Tiny Lithuania had announced with great fanfare that it had formed a Rapid Reaction Force to confront any Russian aggression.

Sergeyev pressed the handset of a telephone close to his ear to better hear the cold voice of Colonel General Valery Ivanovich Levchenko, the commander of the Western Military District, who was headquartered in St. Petersburg. The colonel general was an active man, popular among his troops for his touch with the common soldier. Chief of Staff Sergeyev asked, “How was your run this morning, Valery Ivanovich?”

“Brisk and satisfying,” came the reply over the encrypted line. The man had the lean body of a greyhound. Each day, the colonel general went for a run of ten kilometers with an enlisted man from one of his services. Today, a common soldier from the 20th Guards Army had been given the honor of galloping alongside the fifty-year-old general, and the younger man’s fresh lungs were burning with effort by the time they finished the hard pace. The general did not jog; he ran and always finished with a hard, kicking sprint. It was all right for the enlisted man to finish first, and be rewarded with a week’s liberty, for the general was no longer in the condition he was in back during his Olympic years, but woe be unto any who could not finish the workout. Break an ankle, pull a hamstring, rip a knee muscle or fall out of the run for any reason at all and that soldier, sailor or airman would be demoted one rank on the spot and transferred to what the general called his “Goon Squad” that pulled every dirty job he deemed fit. For Levchenko, there was no excuse to ever quit until the job was done.

“Are you prepared to launch the exercise?”

“At your command, sir.” Colonel General Levchenko was not flustered by the implied criticism of his superior. Of course he was ready. “The needed infrastructure is in place along the border for Operation Hermitage, and we are shifting units forward as the fields dry out enough to support armored vehicles. More fuel and ammunition and air-assault units still need to be prepositioned. It will not take long.”

Chief of Staff Sergeyev thought that through for a couple of moments, with his head down and his chin on his chest. He puffed on a cigarette. “And where do we stand with the resettlement program?”

“The voluntary relocation is, of necessity, going slowly, but progress is satisfactory. Elements of the Sixteenth Spetnaz Brigade, in civilian clothes, are furnishing manpower to help convince dissidents in the target areas that they might be happier living elsewhere.”

“Nicely put, Valery. ‘Voluntary relocation.’ I like the sound of that,” said the army’s chief of staff. “I think that someday you may wish to take off that uniform and become a politician.”

The business was done, and they were just fencing now. “I have no interest in politics, Colonel General. I have served the Motherland for thirty years, and my only wish is to continue doing so as a commander. I understand that this operation is part of a larger and important political component and I gladly leave that to you and our other leaders in Moscow.”

“I know, Valery. I know. You are the best field commander I have and your skills are needed where you are.” There was a pause. “I told the men in the Kremlin that the only problem was that Valery Ivanovich would want to personally lead this from the front lines. They were shocked, and I agree with them. One reason for my call is to remind you, Colonel General, that you must remain within your headquarters.”

“Ah. The problem with being a general is that I cannot be aboard the lead tank going into the fight. I work best when my boots are muddy.” He poured a glass of good vodka and drank it down in one swift gulp.

“From where you sit in your St. Petersburg palace, Estonia is only ninety-two miles away. That is close enough for my valuable commander. Let our young soldiers do the fighting. That is why we train them.”

“Whatever you say,” replied Colonel General Levchenko, knowing it was a lie when he uttered the words. Things were in motion for the run-up to Phase One of Operation Hermitage and he did not have to be personally on the scene until it was time to spring the trap with Phase Two. Then he would be where he was really needed. The men within the redbrick Kremlin walls and generals in the military headquarters in the Arbat did not have to know that. Colonel General Levchenko did not believe in sharing his plans. The bureaucrats could order him to boil water, but building the fire was up to him.

Kyle Swanson got his first surprise of the day when he met the case officer who had been assigned by the CIA to oversee the initial debrief of Colonal Ivan Strakov. He recognized the blond hair, slim figure, elegant bearing, fashionable clothes and open smile of Jan Hollings. Calico stood and extended her hand.

“You?”

“Don’t worry, Mister Swanson. I left Anneli safely tucked away for a few days. The company brought me in last night because Ivan apparently operated partially on my turf. The theory is that I might be able to recognize flaws in his story.” She sat down again, then introduced two other agents, a younger tech and an older analyst. “I will return to Tallinn as soon as you are through with him and things check out. Still, it is nice to see you again so soon.”

The woman was full of surprises. At no point had she mentioned her husband, Colonel Thomas Markey. Agents were always changing their appearance with such little alterations. Beneath that cool outward appearance, Calico was a very complicated woman. Kyle had no problem with her running this show. Anybody, as long as it was not him, was acceptable.

“Fine by me. When you see Anneli, please tell her that I said hello. She’s a good kid. No word on her boyfriend?”

Jan twitched her lips. “No. Too soon to hope for that. I honestly do not have high hopes, but she thinks you are Superman and can find him.” She lifted her chin toward the tech, who switched on the video and audio equipment, and a black curtain slid away from the one-way mirror.

Ivan Strakov waited patiently in a chair at the usual table. He wore glaring orange coveralls, but was not in restraints. Instead, he was working a crossword puzzle, although he was not allowed a sharp object like a pen or pencil. Ivan was unraveling the tangle of words in his head.

The technician handed a clear earbud to Kyle, who stuffed it into the canal of his right ear and wiggled it to make it comfortable. It was invisible. “Testing. Can you hear me?”

Swanson said, “Perfectly. I’m ready.”

The technician slid on a pair of earphones and turned to his electronic control panel. “Ready here, too,” he said. The older analyst nodded, his pen poised over a legal pad.

Calico gave them all a final look, and said, “Then in you go, Swanson. Do this. I’m anxious to hear what he has to say.” She opened the door and Kyle walked through, then she closed it behind him.

Ivan Strakov tossed the folded newspaper onto the table. “Took you long enough,” he said.

Kyle placed his briefcase on the flat surface, opened it and removed some notes. “Narva is a dump,” he said, spreading his papers. Sketches and written reminders with other notes such as laser ranges scribbled in open spaces.

“There are a couple of nice castles, though, right?” Ivan responded. “Good view from up in the gallery. So what did you see, Gunny?”

“Not much, actually. The only thing worse than being in Narva, apparently, is being across the bridge in Russia.” Swanson peeled through the data, point by point, for thirty minutes, then called a break. He mentioned the upcoming election, but did not speak of the fight in the tower, nor the young couple he had encountered. He stuffed the material back into the briefcase and returned to the other room and handed it to the analyst. “For your files,” he said, and the man took it without comment.

“That was a good general overview,” said Calico. “I recall much of that myself, although without the ranges and tactical details. Narva is a bleak place and doesn’t change much.”

Swanson poured two cups of hot coffee and took a sip of one. To the tech, he said, “Ask Ivan if he prefers milk and sugar.”

The youngster hesitated and looked at Jan Hollings, who looked at Kyle. “Come on,” Swanson said. “The guy is a spy. He knows we are watching and listening, so let me break the ice a little better with a common courtesy.”

“Milk or sugar in your coffee, Colonel?” The tech asked with a calm voice.

“Milk. Thank you,” he responded.

Swanson went back in and gave Ivan the coffee. They sat silently for a while, just waiting. “So you directed that you would only talk to me, Strakov, and I came. Then you sent me off to chase this goose in Narva. I went. So it’s your turn.”

Ivan agreed that it was fair to give something back. He asked, “Did you see the monuments?”

Swanson nodded in agreement. “Even the bald guy, old Vladimer Ilyich Lenin himself, who is now hiding in a niche of the castle instead of standing in the square. I tried to catch most of them.”

Strakov had a laugh, a genuine bit of humor. “Yes. Moving Lenin was quite a daring move by the Estonians. Then they also moved the war memorial, a statue of a Red Army soldier, and that really upset President Pushkin. What else? Think, Kyle. This is important.”

“If it was important, why didn’t you tell me to be sure to find it?”

“The process of discovery, Kyle. If I pointed you to it, my information would have been discounted. Tell me about the sad-looking cross that rises out of the stones down by the railroad tracks, with the big numbers nineteen forty-one through nineteen forty-nine.”

“I’ve got to look at my notes again,” Swanson said to buy some time. He left his coffee on the table when he went back outside and checked through the papers. “Aw, shit,” he said softly, drawing a concerned look from Calico. “I should have caught that. So fucking obvious!” He went back in.

“That is the memorial to the Estonians who were deported to Siberia by the Russians during and after the war,” he declared.

Ivan Strakov rubbed his right palm over his face briefly, pulling at his cheeks. “Right.”

“The Disappeared.”

“Right. They are doing it again, this time to silence the critics and the dissidents, the journalists and clergy, the students and labor leaders. With those people removed in secrecy aboard what is known as the Black Train, a new tone can arise behind them and clever propagandists will rally to return beneath Moscow’s wing.”

“You are preparing the battlefield.” Kyle pushed back in his chair and crossed his legs. He realized with a clutch of his gut that Ivan’s comment explained what had happened to Brokk Mihailovich and why those punks had come after Anneli. Had to be. With Brokk and his energetic adviser out of the way, the other candidate would win the municipal election in Narva and try to return it to Kremlin ownership. “Incredible. Moscow must know NATO will react to that.”

“Of course, but it is not me. Moscow is doing it and fully realizes the risks and the rewards. The Black Train is the only free item on my menu today, Kyle. Now that I have crossed the line and left my job, I need money. I will want a lot of money for further information, with more to come as I yield more intelligence gold, and I want my new CIA friends to arrange a new and comfortable life for me.”

Kyle grinned. “How about this instead: We throw your skinny ass into a prison if you don’t tell us everything?”

Ivan did not change expression. “Ah. At last, we are bargaining. The best things in life aren’t free.” He finished his coffee in silence, then he spoke again. “That deportation tip is free because I wanted to establish a baseline that will prove my information is valid and important. I want a million dollars for the next big thing, which you obviously did not see during your visit. I admit being a bit surprised that you missed it.”

Swanson gave a derisive grunt. “Hardly. It does not require a genius to figure out that the new road construction, the fuel facilities, the nice new airstrip and the buildup of troops in and around the Ivangorod Fortress are to increase tension along the border.”

Now it was Strakov’s turn to smirk. “You really didn’t catch it, did you? I should be asking ten million.”

“What? You want the cash, earn it.”

“Go ask your masters, or put me back in my room, Swanson. You, of all people, know they could not break me in any interrogation.” He glared over at the big mirror. “When the shit hits the fan, the world will ask why the CIA let this all happen for a lousy million bucks. Let me remind you that we are not even at the good stuff yet; the codes and the data banks.”

Swanson walked out of the room. The analyst and the technician were sitting there dumbfounded and Calico was already on the telephone to Washington, describing the defector’s revelation. She held a finger up to keep him quiet and listened for a minute, then said, “Yes. I consider that the first nugget he handed over is very important. It is confirmation of what we had heard about a Black Train taking away prisoners, but could not confirm. Russia is clearing out its critics in the Estonian border, probably shipping them to Siberia, just like in the bad old days.”

Her golden hair picked up available light in flashes when she nodded in the direction of CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Her voice was soft, but firm. “Yes. That information about the Disappeareds alone is worth the price. God knows what else he’s got. I recommend we do it.”

A longer reply. Calico turned and stared at Kyle. “Yes. I recommend giving him the whole package: new identity, a secret account, the works. We can always take it back and shoot the son of a bitch if he’s lying.” Jan Hollings terminated the encrypted conversation and pointed at Kyle. “They are patched through on a live uplink, so they heard and saw it all. Go make the deal,” she said.

Swanson returned to his seat, carrying two cups of fresh coffee. “Okay, Ivan. You’re a rich man now. So impress me. What did I miss?”

Strakov said, “Excellent. Good decision. The Armata, Kyle. You did not mention the Armata!”

Kyle closed his eyes for a moment, and exhaled a long sigh, almost visualizing the panic in the adjoining room and back at Langley.