Patriot

CHAPTER 59

Halter returned a moment later with a red-and-black leather TOP SECRET folder. Congreve noticed the faded sword and shield symbol of the old KGB embossed on both sides.

“What’s that?” Congreve said as the professor sat down and began leafing through the pages in the secret file.

“Everything I’ve managed to nick from my Kremlin office regarding developments out at Tvas. The remote KGB headquarters for Eastern Affairs. Here are some aerial photos, sat photos, et cetera, all pertaining to a recent construction project nearby… come have a look…”

“Good heavens,” Congreve said, flipping through the stack.

“Amazing. Look at this one. You see, right here, this very large structure is the Winter Palace itself. Built sometime around the middle of the last century. It’s where General Kuragin and Anastasia maintain their residence. And where Alex’s son spent his early youth. Here is the pond where his mother taught him to ice skate… So sad, no?”

Congreve nodded, feeling a wave of pity for the boy, separated from his mother for all these years. And now, threatened with death everywhere he turned. It was utterly untenable. Alex Hawke forced to retreat to the shadows to protect his son? No, that simply could not stand.

“And look here, Ambrose. All this area to the south of that existing residence is where new work is taking place. Or, was, at the time these photos were taken. I’m sure it’s all practically completed by now. Notice it’s surrounded by three layers of security fencing, concertina wire, a broad no-man’s-land with kennels for the guard dogs to roam here. And with an unobstructed field of fire from these six guard towers here, here, and… here. Three more to cover the western approach through the forests.”

“Incredibly dense forest from the looks of it. What’s it called?”

“Czar Nicholas called it the Schwarzwald. Black Forest. After the German hunting lodges he frequented with his father as a child, in Baden-Württemberg on the Rhine. It was his happy hunting ground.”

“And what’s this? Looks like a landing strip was just being completed over here.”

“Five thousand feet. Sufficient runway provision for the heaviest troop-transport planes.”

“Makes sense. How about these large parallel rectangles? I count sixteen of them. Barracks, maybe?”

“Barracks, all right. Twenty, thirty thousand personnel, easy. Maybe more. Huge.”

“And this steel and glass cube in the center of the compound?”

“CCC. Command-and-control center. Completely self-sufficient. And separate from the primary KGB HQ to the north.”

“And, here, a row of hangars?”

“Perhaps. Wondered about that myself. Aircraft? Drone storage maybe. Who knows, at least until we get a peek inside.”

“Peek inside?”

“Rudimentary, my dear Congreve. Simply time on task. We need to get eyes on this thing.”

“Yes, but, ‘we’? What do you mean by ‘we’?”

“I’ll complete that thought in a moment. Listen, Ambrose, I don’t like the looks of this at all. I’ve heard rumors these several months. The creation of a wholly new KGB unit. Independent. Composed of mercenaries, soldiers of fortune from around the world. Under the putative command of the cream of the Spetsnaz officers. But more likely by Putin. Or his surrogate.

“I’ve been ruminating on the subject prior to your arrival,” Congreve said. “Why not base such a force out here in the middle of bloody nowhere? Airlift troops and materiel on an as-needed basis. As far from prying eyes, above and below, as you can possibly get. Wouldn’t that make sense to you, Stef?”

“Indeed it would. What still does not make any sense, though, is why the hell KGB or Spetsnaz, or any units under their control, would even need such an isolated base camp. Especially since they’ve already got one almost next door to this monstrosity. What’s the distance separating the two?”

“Three or four miles, max. With this dense forest separating the two. My question remains. Why an isolated base camp when you’ve already got one right next door?”

“Right. Unless the new one was designed from inception to be completely off the books,” Halter said, scratching his grizzled chin, his concentration and focus almost giving off heat.

Congreve nodded vigorously. He said, “A surrogate leader. A surrogate army. A surrogate air force. Every bit of it off the books. Invisible and…”

Ambrose continued, “An army that answers to no one. A distinct new unit… to complement… and… compete with the KGB. A new combat entity that can’t be traced back to the Kremlin. Not the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard of. Putin seems to be full of ever more ingenious ways to rule the world these days, does he not? But, listen. What kind of man would he put in charge of such a new army?”

“Not one that I’m aware of, at any rate. I have no idea who could be put in charge of this… hybrid army. His existing officer ranks within FSB/KGB wouldn’t do it. Does he go outside? Hire that mini-Putin I spoke of earlier?”

“Hmm. I wonder. Let us speculate about that topic, my dear Halter. Alex Hawke used to talk to me about someone in Russian history called the Dark Rider. Who was the ‘Dark Rider,’ Professor? I mean, in history or mythology?”

Halter explained, “He who rose to the highest pinnacle of power. Uncommon strength, uncommon valor, uncommon virtue at a time when the country had veered in the wrong direction. He who would alter the course of the state set by those weak sisters currently in power. In ancient times, such weak leaders were known as the ‘Pale Riders.’ Considered weak, lazy, unpatriotic. I could go on. Yeltsin was one, for instance.”

“That doesn’t sound much like our boy Volodya.”

“Definitely not Putin,” Halter said. “He’s the living definition of a Dark Rider. So who is the man in the shadows?”

“Doesn’t make any sense, Stef. You’re now talking about two Dark Riders? Operating as one? Or set against each other?”

“It’s Putin. It’s not supposed to make sense. It’s a black op like nothing I’ve ever witnessed. Not only is it stranger than you believe, it’s stranger than you can believe.”

“Who, then? Someone in opposition to Putin’s reign?” Congreve said. “Mounting a challenge?”

“Men like that don’t live long enough to oppose anything or anyone. Whoever the hell he is, we know one thing. Putin is well aware of whatever the hell is going on here. I will tell you, knowing Putin as I do, that once this fellow has fulfilled the mission he’s been given, he finds himself in the cemetery business.”

“But he’s vital to Putin. For the nonce, anyway.”

“He is. We need to find out why.”

“And we need to find out who.”

“I think we’re on the same page, Ambrose.”

The growing excitement between the two old colleagues could be felt in the room.

“Oh, we’re totally on the same page,” Congreve said. “What next?”

“We dress up like gypsies, get a wagon and mule, and begin the long trek across Siberia to the remote outpost of Tvas. Are you game?”

“My wife won’t be thrilled. She’s already going to be miffed I’m late for supper this evening.”

“I’m happy to do this all by myself. I told C some of what I’ve just revealed to you. At first, he wouldn’t let me even think of going out there. Afraid I would not come back, I suppose. I am his valuable asset, let’s be honest.”

“Or, at minimum, you’d be exposed as a double agent and thus end your enviable record of clandestine aid to British intelligence. Groveling naked on the stone floor of some prison, begging for a bullet.”

“Thanks for that image. If I end my career or my life in this effort, I shall have no regrets. It has been my life’s work, and I do believe I’ve made a difference. At any rate, in the end Sir David and I were in full agreement. We both agreed that the ends justified the means. This will be an MI6 operation, start to finish.”

“Would the old bastard balk at my tagging along?” Congreve said.

Halter laughed. “Why, Ambrose, I’m surprised at you! Use that big brain of yours. Why do you imagine you’re here? Who do you think suggested this visit?”

“This whole thing was C’s idea? Very devious of him, I must say.”

“He’s a spy, for heaven’s sake, Ambrose. Remember?”

“How could I forget? Well, there you have it. I suppose you and I are back in the Great Game at last, my old friend. The ‘Cambridge Two,’ I suppose the history books will call us. No?”

Halter looked away, lighting the cigarette that had been dangling from his lips for the last half hour. Congreve saw his eyes come to rest on the painting of Stalingrad hung above his desk.

“With only the whole world hanging in the balance…” he murmured quietly. Having moved on to one of his other worlds within worlds, Ambrose surmised. Halter, a true genius, was nothing if not a complicated man. Ambrose had the strangest sensation. He suddenly felt as if the man had left the room.

“I must be getting home,” Ambrose said.

“I suppose so… yes.”

“We can and will win, you know, Stef; with God’s help, we will,” Congreve said, rising from his chair and stretching his back out. He was tired, and he had a long drive homeward on a dark night.

“God’s help?” Halter murmured, lost in thought. “Is that what you said?”

“I’d best be getting home,” Congreve repeated.

“What? Oh, yes, of course. I’ll ring for Optimus and have him show you out.”

Halter sounded odd, as if something, some looming dark cloud, was sliding over him. A premonition, perhaps. And Ambrose got the impression he’d perhaps overstayed his welcome. Not an auspicious beginning to a very dangerous travel plan.

“Please don’t bother Optimus, Stef,” Ambrose said quietly, making his way to the door. “I know my way out.”