Spymaster

CHAPTER 9

Oleg Tretyakov’s cell phone woke him from a sound sleep. Even in the dark, he knew which one it was. He could tell by the ringtone.

Only a handful of people had the number. But no matter who it was, they had bad news. There was no other reason to be calling that phone at this hour. Reaching over, he depressed the power button, thereby declining the call. Instantly, the phone fell silent.

He picked up his watch and looked at the time. It felt as if he had just gone to sleep.

Throwing back the duvet, he got out of bed. The apartment was cold. He put on his robe, picked up his laptop, and headed for the kitchen.

The timer on the coffee machine had been set for 5:00 a.m. Overriding it, he began the brewing now. He wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep. And whatever problem had required waking him in the middle of the night, he wanted to be as sharp as possible for it.

As the coffee machine gurgled to life, he pulled out a stool, sat down, and powered up his computer.

Russia had the largest Internet population in Europe and the sixth largest in the world. With over 109 million users, monitoring people’s every keystroke was virtually impossible. To ferret out dissidents and spot potential trouble, the Russian government used highly sophisticated algorithms to monitor its citizens. The algorithms searched for thousands upon thousands of keywords and phrases. But despite their sophistication, a lot of traffic was swept up that posed no threat to the Russian state.

A colonel in Russia’s vaunted military intelligence unit, the GRU, he knew how to mask his Internet usage. He didn’t have anything to hide from his own government, but operational security was of paramount importance in his business. Spies within the Russian security apparatus were always a possibility, as were hostile foreign nations hacking from the outside.

Via an anonymous portal controlled by his headquarters near Moscow, he logged on to one of his dummy social media accounts. From there, he leapfrogged over to a benign photographer’s profile, scrolled back through the correct number of posts, and “liked” an obscure photo. With that, his contact would know that he had received the phone call and was online.

Tretyakov stroked the manicured beard that covered his lean face. He had prominent cheekbones, dark receding hair, and dark brown, almost black eyes — gifts from his ancestors who had migrated from the Kalmyk Steppe.

Though he stood six-feet tall, people sometimes said he bore a similarity to the much shorter Vladimir Lenin — also of Kalmyk descent.

Lenin had died at fifty-three. Tretyakov was now fifty-two and had no plans to follow the great revolutionary leader and founder of the Soviet Union in an untimely demise. He had many more years of useful service to render to his country.

Throughout his career he’d been an adept recruiter and runner of spies, but he had made his true mark in the realm of subversion, sabotage, and special operations.

The son of an accomplished father who had taught applied mathematics at Moscow State University and a mother who had taught piano at the Moscow Conservatory, he had been a child prodigy. He was skilled in both mathematics and music, but had had no desire to follow either path.

When “spotted” by a university professor paid to be on the lookout for potential GRU recruits, he had jumped at the chance. The idea of being of value to the powerful Russian military appealed to him. Being recruited to work with their famed intelligence unit was beyond any dream he had ever had for himself.

He had visions of fast cars, beautiful women, and James Bond style assignments. The reality couldn’t have been any more different.

His training had been brutal. Not only was it physically demanding, it was also psychologically merciless. The instructors were sadists who took pleasure in abusing the cadets. One cadet ended up hanging himself in the barracks shower and it was Tretyakov who found him.

He had never seen a dead body before and stood there for several minutes staring at it — the tongue protruding, purplish-black, from between blue lips, a bloody froth oozing from the nostrils, and saliva dripping from the mouth. The cadet’s member was erect and his trousers had been soiled. The sight should have repulsed him, but it didn’t.

He felt a mixture of fascination and contempt. The cadet had not only been defeated, but had allowed himself to be defeated to such an extent that he had willingly given up his own life as a result.

Tretyakov first respected, and then grew to covet that kind of power over another human being. The pursuit of it propelled him upward through the ranks of the GRU. With each new promotion and each new posting, he accumulated more. It was like a drug — the more he tasted, the more he wanted.

Now, as the GRU Chief of Covert Operations for Eastern Europe, Tretyakov was at the pinnacle of his career, and his power.

That made the middle-of-the-night call all the more disturbing. Transept was the most important assignment he had ever been entrusted with. If it failed, at best his career would be over. He didn’t want to think about what might happen at worst. There were only two things of which he was certain. If he failed he would not only get the blame, but would also not be around to argue in his own defense. The GRU, like the KGB’s successor the FSB, had a way of permanently “distancing” its mistakes.

Tretyakov didn’t want to be a mistake. He believed in his mission. He was its author and wanted it to be a success. It was why he had taken such painstaking care over every detail — no matter how small. He knew how easily things could go bad.

Pouring a cup of coffee, he waited a few more moments and then entered the encrypted chat room. Though he was concerned, he wanted to maintain the appearance of confidence and control. Showing up too quickly might suggest that he was worried.

His contact was already there, and Tretyakov had been right. The news was bad—very bad. The Norwegian cell had been eliminated. All of them.

The news was devastating and would not be received well in Moscow. He needed to figure out what had happened, and then what to do about it.

At the very least, the remaining cells needed to be put on notice. There could be no mistakes, not one. The fate of the entire operation was in their hands.