The Moscow Offensive

Prologue

Willem Daeniker glanced at the security guard seated across from him. A faint bulge beneath the other man’s dark jacket showed he was armed. The Swiss investment banker hid a wry smile as he looked away, out through the tinted windows of the big black Mercedes limousine. They were headed north along a winding, rain-slick road.

Overhead, bands of storm clouds drifted slowly across the sky, soaking hills and valleys that had been continuously inhabited for more than eight thousand years. Over the long millennia, wave after wave of peoples — Stone Age tribesmen, invading Gaels from Ireland, warlike Vikings, and then the rival Scots and English — had descended on this small island to hunt and fish and farm. But the old ways were passing fast, supplanted by wealthy newcomers and corporations lured by low taxes and limited regulation. Offshore banking and high-tech manufacturing were the forces driving the Isle of Man’s economy now. And so, one by one, centuries-old estates and homes fell into the hands of rich businessmen from around the world.

Men like Daeniker’s host, Francis Xavier Regan.

Like many of the world’s super rich, the reclusive Canadian billionaire ruthlessly shielded his privacy. Very few people were ever invited onto his property and they were always subject to close scrutiny. Tabloid journalists and other trespassers were met by armed watchmen and snarling dogs.

Tires crunched on wet gravel as the Mercedes swung onto a long drive. East Wind Manor’s age-darkened stone façade, turrets, and chimneys loomed ahead through the dreary gray light of the fading day. Beside its massive front door, a somber manservant stood huddled under an umbrella, waiting to greet him.

Once indoors out of the damp, Daeniker eyed his surroundings with interest. Stone floors overlaid by beautiful Persian rugs, dark oak paneling, gleaming suits of armor, ornate coats of arms, and walls lined with expensive paintings conveyed an overwhelming aura of both vast wealth and a distinguished and ancient lineage. The wealth was Regan’s by right, the Swiss thought cynically. But since his immigrant Irish father had been nothing more than a day laborer, the noble lineage belonged entirely to this purchased house.

Meeting the billionaire in the flesh did nothing to dispel that cynical view.

Regan, a tall, burly man in his midsixties, nodded curtly to a chair. “Well, Mr. Daeniker?” he demanded. “What have you got for me?”

Unfazed by this rudeness, the Swiss banker opened his briefcase and took out a thick sheaf of documents. The international consortium he represented wanted to buy two of the other man’s privately held North American enterprises — FXR Trucking and Regan Air Freight. And the Canadian wanted to sell. Though these midsized transportation companies were the original foundation of his enormous fortune, Regan was not a sentimental man. In President Stacy Anne Barbeau’s overtaxed and overregulated America, neither business was worth his continued investment of time and money.

Donning a polite smile, he handed the documents across the desk. “I think you will find everything is in order, Mr. Regan.”

“Maybe so,” the other man said brusquely. “And maybe not.”

Daeniker frowned, feeling uncertain for the first time. Both sides had already agreed on a price. Even more important, neither wanted to trigger any “inconvenient” scrutiny by government tax officials and regulatory agencies. What kind of game was Regan playing now?

The billionaire looked back at him with a cold expression. “Your clients like to live dangerously, Mr. Daeniker. If they’d dicked around with me for just twelve more hours, they would have been shit out of luck.”

The Swiss banker nodded. Regan was due to depart on his annual sailing vacation at dawn the next morning. Every year, before the worst winter weather hit the Isle of Man, he took his prized Dutch-built yacht, Bear Venture, on a weeks-long cruise south to Spain and then across the Atlantic to his second home in the Cayman Islands. And he made it a rule never to conduct any serious business while at sea.

“I regret the various delays,” Daeniker said. He spread his hands. “But when one is dealing with the different interests of so many prospective investors, they are sometimes unavoidable.”

Regan snorted.

For a moment, Daeniker had the uncomfortable impression the other man knew he was lying. In truth, his real client had carefully controlled the timing of their negotiations. From the beginning, his orders had been clear: The deal must be concluded only in the hours just before Regan set sail from the Isle of Man.

“Unavoidable or not, those delays are going to cost you,” Regan said, showing his teeth. He stabbed at the contracts with one powerful forefinger. “I’ll sign these. But my asking price just went up fifty million euros.”

Daeniker raised an eyebrow. “Fifty million euros more? For what reason?”

“For two reasons,” the other man told him coolly. “First, your buyers have inconvenienced me. They’ve wasted my time with bullshit. Nobody does that for free.”

Regan leaned back in his chair, looking smug. “And second, as a means of guaranteeing your clients’ continued anonymity. It’s obvious that this ‘consortium’ of yours is nothing but window dressing. And ordinarily, I don’t do business with folks I don’t know. But I’m willing to make an exception in this case… at a price.”

Daeniker kept his mouth shut.

“So here’s the situation as I see it,” Regan went on. “Your real buyers have tried hard to hide themselves.” He shrugged. “Maybe because they want to dodge some confiscatory taxes or nitpicking regulations. Or maybe because they’re the sort of people who need new ways to make dirty money a little cleaner. So what I figure is that your mysterious principals really don’t want my security people poking and prying around to identify them, Mr. Daeniker.” He smiled thinly. “My bet is that you’re empowered to sweeten this deal to make sure it goes through on time… and without any inconvenient truths coming out. Correct?”

Daeniker sat motionless for several moments, thinking fast. At last, he sighed. “Such a circumstance was not entirely unforeseen. I am authorized to go a bit higher, but no more than—”

Regan shook his head. “We are not bargaining here.” His eyes were stony. “The price goes up fifty million. Or you leave empty-handed. It’s your call.”

“You are a hard man, Mr. Regan.”

The other man nodded. “That I am. Which is why I’m sitting on this side of the desk and you’re on the other, Mr. Daeniker.”

An hour later, Willem Daeniker watched the dark stone walls and dim lights of East Wind Manor disappear behind him, swallowed up by night and rain. The Mercedes swung onto the main road, heading back to the airport where a private jet sat fueled and waiting. Frowning, he pulled out his smartphone and typed a short text message to Russian president Gennadiy Gryzlov waiting impatiently in Moscow, sixteen hundred miles due east of the Isle of Man: Arrangements complete. Cost 50m higher than hoped. Unfortunately, seller still shows regrettable curiosity.

Stars speckled the moonless night sky — tiny points of light glittering in the midst of infinite blackness. Far below, in inky darkness, an elegant craft more than a hundred meters long and with a displacement of over four thousand tons slid gracefully through long, rolling waves. Without any running lights illuminating her superstructure, the destroyer-sized ship was almost invisible.

Seen in daylight and from a distance, Brodyaga looked like a luxury mega-yacht, not a warship. Her sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows mirrored those of other gleaming, ultramodern private vessels owned by the world’s wealthiest men and women, including a number of Russia’s leading industrialists and business oligarchs.

In reality, Brodyaga was a disguised intelligence and special operations vessel for the Russian Navy. If necessary, she could discreetly slip in and out of foreign ports that were otherwise off-limits to Russia’s surface combatants and spy ships. Nor was she routinely trailed by Western warships and aircraft while at sea — which gave her the necessary freedom of movement to conduct any number of covert missions.

Like this one.

Brodyaga’s red-lit Combat Information Center was buried deep in her hull, far below the spacious staterooms and luxurious fittings used to fool foreign observers. Crammed full of sophisticated electronics and displays, it was a hive of quiet, purposeful activity.

Captain Yuri Bezrodny leaned over the shoulder of one of his junior lieutenants. Carefully, he studied the low-light images transmitted by a drone flying forty kilometers ahead. They showed a large, two-masted ketch sailing downwind at around four knots. His eyes narrowed. There were no other ships or aircraft within effective radar range. Their sonar reported no subsurface contacts. And the sea state and weather conditions were near optimal.

He straightened up and turned to his executive officer. “Launch the strike team.”

Forty minutes later, a rigid inflatable boat, comparable to the F470 Zodiac rubber raiding craft used by U.S. Navy SEALs, sped across the sea at nearly fifteen knots. A coxswain manned the tiller at the rear and seven more Spetsnaz combat frogmen straddled the gunwale, lying low to reduce their profile. They wore black wet suits and night-vision gear. Compact Groza-4 assault carbines were slung across their shoulders. Fitted with suppressors on shortened barrels, the weapons were designed for close-quarters clandestine action.

Perched on the bow, Lieutenant Sergei Rozonov stared into the darkness as the inflatable boat rose and fell, cresting long Atlantic rollers. If his navigation calculations were even reasonably accurate, he should be able to see their target soon.

There! Something, a fleck of brighter green against the green-tinged sky produced by his night-vision goggles, flickered on the horizon almost dead ahead. The tiny shape vanished again as their boat slid back down into a trough between waves. But when it came back into view, the image was clearer, more distinct. He was seeing the sails of a large yacht running down toward them on a gentle breeze.

Rozonov looked back at the coxswain manning the tiller. Slowly, he flapped his hand twice.

The petty officer nodded and reduced his throttle sharply. Their speed dropped. So did the noise from their fifty-five-horsepower outboard motor and its pump-jet propulsor. Approaching from upwind like this should make it impossible for anyone aboard the yacht to hear them coming, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks.

Rozonov swung around again. The ketch’s towering masts and slender hull were plainly visible now. They grew larger with astonishing speed as the two craft converged. Minutes passed with no sound other than the periodic slap of waves on their boat’s rubber hull and the low, throaty growl of its throttled-back engine.

The Spetsnaz lieutenant tensed. Any moment now. There was still no sign that they’d been spotted by anyone aboard the yacht. The two men on watch were either engrossed in keeping an eye on their rigging or, just as likely, dozing comfortably in the cockpit.

One hundred meters to go. Fifty meters. Now! Rozonov pumped his fist rapidly three times.

Behind him, the coxswain swung his tiller across. Their assault boat turned smoothly through a tight half circle, sliding in right alongside the big yacht. Quickly, one of the Russian commandos hooked on to its guardrail.

Moving fast, Rozonov slithered up onto the deck and crouched low. They were tied up close beside the main deckhouse. No lights were showing. He unslung his carbine. One by one, the rest of his men swarmed silently aboard.

Rapid hand signals sent two of them forward toward the bow. The other four followed him aft. The yacht’s carbon-fiber masts and enormous Dacron sails soared above them.

Gliding soundlessly around the corner of the deckhouse, Rozonov tucked the stock of the Groza-4 carbine securely against his shoulder. The main cockpit was just ahead. Through his night-vision goggles, he could see one crewman peering down at the navigation console and electronic sail controls next to the helm. Another sailor lounged on one of the L-shaped sofas fitted around the edges of the cockpit. He sipped appreciatively at a steaming cup of coffee.

Without hesitating, Rozonov opened fire. His silenced carbine stuttered.

Hit by multiple 9mm subsonic rounds at close range, the helmsman spun away in a gruesome cloud of blood and shattered bone. His coffee-drinking companion slumped back against the bullet-torn sofa, shot through the chest and stomach.

The Spetsnaz lieutenant dropped lightly into the cockpit and spun toward the nearest companionway. It was open.

Catlike, he drifted down a short set of stairs into the main deckhouse. His commandos followed close behind him. They fanned out across the large darkened room. A long teak dining table ran down the middle, with plush sofas and armchairs in the corners.

Rozonov took just a moment to compare what he saw with the deck plans he’d memorized earlier. Two more doors opened into the immaculately furnished room. One led forward into the yacht’s crew quarters. The other passage ran aft, toward the owner’s cabin and guest quarters.

He nodded to his men and then jerked a thumb at the forward passage. “Net zaklyuchennykh. No prisoners,” he mouthed.

They slipped silently through the door one by one and disappeared into darkness. Almost immediately, he heard wood splinter as they started kicking in doors. Silenced carbines cracked briefly, echoed by muffled groans and cries from dying sailors and servants.

Without waiting any longer, Rozonov charged aft.

He ran down a short hallway, broke through an oak-paneled door, and burst into a dimly lit and comfortably appointed stateroom. Bookcases lined the curving wall around a king-sized bed. There, an older man, big and gray-haired, sat bolt upright among the tangled blankets, blinking in surprise.

“Just who the fuck are you?” the old man growled.

“No one you will ever know, Mr. Regan,” Rozonov replied. Then he squeezed the trigger, holding the assault carbine firmly on target as it bucked back against his shoulder.

Hit repeatedly, the billionaire sagged back against his torn, bloodstained pillows. White-faced, he struggled to breathe for a few seconds, shuddered once, and then died.

Rozonov turned away.

His senior sergeant met him in the corridor. “The yacht is secure, sir. Everyone aboard has been eliminated.”

“Excellent work, Yenin,” Rozonov said. “Make sure all the bodies are weighted down before you dump them into the sea. Moscow doesn’t want anyone finding bullet-riddled corpses drifting on the wind and waves.”

The sergeant shot him a twisted grin. “Well, that would sort of spoil the mystery of the thing, wouldn’t it, Lieutenant?”

An hour later, the Spetsnaz team clambered back onto their rigid inflatable boat and cast off. They motored off to a safe distance and turned to parallel the now-deserted yacht as it glided downwind.

Rozonov glanced down at his waterproof watch. “Ten seconds,” he murmured. “Five seconds. Four. Three. Two…”

WHUMMP. WHUMMP. WHUMMP.

The scuttling charges they’d placed in the bilge detonated one after another — ripping enormous holes in the yacht’s hull from stem to stern. Slowly at first and then faster, the vessel, with its sails still set, slid lower in the water. Within minutes, it vanished beneath the waves, plunging down and down into the lightless depths of the abyss.

Rozonov nodded in satisfaction. President Gryzlov would be pleased. Except for a few small bits and pieces of unidentifiable wreckage bobbing on the waves, nothing remained to explain the disappearance of Francis Xavier Regan.