The Moscow Offensive

Forty-Four

Vladimir Kurakin sat in painful silence, watching the evidence of an unmitigated disaster unfold in real time. The big-screen monitor in Gryzlov’s private office currently showed a hurriedly called press conference taking place at Governor John D. Farrell’s Texas ranch.

The American presidential candidate stood confidently before an array of microphones — looking tired, but otherwise none the worse for wear. “These terrorist attacks against our military and our vital defense industries and scientists… and now against me… were carried out by Russian mercenaries — mercenaries I’m convinced were acting on the orders of the Russian government itself. Fortunately, thanks to the heroism and incredible self-sacrifice of a handful of brave American patriots and their Polish comrades-in-arms, this threat to our country and to our political stability was stopped cold tonight.”

Farrell’s mouth tightened. “Despite President Barbeau’s earlier repeated assertions otherwise, the evidence of Moscow’s involvement in these atrocities is now overwhelming. The pieces of six wrecked Russian war machines, which they call Kiberneticheskiye Voyennyye Mashiny, are scattered across my ranch. I have no doubt that careful forensic analysis of these materials and components will prove conclusively where they were manufactured… in Russia… and nowhere else.” For a moment, a bit of mischievous humor peeked out through his serious expression. “And if that’s not enough to convince the president and her people of the boneheaded mistakes they’ve made all the way through this crisis, well, then, maybe interrogating the prisoners we captured here tonight will do the trick.”

He looked straight into the cameras. “But whatever President Barbeau does or doesn’t do, the evil men responsible for orchestrating these brutal and unprovoked attacks on our country had better get one thing straight: If I win the election in November and become president of the United States, there will be a day of reckoning. And that’s not a threat. It’s a solemn promise—”

Gennadiy Gryzlov snapped off the broadcast with a decisive gesture. Slowly, he swiveled to face Kurakin. “I am shocked, General,” he said coldly. “Shocked to the depths of my soul by these terrible events.”

Kurakin stared at him. “Mr. President, let me remind you that the attempt to kill Governor Farrell was ordered against my best advice. From the beginning, I was the one who warned you that doing so was both hasty and reckless.”

Gryzlov raised an eyebrow. “You misunderstand me, Vladimir,” he said with a sly smile. Seeing the other man’s incomprehension, he sighed. “I’m simply expressing my dismay at learning about the crimes you and these other disgraced ex — Russian soldiers have been committing on foreign soil. I can’t imagine how you were able to steal so much valuable state property — like those experimental industrial robots — let alone use it to carry out wholly unauthorized terrorist actions against the United States.” He shook his head gravely. “I suspect I’m going to have to clean house at the Ministry of Defense, purging it from top to bottom.”

Kurakin turned pale. “But I—”

“You thought I would sanction what you’ve done, especially after this fiasco? You forget: The core of ‘plausible deniability’ is the willingness to deny.” He tapped a button on his desk phone.

The door to his office swung open. Several hard-faced men in police uniforms filed in. One of them, with the two stars of a lieutenant colonel on his shoulder boards, moved directly to Kurakin and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “Former major general Vladimir Kurakin, by order of the president, I’m placing you under arrest for crimes against the state.”

Kurakin sat rooted in genuine shock. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, like a fish gasping for breath after it had been hooked and reeled in.

The officer who’d arrested him nodded to his subordinates. Silently, they closed in, dragged Kurakin to his feet, and then led him, unresisting, out of the office.

Gryzlov stopped their leader with a glance. “A moment, Colonel.”

“Sir?”

“Major General Kurakin is a very dangerous man,” Gryzlov said mildly.

The lieutenant colonel nodded. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“So he may try to escape,” Gryzlov went on.

“That is possible,” the hard-faced man agreed.

Gryzlov’s eyes were icy. “Be sure that he makes the attempt.” His smile looked as though it had been pasted on. “Do we fully understand each other?”

“Completely, Mr. President,” the officer assured him. He saluted and left.

Russia’s president sat back with a hooded expression. Snipping off loose ends like Kurakin was easy. Arriving at a final solution for dangerous men like McLanahan and Farrell and their master, Martindale, was going to take a great deal more work.

President Stacy Anne Barbeau glared at the image of her Russian counterpart, Gennadiy Gryzlov. Over their secure video link, he seemed utterly unfazed by her undisguised anger. In fact, if anything, she realized with mounting fury, he looked remarkably pleased with himself.

“You look unwell, Madam President,” he said coolly, before she could start in on him. “Have you consulted your doctors?”

Barbeau felt her teeth grind together. Of course she looked “unwell,” she thought bitterly. No amount of makeup could disguise the bags under her eyes or the haggard, haunted expression she wore almost constantly these days. With the revelation that the Russians were really responsible for terrorist attacks she’d so vehemently blamed on the Poles and their Iron Wolf Squadron allies, her days in power were numbered. Every poll, every focus group, every high-priced consultant’s report came to the same, inexorable conclusion. Politically, she was a dead woman walking. She was going to lose the November election. The only open question right now was by how wide a margin — and how many congressmen and senators of her own party she would take down with her.

“I’m just fine,” she lied. “Which is more than anyone will be able to say for you in the not-too-distant future, you arrogant son of a bitch.”

Gryzlov raised an eyebrow challengingly. “Is that a threat, Madam President?”

“What else would it be?” Barbeau snapped. “What the hell made you think you could launch a covert war against the United States and stroll away unscathed?”

“Me?” he said with a cold, dismissive laugh. “Have you forgotten the precedents you set yourself? Long ago, you washed your hands of any responsibility for the actions of Scion’s Iron Wolf mercenaries, remember? You practically got down on your knees and begged me to absolve you of their sins against my country. And I agreed.” He smiled thinly. “Why then should I take any blame for the actions of a few criminal ex-soldiers who acted without any authorization from my government?”

For a moment, Barbeau could only stare at Gryzlov, flabbergasted by his sheer gall. “You can’t seriously believe anyone will believe that crock of shit?” she demanded at last. “Who are you going to claim paid this General Kurakin and his men? The Chinese? Some criminal syndicate? Little green men from Mars?”

Gryzlov shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Life is full of mysteries.” His gaze turned even colder. “In one way at least, Madam President, my government has proved itself more cognizant of its obligations under international law than yours. You claimed to be powerless against the depredations of Martindale’s Scion. Russia is not so weak or negligent. The deaths of the criminal Kurakin and his closest associates prove that.” He showed his teeth. “So you see, justice in my country is swift… and certain.”

“Knocking a few pawns off the board won’t cut it, this time,” Barbeau retorted.

“Will it not?” Gryzlov said lazily. Abruptly, he leaned forward. “Don’t waste any more of my time with paper threats, Madam President. We both know you don’t have the stomach for real war. And even if you did, who will follow you into the abyss? You have no allies. No friends. Your own Congress would impeach you, if only to save its own skin.”

Barbeau saw red for a moment. Oh, for a knife and just a couple minutes alone with this bastard, she thought darkly, clenching her fists below her desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Luke Cohen starting to get up from his chair. Impatiently, she waved him back down. At last, she breathed out, regaining a small measure of self-control. “You really think you’ve won something here, Gennadiy?” she retorted. “Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a loser.”

He only smiled.

“You think I’m wrong?” Barbeau continued cuttingly. “Well, I hope you enjoy reaping what you’ve just sowed. Come January, you’re going to face a new American president, someone who’s openly hostile to you and your ambitions. A president allied with Martindale and Sky Masters… and”—she swallowed a curse—“with McLanahan.”

For the first time, she saw Gryzlov look uneasy. “I do not fear any of them,” he said quickly.

“Then you’re a moron,” she said flatly. “Because you damned well should be afraid.” Before he could reply, she broke the connection and sat back breathing hard.

Finally, Barbeau turned to Cohen and Rauch. Both men had been listening in on the call. “Did you hear Gryzlov gloating? There’s no doubt about it. That son of a bitch is guilty as hell.”

“And free as a bird,” Rauch pointed out bluntly. “Because he’s right. Unless we’re willing to declare war over this, there’s not much we can do… at least in the short term.”

Barbeau snorted. “The short term is all I’ve got, Dr. Rauch.”

“True enough,” he agreed. “Fortunately, this nation’s long-term interests and security don’t depend on any single person — most especially not on you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I like your tone very much, Ed.” She scowled at him. “I suggest you leave the half-assed political commentary at the door next time.”

“There won’t be a next time, Madam President,” Rauch said calmly. He stood up, pulled a letter from his jacket pocket, and put it on her desk.

Barbeau stared down at it. “What the hell is that?”

“My resignation,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

She looked at him with cold contempt. “So you’re just another rat leaving the sinking ship, Dr. Rauch?”

“No, Madam President,” Rauch replied with equal contempt. “In this case, the only rats here are the ones who’re staying.”

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the Oval Office — leaving Stacy Anne Barbeau speechless behind him.