CHAPTER 41
Cotton rode with Ivan in a rather upscale Saab.
“Nice car,” he said.
“We maintain appearance in country. Blend in. And I like driving. Not many chances to do that in Russia.”
They were alone. Just the two of them. He wondered what was going on.
His one encounter years ago, in Belgium and China, with this burly man had been a mixed experience.
Ivan had double-talked and betrayed both him and Stephanie every chance that came.
Thankfully, though, it all worked out. Cassiopeia had been found and they’d averted a potential political disaster.
But it had been touch and go the entire way.
Now here he was again. With Ivan a few steps ahead.
“What is your position now with the SVR?”
“Deputy head of Directorate S.”
His memory supplied what that entailed. The SVR was broken down into eight separate divisions, each autonomous within the larger entity.
Directorate S dealt with the recruitment, preparation, and planting of agents abroad, along with finding foreign citizens to work for Russia.
Sleeper Central, was the shorthand version he’d heard many times.
“Are you here because of John Westlake or his wife?” he asked.
“Both, I am afraid.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“Ever hear story of Koschei the Immortal?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“Old Russian folktale. Koschei lucky. He had a spell which prevents him from being killed. So he hides counterspell for his death inside nested objects to protect it. Like matryoshka doll. One inside the other. Koschei was evil wizard who likes to steal beautiful women, especially those of noble birth. Many heroes went after him, but killing him hard. To do that a brave soul must find counterspell on unnamed island. One hero located tree. Under is a chest. Inside is rabbit. In rabbit is duck. Inside duck is egg. In egg is Koschei’s counterspell for death. ”
“Sounds like a lot of trouble.”
“Killing Koschei hard.”
He was beginning to understand. “Somebody trying to kill you?”
“That would be too easy. My problem much worse.”
They drove for a while in silence. He knew not to press. A road sign indicated they were headed toward Stockholm Arlanda Airport. A big international gateway. Ivan avoided the main terminals and drove toward the private aircraft facilities, parking in front of a partially lit two-story building.
They climbed out into the dim light of nearly midnight.
Ivan entered the building and walked through an empty lobby.
Some sort of VIP lounge used by private jet passengers.
Not busy tonight. They exited from a back door onto the tarmac and walked past an array of private jets, lined up like soldiers, each one dark and quiet.
Maybe half a billion dollars’ worth of aircraft.
The play toys of the rich, industry, and governments.
It had been a while since he last sat in a pilot’s seat.
The navy taught him to fly fighter jets.
He’d been good at it. But his career took quite a different direction.
He’d come a long way.
Ivan led him around one of the hangars to the far side of the tarmac where an EMB 120FC Brasilia turboprop was being prepared by a ground crew.
Bright lights illuminated the scene. He knew the plane.
Held about thirty passengers, though this one appeared to be a cargo version with a side-loading ramp.
Range? About a thousand miles. Ivan moved into another of the hangars, its massive doors open but the inside dark and empty.
“That plane out there. It will take the codex to Prague for Swedes.”
“Private charter?”
Ivan nodded. “Keeps things secret. That book big, heavy. Hard to handle.”
Which also made it hard to steal.
Cotton knew from Stephanie that the codex was being crated and readied for transport. Ivan was right. The book weighed nearly two hundred pounds and required either a lot of strong people or hydraulic assistance to move. Add in the wooden crate and it was one heavy, bulky item.
“Another plane on the way,” Ivan said. “From Moscow. Will be here soon.”
He understood. “How do you plan to get the Devil’s Bible onto that second plane?”
“I do not plan that at all.”
He was all ears.
“There is problem. Big one. The ongoing operation here involving the princess is not sanctioned by Directorate S. We have difference of opinion within Kremlin.”
“Really, now. Do tell.”
“Franko is idiot. He will be the end of Russia.”
That was an interesting admission.
Konstantin Franko was president of the Russian Federation.
In the last “election” Franko received eighty-eight percent of the vote.
Which was ludicrous. Press reports indicated that rivals had been imprisoned or died in all-too-convenient accidents.
The media had been bullied into toeing the line.
Voters terrorized. Most Western intelligence agencies believed that Franko had ambitions to retake a huge chunk of the former Soviet Union, which was now all sovereign neighboring territory.
But Franko could not care less.
“He is dictator and fool,” Ivan said. “Pushing power beyond Russia’s borders will not be easy.
America, NATO, they will not back down. If Franko pushes too far, he will plunge us into world war.
Any allies Russia has will run from us. We will be left out in cold.
Sanctions will wrap us so tight we cannot breathe.
Economy will crumble. That is when oligarchs and mob will rise. ”
“You paint a pretty dim picture.”
“It is truth. Sad. But true.”
“So what’s going on?”
“It simple. Franko does not want Sweden in NATO. But he not smart enough to think to take princess. That came from S Directorate. Stupid move. And there is problem.”
Which seemed like an understatement.
“Oligarchs are involved. They have long reach within Kremlin. Franko lets them do as they want.”
He connected the dots. “The oligarchs want Sweden in NATO. Right? It aggravates Franko. Keeps him off guard. Directs his anger away. Which gives them even more freedom of movement.”
Ivan pointed a stubby finger. “You still smart.”
“Directorate S is in conflict?”
“To say the least.”
“Is the princess cooperating in her kidnapping?”
“Not at all. Her husband got her there. Said he need her help. So, as his wife, she gave it. Woman has no idea danger she is in.”
Stephanie’s fears confirmed.
“Is she expendable?” he asked.
“It is possible. We have SVR person here. Monica Butler-White. She and Westlake know each other. If you get what I mean.”
He did. “They’re an item?”
Ivan nodded. “Like Sonny and Cher.”
He chuckled. “Look at you. But those two eventually divorced.”
“These two are up to some bad things. Westlake is working with Monica. I think he does not want to deal with divorce. I think he and Monica have other ideas, making him a widower and blaming us.”
Cotton was not sure what to make of all that he was hearing. “Why are you telling me this?”
“SVR is in mess. A lot of problems. Some with Franko. Some not. Nobody really in charge.”
Civil wars within, and between, intelligence agencies were not uncommon. Whether those be foreign or domestic. But the Russians were never noted for such chaos. Dissent was dealt with in a swift and decisive manner, so revolutionary thoughts rarely made it to reality.
“The oligarchs are using that division to get what they want. Not good.”
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“Bad enough many people will die.”
He watched as technicians continued to work on the EMB 120, readying it for flight.
“Westlake has implicated the princess as an SVR asset,” he told Ivan.
“An unknowing one, used for intel. He also says he has no idea how she was taken. If the princess is on your playbill, whether voluntary or not, the Swedes will have no sympathy for her. They will never make a deal for her release.”
“She is definitely a tacit asset.”
And Ivan would know.
“But she does not need to die,” Ivan said. “We have to take the codex and not give it to the Czechs. America should keep the book and negotiate a deal to protect everyone.”
He liked the sound of that, except that he was beginning to wonder if the Devil’s Bible mattered anymore. He’d also caught the reservation in Ivan’s voice and asked, “What are you not telling me?”
Ivan reached into his pocket and found a phone, which he handed over. “Yours.”
He accepted the unit.
“I need you to make call.”
He waited.
“To whoever can grant me asylum in United States. I want to defect.”