Chapter 14
The Aquarium
GRU Headquarters
Moscow, Russia
This was the headquarters of the GRU, Russian military intelligence.
Andrei Malenkov strode purposefully down the familiar hallway of the executive wing.
For years he had been a fixture in these corridors, making routine visits when not in the field doing Russia’s dirty work.
He had never actually been issued an office here, having spent his career bounding across the world, and so he passed through the place today much as he always had, like a comet making a regular orbital return.
Secretaries and department heads watched him with a jaded eye.
On one hand, they knew he was important.
On the other, they knew he was no longer part of the official GRU hierarchy.
One year after his abrupt expulsion, some viewed Malenkov with disdain for whatever secret transgressions had led to his demise.
Others, surely, looked on with jealousy.
He made the final turn to the most gilded hallway. On one side were framed portraits of the agency’s former directors, each seeming more brooding than the last. Malenkov had once aspired to put his picture on this wall. Today he was glad he had not.
He entered the anteroom of GRU director Gennady Vasin without pause. His secretary, a prim young blond woman Malenkov had never seen—Vasin went through them like candy—affected a professional smile.
“The director is expecting you,” she said. “Go right in.”
Malenkov countered her gaze sharply, his eyes lingering long enough, just leeringly enough, to stir discomfort. He entered Vasin’s office and found the director seated at his desk signing papers. He didn’t even look up when Malenkov came through the door.
Vasin reveled in such gamesmanship, almost as much as Malenkov enjoyed ignoring it.
The two had endured a long and fractious relationship, rivaling one another for the highest posts in the agency.
Two years ago, Vasin had been promoted to head the GRU.
Malenkov had taken charge of the SSD, a new offshoot of the agency.
Technically the SSD was a subsidiary of the behemoth from which it had been carved.
Practically, however, indeed by design, the SSD was a freelance entity that answered to no one.
Then, one year ago, the purge had come. Vasin had taken distinct pleasure in firing Malenkov, only to see his former rival somehow land on his feet.
Today the men shared no professional link whatsoever—at least, none beyond their mutual animosity.
The visitor took a seat without being asked and lit up a cigarette—a known irritant to his former boss.
The GRU chief looked up. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Malenkov’s response was to take a long draw and exhale the smoke upward.
“You do enjoy taunting me, Andrei.”
“A trait we share.”
“You no longer head the SSD, my friend. You may still have the protections of the president, but such allegiances can be fleeting.”
“As they are for us all,” Malenkov replied with a stony glare. “Tell me what you want.”
The GRU chief leaned back in his chair. Malenkov enjoyed toying with him, but he did have to be careful. The sheer size of the GRU was suffocating, it’s power undeniable. Even in Vasin’s fumbling hands.
Vasin said, “When I saw that you were in town, I thought I should call you in to get a few answers.”
Two points for the home side, Malenkov thought. I know where you are, and I can control you on this turf. “Answers about what?”
“There has been an air crash in Turkey, outside Bodrum. It was an official aircraft of the American government, carrying their secretary of commerce. All passengers and crew were lost.”
“What a tragedy.”
“Is it?” The head of Russian military intelligence reached into a drawer and produced a ceramic ashtray. He slid it across the broad oak desk. Malenkov frowned, took one last puff, then snuffed out the cigarette.
“It occurred to me,” Vasin began, “that not long ago you were in charge of our new SSD. During that time, when bad things happened in the West, you were generally responsible. But then the president ordered your removal from that position, for reasons I never understood. And just like that…” He made an exploding gesture with the tips of his fingers. “You disappeared.”
“Retirement is glorious. You should try it, Gennady.”
A dismissive shake of the head. “Is that what you call it—retirement? I hear whispers that you have been working very hard. Sources tell me that you continue to conjure discord for private parties.”
“Get your hearing checked—your sources are shit. Are you accusing me of causing this airliner to crash?”
“I am asking…no, the president of Russia is asking…did you have a hand in it?”
“Absolutely not. If Yermilov wishes, I will tell him as much to his face. This was not my doing. Perhaps you should have a word with the man who took my place at SSD. He seems to be bungling up the department. Those two idiots who were filmed setting fire to the Lithuanian parliament building? It was inexcusable.”
“Popov,” the chief spat. “He was not my choice.”
“And he surely wasn’t mine. Would you like me to take care of him?”
Vasin’s gaze narrowed suddenly. His tension eased when he noted the smirk on his guest’s lips, although not completely. The question of whether it was black humor, or possibly something more, hung like a poised scimitar.
Malenkov said at a near whisper, “That is the problem for men like us, is it not? We enjoy playing God…until someone else takes the job.”
Vasin did a commendable job of showing no reaction. “There is another matter,” he said a bit too lightly. “Gunther Klaus.”
Malenkov grinned. “Your moneyman?”
“And formerly yours. Or perhaps you still have dealings with him.”
“If I did, would I tell you?”
Vasin frowned. “In recent years Klaus has taken up residence in Morocco. Given his level of involvement in our activities, we keep a close eye on him.”
“As you should. Is he still acting as the GRU’s banker?”
Vasin didn’t reply.
Malenkov’s head tipped slightly to one side. “Dear God, tell me you haven’t lost track of him.”
Again, no reply.
“And you’re wondering if I know where he is?”
“Do you?”
The visitor smiled. “This is the kind of thing that makes me glad I’ve gone private, Gennady. If the man spooked and went to the Americans…it would be a disaster.”
“Indeed. We would all be affected.”
Malenkov knew, but did not concede, that it was a valid point. Klaus’s financial sleight of hand went back years, and he himself had used the Swiss on dozens of occasions, both personally and for his SSD intelligence work. Klaus had something on them all.
“We don’t know exactly where he is,” Vasin admitted. “The team in Tangier got sloppy. But we will pick him up soon.”
“I am imagining how you will explain that to Yermilov.”
“That is my concern. Oddly enough, a few of your men were recently spotted in Tangier. One might suspect that you, too, are worried about his whereabouts.”
Malenkov leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. “I’ve had dealings with Klaus. And yes, I have a few men in Tangier.”
“For what reason?”
Malenkov didn’t respond.
Vasin smiled, fissures creasing little-used regions of his face. “Now I am imagining how you will explain that to Yermilov.”
Malenkov didn’t take the bait. “Then perhaps we have a shared problem. I propose we combine our efforts in Tangier.”
A cautious nod. “I see no harm in it. I will send you what information we have.”
“I will do the same. And when one of us finds him and does what needs to be done, the other will owe him a favor.”
“Agreed…but only because I know my people will prevail. How long will you be staying in Russia?” Vasin asked, clearly tired of fencing.
The question, of course, was one to which he would already have the answer. A flight to Portugal that evening, a week at his seaside villa outside Porto. All had been on Malenkov’s books for weeks, easy pickings for the head of the GRU.
He replied by asking, “Are we done here?”
“For now. But know that I will relay to the president that you deny any hand in this air crash.”
“Please do.” Malenkov stood and turned on a heel. He left without another word. The blond secretary didn’t even look up as he passed, her eyes frozen on her keyboard.
Minutes later, he passed through the security station and out the building’s front entrance.
All things considered, Malenkov was pleased.
The cigarette had been a nice touch. Obviously antagonistic, a middle finger to an old enemy.
It had angered Vasin. Distracted him. The man would go to the president and give his report.
Tell Yermilov that his former SSD chief swore to have no knowledge whatsoever of an air crash in Bodrum.
Nor any idea where Gunther Klaus was. He would attest that Malenkov’s departure to the Iberian coast was imminent.
His face creased into a thin smile.
The meeting had gone precisely as planned.