Chapter 20
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
General Vasin walked swiftly down the red-carpet runner. With gilt-edged portraits of glorified Russian battles and crystalline chandeliers above, the hallway was nothing less than a gallery of intimidation.
As director of the GRU, Vasin attended staff meetings at the Kremlin on a regular basis, at least two a week when the president hadn’t decamped to one of his palaces.
One-on-one meetings were far less common, and they usually implied a crisis.
Thankfully, the invitation for this visit had arrived yesterday and Vasin had heard no rumors of an imminent disaster.
Better yet, he thought he knew what it was about, although in these halls one could never be sure.
At the entrance of the presidential suite two serious men eyed him, but neither blocked his path. Vasin had already been through three security scanners, two hand-wand searches, and an intimate pat-down. The president might exude confidence…but he was never really sure.
Vasin went into the anteroom and saw Yermilov’s assistant, Anastasia. She was a longtime fixture. Mid-forties, attractive, officious. Whether she was anything more was a question best left unasked.
“Good evening, General,” she said. “He will be with you in five minutes.”
It took two. This was another of the president’s games. Sometimes he made you wait, other times he rushed you in—anything to put visitors on edge.
Vasin entered Yermilov’s office to find the president squaring up a file on his desk.
He was old-school that way, suspicious of electronics, preferring hard-copy documents that could be shredded before his eyes.
The use of paper was common throughout the executive wing, a manifestation of the paranoia that dominated the Russian psyche.
Five generations of spying on neighbors, backstabbing coworkers, and even questioning the fidelity of family members had taken its toll.
The very word trust, doveryat, had virtually fallen from the language.
“You have spoken to Malenkov?” the president asked, ignoring any pretense of civility.
“As you requested.”
“And how is he?”
“Some things never change. I was lucky to catch him in Moscow. He spends much of his time in Portugal these days.”
“Does he?”
“That’s what he tells me.”
The president’s gaze held Vasin with its characteristic deadness. The way a shark eyed a passing fish. “Malenkov is one of us. What he tells you means nothing. The GRU is watching him, are you not?”
“We keep an eye on him, yes, but not continuous surveillance. Those were your instructions when he left SSD. I believe your words were ‘A leash, but make it a long one.’ ”
Yermilov canted his head noncommittally. “I recall. I had no reason to view him as a threat, and that hasn’t changed. This time of year, the seaside near Porto is quite pleasant.”
Vasin was quite sure he’d never mentioned the city where Malenkov had taken up residence. It was classic Yermilov, playing intelligence agencies against one another. Using information to throw underlings off.
Vasin said, “As you requested, I asked him about this air crash in Turkey.”
“And?”
“He claims to know nothing about it.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I have no reason not to. I know for a fact he was in Russia at the time of the crash, in the far north.”
“What was he doing there?”
“He needed a bit of manpower for a project and visited one of our corrective colonies. It seems he still has connections in the Ministry of Justice.”
“Did you ask him about this?”
“No, we have simply been monitoring his travels. We know he’s gone private.
Guns, mercenaries—the usual contract work.
He teaches barefoot Africans how to shoot and blow things up, then leaves with his pockets full of diamonds.
I don’t know specifically what he was recruiting for in a prison, but these are the best places to find a few desperate men.
Malenkov got what he wanted and moved on. ”
“Good. Then we have nothing to worry about.”
Vasin felt a wave of relief. He wondered how long it had been since Yermilov had spoken directly to Malenkov.
During Malenkov’s short tenure as the head of SSD, Vasin knew of no contact between the two.
Which, he allowed, was the point of the entire arrangement—putting as much distance as possible between the Kremlin and the chaos orchestrated on its behalf.
Malenkov would surely have avoided the president since being removed from the helm of SSD.
When you were sacked from any important post in Russia, the best course was to lie low—it lessened the odds remarkably of falling out a tenth-floor window.
Vasin wasn’t troubled by the fact that Malenkov was dabbling in contract work, nor would the president be concerned. Done discreetly, it was simply a retirement benefit—a kind of pension supplement for senior intelligence officers.
Vasin said, “I am wondering why you asked me to meet with him. Did you have reason to suspect that Malenkov was involved in this crash?”
“Not at all. But it is an unusually high-profile disaster. I want to be sure our hands are completely clean.”
A shrug. “American airplanes can crash without our help.”
“True. All the same, if you hear any whisperings to the contrary, I want to be informed immediately.”
“Of course. Is there anything else?”
“There is one other matter. Gunther Klaus.”
Vasin’s caution rose. This was a subject he had hoped would not come up. “Yes, we have been watching him.”
“Good. A man like that, we must always keep an eye on him. The last time we spoke, you expressed certain concerns about his reliability.”
“It was only one incident, last month in Algiers. He was spotted near the American embassy by one of our observers. It could have been nothing, but a report was generated and it reached my desk. As you know, Klaus has for years managed the finances of our operations in Europe. He’s proven himself discreet and effective, yet he also knows a great deal. For that reason, we watch him.”
The president paused, as if in contemplation. “Your instincts have merit. There is risk in using a foreigner like Klaus.”
“Unfortunately, we have little alternative. We can’t move money on the Continent without Western banks, and that requires an insider. Someone who knows the Bahnhofstrasse.”
“Klaus…or someone like him.”
“Would you like me to find someone new?”
“I think it might be wise.”
“Very well, I will begin a search. And Klaus?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
Gennady Vasin did not. “I will see to it.”
Moments later, Vasin was retreating down the gilded executive wing corridor in a panic. The president had just ordered him to eliminate Gunther Klaus.
But he had no idea where the man was.