Office of the Secretary of State
Harry S. Truman Building
2201 C Street, Washington, D.C.
0945 local time
The phone on SecState Scott Adler’s desk chirped and he pressed the intercom button, a smile turning up at the corners of his mouth.
“Yes, Elizabeth?”
“Mr. Secretary, Russian ambassador Darmatov is here, sir.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said, grinning ear to ear. He took a sip of his Earl Grey tea. “Please send him in.”
He knew he shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was. Hell, the stakes of the game they were playing were actually quite high. The Russian Northern Fleet was already repositioning south, closing aggressively on the Ford strike group. Not to be intimidated, the Ford was responding in kind, pushing north to intercept the Russian fleet. The response had been predictable, with aggressive harassment by Russian aircraft of U.S. patrols. There had already been one near miss this morning as a Russian fighter buzzed a Seahawk helicopter crew. Tensions were danger-high in the North Atlantic. His objective for this meeting was not to stoke the fire, but to gain the upper hand in a way that perhaps gave everyone pause. They needed the Russians to take a slow breath and back off. Wars too often started by mistakes on the front lines.
The door opened and the tall, flabby, bald-headed man who served as the Russian ambassador to the United States entered, his face set with well-rehearsed indignation. Adler knew better than to underestimate the man on appearances. He’d been handpicked by President Yermilov himself, and Adler had seen firsthand the cunning and aggressive brand of diplomacy Sergey Darmatov was capable of. The looming conversation might not be actual combat, but it was a very high-stakes chess match, the outcome of which could easily open the door to war.
He stood and extended his hand across his desk. “Sergey, it is a pleasure as always. How can I be of assistance? Your office said it was most urgent, but I must confess, I am very busy this morning.”
The Russian ambassador ignored his outstretched hand and took a seat in one of the two antique Elizabethan-style chairs in front of the desk, smoothing his slacks as he did.
“I think we must both make time in our busy schedules for this conversation, Mr. Secretary. You know that a military operation against a Russian vessel in international waters is an overt act of war. Is that your government’s intention, to go to war with Russia?”
A warning salvo right out of the gate . . . Darmatov isn’t messing around.
Adler’s smile went wooden, and he took a seat, crossing his legs at the knee and reaching for his tea.
“I’m sorry, Ambassador Darmatov,” he said, switching to the more formal address, despite having shared dinner and drinks with this man on several occasions. Diplomatic sparring was an odd beast. Darmatov was usually measured and reasonable—but maybe he had different marching orders today. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I have no idea what it is you are referring to.” He set his tea down. “What happened that has you so upset?”
Darmatov shot him a dirty look, his double chin vibrating.
“You want to play games, I see. Very well. My country demands a response to the illegal military action against our research vessel conducting peaceful, oceanographic research in international waters. We consider this assault to be an act of war and demand the immediate return of our civilian sailors and the privately owned research vessel.”
“Ah, now I understand,” Adler said, still smiling, but his eyes hardening. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk and holding the man’s eyes. “I was confused, I think, because you referred to it as a Russian vessel.”
“You know full well—”
“We do know full well, Sergey,” he said, cutting the man off. “We know full well that a Cyprus-flagged vessel was operating off the American coast. This very ship has been documented by our Coast Guard conducting operations of a questionable nature off the mid-Atlantic states, as well as in the vicinity of Kings Bay in Georgia, Naval Air Station Key West, and even in the Gulf of Mexico. It has been placed on a watch list by our Drug Enforcement Administration as a probable drug-smuggling platform. I don’t have to tell you, Sergey, that we are stepping up our battle against the drug cartels who pour deadly, illicit drugs into our country. We reserve the right to protect our citizens from this scourge, and we conducted a counter-narcotics operation on the vessel you are referring to—the Finitor, I believe.”
“You are claiming—”
“I am telling, Sergey. It’s all documented.”
“But once you boarded the vessel you knew . . .” Darmatov started to say, but stopped, his voice having lost its hard edge.
“Indeed,” Adler said, leaning back in his chair and making a little steeple with his fingers, elbows on the armrests of the high-back leather chair. “Imagine the surprise of our counter-narcotics team upon boarding to discover that the Finitor was not a drug-smuggling platform parading as a Cyprus-flagged vessel. That it was actually a Russian spy vessel conducting sabotage operations of American property while operating under a false flag. Imagine President Ryan’s dismay upon learning the crew aboard the Finitor were not drug runners but, in fact, Russian Navy personnel, commanded by a Russian naval officer, and with additional crew identified as members of the Russian military’s intelligence apparatus. Imagine the conversations that unfolded in the Situation Room . . . once we knew.”
Darmatov shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The United States regularly conducts spying operations in the Black Sea—”
“We’re not talking about our well-publicized peacekeeping patrols in the Black Sea,” Adler said and slammed a hand on his desk, allowing his face to cloud with anger. “We’re talking about the Finitor. We caught you, Mr. Ambassador, caught you in the act . . . Conducting espionage and potential sabotage operations against the United States. A Russian spy ship, operating near sensitive communications and other equipment maintained by the United States for the defense of our East Coast, must certainly be viewed as an act of war and a prelude to a first strike against our Atlantic fleet.”
“What? That’s ridiculous, Mr. Secretary. No sabotage was conducted.”
“The Finitor was operating something off a winch cable, a device that was lost, but that we have every intention of recovering.”
Darmatov narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t considered that possibility, apparently, and didn’t like it.
Instead of letting the man off the hook, Adler decided to see how far he could push before getting the reaction he was looking for.
“Why is your Northern Fleet repositioning south into the North Atlantic? Is Russia preparing for war with America?”
Darmatov swallowed and Adler saw a flash of something new in the man’s eyes.
“It is dangerous to use such rhetoric, Mr. Secretary. Words matter,” Darmatov said.
“And so do actions, Mr. Ambassador. Why has your fleet suspended its Arctic exercise and steamed south? How can we not view this as an act of aggression?”
“It is in response to your illegal military operation against our vessel. You should advise your President that detaining the crew of the Finitor can also be interpreted as an act of war. So I ask you the same question in reverse—is America preparing for war with Russia?”
“War is the last thing we want, Mr. Ambassador. We would prefer a diplomatic solution—which is why you and I are talking. To that end, a public apology and admission of guilt from the Kremlin over this incident would demonstrate your government’s desire to de-escalate. We would respond to said apology by releasing your spies, Russian Navy crew, and vessel. But a failure to de-escalate will be met with a very different response.” He leaned in now, eyes narrow. “Sergey, I should tell you that President Ryan does not fuck around when it comes to safeguarding the United States of America. Your fleet needs to back off.”
The Russian ambassador sat red-faced, staring back at him, but said nothing.
Adler reclined in his chair, letting out a slow breath, as if trying to rein in his emotions. “President Ryan expects an official response from the Kremlin within the next six hours. The nature of that official response will factor heavily into the drafting of our own statement, which the Secretary of Defense Burgess will make later this afternoon.”
“Mr. Secretary, I know nothing about the espionage operations that you are accusing Russia of conducting, but I will pass along this information to my superiors in the Kremlin.”
“See that you do. With all that is going on in the Atlantic today, I’m afraid I have other pressing matters to attend to. Six hours, Mr. Ambassador. Good day.”
He made a show of shifting his chair forward and opening a leather folder and examining what was inside it.
“Good day, Mr. Secretary,” Darmatov said, rising and heading for the door.
Adler resisted the urge to look up.
He’d achieved the upper hand in the short meeting, but he was no longer enjoying himself. Because the truth was, the Finitor’s activities very well could be a prelude to war. The Russian Arctic “exercise” no longer looked like an exercise, as the bulk of the Northern Fleet was steaming south toward the Ford, the Russian submarine the Belgorod had not yet been found, and DNI Foley was reporting chaos that might represent a coup inside the Kremlin and the various Russian intelligence agencies. He’d chosen not to broach the last two topics . . . this time.
Adler glanced at the closed door.
What if we’re at war already and we just don’t recognize it?
Darmatov had played his role flawlessly, but there’d been a moment when he cracked. It had been fleeting, but Adler had seen a look.
A look of surprise.
A look of fear.
He hoped DNI Foley had covert operations in the works to gain actionable intelligence before it was too late. There were simply too many unknowns. If there was one thing he’d learned during his tenure as secretary of state, it was that fear and paranoia flourish in uncertainty. He waited a few beats, then pressed the call button on the intercom of his phone.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary?”
“Elizabeth, I need you to schedule a call with the President,” he said, but then reconsidered. “Actually, I’m going to head to the White House. Get my detail together and let the chief of staff know I’m en route to brief the President on my meeting with the Russian ambassador.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”
He closed the empty leather folder on his desk and let out a long sigh.
The shit was about to hit the fan.