43
OUTSIDE OF ASPEN, COLORADO
Oleg Kraskin looked stunned to see Marcus outside his door.
“You came!” said the Russian, welcoming him with a giant bear hug.
“I was in the neighborhood, so . . .”
“I am so glad to see you alive and well.”
“Likewise, but I can’t stay long. What’s so urgent it had to be in person?”
“Come, sit down and I’ll show you.”
The house looked like something Marcus had built with Lincoln Logs as a boy. It was small, just a living room, kitchen, and bathroom on the first floor, and a wooden ladder leading up to a loft that he guessed was Oleg’s bedroom. The living room had a stone hearth before a roaring fire that was giving off a great deal of heat. Marcus noticed no framed photographs on the walls, just a small one on the desk, next to three large computer monitors. In it, Oleg had his arm around his wife, Marina, who was holding their infant son, Vasily, at what appeared to be the boy’s baptism.
Oleg noticed his friend staring at the photograph.
“Simpler days,” the Russian said wistfully.
Marcus nodded, and Oleg walked over to the desk, picked up a manila folder, and handed it to Marcus.
“What’s this?” Marcus asked.
“Your answer.”
Marcus opened the folder and glanced through sixteen pages of what appeared to be intercepted phone and email transcripts, all in Russian and Arabic.
“What exactly am I looking at here?” he asked.
“Ah, sorry, I gave you the wrong one.” Oleg took the folder back, grabbed another one off his desk, and handed that to Marcus. This one contained the same pages, stapled to sixteen additional pages of English translations.
“The Russians are funding some kind of new terrorist organization,” Oleg said as a kettle on the stove whistled and he began making chai.
“The Russians?”
“Da.”
“Not the Iranians?”
“That, I can’t say. I’m not hacking into the Iranians’ computer, only those of my old friends and colleagues in the Kremlin.”
“When did you finally break in?”
“Just before I called you.”
“With the help of the NSA?”
“Of course.”
“So who exactly have you hacked?”
“Two people so far,” Oleg said. “The first is Petrovsky’s personal secretary. Her name is Batya. She sits right outside his door. She worked for him at the Defense Ministry. I used to talk to her all the time.”
“And the second?”
“A colonel. His name is Yvgenny. He was Petrovsky’s military secretary over at Defense. He’s basically doing the same job I did for Luganov.”
“And you’re sure no one at the Kremlin can tell you’re inside their system?”
“Your people at Fort Meade and Langley have been very helpful in that regard.”
“Good —so what can you tell me?”
“Well, as we’d both guessed, Petrovsky is fuming and looking for revenge. Kropatkin is warning him they have to be careful, that if there are any Russian fingerprints, it could lead them into war with the U.S. and NATO after all.”
“Is Petrovsky listening?”
“It seems that way —the very fact that they are covertly funding a new terrorist group suggests that they’re looking for deniability, a way to cover their tracks.”
“Who’s leading the new group?”
“I don’t know; they don’t say —not even with code words.”
“Where is this new organization based?”
“Greece, it would seem. I can’t figure out where exactly, but all the emails and phone calls emanate from or return to Greek area codes. And the group’s name is Greek —Kairos —it means ‘a time when conditions are right for the accomplishment of a crucial action.’ Wherever they are, they’re flush with cash —rubles, to be precise. The FSB has transferred at least twenty million into various accounts of theirs.”
“Any chance they mention the specific banks and SWIFT codes?”
“Afraid not.”
“Are they behind the hit on Reed?”
“I’m guessing so, but I haven’t found any specific kill orders. The initial messages go back at least two years, when Petrovsky was defense minister and Kropatkin was deputy director of the FSB. Those talk mostly of building infrastructure throughout Europe and the U.S.”
“Infrastructure?” Marcus asked. “Meaning what?”
“They don’t spell that out,” Oleg said. “Presumably they’re hiring operatives, renting safe houses, buying vehicles and phones and weapons, and the like. But at this point, I can’t say for sure.”
Marcus sifted through the English translations, scanning them quickly. “This is good work, but you could have told me all this over the phone.”
“Not this,” said Oleg, handing over a separate folder.
He gave Marcus a moment to glance through another five pages of translated text messages between the Russian president and his spy chief but didn’t wait for the American to read it all cover to cover.
“These are the conversations that have me really worried,” Oleg explained. “These come from the last few weeks. Some from the last few days. Kropatkin is trying to keep the Kremlin distanced from the new terror group —fund it, encourage it, but let them do their own thing —while Petrovsky is pushing for more active and direct involvement. Now turn to the last two pages.”
Marcus did.
“That is why I called you,” Oleg said, pointing at the pages in his friend’s hands. “Three days ago, Kropatkin tells his boss they are playing with fire if they get too close to Kairos. Then he tells Petrovsky that ‘the big one’ is coming soon, ‘by the end of the year,’ and he warns that the leaders appear to be ‘taking orders from someone.’”
Marcus found the section Oleg was referring to and kept reading.
Petrovsky:
Kropatkin:
Petrovsky:
Kropatkin:
Petrovsky:
Kropatkin:
Petrovsky:
Kropatkin: