Mexico City
February 2001
Zad Litzo sat on the sofa of his thirty-eighth-floor master suite in the Hotel Nikko in Mexico City. He looked at the encrypted message on the digital screen of his miniature satellite receiver with disbelief and resignation. Disbelief because he couldn’t imagine Vladimir Putin authorizing the abduction of a fellow head of state, let alone the newly elected president of the United States. Resignation because he knew the assignment amounted to little more than his own death sentence. Failure would certainly result in his execution by whichever side caught him first, but success would also bring about his rapid demise. He would know too much. Flight was out of the question. There was always his family back in Moscow: hostages in the best tradition of Stalin and the NKVD. Putin was no fool. Not by a long shot.
Litzo held the rank of Colonel in the SVR, the Russian foreign intelligence service, and had known Vladimir Putin since the two earned their living harassing university students together in Leningrad in the 1970s. Putin had bartered his shrewdness and managerial skills into political stardom while Zad had utilized the only skills he possessed. He still took care of Vladimir’s dirty business: piece work, if you will. Together, the two had more skeletons in their closets than Genghis Khan.
You would never find Colonel Zad Litzo on the guest list of any embassy function, and his name would be mysteriously absent from the directory of accredited diplomats of the country where he was assigned. Nonetheless, Putin knew that he could trust Litzo with any type of mission and be quite confident of success and strict secrecy. He knew Litzo’s current mission in Mexico was unprecedented in its audacity and exceedingly complex in an operational sense, but he was also aware of how much Zad loved his young trophy wife and 2-year-old daughter back home in Moscow. He was confident Zad would find a way to succeed. Putin was a master at motivating his subordinates.
Contingency preparations for the operation had begun months ago when SVR analysts speculated that the newly elected American president would likely choose Mexico as the destination of his first trip abroad. Putin personally dispatched Zad to Mexico City with orders to lie low and await further instructions. Following his receipt of the encrypted message from Putin, Litzo met discreetly with the SVR Rezident at the Russian Embassy and received access to the entire list of recruited Russian assets in Mexico. Only one of the agents on the list caught Zad’s attention: Carlos Vargas Aguilar, head of security for the Mexican president.
As soon as it could be arranged securely, Colonel Litzo met clandestinely with the agent and learned of the possible venues under discussion for the summit with George W. Bush. The Colonel had grave reservations about his chances for success and considered his assignment a “mission impossible.” Actually, he was concerned about just surviving the operation. These misgivings gave way to a certain level of relief when he learned that the entire visit would take place at President Fox’s San Cristobal ranch in the state of Guanajuato, a couple of hours north of Mexico City. The country setting offered more flexibility in his planning and offered a number of creative operational scenarios. It also suited more his military background.
The two poured over satellite photographs of the ranch, and the agent spent hours answering the Colonel’s questions about security arrangements and topographical features of the ranch. They even made a discreet visit to the ranch one weekend when the Mexican president was relaxing in Huatulco, and Zad identified several potential sites where the target could be intercepted.
One week before the scheduled summit, Colonel Litzo returned to Moscow to meet with Putin to report on his progress. Time was running out. The Russian president needed to either give the green light for the operation or call it off. Zad was as ready as he was ever going to be.
The weather was bitterly cold, even for Moscow, and the gray skies and frigid temperatures exacerbated Zad’s latent premonition of impending doom. A car from the office of the presidency met him at the airport and drove him directly through the heavy traffic to the Kremlin where more security types whisked Colonel Litzo upstairs to Putin’s office, bypassing the numerous verification checkpoints that were utilized to screen lesser mortals. His hollow footsteps echoed down the marble tiles of the Kremlin corridors in route to the president’s office. The colonel was accompanied by two strapping guards in immaculate uniforms and brilliantly polished boots. One of them stayed with Zad in the reception area while the other went to personally announce Colonel Litzo’s arrival. Zad recognized Putin’s voice, “ Pust zaydet!”
“Zad, you’re looking well for a man your age,” said Putin as he greeted his old friend with a traditional Russian bear hug.
“The presidency has had a salubrious effect on you, Volodya. You look ten years younger than when I last saw you,” responded Zad obsequiously. Putin did look good. He had just returned from a hunting expedition to the Russian Far East and felt well-rested and refreshed. The bright sun reflecting off the snow had tanned his cheeks, and his face had a ruddy, healthy glow.
“Let’s hear what you’ve come up with, Zad. I’ve got two African heads of state waiting downstairs for an audience,” lied Putin, getting right to the point of their meeting. Despite their long history as collaborators in crime, Zad’s presence always made him feel dirty; a reminder of what he had done to get where he was now. Putin was a master of compartmentalization, though, and his psychological discomfiture was always temporary. His conscience had atrophied over the years and rarely gave him reason to pause these days.
“The target will be staying at a ranch north of Mexico City. We have an asset who can provide access to the ranch and information about scheduling, security measures, and location of the target. I propose to pick up the target at dawn on February 16 during his early morning run with his secret service detail.”
“Can you do it without killing his secret service escorts?” Putin asked.
“I think we can. We plan to incapacitate both the target and his security guards with gas. Depending on weather and wind conditions, we’ll either release Kolokol-1 gas canisters remotely in a directed and concentrated spray or use my Spetsnaz infiltration team to ambush and subdue the secret service escort and the target with chloroform. Deadly force will be employed only as a last resort.” Zad finished his briefing and looked at Putin without emotion as he had done so many times before. Never before, though, had the target been the president of the United States.
“There’s one other thing,” Putin said, as if recalling an unimportant detail. “We’re going to effect a switch. You will be inserting a Bush double in place of the real American president. He and his handler will arrive in Mexico City on a charter flight from Moscow two days before the operation.”
Zad Litzo looked at Putin without uttering a sound. Except for a slight twitch under his right eye, he showed no visible reaction to the announcement. Inside, though, the sheer preposterousness of what he had just heard set off alarm bells, but he refused to allow himself to question his president. He knew his life depended upon his reaction to Putin’s revelation, and he merely nodded in head in assent.
“I’ll do whatever the motherland requires,” he responded quietly.
“Russia expects nothing less, Zad. I knew I could count on you. You will be receiving further instructions via satellite. Ni pukha, ni pera,” said Putin, wishing his subordinate luck.
“K chertu,” responded Zad with the traditional and expected “go to hell” retort.
Putin stood up, effectively dismissing Colonel Litzo, who turned on his heels, military style, and stepped smartly for the door. “Zad,” said Putin as Litzo reached the door. “Ain’t this the shits?”
“Da, Volodya, eto polniy pizdets!” answered Zad as he walked out the door, laughing cynically under his breath. “Yeah, for him,” thought Zad. “He doesn’t have to hang his ass out for target practice in Mexico. Some things will never change.”
San Cristobal Ranch: Guanajuato, Mexico
February 16, 2001
Three stalwart secret service agents dressed in identical Adidas running attire were waiting in front of the main residence at San Cristobal Ranch when George W. Bush stepped out of the house and stretched his arms. Mornings were cold in February in this part of Mexico, and the newly elected president wore an insulated navy blue sweat suit and white ski cap for protection against the brisk breeze.
“You ready, boys?” quipped the president. “I’m gonna run all three of you into the ground today.” He loved to banter with his bodyguards, loved being in Mexico, but more than anything, he loved being president. He had come a long way from his days as a professional glad-hander for his father’s political campaigns. Sure, he used to drink heavily and snort the occasional line of cocaine, but that came with the territory. “When in Rome….” he used to say, smiling to himself. He was part of an American political dynasty, and he was continuing the tradition. Who knows, maybe a greater power than himself had chosen him to lead the American people. Lord knows they needed his guidance. Sometimes he had to pinch himself to make sure it was all real. He still couldn’t believe how the press and the public hung on his every word. The president-elect had never realized his opinions were so insightful and never suspected that his advice would be so sought-after. If only Dick Cheney would stop treating him like an over exuberant adolescent.
It was a beautiful morning. The air was crisp, and there was still frost on the ground. The aroma of corn tortillas cooking in a traditional comalover a wood fire wafted over from the ranch kitchen, and he knew the Mexican staff would be cooking up huevos rancheros, plenty of refried beans, and would have mountains of fresh fruit ready for breakfast. He looked forward to a cold glass of freshly squeezed orange juice following his run.
The president looked around him with satisfaction. Vegetation was sparse in the semi-arid terrain of Guanajuato, not unlike Texas. This was cattle country, and George W. felt right at home. He admittedly had been a little embarrassed yesterday evening when he had to turn down President Fox’s invitation to go horseback riding. That was something he had to learn to do. Fox had laughed and called him a “windshield cowboy” and joked that the American president felt more at home surveying a ranch from the front seat of a pickup truck rather than from the back of a horse. Had that damn Mexican been making fun of me? he wondered
The president and his three escorts walked over to the beginning of the running trail that the head of President Fox’s security detail had reconnoitered for them yesterday. What a polite and respectful young man Fox’s assistant was. What was his name again? Carlos, he thought. That’s what it was. Seemed like a good ol’ boy…in a Mexican way, of course. They were all named Carlos or Juan, weren’t they? And they all wore their little macho moustaches. Made them all look a little sneaky, the president thought.
“I hope you boys can keep up,” said George W. to his bodyguards and set off at a brisk pace southwest along the narrow cattle trail that led across the ranch. About a half-mile from the ranch house the topography changed abruptly, and the runners began traversing more broken ground with clusters of live oak interspaced with several different varieties of cactus. They had all broken a hard sweat, and George W. was breathing hard.
“You boys set the pace, and I’ll follow you,” said the president as he fell back, knowing his escorts would slow things down for him. The secret service agents smiled to themselves and obliged the newly elected president, bringing the pace down to a slow jog. They would speed up again as they got back to within sight of the house where the pool of photographers would be waiting. They were sensitive to the president’s public relations requirements and tried to do everything possible to support his rough-and-ready image.
In the meantime, though, they had about two and half more miles to cover, and the terrain along the trail had become challenging. The cattle trail had turned hilly. Large boulders, rocks, and small cactus plants littered the trail and forced the three runners to keep their eyes focused on the ground immediately in front of them. The president was having second thoughts about Carlos, Fox’s security chief. Damn, he thought, that little greaser’s trying to kill me!
George W. had begun to lag behind his three younger running partners. As he approached the crest of a particularly steep hill, he lost sight of all three of them. He looked up briefly at the trail ahead and saw nothing but the tops of what appeared to be a clump of live oak trees and the steam from his own labored breathing. He had almost reached the top of the hill when he heard a muffled shout ahead. Too early for rattlesnakes to be out, thought the president. Wonder what that was about. The shout died quickly, and the president concentrated on maintaining an even pace and tried to ignore the burning in his legs. The cool wind brought tears to his eyes and his vision was slightly blurred.
The slope began to flatten out as he crested the hill, and his overworked lungs and quadriceps almost cried out with relief. Immediately ahead and to the right of the trail under a small grove of live oaks, George W. saw a black Chevy Suburban and at least five men clad in jeans and leather jackets wearing black balaclavas over their heads. He recognized Carlos from Fox’s security detail standing bareheaded by the vehicle, but then realized that his secret service bodyguards were on the ground and appeared to be unconscious. Two of the men wearing balaclavas were hovering over them, holding something to their faces while others had pinned their arms behind their backs and were wrapping duct tape around their wrists. A short burly man, who appeared to be in charge of the melee, pointed at the president and yelled something in a language George W did not understand. In the few seconds it took for the unexpected developments to register in the president’s mind, he felt his own arms grabbed from behind and a damp cloth that smelled sweetly of acetone and alcohol was placed roughly over his mouth. He noticed his hearing had become slightly distorted, and he saw a strangely familiar figure in navy blue running sweats climb out of the rear seat of the Suburban. Then he lost consciousness.