MOSCOW,
AUGUST 18, 8:30 A.M. MSK
Tell me why I should not have you killed,” Mikhailov demanded.
The blood drained from Aleksandr Stetchkin’s face. He’d known Yuri Mikhailov for more than twenty years, serving as one of his most critical and trusted associates for the last six. The Russian president was one of the few people in the entire country not frightened or intimidated by Stetchkin, and Mikhailov was one of only two people in all of Russia who frightened or intimidated Stetchkin. The other was Mikhailov’s personal assassin, Taras Bor.
“Yuri . . .”
“I am President Mikhailov.”
“Yes, Mr. President. I assume you have concluded that Piotr Egorshin’s death was my doing. I—”
“I have concluded, Stetchkin, that you acted in a stupid, irresponsible, and treasonous manner in defiance of explicit orders given you only a short time before. I have concluded you have compromised a strategic initiative of paramount importance to the future of this country. I have concluded you have done these things out of arrogance, idiocy, and recklessness—in part because you have never been disciplined or apprised of the limits of your authority. I have concluded that you must explain to me why the country would benefit more from your continued pathetic existence than from your elimination.”
Stetchkin sat riveted to his chair in front of Mikhailov’s massive desk. For the first time he felt small and powerless. For the first time since he’d known Mikhailov, Stetchkin conceded to himself that Mikhailov was at least as cunning and cutthroat as Stetchkin himself. For the first time since he’d risen to head the Twelfth Directorate he felt vulnerable, that his life was truly in jeopardy.
“Yuri—”
“Mr. President,” Mikhailov corrected sharply.
“Mr. President, it is true that I had Egorshin eliminated.”
“You feckless idiot,” Mikhailov said, his voice icy and low. “You did it for Palinieva. You did it because you are a wretched excuse for a man.”
“I believed I had your authority, Mr. President.”
“No one, not even you, is stupid enough to believe you had authority to kill someone on a whim, to satisfy some urge. You did it because you believed I gave you enough room to craft an excuse, to exploit a loophole. You believe you are clever.”
“Mr. President—”
“Silence, Stetchkin. We are hours from the most ambitious maneuver of the twenty-first century and you are occupied with petty personal matters. You had someone murdered for reasons that do not advance Russian interests. Yet this is not solely about actions that advance Russian interests. You murdered someone for the most banal reason. It is no longer 1950.”
“Mr. President,” Stetchkin said plaintively, “I misunderstood—”
Mikhailov cut him off. “You misunderstood nothing.”
“But I understood you to say—”
Mikhailov waved him off and pressed the intercom on his desk. “Send in Volkov.”
The office door opened almost instantly and Major Valeri Volkov entered tentatively, unsure of the protocols related to meeting and addressing the president. Just a few hours ago he couldn’t have imagined a private meeting with Aleksandr Stetchkin. Now here he was in the office of President Yuri Mikhailov, and Stetchkin was seated in front of him, a surprised look on his face. Volkov’s distress was evident from his face, which was covered with a sheen of moisture. He saluted and remained in the doorway, eyes fixed forward.
Mikhailov pointed to an empty chair next to Stetchkin. Volkov entered on legs of rubber and sat ramrod straight on the edge of the chair.
Stetchkin spoke rapidly. “Mr. President, Major Volkov was the one who assured me the event can proceed in Egorshin’s absence—”
“I am aware of what the major told you,” Mikhailov said, his voice neutral. His displeasure with Stetchkin wasn’t something he wished to reveal to the young officer. “I simply have a few questions for him.” Mikhailov turned to Volkov. “You were Egorshin’s second?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Volkov tried to project a military bearing, but his voice was tremulous.
“Egorshin is dead,” Mikhailov informed him. Volkov looked stunned. “Can the event proceed without him?”
After a moment, Volkov replied, “Yes, Mr. President.”
“You are one hundred percent certain?”
“I am, Mr. President.”
“You informed Mr. Stetchkin of this earlier?”
Volkov froze. He suddenly felt like a defendant on trial. He had the sensation of Stetchkin staring at him.
“I did, Mr. President.”
“Did Mr. Stetchkin offer any inducements to you to come to that conclusion?”
Volkov’s head felt as if it were in a vise. He wasn’t on trial, Stetchkin was, and the latter’s welfare might depend on Volkov’s response. He couldn’t lie to the president, but then, the president would have no way of knowing it was a lie. On the other hand, if Volkov’s response angered Stetchkin and he still retained authority over him, the tyrant would certainly retaliate, possibly with death.
“I did not provide the conclusions in response to an inducement.”
It wasn’t lost on Mikhailov that Volkov had elided, but he let it go. He glanced at Stetchkin, who couldn’t mask his apprehension.
“Did Mr. Stetchkin make any threats to you to provide that conclusion?”
“He did not.” Technically true, thought Volkov, although at the time he’d had absolutely no doubt what conclusion Stetchkin wanted from him.
Mikhailov stared at Volkov for several seconds, then glared at Stetchkin for several more. Both were anxious. Although Volkov’s anxiety was more pronounced, Stetchkin’s was far more striking given his reputation and position. Mikhailov pressed the intercom button again. “Send in Majors Tokarsky and Starpov.”
Seconds later the door opened to reveal Tokarsky and Starpov. They looked more composed than Volkov but appeared similarly unfamiliar with appropriate protocol. They stood motionless for a second, then saluted in unison. Mikhailov motioned for them to enter and they walked to the left of Volkov’s chair, where they stood at attention.
“Majors Tokarsky and Starpov, I am told each of you is independently capable of overseeing the unit and executing the event if necessary. Is this correct?”
They spoke in tandem. “Yes, Mr. President.”
Mikhailov nodded approvingly. “I am also informed that it is one hundred percent certain the event will be successful even without Egorshin’s involvement. Major Tokarsky, do you agree with that assessment?”
Major Tokarsky glanced quickly at Major Starpov and said, “Yes, Mr. President.”
“And you, Major Starpov?”
“I agree as well, Mr. President.”
A look of relief came over the faces of Stetchkin and Volkov.
“Very good. Very good,” Mikhailov said. “We are barely sixteen hours away. You understand how important it is to have effective redundancies for something of this magnitude. Thank you. You are dismissed.”
Majors Tokarsky and Starpov saluted smartly, pivoted, and walked to the door.
Then Mikhailov called after them. “I have a final question, Majors, a hypothetical.”
The two officers stopped and turned.
“Based on your previous responses, I gather it would be accurate to say that the event would proceed with one hundred percent success even if some tragedy were to befall Mr. Stetchkin and Mr. Volkov and they could not participate?”
The anxious looks instantly returned to the faces of Stetchkin and Volkov.
The two majors said, “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Thank you. You are dismissed.”