MOSCOW, RUSSIA
From his polished wingtips to his manicured hands, Leonid Grechko was one of the more interesting men in Russian Intelligence. He was a gentleman’s spy—well-educated, urbane, and a keen observer of human behavior. He was also ruthless.
He had held all of the plum Western assignments—London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Madrid, and eventually Washington.
Not only could he speak like his counterparts, but he could also think like them, which made him particularly useful to his superiors.
Upon returning to Moscow, he had been summoned to the Director’s office, promoted, and tasked with assembling a department with the goal of conducting a “heart transplant.”
In 1923, Joseph Stalin had established an effort known as the Special Disinformation Office, which eventually became known as the Active Measures Department. His goal was to shape world events via political warfare and it allowed for everything from espionage and propaganda to sabotage, assassination, and beyond.
Active measures were looked upon as an art form. They had been rhapsodized as the heart and soul of Soviet, and then Russian, intelligence. Its foremost practitioners were lavished in espionage circles with the types of praise reserved for poets and composers.
As the masters of these dark arts began to die and fade away after the Cold War, it sent the value of operatives like Leonid Grechko soaring. The Kremlin was willing to make the next stage of his career very worth his while.
He was provided with a generous increase in pay, a substantial budget, and, as he wanted to break from the existing groupthink of the Foreign Intelligence Service, also known as the SVR, he was allowed to set up shop “off campus.”
Grechko chose a narrow, three-story building west of Red Square in the Arbat District. Its location provided easy access to the Kremlin, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and a range of other organizations that he needed to call upon from time to time. Even better, the neighborhood was popular with tourists.
It played host to an array of Western eateries including Brisket BBQ, Ulysses Pub, and even a Hard Rock Cafe—all of which Grechko encouraged his staff to eat and drink in as often as possible. He wanted them marinating in the tastes, sounds, and smells of the cultures they were working to influence. The better they knew the enemy, the more successful their efforts would be.
Unlike his subordinates, Grechko already knew the enemy. What’s more, he had sacrificed almost his entire adult life in service to his country. While he believed in the cause, he also believed in enjoying the perks of his position. As a result, he had no problem flexing his expense account at Arbat’s more elegant bars and restaurants. The glamourous White Rabbit, with its never-ending city views and world-renowned chef, as well as the sleek, wildly trendy Sakhalin, were two of his favorites.
This evening, however, he was at a hole-in-the-wall called Nazhrat’sya—Russian slang for “shit-faced.” It was in the basement of a building just off Pushkin Square, a couple of blocks from the Chekhovskaya metro station.
Grechko ignored the hundred-plus bras hanging from the ceiling, laid a five-thousand-ruble note on the bar, and told the bartender exactly what he wanted.
A “Revolver” was essentially a Manhattan, but with a twist. Grechko preferred Bulleit rye, something extremely hard to come by since sanctions had been imposed. Most shifty Moscow establishments, a club to which this one appeared to belong, often refilled their higher-end liquor bottles with inferior product, figuring their unsophisticated patrons wouldn’t know the difference. Grechko assured the bartender that he would know the difference and warned him against trying to rip him off.
Uncomfortable with the man’s vibe, and unsure of whether this well-dressed customer was a government official or an organized crime figure, the bartender handed his keys to a colleague and sent him to retrieve an unopened bottle of the American bourbon from the office.
When the employee returned, the bartender presented the bottle to Grechko and, once the man nodded his approval, began making the cocktail.
Instead of the sweet vermouth found in the Manhattan, coffee liqueur is used, followed by a few dashes of orange bitters. The bartender withdrew a lighter and was about to flame the orange peel garnish, but Grechko waved him away. The only thing he liked less than cocktail umbrellas were cocktail pyrotechnics. Shake it, serve it, and fuck off. That was his mantra.
Once again, the bartender seemed to be able to pick up on the man’s vibe and disappeared to deal with another customer.
Grechko sipped his drink. Despite the peeling paint, the floor that stuck to his shoes with every step, and the women’s lingerie hanging from the light fixtures like pennants strung across a Himalayan base camp, the staff could mix a decent cocktail. As he drank, he took a look around.
This early in the evening, the clientele was thin—a few Russian students mixed with some tourists who were either lost or traveling on next to no money.
The intelligence operative checked his watch. His contact was late. Grechko didn’t like that. Being punctual was a sign of respect. So was choosing a meeting location commensurate with the standing of the participants. As a former diplomat turned full-time presidential advisor, Oleg Beglov knew better. Being a member of the Kremlin’s most inner circle, however, meant that he didn’t have to care.
Providing reports directly to Beglov had become routine. The war had been a disaster from the start—both from a military and a PR standpoint. President Peshkov detested the comparison to Hitler’s invasion of Czechoslovakia’s Sudetenland. This, despite the fact that he was voicing his own version of one of Hitler’s key justifications—that he was stepping in to defend ethnic Russians who were being unfairly treated.
It was bullshit when Hitler tried to justify his actions on behalf of “ethnic Germans” and it was bullshit now as Peshkov engaged in a similar lie.
Of particular importance was that Europe and its Western allies had learned their lesson eighty-plus years ago with Hitler. This time there was no feckless Neville Chamberlain happy to stand aside in exchange for a bogus promise of peace and an end to any further territorial ambition.
The West had made it crystal clear that it wasn’t going to give the Russian President an inch. Peshkov had woefully underestimated their response. But his decision to invade hadn’t been made in a vacuum. He’d had good reason to think he might not meet serious resistance.
Less than ten years earlier, the Russian President had successfully rolled his battalion tactical groups into eastern Ukraine and sliced off a nice chunk of the country. The rest of the world had done nothing. Worse still, the United States—a key signatory to the Budapest Memorandum, an agreement promising to protect the territorial integrity of Ukraine in the aftermath of the implosion of the USSR in exchange for Ukraine giving up its nuclear weapon stockpiles—did little more than shrug.
Next to some light sanctions and a few strongly worded letters, the only serious thing that happened to the Russians in the wake of their first invasion was that they got kicked out of the G8, which then became the G7.
As far as Peshkov was concerned, it had all been worth it. He had taken another step toward his ultimate goal of reconstituting Imperial Russia. As the old saying went, “There can be no Russian Empire without Ukraine.” He was on his way.
But when he went to take his next step, his lightning-fast invasion was stopped dead in its tracks. The undertrained, underequipped Ukrainians put up a fierce defense. What should have only taken the Russians a matter of days, weeks tops, had turned into a meat-grinding stalemate. No matter how much the Russians threw at Ukraine, the Ukrainians fought back twice as hard. They simply refused to be defeated. Their obstinance enraged Peshkov.
The Russian President doubled down and pulled out all the stops. Absolutely nothing was off the table. It didn’t matter if he smashed every building and killed every last Ukrainian civilian in the process. Russia was a global power. He would not be embarrassed by a bunch of peasant farmers from a country known as the breadbasket of Europe. Not only would Russia conquer them, but these people deserved to be conquered. Better yet, they deserved to be crushed and to have their culture wiped from the face of the earth and forgotten by history.
The biggest problem for Peshkov was that the crushing and wiping from the face of the earth wasn’t happening fast enough. That was why Leonid Grechko and Oleg Beglov were meeting.
Pulling out his cell phone to check for any updates, the intelligence operative looked toward the door and saw the presidential advisor enter. It was about time.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Beglov as he approached the bar and signaled for the barman.
He was a good fifteen years younger than Grechko, in his mid to late forties. Easily the youngest of Peshkov’s confidants. He was tall and trim, with a head of thick, somewhat damp hair. His mustache and detached, pointy beard, as well as his narrow, brown eyes, were reminiscent of Lenin’s.
Moscow gossip had him pegged as Peshkov’s protégé, the man who would one day replace him and lead all of Russia.
Grechko wasn’t sure how much of that to believe. As the saying went, those who know don’t talk, and those who talk don’t know. Russians loved to speculate. It was practically a national pastime. That was especially true inside the intelligence services.
After ordering a gin and tonic, Beglov tilted his head toward an empty table in the corner. “Shall we take a seat over there?”
Grechko scooped up his change from the bar and walked over while the advisor waited for his drink. There were only two chairs and the intelligence operative took the one that gave him the best view of the room.
A few moments later, Beglov, cocktail in hand, joined him. He threw his overcoat over the back of the other chair and set his briefcase on the floor by his feet. “To your health,” he offered, raising his glass.
“Vashe zdarovye,” Grechko repeated, lifting his in return.
There was a rowdy chant from the other side of the room as a group of students recited a drinking poem and downed a round of shots. The intelligence operative rolled his eyes. Not overdramatically, but enough for his colleague to notice.
“Not your type of place?” Beglov asked.
Grechko smiled. “I’m just sorry there isn’t any karaoke tonight.”
“That’s only on Wednesdays,” the advisor said, smiling back.
“So, you’re a regular?”
“I’m in the neighborhood from time to time,” he responded, adjusting his wedding band. “I have a friend who lives nearby.”
The intelligence officer knew a thing or two about his counterpart. One of them was that in addition to a wife and two grown children, Beglov had a mistress—a younger and very attractive associate curator at the State Tretyakov Gallery, the leading collection of Russian fine art in the world. Grechko assumed that this was the “friend” who lived nearby and also the reason why Beglov had arrived late with wet hair.
Enough of Grechko’s time had already been wasted and so he pivoted to work. “I have news from Turtle Bay.”
Turtle Bay was the New York City neighborhood where the United Nations was located.
Beglov leaned in.
“The contraband seized in the Gulf of Oman is going to Kyiv.”
American warships from the Fifth Fleet, along with vessels of the British and French navies, had interdicted multiple fishing trawlers attempting to smuggle Iranian weapons to Tehran-backed Houthi rebels in Yemen. Thousands of Russian-style battle rifles, machine guns, antitank missiles, surface-to-air missiles, engines for land-attack cruise missiles, and over a million rounds of ammunition had been seized.
Normally, such illicit lethal cargo—evidence of Iran’s violations of UN Security Council resolution 2624—would remain stored at U.S. bases across the region until official proceedings could be undertaken.
“Damn it,” the advisor responded. “That should have been tied up in red tape for at least another year. We were assured that we had enough votes to keep it stalled.”
“Our special military operation,” Grechko replied, using the carefully crafted term concocted by the Kremlin, “remains unpopular even among some of our friends. I’m told Beijing was unwilling to block the transfer.”
At the mention of China, Beglov grew angry. “The goddamn Chinese are not our friends. And don’t let anyone tell you that they are. They’re ravenous for resources. They want our coal, our gas, and our aluminum. All of it. And they want it as cheap as possible. The more we suffer, the further prices fall. Believe me, they’re not crying any tears for us.”
Grechko knew that the relationship between Moscow and Beijing was eroding. It wasn’t frosty, not yet, but it was heading in that direction.
The Chinese had been supplying Russia with certain military technology such as navigation and jamming equipment, as well as fighter jet parts. But what Moscow really needed was more, lots more, lethal aid—things like bombs and missiles, rifles and ammunition.
Beijing had been warned by the Americans not to send any; that it was a bright red line with enormous consequences if they crossed it. But the Chinese being the Chinese, they had crossed it.
China, however, hadn’t done so in order to help Russia win the war in Ukraine, but rather to keep the Russians bogged down in it. They wanted to see it dragged out. The longer the war ground on, the further America would deplete its military stockpiles.
If they could sufficiently bleed the United States, they would have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—the ability to take Taiwan without the American military being able to mount an effective and sustained response.
Thus, the war in Ukraine was a proxy war for the Chinese. They didn’t give two fucks about Russia’s well-being.
Grechko didn’t blame Beglov for being unhappy with them. In advance of their own invasion of Taiwan, China was getting free lessons on everything from keeping a battered, heavily sanctioned economy afloat to how President Peshkov had managed to hold on to power.
Grechko had wondered as well. Considering how badly things had been going, he was stunned that the Russian leader hadn’t been toppled and replaced, much less assassinated. The man was either the most skilled politician in Russian history or its luckiest.
The extent to which the oligarchs around him had suffered—the freezing of bank accounts, the seizure of real estate, yachts, and private jets—it was enough to make the Pope himself think about hiring an assassin. Peshkov was living on borrowed time. At some point, his luck or his skill was going to run dry. Then the real struggle for power would begin.
While, as the heir apparent, he might entertain such thoughts, Beglov was far too wise to ever discuss such things—much less in public, and lesser still with someone he had only recently begun a professional relationship with.
For his part, Grechko was both smart enough and experienced enough not to raise such questions. To do so would have been an act of treason. If there was one thing he knew, it was that in Russia, everyone was replaceable. Even him.
Having vented about the Chinese, Beglov got back to business. “Unfortunately, I am taking my wife for dinner shortly. It’s her birthday, so we’ll need to be brief. The President has been concerned about the Americans, particularly their support for Ukraine. What can I tell him about your efforts?”
The advisor was a real piece of work—cutting an intelligence meeting short in order to have a tryst with his mistress, on his wife’s birthday. It was a wonder that the entire country hadn’t yet risen up against the political class and hanged them from lampposts.
“The software problem has been fixed,” he said, referring to Burman’s death in D.C.
“Excellent. And our internet source will make sure it is documented?”
“It has already been added to the site,” Grechko replied. “Complete with photographs from the scene. A follow-up story is in the works.”
“Make sure I get links to everything.”
The intelligence operative didn’t know why that should be his problem, but he nodded anyway.
“What about Dasher?”
Grechko couldn’t believe the advisor was using an actual operational codename in public, but especially one like Dasher. The American was one of the best assets the SVR had ever recruited. He quickly scanned the room to make sure no one had overheard them.
“Everything is on track.”
“The President wants your efforts accelerated.”
This was exactly what Grechko had worried about. As the war ground on, Peshkov was going to get more desperate. Having established a direct line of contact via Beglov, the Russian President was able to assert his will without any pushback from FSB headquarters.
He was a man who despised being compared to Hitler, so it was odd to see him taking this kind of micromanagement right out of the Führer’s playbook. Regardless, Grechko was stuck.
Even though it meant taking on more risk, and on American soil no less, he would have to do as Peshkov had ordered. His activities would be moved up.
His superiors were going to be pissed and his operatives on the ground in the United States jumpy. But without missing a beat, he replied, “I’ll make it happen.”
Beglov was pleased. “Your professionalism has not gone unnoticed by the Kremlin. We need more men like you. Especially now. Keep it up.”
Grechko watched as the advisor knocked back the remainder of his cocktail, stood up, and gathered his things to leave.
“Don’t forget those links,” Beglov reminded him.
The pair shook hands and the intelligence operative followed him with his eyes as the advisor exited the shitty little bar.
Though he could have pointed it out to him, Grechko decided not to warn the man that he had lipstick on the back of his collar.
Carelessness, both personal and professional, had a way of catching up with everyone. In times of war, the Fates had a way of accelerating those reckonings.
Grechko made a mental note not to be standing anywhere near Peshkov or Beglov when theirs arrived. Both men were very likely headed for violent, bloody ends.
In the meantime, all the intelligence operative could do was his job. If the Fates had something bloody and violent planned for him, he would never see it coming. His enemies were that good—even the Americans—and he was now about to turn the heat up on them.