The Seventh Angel

the locals even know that Mr. Grigoriev is in our custody. And the Operations Directorate doesn’t think we should tell them, sir.”

“Hold it,” The president said. “This hasn’t been reported to the Philippine locals?”

The analyst swallowed visibly. “Uh … no, Mr. President.”

Becka Solomon, the Secretary of Homeland Security, closed her briefing folder with a thump. “Why the hell not?”

“I’d like to take a crack at that question,” Brenthoven said. He pulled a small leather-bound notebook from the pocket of his jacket, flipped it open, and read for a few seconds. His eyes were still on the notebook when he resumed speaking. “The CIA has been interested in Mr. Grigoriev for several years, now. He was a soldier in the Red Army before the collapse of the Soviet Union, and a tank commander with the Soviet Iron Saber Brigade during the last eighteen months of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. His highest rank was Starshiy Serdzhant, or Senior Sergeant — roughly equivalent to Sergeant First Class in the U.S. Army. You’ll find a short dossier on the man in your briefing packages.”

Everyone except for the DI analyst and Brenthoven stopped to thumb through the blue folders on the table in front of them.

The national security advisor continued. “Mr. President, the CIA has fairly conclusive evidence that Grigoriev is a covert international operative.”

Doyle’s eyebrows narrowed. “You mean a spy?”

“More of a bag man,” Brenthoven said. “A courier, who hand carries sensitive documents and information back and forth between his sponsor nation and foreign countries they want to communicate with.”

“Isn’t that kind of thing usually handled by diplomats?” the president asked. “Wasn’t that the whole point of the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations? Governments send sensitive documents by diplomatic courier, because it’s illegal to detain a diplomatic pouch, or search its contents.”

“You’re quite correct, Mr. President,” the analyst said. “But there are cases in which a particular government might not want even its diplomatic corps to know what it’s up to. Circumstances that call for a higher-than-normal level of secrecy, or circumstances where a country’s leaders want to maintain maximum deniability.”

The secretary of homeland security looked at the analyst. “So that’s this man’s job? To bypass the Russian government’s legitimate diplomatic channels of communication?”

The analyst nodded. “Yes, Madam Secretary. That’s Langley’s assessment. Except we don’t think Grigoriev is working for the Russian government.”

General Gilmore stared over the tops of his black-framed glasses at the analyst. “If it’s not his own government, then who does our Russian friend work for?”

The general’s voice was quiet and even-toned. Like his round pleasantly-featured face, his voice seemed out of place in a professional warrior. He looked and sounded more like a librarian than a fighting man. But, appearances aside, he was a combat Soldier, from his boot laces to his regulation Army hair cut. The rack of ribbons above the left pocket of his uniform jacket included the Bronze Star medal, with the affixed “V” insignia for valor under enemy fire.

The analyst shifted his gaze to the general. “The … uh … The Operations Directorate thinks that Mr. Grigoriev works for Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov, the governor of the Kamchatka kray, on the Kamchatka peninsula in southeastern Russia.” The analyst paused for a second to let this strange pronouncement sink in. Then he continued. “Analysis of Grigoriev’s travel and spending patterns over the past year suggests strongly that he has been acting as the go-between for confidential negotiations between Governor Zhukov and certain elements of the government and military of the People’s Republic of China.”

The last word caught the president’s attention. “China? What does the Chinese government want with the governor of an obscure Russian province?”

“We don’t know for certain,” Brenthoven said. “We have very little hard evidence, but what we do have is frankly scaring the hell out of us, Mr. President.”

The president nodded. “Alright, Greg. Enough pussyfooting around. You’ve set us up for the bad news. Now, go ahead and deliver the knockout punch.”

Brenthoven closed his notebook and looked directly into the president’s eyes. “Sir, due to the extent of his injuries, Mr. Grigoriev has only been conscious for short periods of time since he came into our custody. It may be several days before we can interview him properly. However, during his brief periods of lucidity, he’s managed to let us know that he wants to negotiate a trade. He’ll tell us what he knows in exchange for political asylum.”

The president cocked an eyebrow. “If he crawled into our embassy with a bunch of bullet holes in him, there’s a good chance that this man qualifies for asylum whether he knows anything useful or not. What do we think he can tell us?”

“We’re not sure yet, sir,” the analyst said. “But he’s already revealed one piece of information that we didn’t have before.”

“And what would that be?” the general asked.

The analyst took a breath. “Most of the top positions in the government of Kamchatka are held by former officials of the Soviet communist regime. Sergiei Zhukov is no exception. In the eighties, he was a mid-level apparatchik in the communist party. That’s pretty much common knowledge in the intelligence community. But we didn’t know that Zhukov used to be senior security officer for KB-11.”

Veronica Doyle frowned. “KB-11 … Where do I know that from?”

“KB-11 was the old Soviet designation for Design Bureau Number 11,” General Gilmore said quietly. “It was the main laboratory at a Soviet military research city called Arzamas-16. After the collapse of the USSR, the facility was renamed the Russian Federal Nuclear Center. Back in the bad old days, that’s where the Cold War got started. Design Bureau Number 11 designed and assembled the nuclear weapons for the Soviet military arsenals. That’s where the Russians first built the atomic bomb.”

The president looked at the analyst. “You’ve followed up on this?”

The analyst nodded. “Yes, sir. We don’t have much to go on yet, but the few pieces we know about all appear to confirm Grigoriev’s story. The Ops Directorate has verified that Sergiei Zhukov was the senior security officer at Design Bureau Number 11.”

“You still haven’t told us how this all connects to China,” The president said.

Brenthoven looked at the president. “Sir, Mr. Grigoriev claims to have been the middle man for a deal between Zhukov and the Chinese Politburo. Russian nuclear technology in exchange for some kind of Chinese military intervention.”

Doyle brushed a speck of lint from the lapel of her gray silk business suit. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “China already has the bomb. They don’t need to get it from Russia, and certainly not from a Podunk province like Kamchatka.”

“It’s not that simple,” the national security advisor said. “China does have the bomb. But not the kind of bomb they want. Their nuclear weapons are all single warhead configurations; each missile carries one nuclear warhead. But they’ve been trying since the eighties to develop MIRV technology, or multiple independently-targeted reentry vehicles. One missile can carry multiple nuclear warheads, and strike several different targets at the same time. The People’s Republic of China has poured a lot of time and money into MIRV research, but they haven’t been able to make it work. Remember the big stink at the Los Alamos National Laboratory in the late nineties? One of our scientists was caught trying to pass nuclear secrets to China. That’s what the Chinese were after. MIRVs.”

General Gilmore smiled ruefully. “In the minds of a lot of the minor nuclear powers, MIRV technology has become the admission ticket to the grown up table. The United States has MIRVs. Russia, Great Britain, and France have them. But Israel doesn’t. India, Pakistan, and North Korea don’t. And neither does China.”

“Okay, the Russians have this MIRV technology, and the Chinese want it,” Doyle said. “Does it necessarily follow that the governor of Kamchatka can deliver it to them?”

“We don’t know yet, ma’am,” the analyst said. “But it’s possible. He did work in close proximity to the technology at Arzamas-16. And he’s got a fairly significant slice of the Russian Navy’s nuclear arsenal right in his own back yard.”

The analyst clicked his remote, and the photo of Oleg Grigoriev was replaced by a map of the Russian Federation. Near the right edge of the map, the Kamchatka peninsula dangled from the southeastern edge of