‘About time, too.’ The woman again, showing just a hint of impatience when the silence stretched beyond several seconds. Kolodka was the only one in the room who could get away with it, and they all knew it – even the chairman. You didn’t mess with those who were blessed by the hand of the president, as this woman was. Nobody quite knew the details of her relationship with Putin, nor how much of a blessing his hand had been, whether personal, physical, or even spiritual. And none dared ask. The conferred status had been there for a long time and nobody questioned it.
‘Indeed. There have been many suggestions raised about building a co-ordinated plan of attack aimed at the Pentagon and other US agencies, to undermine their confidence and sow a level of discord among their field operations. For too long now they have been running free, causing problems in various theatres and allowing other states to think that we are too weak to respond effectively. This has led to certain elements of our security and intelligence apparatus appearing vulnerable … even, dare I say, incompetent. After today that view will no longer be allowed to continue.’ He raised a hand as if to pound the table, then seemed to think better of it.
Murmurs of assent went round the table. Basalayev was referring to recent failures by the GRU and other agencies in conducting operations against foreign states to silence traitors and agitators. Until now it was not a subject anyone had cared to raise, the events too recent and sufficiently sensitive to render them closed for discussion. The taint of failure was regarded with horror simply because, as they were all old enough to remember, some things in the new modern Russia had barely changed from the old, and the consequences of failure were chilling to contemplate.
‘So what exactly is the plan?’ Sergey Grishin, a former general, bore the characteristically blunt manner of many former high-ranking military men. Although as wary as anyone of treading on sensitive toes, he was known to forget himself occasionally. But his intimate experience and knowledge of the Russian military world made him invaluable to the group.
Basalayev smiled, a hint of rare warmth where there was often none. ‘I must apologize to you all; I have not been entirely open about the progress of events so far because I did not have sufficient confidence that the information we required would be forthcoming. But now, thanks to arrangements by Anatoly, here,’ he nodded to Dolmatov, ‘we can be sure that action is about to be taken against the US operative.’
Grishin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. He glanced at Dolmatov. ‘I have a question. Taking action can mean only one thing, can it not?’
Dolmatov nodded. ‘It does. So?’
‘Won’t that be met with repercussions?’
‘Maybe.’ Basalayev gave a cool smile. ‘If so we will respond further in kind. The Americans will soon understand that we mean business.’
‘But … that’s madness.’ If Grishin wished for a brief moment that he could have swallowed his tongue, it was too late to go back. He forged on. ‘A shooting war between our agencies and the Americans benefits nobody. At least, that has always been the considered thinking – or have I got that wrong?’
There were nods from the others, all looking at Basalayev for confirmation but relieved it had not been they who had come even close to challenging such a radical decision.
Before he could speak, Kolodka murmured with just a hint of query, ‘Just to clarify, this suggestion comes from the highest level … does it not?’
It was an oddly-toned question and in most meetings would have been innocuous. But the word highest carried a special ring to it. In most organizations it could have been applied to any corporate CEO or a similar rank; here and now there was only one person to whom it could apply: President Putin himself. Nobody wanted to utter the name, not even, it seemed, Kolodka, even though the men in the room were under no doubts about her role here, which was to discreetly remind them of what they all suspected, in case there was any doubt.
‘The highest,’ Basaleyev said. ‘We have full budget approval for this operation and clean, unattributed operatives tasked and briefed, ready to go. In fact they are already in place and have their orders.’
‘How clean?’ A thin-faced man named Oleg Voronin, recently recruited to the group and a former senior officer with the Russian Spetsgruppa ‘V’ unit of counter-terrorism and special ops forces, sat forward.
‘Unattached clean,’ Dolmatov put in quietly. With unusually heavy brows, coal-black hair and the powerful hands of a lumberjack, which he had once been, he wore the air of a permanently morose man. He was accustomed to varying levels of operatives, from the fully integrated and retained officers, to former operatives now contractors, all the way down to foreign hirelings from allied states such as Bulgaria and Albania. ‘Don’t worry – none of this comes back to this office or to this city.’
‘Let us hope not.’ Basalayev allowed the words to sink in before sliding a single briefing sheet to each person, their individual or collective tasks clearly highlighted beneath a printed photo of a man. ‘Not for dissemination outside this room, of course, but for information only. This is the target.’
Kolodka leaned forward and picked up her copy. She studied the photograph closely and said, ‘Why this person? What is so special about him?’
One or two of the men studied her for a moment, as if trying to decide whether this was another deliberate insert or a genuine question. She, after all, would not be expected to soil her hands with any actual work; that was down to each of the men. That thought alone was a reminder that if they failed, they stood to incur the greatest penalty.
Voronin murmured, ‘He’s an enemy of the state. What other reason do we need
