Iron Wolf (27 page)

N
ORTHERN
O
UTSKIRTS OF
K
ONOTOP

L
ATER THAT NIGHT

Using his rain poncho as an improvised tent to hide the beam of his flashlight, Spetsnaz Captain Timur Pelevin peered down at the bloodstained scrap of paper found on the terrorist killed at Konotop Airfield a few hours ago. Besides an abandoned Swedish-made recoilless rifle, it was the one piece of evidence the rattled garrison had recovered from the battlefield. The dead man's comrades had apparently stripped him of everything else before escaping. His lips moved as he haltingly converted the Roman characters of the street address to more familiar Cyrillic letters. “Zelena Street, number seven,” he murmured.

He switched off the flashlight, waited several seconds for his eyes to readjust to darkness, and flipped the poncho back up. His two senior lieutenants were crouched nearby, waiting for his orders. “Looks like those air-force intelligence pricks got it right, for once,” he told them, pointing up the darkened street. “Our target is that fourth house on the right.”

They turned to follow his gesture. Even through the rain, they could make out the shape of a small, low-roofed detached building. Like the rest of the houses on this little street, it had a tiny garden plot out back and a separate, bedraggled-looking tool and storage shed.

“We need to hit that terrorist safe house hard and fast,” Pelevin stressed. “If they don't realize what their dead guy had on him, we could still take them by surprise.”

One of the lieutenants raised an eyebrow. “And if the terrorists have booby-trapped the place?”

“Then it will be a very bad day for Mama Pelevin,” the Spetsnaz captain grunted. “But just for that, you go first, Yury.”

The lieutenant grinned tightly. “In that case, I withdraw my suggestion.”

“Too late,” Pelevin told him. “But don't worry, I'll be right behind you.” He studied the faint, glowing numbers on his watch. “Get your men in position, gentlemen. You have five minutes.”

Silently, carefully, the highly trained Russian commandos fanned out around the darkened house—ghosting across little fields and backyards and wriggling through gaps in run-down fences. They advanced in pairs, with one soldier always providing cover while his partner moved.

Before Pelevin's stipulated five minutes were up, he and his men were ready, with assault teams positioned at the front and rear doors and snipers covering the windows.

The captain took a deep breath and let it out softly, slowing his racing pulse. He keyed his radio. “One. Two. Three.
Vkhodi!
Go in!” he ordered.

Troopers wielding sledgehammers smashed in the doors and then spun away, allowing others to toss in flashbang grenades. Even before the ear-shattering noise and dizzying, kaleidoscopic bursts of light faded away, more Russian commandos poured in, with their weapons ready.

The house was empty.

Scowling, Pelevin waited while his soldiers rummaged through drawers and cupboards and closets. Everywhere they looked, they saw signs that whoever had been living here had left in a tearing hurry. There were plates tossed in the sink with food still on them. Suitcases that had been left half packed. Unmade beds, with dirty sheets trailing on the floor. But there were no weapons. And worse yet, no papers or documents that might identify the terrorists.

“Captain!” one of his men suddenly shouted from outside. “Come and take a look at this!”

Within minutes, Pelevin found himself poking around inside a dimly lit chamber dug right under the house. Cinder blocks lined the walls, but the floor was dirt. When it was first built, it must have been meant to serve as a root cellar, he decided. But now it was something else entirely.

It was an armory.

Several assault rifles leaned against the far wall. He pulled one out and looked it over. It was an American-made M4A1 carbine. So were the others. An open crate held boxes of 5.56mm ammunition and magazines. Others were full of grenades of various types, including Polish-manufactured RGZ-89 antipersonnel grenades. Stashed in the corner and loosely concealed by camouflage netting, he found a U.S.-built SINCGARS combat radio.

Frowning deeply, Pelevin turned back toward the ladder. This was above his level of expertise. It was time to call in a GRU investigative unit. Maybe they could figure out where the terrorists had acquired all this advanced military hardware.

Something gleaming on the dirt floor caught his eye. He knelt down. Someone's muddy boot had tromped down on a plastic card, half burying it in the dirt.

Gingerly, the Spetsnaz officer pried the card out of the loose-packed earth. He studied it carefully in his flashlight beam. It was a photo identity card of some kind. And the face was familiar somehow. He took a short, sharp breath, surprised despite himself as he remembered where he had last seen this man's image.

Sweating now, Pelevin haltingly read off the name and rank embossed on the ID.

JANIK, KAZIMIERZ

KAPITAN, JEDNOSTKA WOJSKOWA GROM

Mother of God, he thought, turning pale. The terrorist who had been killed in tonight's raid on a Russian-occupied airfield was a captain in Poland's most elite Special Forces unit.

Still in shock, Pelevin scrambled up the ladder and grabbed his radioman. “Patch me through to General Zarubin! Now! Tell him this is urgent!”

Progress begins with the belief that what is necessary is possible.

—
N
ORMAN
C
OUSINS,
A
MERICAN JOURNALIST

T
HE
K
REMLIN,
M
OSCOW

E
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING

Sergei Tarzarov walked toward President Gennadiy Gryzlov's private office with the same unhurried stride that had served him well through decades of service at the highest levels of the Russian government. Long experience had taught him the value of a reputation for remaining eerily composed in the face of any crisis. His steady, almost unnaturally calm demeanor was famous for boosting the morale of trusted subordinates, soothing rattled political masters, and unnerving would-be internal enemies.

Inside his weary mind, though, where no one else could pry, Tarzarov felt as anxious as a plump, well-fed rabbit unexpectedly invited to a meal by a hungry tiger. News of the terrorist attack on the air base at Konotop seemed all too likely to send Gennadiy Gryzlov into yet another of those towering, destructive rages that Tarzarov
found alternately terrifying and tiresome. For all the younger man's admitted brilliance and charisma, his occasional temper tantrums that were worthy of a spoiled two-year-old brat were maddening. Certainly, they tested his chief of staff's prized patience to the breaking point.

He paused outside the door. Ivan Ulanov, the president's private secretary, looked haggard and bleary-eyed, but otherwise unmarked. That was one small positive sign, Tarzarov thought. In the not-so-distant past, Gryzlov had been known to physically take out his fury on defenseless underlings—sometimes to the point of sending them to discreet private medical clinics for emergency treatment.

“You are to go in at once, sir,” Ulanov told him tiredly. “The president has just been briefed by General Zarubin over a secure line.”

Tarzarov nodded. He had already seen a summary of the evidence unearthed by the Spetsnaz troops attached to Zarubin's motor-rifle brigade. He still found it astounding that the Poles had been stupid enough to attack Russia directly, let alone stupid enough to get caught red-handed doing so. And yet the incriminating facts on the ground seemed to admit no other realistic possibility. Perhaps Piotr Wilk was not as smart as he had seemed—or more panicked by Russia's occupation of eastern Ukraine than anyone had guessed. He raised an eyebrow. “And what is the state of the president's office furniture this morning?”

“As yet intact,” Ulanov said, with a wan smile.

Tarzarov clamped down on a sudden, wholly out-of-character urge to whistle in surprise. For a moment, he didn't know whether to be more worried by Gennadiy Gryzlov's atypical demonstration of self-control or by the possibility that the younger man was just waiting for a bigger audience before he exploded.

Still puzzled, he went in.

Gryzlov looked up from his desk and nodded curtly. “Good morning, Sergei. You may sit.”

Tarzarov did as he was ordered, lowering himself cautiously into the chair directly opposite the president. “Mr. President?”

“You will arrange a meeting of the full security council,” Gryzlov told him. “We will convene at noon.”

“To discuss the significance of the discoveries made by our forces at Konotop?” Tarzarov asked.

“Don't you ever get tired of resorting to such bloodless bureaucratic euphemisms, Sergei?” Russia's president asked, with a thin, humorless smile. “Let us speak bluntly and to the point. Our national security council will be meeting to approve my planned response to the clear, direct, and irrefutable evidence of Poland's treacherous aggression against our motherland and its citizens. No other discussion will be necessary. Or welcome.”

Tarzarov nodded, acknowledging the other man's point. “Yes, Mr. President.” He glanced at the digital clock on Gryzlov's desk. “That will give me time to have these captured weapons and that Polish Special Forces ID card flown here for closer forensic examination.”

Gryzlov shook his head. “That also will not be necessary.” He shrugged. “Or possible, for that matter. I have already disposed of this evidence.”

Caught completely by surprise, Tarzarov sat bolt upright. “What?”

Gryzlov grinned. “Ah, the iceman cracks at last.” He chuckled. “Do not worry, Sergei. I haven't flushed those rifles down the toilet or burned the ID card. What I mean is that I have sent the evidence where it can do the most harm to our enemies.”

Tarzarov breathed out slowly. Was it possible that Russia's president had discovered that he could terrorize his staff as effectively with ham-fisted attempts at crude humor as with near-demented fits of wrath? Perhaps so, he thought wearily. He sat back, forcing himself to appear more relaxed. “May I ask where exactly that would be, Mr. President?”

“Geneva,” Gryzlov said simply.

C
OUNCIL
C
HAMBER,
U
NITED
N
ATIONS
O
FFICE,

P
ALAIS
D
ES
N
ATIONS,

G
ENEVA,
S
WITZERLAND

L
ATER THAT DAY

The UN office in Geneva, the Palace of Nations, was supposed to be famous for its views of Lake Geneva and the snowcapped peaks of the French Alps, Foreign Minister Daria Titeneva thought caustically. Unfortunately, it seemed those breathtaking vistas were only for tourists. Working diplomats found themselves confined to a succession of stuffy meeting rooms.

This morning's session, with the diminutive American secretary of state, Karen Grayson, was no different. Together with their respective staffs, and with observers from Poland and the other NATO countries, they were gathered in the palace's council chamber. Gold-colored drapes blocked the floor-to-ceiling windows, enclosing them in a room whose green carpet, green leather seats, and white marble walls struck her as more appropriate for an oversized funeral director's office than for genuine international negotiations. The gold and sepia murals supposedly showing human progress through technology, health, freedom, and peace did nothing to change her unfavorable opinion. It was yet another wonderful irony of history that the murals—painted by the Catalan artist José María Sert—had been given by the Spanish government to the UN's predecessor, the ill-fated League of Nations, in May 1936, only weeks before the Spanish Civil War ripped Spain apart.

Perhaps, she thought icily, there was truth in the old saying that diplomatic meetings were where genuine peace and justice went to die.

For the moment, at least, Titeneva and her American counterpart were busy murdering them in relative private. The semicircular visitors' gallery overlooking the council chamber had been sealed
off. None of the parties involved in these talks were ready for the details to become public knowledge.

Up until now, that is, she thought after reading the brief cryptic text that popped up on her tablet. Turning to her closest aide, she murmured, “It's time, Misha.”

He nodded, rose discreetly, and quietly left the chamber.

Titeneva sat back, pretending to listen carefully to the American secretary of state as the petite woman launched into yet another fusillade of pathetic disclaimers of any involvement by her country or NATO in the terrorist attacks aimed at Russia and its interests. From the pained expression on the face of Poland's top diplomat, Foreign Minister Andrzej Waniek, he found Grayson's speech equally embarrassing in its naïveté.

As well he should, Titeneva thought icily.

“As you know, I have been instructed by President Barbeau to convey her deepest personal regret over any loss of Russian life or property,” the American secretary of state said. “Such acts of terrorism are, and must always be, wholeheartedly condemned by any civilized nation.”

My God, Titeneva realized. This so-called American diplomat was
actually
trying to convey her sincerity by stressing every separate word slowly and distinctly, as if her audience were all either deaf or simpleminded children. Was she really that stupid? Or that inexperienced?

“For this reason, my government again offers its absolute assurance that neither we nor any allied government would
ever
support those who have attacked your armed forces,” Grayson went on. “We offer this firm commitment despite our equally firm and consistent disapproval of Russia's unlawful occupation of eastern Ukraine—”

A sudden flurry of motion and babble of noise from the visitors' gallery above them brought Karen Grayson to an abrupt and embarrassed halt in full rhetorical tide. She turned around, clearly stunned to see a flood of print journalists and TV news crews pouring into the chamber. “What on earth?” she began, then hurriedly
turned off her microphone, and leaned over to whisper frantically to one of her aides.

With a supreme effort, Daria Titeneva kept herself from smiling in open triumph. She rose to her feet and turned on her own microphone.

“I am very sorry, Madam Secretary of State,” she said smoothly. “I very much regret this necessary disruption of ordinary protocol, but I have just received news from Moscow that
cannot
and
must
not be kept secret from those truly interested in peace!” She gestured toward the gallery. “It is for this reason and this reason alone that Russia has invited members of the international media to witness these proceedings.”

As TV camera lights clicked on, bathing the chamber in their glare, Titeneva waved a hand toward the large bronze doors, which were already opening. She raised her voice, riding over the American woman's attempt to object. “For days now, our American friends and their Polish . . . puppets . . . have denied playing a part in these evil attacks on my country and its people. For days, they have pleaded their innocence and assured us all of their goodwill toward Russia.” Her expression hardened. “For days, they have been lying to us all.”

Shocked, Karen Grayson jumped to her feet, startled out of the meek obsequiousness she obviously thought appropriate to her new role as a diplomat. “That is not accurate, Madam Foreign Secretary,” she snapped. “My government has told the truth. And nothing but the truth!”

Titeneva smiled thinly. She shrugged her shoulders, as if generously willing to be persuaded. “Perhaps that is so.” Then she drove the dagger home. “But then you Americans have also been deceived. And deceived by those who proclaimed themselves to be your friends and your dear allies. By Poland and its foolish and aggressive government!”

Several staff members from the Russian embassy entered the chamber, carrying open-lidded crates full of rifles and other military equipment. The buzz from the gallery grew exponentially as report
ers and camera crews leaned over the railings to get a better look, all the while earnestly babbling to audiences around the world about what they were seeing.

“Last night, terrorists attacked Russian soldiers and air crews at a base in the Ukraine,” Titeneva went on. “These criminals hoped to disrupt routine flight operations which have proved essential to providing peace and security for those in our Zone of Protection. But their vicious attack was defeated! And in the aftermath of this defeat, the men and women of our brave armed forces were able, for the first time, to obtain evidence linking these murderers, these terrorists, to a foreign power.”

Again, the American secretary of state attempted to interject, and again Daria Titeneva cut her off. “There can be no doubt of this! No denials that anyone will believe! The crates you see before you contain American-manufactured weapons and military hardware. Weapons and equipment which we can
prove
were sold to Poland's army—supposedly for use by its so-called Special Forces. Instead, these weapons were handed over to terrorists, who used them to kill innocents, both Russians and Ukrainians of Russian heritage.”

The clamor from the excited reporters crowding the visitors' gallery soared to an even higher level, drowning out all ordinary speech.

Titeneva waited patiently for the noise to subside a bit before continuing. “If that were all Warsaw's insane leaders had done, it would be bad enough,” she said harshly. “Supplying terrorists with arms and equipment is an act of war.” She shook her head. “But that is
not
the end of the evils worked against Russia by these foolish and deluded men.”

Silence spread gradually through the large room as her words struck home.

“Last night, our heroic soldiers were also able to kill one of the men leading these brutal and evil terrorists,” she said coldly and calmly. “He was
not
a Ukrainian. He was
not
a Chechen.” Deliberately and slowly, she half turned, directly facing the sea of TV cameras now
trained on her. They were hanging on her every word. It was . . . perfect. “The man they killed was Captain Kazimierz Janik, an officer in Poland's most elite commando unit—a unit which boasts of its ability to conduct deadly raids far beyond Poland's own borders. This fact can have only one meaning. It is undeniable. The Polish government is conducting a secret war, a covert war, against my country—a war of aggression in violation of all international law and all accepted norms.”

This brutally frank assertion drove the crowd of reporters beyond any bounds of decorum. They began yelling out questions at the top of their lungs, making it impossible for anyone to hear them, let alone attempt to answer them.

Daria Titeneva only smiled, waiting patiently for the appalling din to diminish so that she could continue.

To her surprise, the Polish foreign minister looked genuinely shocked by her revelations. She had not thought Andrzej Waniek was that skilled an actor. Perhaps, Titeneva thought, his own government had kept him in the dark about what it was doing in Ukraine. Certainly, she was quite sure that Gennadiy Gryzlov would hide many of Moscow's own darker covert actions from her, if he judged it prudent.

Which raised questions that were perhaps better left unasked, she realized suddenly. Wondering just how so much conclusive evidence had suddenly dropped into the laps of the Russian intelligence services was probably not the safest or most sensible line of inquiry.

Again, the Russian foreign minister stood straight and tall, waiting for her moment. When she judged that she could be heard plainly without straining her voice, she went on. “By any standard of international law, my country would be fully justified in issuing an immediate declaration of war against Poland.” She smiled into the abruptly stunned and fearful hush that followed her pronouncement. “But we shall not do so. Russia is interested only in peace. Unlike those who have so ruthlessly and viciously attacked us, we do
not embrace violence for the sake of violence. Nevertheless, we are not weaklings or simpletons. Crimes have been committed against us—crimes which cry out for justice and for retribution.”

She turned to face the Polish foreign minister directly, acting as though the Americans and the diplomats from the other NATO countries were of no importance. “Accordingly, my government instructs me to issue the following ultimatum to Poland's president, Piotr Wilk, and the members of his cabinet.
First,
Poland must immediately cease all its covert attacks on Russian troops and Russian interests—whether in the Zone of Protection or in Russia itself.
Second,
Poland must hand over all of the terrorists and their Polish advisers and commanders for trial in my country, under Russian law.
Third,
all combat aircraft belonging to the Polish Air Force must immediately stand down, and remain grounded until this crisis is resolved to my government's satisfaction. To ensure this, we shall require that vital engine and weapons systems components be removed from each warplane and stored under strict international supervision.
Fourth,
we make the same demand for all elements of Poland's air defense systems—including its radars and surface-to-air missile batteries.
Fifth,
all units of Poland's land forces must be restricted to their existing bases, again under international supervision. All mobilization measures, including President Wilk's ill-considered call-up of reserves, must also be completely reversed. And
sixth,
Poland must pay substantial reparations for every Russian soldier and civilian killed by its terrorist attacks. It must also compensate my country fully for all military equipment damaged or destroyed in these attacks.”

For long moments after she finished speaking, a painful, almost breathless silence hung over the council chamber.

At last, Andrzej Waniek, his long, lean lawyer's face gone bone-white, rose to his feet. “I will not dignify these vile fabrications and outright slanders by even attempting to refute them at this moment,” he said hoarsely. “Nevertheless, in duty to my government and to the people of my beloved and honorable country, I am bound ask: How
long are we being given to consider the outrageous demands contained in this absurd ultimatum?”

“You have five days,” Titeneva told him. “Five days to fully comply with every demand.”

“And if we refuse?” Waniek asked grimly.

“Then Russia will be forced to use harsher measures,” she said, with equal grimness. “Measures that will impose a lasting peace on the entire region—a peace which will fully secure Russia's safety and security for decades to come.”