The Backup Asset (6 page)

Major Evgheni Aleksandrovich Smolin hung up his office phone and started arranging his tie, getting ready to meet with his boss. The meeting was unscheduled; Colonel Markov had just called to invite him over for a quick chat.

Smolin straightened his tie and buttoned his uniform jacket, watching his reflection in the window overlooking Yasenevo District. He loved the elevated view of the district and, as he had climbed through the ranks of the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation or SVR, his view had improved through the years, serving as a constant reminder of where he’d been and where he wanted to be. At forty-eight, he was just as ambitious as he’d been at twenty-three.

His career as an intelligence officer had started with a serious roadblock. Just when young Smolin was graduating from the university with a four-year degree in economics, recently turned twenty-three and dreaming of nothing else but to join the KGB, things were changing dramatically in Russia and the KGB was being dismantled. Smolin still recalled how he had learned the news on the radio and had rushed to Lubyanka Square, pleading with every man or woman exiting the building that day.

“Please help me,” he had said to every KGB officer leaving the agency’s headquarters that cold November morning in 1991, “I always wanted to join the KGB, could you please tell me where to go?”

“Go home, kid, it’s over,” some people answered. Others just ignored him.

He somehow managed to go against the flow and enter the building. He found the personnel office and asked for employment application forms. The personnel officer laughed in his face.

“Haven’t you seen the news on TV? KGB is being dismantled, it’s over. Done. Finished. Go home.”

“Yeah, I know, but somebody will still have to do this work, right? A country can’t function without security services, without intelligence officers. Dismantling or not, I want to apply for a job here.”

The personnel officer stared at him as if he was some sort of a nut case. Smolin stood his ground.

“Please, sir, I’ve always wanted to work in intelligence. Please help me.”

“All right, whatever; you’re going to be Russia’s own James Bond, I can see that,” he said, offering him the employment forms bearing the KGB logo. “Fill these out, and if there’s any recruiting happening in the next months I’ll keep you in mind.”

He went home happy and hopeful that day and didn’t budge from the phone, waiting for the interview call. No call came for many weeks, and he soon lost hope. Every couple of weeks or so he’d try to reach that personnel officer, but he couldn’t get him on the phone. He even went back to Lubyanka Square a few times, but he wasn’t allowed inside the building.

Then one day the call finally came, taking him by surprise. A few weeks later, he entered formal training as an intelligence officer, after having persuaded the hiring manager that he could recruit anyone to do anything. He had made a powerful impression on his future leaders, his self-confidence and commitment opening the door for him to start in Directorate S—Illegal Intelligence.

His first assignment was to recruit a foreign national traveling on a short business trip. His mark was British, a corporate employee working in the research department for one of the major digital imaging companies in the West. She was scheduled to be in Moscow for twelve days, attending a series of conferences. By the sixth day she was turned, spending her nights in bed with Evgheni Smolin and her days gathering useful information that helped him promote his career. For years to come she had continued to send him passionate love letters and valuable information in the field of digital imaging, from medical applications to imaging data compression, satellite-image processing and mapping, encryption algorithms, and high-volume data storage solutions. She traveled to Moscow to see Smolin every few months or so, couriering the intel herself and making his job and his advancement really easy. Smolin did his part, keeping their flame alive, and his source of intel motivated and satisfied.

A tall, well-built man with blond hair and charming blue eyes, Smolin was a talented actor who could play any part. He could tell any lie without blinking and be very convincing at it. He was a natural.

His favorite story, the one he used on numerous traveling foreigners with access to useful intel, was that he had to get some valuable intelligence back to his bosses or suffer unspeakable cruelties at their hands. Either he brought good quality information, or he risked dying in some god-forsaken corner of Siberia, freezing to death in a nameless labor camp, just like his father had died. Nope, glasnost and perestroika hadn’t changed the core issues of Russia, he was telling his marks. The same people held the power and influence, and Siberia was still there, waiting for him to fail.

They all fell for it, mostly women, but also a few men. They all worked hard to help the young, desperate, and sexy Russian who had no other choice. Only no element of his story was true. His father hadn’t died, at least not yet, anyway. He hadn’t even traveled outside of Moscow, not even once. A low-level mechanical engineer who worked in a machinery factory, the senior Smolin had failed to instill in his son the willingness to put in a hard day’s work. Evgheni Smolin wanted to be in the elite, to see the world, to live adventurously.

His fame in the SVR was consolidated the day he received a commendation for a very successful operation on foreign soil. His boss, a little intoxicated at the time, had said about Smolin that, unlike the rest of the men in that room who thought with their dicks, Smolin fucked with his brain. A few weeks later, jokes about him were heard all over the building:

Why doesn’t Smolin ever wear condoms? So his dick can ask questions when he fucks.

Why doesn’t Smolin ever get blowjobs? Because his women need to keep on talking.

He was famous. He loved it.

A couple of successful recruiting missions in Germany, where his physical appearance and natural talent for foreign languages made him pass for a native, brought him recognition and advancement in the ranks of Directorate S. He enlisted the services of numerous Russian emigrants who were living in Germany, and those recruits stayed productive and in contact, although Smolin’s methods were not always direct and honest, or charming. Some, he had to threaten. A few, he had to kill: stupid idealists who believed that if they made it to the West they were free of their obligations toward Mother Russia.

He knocked on his boss’s door and entered, then stood at attention.

“Sit,” Markov invited him. “Have you ever heard of Division Seven?”

“No, sir.”

“Seven is an ultra-secret intelligence division, reporting directly to the minister of defense. Only the best of the best from the SVR, GRU, and FSB are invited to join Division Seven. Its mission is top secret, above my level.”

“Sir?”

“You are being promoted, major. You have been selected for an urgent mission and you’ll be joining Division Seven. You’ll report tomorrow morning to the ministry of defense. Congratulations.”

Smolin stood and saluted his soon-to-be former boss.

“Maxim Sergeyevich, it’s been a privilege.”

“Good luck. Make us proud!”

Smolin closed the door gently behind him as he left Markov’s office. Then he allowed himself to smile, a wide smile filled with excitement.

Sylvia Copperwaite wore a pink halter dress, very little jewelry, and her blond hair tied in a simple ponytail. Her green eyes were focused intently and her forehead showed lines of strain as she evaluated her hand. Two kings, a jack, a ten, and a six. She could have used better luck.

She checked the other players briefly. The skinny guy at her left had a satisfied hint of a smile in his eyes. He had something. The swine across the table, the overweight, sweaty asshole who had made lecherous comments the entire evening looked worried. The guy in the blue shirt at her right showed nothing; he was impassible, apparently not even paying attention. Blue Shirt was dangerous.

She checked the diminishing pile of chips in front of her and took a leap of faith.

“Three, please,” she asked the dealer, holding on to the kings and ditching everything else.

“Two,” Blue Shirt asked.

“I’m good,” said the skinny guy at her left. He was served, as they say in poker, which meant his hand had been strong from the start.

“Give me a slice of that,” the swine said pointing at her, “and two great cards.”

Sylvia flashed an angry glare across the table. She could always leave, but she wanted to play a couple more hands, that’s all.

The dealer ignored the first part of the swine’s request and delivered the two cards.

“I’m out,” Blue Shirt said and folded.

“I’m in,” declared Skinny, and threw a few chips in the pile.

Sylvia hesitated. Skinny Guy hadn’t asked for cards, which in many cases meant he had a flush or full house. She checked her new cards. Another king and two nines. It was worth a shot, but she was gonna try to play it safe. She added a few chips and said, “Call.”

A minute later the swine raked in the entire pot, brought to him by a full house aces high. He smiled at her and asked, “Would you care for some of this back, honey? There are a few ways I can think of.”

“Yeah, like a good hand,” she snapped.

“If you’re into hand jobs, I’ll take it,” the swine commented.

“Your last warning,” Blue Shirt said, “we’re here to play cards, not insult each other. I will call the manager on you. We don’t have to put up with your shit.”

Sylvia blushed. Why hasn’t she stood up for herself? Why hasn’t she stood up, period? She could just leave, instead of sitting here, an easy target for the slimy worm across the table, and losing money on top of it all.
One more hand,
she decided,
then I’ll go.

The problem was she needed a big win. She’d had a streak of losing hands lately, emptying her bank accounts, maxing out her credit cards, and leaving her stranded. She needed a big win to make it to the next paycheck. The next paycheck, seven days away, was going to bring her some relief, but until then she was screwed. She had a good job and made a six-figure income as an electromechanical engineer, but her luck at cards needed serious improvement. She held a PhD in computational modeling, but couldn’t model herself out of spiraling gambling debt.

Her next hand held a nice surprise, three aces, a seven, and a deuce. She asked for two cards, and got another ace. She went all in, not paying attention anymore to her opponents’ tells. This was her last chance. Minutes later, she was cleaned out, losing in favor of a straight flush drawn by the swine.

She stood up, a little dazed, and made for the exit. The swine grabbed her hand as she walked pass him.

“Let me help you out of your bind, you beautiful thing,” he said, licking his revolting lips. “I have a lot of money to spend. Let me make your day.”

She yanked her hand from his grip and walked out of the casino, tears welling in her eyes. She approached her car and leaned against the hood, trying to regain balance, as her sobs grew louder and a wave of nausea hit her, causing her to convulse and vomit near the front left wheel.

She didn’t feel sick because she was drunk. It was because for a split second she had considered taking the swine’s offer for another chance to sit at that green table, play a few more hands, and maybe win it all back. She needed help.

Myatlev had three of his bodyguards lined up in his home office. Ivan, who’d just returned from Moscow the night before, stood half a step closer to Myatlev than the other two, reflecting his status in Myatlev’s personal security detail.

“All right, Ivan, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll meet with President Abramovich in the next few days. I’ll call his office and get an appointment. But we have to be prepared for anything.”

“Sir?” Ivan seemed confused.

“Our friend Abramovich has a reputation for impulsiveness and for destroying people. You’ll have to protect me, Ivan.”

“Inside the Kremlin?
Bozhe moi
. . . ”

The other two bodyguards shifted their weight from one foot to another, probably feeling uneasy at the thought of entering the Kremlin with guns in their hands.

Myatlev looked Ivan in his eyes. “Yes, inside the Kremlin.”

“But . . . How?”

“You’ll form three teams of four men each, all Spetsnaz, all strong and gutsy, in full tactical gear, armed with silenced MP5s. Pay them well, and then pay them some more. You, three others, and I will take the limo, the armored Bentley. The other two teams will take the G-Wagens.”

“But how do we enter the Kremlin armed like that?”

“You won’t. If you do, it will look like we’re there to overthrow Abramovich.”

“Huh?”

“You won’t enter the Kremlin unless it’s strictly necessary.”

“I . . . I don’t think I understand, Vitaliy Kirillovich.”

“I’ll be wearing that,” Myatlev said, pointing at a new Breitling watch still sitting in its opened box. The yellow packaging resembled more of a toolkit than a watch case, and had Breitling Emergency Night Mission II branded on the lid and on the black shock-absorbing interior lining. The Breitling was a serious downgrade from Myatlev’s half-a-million dollar Patek Philippe, but it came with serious advantages.

“And you’ll be carrying this,” Myatlev continued, handing Ivan a small device. “This watch has an emergency beacon built in. If I get in trouble, I’ll press the button and you and your Spetsnaz will barge in and get me.”

“And I’ll see it on this?” Ivan gestured at the locator.

“Yes, yes. If I press the button, you’ll see where I am. It works by satellite, just like GPS.”

“Oh, good.”

“But you have to move fast, Ivan. The moment you see the beacon, you storm the Kremlin, understood?”

“Y–yes.”

“You’ll be waiting outside, the Bentley in front of the entrance, and the G-Wagens around the corner, and wait for my signal. Are we clear?”

“Y–yes,” Ivan replied, still hesitant.

“What’s the problem?” Myatlev asked, impatiently. After all, it wasn’t so damn hard.

“Are you saying you want us to shoot our way inside the Kremlin to get you out?”

“In case the beacon goes off, yes. Bring lots of ammo. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, Vitaliy Kirillovich. Just making sure that’s what you want. You can count on me.”

“Good. You have seven days to get everything ready. Then we go to Moscow.”