The Kremlin Insider: Paul Decker Assignments, #16

By Jeffry Weiss

SYNOPSIS OF "THE KREMLIN INSIDER" – 116,253 WORDS.

Russia is on the verge of fracturing after twenty years of government corruption, patronage, and incompetence

A nascent protest movement is gathering momentum.  And even as the attacks at the rallies, by ministry police with their truncheons, grow in intensity, the number of dissidents continues to rise.  With every arrest the movement coalesces and supporters become more committed, willing to risk their freedom, even their lives, to unseat the president.

VLADIM PUSHKIN, president of Russia, along with the OLIGARCHS and MAFIA, have bled the country dry by their unbounded greed.  And while millions live in 3rd world conditions and are subjected to threats, imprisonment, and one-way passage to Siberia, the president and his cronies live like emperors of yore.

With little left to steal, Pushkin plans to invade Eastern Europe and take control of the Baltic States.  He is counting on the element of surprise and believes America has no fight left in it for another war.

American President JAMES HARDESSY sends code 6 agent CAPTAIN PAUL DECKER to learn the Russian plans and also work with the opposition to overthrow the Pushkin régime.  The task is made even more difficult since the leader of the opposition, YEVGENI NOVAKOFF, is being held in the notorious Lubyanka Prison.

Paul enlists the help of his ever-present computer hacker PAVLIK LASKY, in Talas Kyrgyzstan, who will create havoc by siphoning money out of the accounts of Pushkin, the oligarchs and mafia, starting an internecine war.  Pavlik sends his compatriot, NATASHA LEVIN, to assist Paul in Russia.  She and Paul have worked together before and had an affair which the two of them look at with different sets of eyes.

Russia faces a famine but Pushkin has no intention of groveling at the feet of Western countries to buy gain and make up the shortage.

But while Pushkin and many in his government care little if there is mass starvation, one man does.  GENERAL KONSTATIN ROZKOV, Chief of the General Staff of the Armed Forces, grew up on a farm and his parents still tend crops there.

Given the knowledge that General Rozkov's has argued against Russian invasions of Georgia, Ukraine and Crimea, Paul reaches out to Rozkov to join the opposition and attempt to unseat Pushkin.

When Rozkov sees for himself the terrible conditions at the family farm and systemic crop failures throughout the country, he agrees to help overthrow the president.

Paul and Natasha coordinate with General Rozkov and Yevgeni Novakoff on a massive march to the Russian Parliament to confront Pushkin and force him to step down.

All this while various factions of the Russian Secret Services attempt to kill Paul and the opposition leaders.

Natasha is poisoned by Pushkin (but survives) for not continuing to accept his sexual advances.

Should the opposition fail to unseat Pushkin, and he continues with his plan to invade the Baltic States, America is preparing for war by moving forces into position to counter any Russian advance.

When Pushkin sees that General Rozkov stands with the oppositions, he realizes his position is untenable.  He contemplates suicide, but surrenders to the opposition at the last moment.   However, the attempt to bring Pushkin to trial is thwarted by a woman whose husband died due to Pushkin's lack of effort to rescue the sunken submarine the men were on.  She shoots Pushkin as the ex-president is escorted out of the Kremlin.

A new day has dawned in Russia, but the same sun does not shine on Paul.  He fails in his efforts to further his relationship with Natasha, driving him back to the drinking that has almost ruined his military career before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffry Weiss
• Release date: Nov 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201176259

Jeffry Weiss

BIOGRAPHY Mr. Weiss attended Central High School, at the time recognized as the top High School academically in the U.S.  He then attended Drexel University where he gained a BS in History, Temple University where he earned an MA in Economics and the University of Pennsylvania where he received an MA in International Affairs.  Those studies provided him with unique insights in the realm of foreign policy, military capabilities, détente, and trade. He has been a writer for forty plus years and has penned hundreds of articles on social, political, and economic issues.  He has written position papers for the Carter and Clinton Administrations and his work on social issues has received recognition directly from the office of the President of México.  He speaks regularly with Noam Chomsky on political, economic, cultural, and military issues. Mr. Weiss writes political, military, economic and scientific thrillers.  There are now twelve books in the Paul Decker series.  All his stories come right off the front pages of the major magazines and newspapers but none of his plots has ever found their way into novel before.  His characters are ones readers can relate to: flawed, not superheroes.  His stories do not require a leap of faith or use deus ex machina. Finally, he has written a stage play, “Einstein at the Guten Zeiten (good times) Beer Garden, and an urban horror novel: “The Art of Theft”, a modern day version of “The Picture of Dorian Grey” by Oscar Wilde.

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PROLOGUE

TASS News Agency, Moscow

Tens of thousands of Russians defied authorities today and marched in central Moscow, ignoring official warnings and pressing their demands to see the members of President Petrov’s cabinet held accountable for their crimes. 

Before being incarcerated on false testimony, opposition leader Yevgeni Novakoff uncovered records showing tens of millions of dollars had been diverted from government coffers to the personal accounts of the sycophants who have supported Petrov since he came to Moscow from St. Petersburg two decades earlier. 

The Oligarchs, too, have been unmasked, having misappropriated billions of dollars - meant for infrastructure improvements - to their holdings of real estate and investments in Western countries.

In light of those revelations, the people could no longer remain quiescent.

A massive police presence was there to keep demonstrators out of Red Square - a symbolically important public park close to the Kremlin.

Wooden barricades were erected to restrain marchers in a narrow corridor.  A city spokesman said it was to stop people from blocking traffic and businesses on nearby side streets.  However, one demonstrator likened it to placing pigs in a pen.

Hundreds were arrested by truncheon-yielding police and thrown into detention buses.

Mothers and fathers who brought their children to witness what was said to be an historic occasion had their children taken by police in camouflaged clothing, the parents charged with reckless endangerment of a child.

Many in the march who tried to block the police from hauling away their champions were beaten with clubs, fists and feet.

As one speaker was forcibly removed from the make-shift stage, another came up and took their place.  Maria Konika proclaimed, People of different ages have come out because everyone wants justice.  They want Russia to be free and to not drown in lawlessness and mayhem.  We demand this and we will not back down.

Another speaker said, I am here because I am against people being put in prison who have done nothing.  Everything that is going on, it is because the authorities are throwing innocent people in the Lubyanka Prison.  No one knows what has happened to them.  Some say they are dead; others say they are on their way to Siberia, which still means death.

Several opposition leaders were detained in advance of the demonstrations in order to cut the head off the movement, drawing international condemnation.

All those seeking to run for office were arrested, making them technically ineligible to participate in elections.

I am here because there is no choice in Moscow, one woman, who did not give her name, told a reporter.  People understand perfectly that they have been abandoned by Petrov, by all the thieves in his government.  That is what they are: thieves who steal the money meant for hospitals, roads, schools, women’s shelters.

The authorities finally tired of the marchers and turned on the water cannons.  But while demonstrators were hit with freezing waters from high-powered hoses, they held their ground.  Petrov and his supporters quickly realized that they had vastly underestimated the resolve of the protesters.

CHAPTER ONE

Campbell & Syme Coffee Roasters, London, England

A persistent, bone-chilling drizzle brought those seeking protection from the elements, and a hot drink to stimulate the senses, inside the welcoming environment.

The coffee shop on Fortis Green Road was hectic at eight in the morning.  All the tables were taken; requiring waitresses to navigate through close quarters with trays full of special blend coffees and teas.

Two men, well dressed, an air of importance about them, sat at one of the tables, leaning in toward one-another, speaking in whispered tones, while the din of a dozen conversations in as many languages, echoed around the room. 

One of the men, Victor Sikorsky, a former officer in the Russian Federal Security Service, had charged Russian President Maxim Petrov with monstrous crimes: corruption, extortion, false imprisonment, torture and banishment of innocent civilians from their homes to an icy grave in the Hinterland.

Victor had been forced to flee Russia with a price on his head.  Yet he was determined to continue his mission, meeting clandestinely with British television and print media for the past many weeks, divulging state secrets defaming Petrov further. 

On this day, he was speaking to a reporter from the London Times about a story to be published: accusing the Russian president of orchestrating murders on an industrial scale; each revelation more horrid than the previous.

Even though he knew his life was in danger, he believed the greater danger was to say and do nothing and allow Petrov to rape Russia and tear down the pillars of democracy in Western countries.

At the next table a man somewhat disheveled in appearance, and looking distinctly out of place amongst a well-dressed, sophisticated crowd, dropped his coffee cup on the concrete floor where it shattered, causing a commotion in the store, distracting many from their work.

At that same moment, another man, similarly dressed, brushed by Victor’s table and dropped a gram of powdered cyanide into his coffee.

The second Russian agent joined the first at his table where they exchanged knowing glances and waited anxiously to see if the poison was effective.

The heat that wafted up from the coffee brought with it fumes of cyanide.

Victor put his hands to his throat, choking, then had a seizure, crashing down on the table, shattering the glass, collapsing on the ground.  He went into cardiac arrest and was dead in a matter of seconds.

Pandemonium raced through the store, allowing the two Russians to slip out without so much as raising an eyebrow.

A Scotland Yard representative testified that the evidence suggested that the only credible explanation was, in one way or another, the Russian state was involved in Sikorsky’s murder.

Far from denying culpability, Petrov took credit for composing the aria and said, It was intended to set an example as punishment for a traitor.  And the wider that message spread, the more successful the warning.

CHAPTER TWO

Old Town.  Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

Paul Decker was lost in the heat of the day, the cold of his beer, and in the plot of a book he had just started for the fourth time.  The sound he heard might have come from within the pages of the novel, or a beach vendor jingling his bell, or the squealing of children blessed with the freedom to come and go like helium balloons released on a windy day.

It took two more rings before Paul narrowed the choice to his encrypted SAT phone.  He fumbled for it in a drunken stupor, the thing hidden somewhere in his gym bag...along with sun-screen, a ball cap, sunglasses, and one hundred pesos in small bills.

Shit, shit, shit, he said as he fought with the bag, stubbing a toe on his chair, and dropping his towel in the sand.  Another ring came and went before he grabbed the phone, expecting no one to still be on the line.  Whoever was calling him had a hell of a lot more persistence and patience than he did.

Who is this? Paul demanded, blaming the caller for his self-inflicted wounds.

You’d better have a damn good reason for not picking up my call until the seventh ring.

I was debating whether to pick it up at all, Paul said, blowing off the caller.

Funny guy.

You gonna tell me who this is, or do I hang up on your sorry ass.

It’s your boss.

I don’t have a boss, Paul replied.

I think your mind has atrophied to the size of a pea, Decker.

Well, it was nice talking to you, but I’ve got a beer that’s getting warm and needs my immediate attention.

How about I send a couple of MPs down there and drag your sorry ass back here in a body bag?

I don’t take threats too well, Paul responded with more vehemence than was thrown at him.

You do when they come from the president.

President of what...the meat packers union?

Glad you’ve still got a sense of humor.

Been nice talkin’ to you.  Bye, Paul said.

You hang up on me and I’ll have a team from Langley render your soon-to-be crippled body to Gitmo where they will torture you till you admit to killing Jesus.

President Hardessy? Paul realized too late.

Of the meat packers union.

Sir, I’m sorry, sir.  It didn’t sound like you.

I’ve gone hoarse arguing with Congress over the new budget.

Yes, sir.  I—,

That’s enough groveling, Decker.  I get all I can handle from my staff.

Right.

Where the hell are you?

Mexico.

Are you up for an assignment? Hardessy asked, suspicious.  You don’t sound all that good.

Just a cold, sir, he lied to the President of the United States.  Paul hacked into the phone to add a phony cough to the non-existent cold.  You can count on me, sir.

But he had no idea if he could follow through on that promise.  After six months on a tequila binge in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, he didn’t know if he had any good qualities, or fight, left in him.

Paul reflected back on a life filled with excuses and rationalization.  Some used so many times they could have carved out a second grand canyon.

It wasn’t like he had a death wish.  Well, actually, he did put a lot of effort into that, like a man on a mission of self-destruction, hanging from a sliver of rope, cutting furiously but with a dull knife to prolong the agony.

He was a collection of bad habits.  A walking time bomb.  A crater where a life used to be.

He managed to find a fresh beer in a bucket of otherwise empty bottles.

When he returned to the phone conversation with Hardessy, he realized he had just kept the President waiting for an inordinate period of time. 

Did you just run out for a coffee? Hardessy berated.

No, sir, Paul replied, then added a laugh. 

It wasn’t meant to be funny.

No, sir.

Had a mini-stroke?

No, sir.

Then stay with me on this, Decker.  It’s important.

Yes, sir.  I didn’t think it was a social call.

No, it’s not.  You’re going to need to bring your ‘A’ game for this.

Paul was a new breed of soldier: a 21st century warrior: a 6’2" piece of granite.  Airborne Ranger, Delta Force, Code 6 operative entrusted with missions where it took brains to succeed and killing was just as often a lack of imagination.  When others told the president to put Paul out to pasture, Hardessy had kept him on board.

That’s not much to go on, Paul said after a moment of reflection.

Let’s just say the cold war is about to boil over.  For now, that’s as much as I can tell you.

Yes, sir.

Oh, and do me a favor, the president added.

Sir?

Be sober when you get here.

Of course, sir.  That’s a given.

Nothing’s a given with you Decker.

Right.

And by the way, I expect you here by tomorrow at 2:00 p.m.

Right, sir.  I’ll—.  He took the phone from his ear and looked at it, realizing he was now talking to himself.

CHAPTER THREE

The Kremlin.  Moscow, Russia

The Kremlin, official residence of the Russian president, was a fortified complex in the center of the city overlooking the Moskva River to the south, Saint Basil’s Cathedral and Red Square to the east, and Alexandrovsky Garden to the west. 

Most of the Kremlin complex was dedicated to tourists who busied themselves admiring the cathedrals, halls, palaces and resting places of past tsars.

Some of the twenty-one million yearly visitors to Moscow stood in a line of foot traffic that snaked around the complex for a quarter mile.

Car, bus and truck traffic clogged the streets like lemmings marching in single file.

VIPs from abroad were brought in by Hind Mi-8 helicopters that landed on a specially designed roof heli-pad so as to not disrupt traffic in the capital.

The government buildings were patrolled by the Kremlin Regiment, also called the Presidential Guard, who provided security for the Kremlin, its treasures, and state officials.

And with constant threats against the president, from both inside and outside the government, the regiment was always on high alert

* * *

A long line of Mercedes Benz S600 limousines approached the walls of the Kremlin.

The cars crossed the bridge over the Moskva River just as the sun rose above the gold dome of Basil's Cathedral.  And with the sun came temperatures warm enough for tourists to discard an outer layer of clothes.  The frozen river moaned, the ice already starting to break up.

It marked an early end to winter, giving residents a relief from the cold and snow which normally held on till June.

The vehicles were quickly recognized by guards and were waved through Borovitsky Gate.

Within the walls were three buildings.  The Kremlin Theater, the Council of Ministers, and the Arsenal, which was four stories high.  The lower floors of the Arsenal comprising offices and apartments for mid-level officials.  The top floor was reserved for the Russian Federation Cabinet which met at the pleasure of the president, and his private residence.

Inside those protected and sacrosanct walls, Maxim Petrov - president of the Russian Federation and Chairman of the All-Russia People's Front Party - conducted state business, which was, in reality, a private enterprise: Petrov, Inc.

The president sat in a chair behind a table that was far too big for his diminutive size, but perfect for his ego.  He was just two inches over five feet tall, yet formidable physically, with a Black Belt in Judo and an expert with all firearms.  His face was full, almost cherubic, with small lips, nose, ears, and narrow, beady eyes that gleamed with suspicion and avarice.

He wore a silk Versace shirt with gold links, a Saville Row suit, and a Hermes tie.  Petrov was a collection of expensive things and often seemed more concerned with what was on the outside than what was on the inside.  In fact, he took great pains to suppress his inner self, lest people see the depravity, the rapacity, the inhumanity, the barbarity that took the form of Maxim Petrov.

Petrov was a man who groomed himself to be president from the time he joined the KGB in 1975, to Vice-Mayor of St. Petersburg in 1991, to chief of the president staff in 1996, to director of the FSB in 1998, Prime Minister in 1999 and ultimately, President of Russia on March 26, 2000.

Petrov nursed his greed from when it was just a seed, but now stood as tall as St. Basil’s Cathedral.  He was a gangster at heart.  While assigned to the Dresden, Germany office of the KGB he traded political favors for car radios, stereo speakers, and home appliances.  It didn’t matter how small the reward, or how big the state secret traded, it only mattered that he got something for what cost him nothing.

He had been consistent in his view that the breakup of the Soviet Union was the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the 20th century.  And he vowed never to surrender power to the rabble, or worse, be part of the rabble.

Under Petrov’s leadership, Russia had become the most corrupt country in the world.  He jailed, tortured and assassinated political opponents, curtailed press freedom, and made a mockery of fair elections.  And it was said that Petrov was flattered by all the attention.

Petrov took lessons from the American Mafia.  In the 1960 U.S. presidential election, Sam Giancana, head of La Cosa Nostra in Chicago, produced more votes for John Kennedy than people who were alive in the city at the time. 

Like Lenin, Stalin, Melenkov, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Adropov and Cherneko, before him, it took cunning and ruthlessness to attain the title of president.  And to continue holding the position entailed killing or imprisoning old friends and new enemies.  It didn’t actually require an overt act of opposition to Petrov’s policies, just a smirk, a condescending glance, being a dollar off on the tribute to be paid, reminding the king he wore no clothes, was enough to warrant a long vacation in Siberia.

When one was in the company of Petrov, they said it was like walking on eggshells.  After all, visitors did not always leave by the same door they came in.

* * *

That morning, the oligarchs had called Petrov and said they had something

important to discuss.  The president found himself laughing at their predicament. Serious concerns they mentioned.  Vital for them, but not for me.  Perhaps they should see a psychiatrist instead, if they think they’ll get any concessions from me.  Maybe a tour of Lubyanka Prison is called for, weather permitting.

Petrov was normally surrounded by his Federal Cabinet, but what he anticipated was not a conversation that concerned them, nor did he want to share certain details with those men.  To remain in power, it was necessary to compartmentalize.

He continued studying the papers in front of him, disregarding the men who had come to see him on urgent matters.  He hoped they would just disappear, saving him from their diatribes.

He could smell their cheap after shave and clothes infused with cigar smoke. 

Yet as much as Petrov preferred to ignore his guests, they were the most important and wealthiest businessmen in Russia; oligarchs who insured the economy functioned well...at least for the rich and powerful.  But today a rare atmosphere of dissension permeated the meeting.

There was Sergei Popov, president of GasTran and the wealthiest of the oligarchs.  He was a big man.  Well over six feet, three hundred plus pounds, wearing a size 56 suit that he looked ready to explode out of.  He had a belly that preceded him like a cowcatcher, a shaved head glowed pink.  Flesh had accumulated over the bridge of his nose and cheekbones while his lips were drawn and white.

GasTran was the largest company in Russia with yearly sales of $112 billion U.S., and net profit of $13 billion U.S.  The company focused on geologic exploration, production and transportation of oil and natural gas.  GasTran was 50.23% owned by the state, which meant 50.23% owned by Petrov.

Sergei’s face was flushed with anger, which he tried to keep in check.  The sanctions are hurting us, Maxim.  Already, we are operating under many restrictions.  Our accounts in foreign banks are frozen, assets seized.  We cannot travel outside the country, or we risk being arrested.  Our companies cannot do business with countries or companies dependent on the American banking system.

Petrov stared down the man, with the unblinking eyes of a painting.  A minor impediment.  Great minds should be able to find a way to work around such an impasse.

Are you saying we are small-minded, Maxim? Sergei challenged the president, fingers balled up in a fist, but held at his side.

Old news, fit only for lining the bottom of a bird cage, the president said flippantly.  Unless you have something new to say, this will be a very short meeting.

Petrov’s smile was like that of a half-concealed knife.

For people who had something he needed or wanted, he could be charming, charismatic, even humorous, attempting to lull someone into a state of paralysis.  Or, at times, he could be openly belligerent, insolent, and malicious if they bored him.

He believed his time was worth money and he saw none coming out of the present conversation.

Gennady Kuznetsov, president of Russian Railroads, Inc., was the most cerebral of the five, educated at the prestigious Moscow State Institute of International Relations.  From there, a PhD from The London School of economics and political science.  He disdained violence, rather sought to resolve disputes over a good bottle of Russia Stolichnaya Elit Vodka.  But now he saw the need to heat up the rhetoric.  Two assassinations of presidential candidates in the coming elections.  Additional sanctions were placed on us.  We are becoming more and more dependent on just a few countries: China, India.  These countries know our precarious position and are raping us.

Petrov stopped clipping his nails for a second to reply.  Yes, yes, he said, already dismissing Kuznetsov’s concerns.  A mask of ponderous boredom came over him.

Vasily Stepanov, president of Air Russia, was not a man used to taking orders.  Not even from the Russian president.  He had worked his way up from the coal mines, risking his life often.  Caught in six cave-ins.  Hours away from death before being rescued.  He believed he was already living on borrowed time, so it was not easy for anyone to intimidate him.  Invasions, annexations, usurpations.  These attacks net us nothing but the status of being a pariah state.

Vasily struggled with his tight tie, as if it were a Python trying to strangle him.

Computer attacks in Estonia, voter manipulation in America, Vasily went on.  We are like a fly, swatted away by more diversified, more modern countries.

Petrov made a pouting face.  I was rather proud of disrupting the small experiment they call democracy in America.

Oleg Sokolov waited patiently for his turn to speak.  He was president of Sevastopol Bank, the largest in Russia, with holdings of $482 billion U.S. and a market capitalization of $100 billion U.S., making it the 18th largest bank in the world.  Oleg had been a rugby player before a knee injury ended his career.  He was still thickly muscled, with a neck so big he would be a hard man to strangle.  Though others had tried.

Oleg nodded his head, ready to take his turn addressing Maxim, a man who had people killed so swiftly and stealthily, friends and relatives had trouble recalling if they had ever really existed.  He knew Petrov held his life in his hands; and so he spoke with reservation.  Need I remind you Maxim, that when the people finally believe there is no hope, they will rise up, just as they did in 1905, when working conditions were so bad, and demanded change.  Then too, the imperialist government tried to use force.  But the massacre which occurred only sped up the revolution.  First in 1917 to throw off the Imperial government, then the October revolution to place the Bolsheviks in power.

No, I do not need such reminders, Petrov snarled.  They are like fairy tales I tell myself before bed.  They help me sleep.

No one thought it was funny but Petrov.

Oleg continued the unprecedented attack on the president.  Have you gone mad, Maxim? he roared.  Murders; with your footprints and fingerprints all over them.  Poisoning Sergei Siberg in broad daylight?  And his daughter also?  Using men who are closer to being comedians than assassins.

Petrov studied his fingernails even as the oligarchs grew more irate.

Then the banker, Ivan Kivel died of cadmium poisoning, Gennady added.  "Your so-called specialists spread the poison on his office telephone where it was later found and linked to us. 

It’s a pity that the dead cannot bury themselves, Petrov mused, then a crackling laugh from a man who had outlived his enemies.  In fact, friends: was a category of people he hadn’t ever considered.

Russian human rights lawyer, Nadya Kopek, poisoned by radioactive material spread on her car door handle, Oleg continued, enumerating the litany of crimes.  The scene captured by street cameras.  Ukrainian dissident, Vaslev Lonenko, killed after being stabbed with an umbrella tipped with ricin on Waterloo Bridge.  Again caught on camera.  Journalist Anna Povskaya, poison slipped into her tea on a flight to the Caucasus.  She survived, but was later gunned down on the streets of Moscow.

A man who says everything is bound to be right some of the time, Petrov considered.

But the oligarchs did not relent.

Boris Berezovsky, found hanged in his bathroom in 2013, Sergei carried on with the assault.  Badri Patarish, business partner of Berezovsky's died of an apparent heart attack caused by a poison.  Kremlin critic, Yuri Golubev, associate of Berezovsky, was found dead in 2007 in London.  Again, residue of poison found on glasses and dishes in his home.

Alexander Litvinenko, an outspoken critic of yours, died in 2006, three weeks after drinking tea laced with a radioactive substance, Gennady said, worried that somehow, Petrov had already poisoned him and his internal clock was counting down.

Petrov smiled, bemused, a laugh stifled.  Yes, that one gave me so much pleasure, seeing him waste away over time, he admitted.

There is more, Maxim, Gennady assured.  There was Alexandr Perpyl In 2009; he fled Russia for London, where he provided evidence of high-level corruption to Swiss authorities, suffered a heart attack while on a jog.  His death was linked to gelsemium, a rare, poisonous plant grown in China.

Your hands are all over these murders, Maxim, Sergei said, as if reading the headlines in the Izvestia Newspaper.

For a moment, Petrov did not respond.  He had sympathy for the oligarchs; they simply did not understand the bigger picture.  But you miss the point, the president replied, surprised that the men in front of him couldn’t see what was so clear to him.  To make it obvious to any who would dare oppose me, Maxim explained to men who thought a step slower than he did.

Where is the profit from that, Maxim? Gennady asked rhetorically.

Maxim saw that his visitors were not going to go away quickly, so he reluctantly pushed aside his papers to give more attention to the men.  It is only temporary, he assured.  The EU is already beginning to trade with us again.  Our new contracts with China and India are making up for the trade lost due to Western sanctions.

You agreed to sell oil to China at $45 a barrel, oil that now costs us $42 a barrel to extract and refine, Sergei growled.  If we modernized our methods and technology, we could lower production costs to $30 per barrel.  Yet you have spent tens of billions overhauling the military.  The credit rating of the country has fallen to ‘junk.’  When we borrow, we must pay higher rates.

Petrov leaned back as if to disengage from what was happening.

The other oligarchs grunted their agreement and support for Sergei.  They had diverted $200 billion to Petrov in the past twenty years.  The president had 20 homes, 2 palaces, 4 yachts, 40 airplanes, 6 helicopters, a million dollar watch collection, and millions more in suits and jewelry.  But it was not enough.  For Petrov it was never enough.  His appetite for things was voracious and never satiated.  And he cared little that the average Russian earned $556 a month. 

Our economy has contracted from $2.3 trillion in 2013 to $1.6 trillion in 2019, Gennady reminded the president.  That ranks Russia below Canada, with a population of 37 million.

You sound like a little boy who is always crying, Petrov snapped.

Is that all you can say when we are speaking of serious matters? Gennady asked.  His face was flushed and there was spittle on the edges of his mouth.

I have listened to your concerns, Petrov replied mechanically.  Are you done yet?

No, Sergei said, daring to take a stance in opposition to the president.  The mafia is taking control of the country.  They are extorting so much money that businesses cannot thrive.  Many are closing, even leaving the country.  Their greed knows no bounds.

Just as your greed knows no bounds, Maxim sniggered.

Maybe they have grown too big even for you to control, Maxim, Sergei suggested, enjoying the opportunity of pointing the finger of blame on the Russian president.

Anger crept into Maxim’s voice.  He bared his teeth like a carnivore on the Serengeti plains.  I would be more careful, Sergei.  It was more than a threat, less than a promise.  I brought you along from St. Petersburg where you were barely eking out a living.  Now you are all billionaires.

But what good is it if we can’t spend it? Gennady asked, gesturing his frustration.  If we can’t get our money out of the country?  If we can’t send our children to schools in the West?

What happens when there is no more profit to squeeze from oil, or taxes out of the people? Vasily asked.  What then?

Maxim picked up items on his desk and moved them around like chess pieces.  You make it sound like you’ll be living on the street next week, he replied as he check-mated the coffee cup.

Sergei thought about a safe reply to a man who killed with impunity.  Need I remind you Maxim, that your wealth comes from the same place ours does?

Maxim laughed cynically.  The devil couldn’t have done a better impression of a human being.

The oligarchs became incensed. 

You find that funny, Maxim? Vasily asked, taking a great risk in challenging the president.

Maxim grew tired of the bickering, tired of their questions and petty concerns.  While you think of your quarterly profits, I am thinking years, decades into the future, planning our destiny.  Left to your own devices, you would be collecting sticks to start fires for cooking.

And what of the protests, Maxim? asked Sergei.  Are you not afraid the people will rise up and attempt to take over the government?

The people?  The people you say? Petrov said dismissively.  They will whine and cry, march and protest, and then their feet will hurt and they will grow thirsty.  They will go back to their homes, drink some vodka, beat their wives and all will be as it once was.

In the space of one sentence, Petrov managed to transition from disinterested to disparaging.  Everything Petrov said seemed to fit precisely into a strategy only he knew the completed shape and meaning of.

Yet you still have not spoken of your plans, Gennady said, needing to hear more, annoyed by Petrov’s doling out his strategy a sentence at a time.

They are still being formulated, the president said, followed by an all-knowing grin. When they come into focus, I will tell you.  Until then, go back to your offices and mistresses and palatial homes and stop whining.

When his visitors did not move quickly enough, Petrov said, You are dismissed, as if speaking to a pet who was wont to pee on the carpet.

CHAPTER FOUR

Situation Room.  White House.  Washington, D.C.

The Situation Room, in the basement of the West Wing, was staffed by thirty men and women officers who monitored world events on a real time basis twenty-four seven.  The center of the five thousand square foot expanse was dominated by an oval mahogany table seating fourteen, with additional seating for twenty more on the perimeter.  Banks of TV, satellite and computer monitors were built into the walls on three sides.

With all branches of the military, most of the cabinet secretaries, and the heads of the spy agencies represented, egos swelled like the hackles around a rooster’s neck.  Seating was supposed to be by position and merit, but it behaved more like musical chairs.

President James P. Hardessy sat at the head of the table.  He had a square jaw, steely green eyes, salt, mostly, and pepper hair, and a weathered face from his early days as a rancher.  He still looked the part: with his eel-skin boots and Western cut suit.  All he lacked was a Stetson hat, and his head seemed unnaturally bare without it.  He was a big man, and his relaxed demeanor caught many by surprise; but those who had made the mistake of underestimating him were now working in the private sector.

The president crossed his legs and hiked his pants up so he could work a scratching stick inside his boots.

The thermostat was set at sixty-five degrees, but that didn’t stop the room from heating up like a blacksmith’s shop due to the political and economic pressures besetting the administration. 

The president chose to meet there, rather than the Oval Office in order to accommodate all those needed to assess the current and potential threats against the U.S. and its allies.

Hardessy’s years in the army prepared him for making snap decisions in narrow time frames, and his leadership skills came out best in such situations.  The commander-in-chief was a man all too happy to fight fire with fire, and throw in a little napalm to up the ante.

The president sat surrounded by his most trusted advisers.  He was proud of his team and relied on their judgment, never regretting one appointment. 

To his immediate left sat Alan Carmichael.  The Chief of Staff was a boyhood friend of the president and held a spot the other secretaries envied.  Alan didn’t care about placating egos; he only cared about getting the job done...and protecting the president in the process.

Next to Alan sat Sinclair Davidson.  The Secretary of State was short, barely five and a half feet tall.  He was a religious man who often invoked the name of the lord, and rarely took credit for any policy he advanced.

Mike Warren had been the head of the FBI for so long, no one knew which President appointed him.  Mike was a Rhodes Scholar.  His mind worked a step or two faster than anyone on the national security team and the president had to often slow him down to allow the others to catch up.

Of NSA Director Frank Kowalski it was said, There was never a war he didn’t like.  Frank saw a Russian Bear behind every tree, and a thousand Chinese nuclear missiles pointed at America.  He left a lasting impression on others: usually not good.  But he did his job well, and so the president put up with him...for now.

Secretary of Defense Bob Edwards had fought in four wars and been in his position under three presidents: both Republican and Democratic administrations.  No one was willing to replace him based solely on politics.  He was one of Hardessy’s first appointments after his inauguration, and always had the president’s ear.

CIA Chief Tom Courtney was the youngest director in the history of the agency.  Ivy League educated, he represented the new generation of spies: computer trained, not field oriented.  He had a problem putting up with unsubstantiated statements by others.  Hardessy acted as his buffer until the man learned to be a little more forgiving.

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Anthony Zinn was old school military: battlefield commissioned, not OCS.  For him, the mission was the only thing and failure was not an option.  He saw diplomacy as a stop-gap measure, and war as the only permanent solution.

Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, Arthur Long, was an unrepentant hawk who did not need much of a reason to attack an adversary.  He made snap decisions and quickly closed the door behind him.

U.N. Ambassador, Sharon Delaney, was a woman who had to prove