Amber Spy

By Ursula Wong

The most powerful woman in the world wants him dead.

Investigative reporter Vit Partenkas receives a tip that could mean the end of the current president of Russia, a woman who rules with an iron fist. Destroying her would save his home in Eastern Europe from possible invasion and give Vit the acclaim he has always wanted. But at what cost?

Soon, Vit is running for his life. He's desperate to do something, but how can he survive when his opponent commands an army of secret agents?

He turns to the only organization that can help: the CIA, and a man he doesn't quite trust . . .

Amber Spy is an intoxicating espionage thriller served with a chaser of history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ursula Wong
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005957957

Ursula Wong

Ursula Wong writes gripping stories about strong women who struggle against impossible odds to achieve their dreams. Her work has appeared in Everyday Fiction, Spinetingler Magazine, Mystery Reader’s Journal, and the Insanity Tales anthologies. She is a professional speaker appearing regularly on TV and radio.Her World War II historical fiction thriller Amber Wolf, the first in the Amber War series, is about a young Lithuanian woman who joins resistance fighters. Amber War, the second in the series, tells a little-known story of post-World War II Eastern Europe and the continuing fight against the Soviet occupation. Amber Widow, third book in the series, matches Eastern European radicals against Russia in a vicious game of nuclear chess. Black Amber, fourth book, has cyberterrorists attack the pipeline bringing natural gas from Russia into Germany. In Gypsy Amber, fifth book, Russia unleashes a devious plot to thwart China’s territorial expansion into Central Asia.For more information about Ursula and her books, visit her website at http://ursulawong.wordpress.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Moscow, Russia

Surrounded by the bodyguards in his security squad, Anatoly Nikolaev walked quickly along a row of trees, marveling at the din of the nearby crowd. He wondered how many people were there. He’d spent months talking at small gatherings, posting to social media, and debating lone individuals. He’d worked tirelessly to convince everyone he met that he was the man to lead Russia into the future. It had finally come to this—his first real campaign rally for president of the Russian Federation.

Anatoly approached the rear of the stage in the broad, open area of Park Pobedy, not far from its biggest fountain. On the stage was a dais and microphone. Behind it stood the giant media-screen displaying the blur of his parka-clad supporters. They were there to see him. Only him. He couldn’t quite believe the cheering.

At the back of the stage, his bodyguards split into groups. One stayed with Anatoly, and another went to the area in front of the stage. A few men returned to the armored sedans waiting nearby, engines running.

Anatoly looked around nervously. He didn’t think the FSB, Russian secret police, were there, as far as he knew. Unfortunately, one never knew. Vera Koslova, current president of the Russian Federation and his political opponent, controlled the FSB with an iron hand. The FSB seemed to know everything that was happening inside Russia. Anatoly’s team had taken every possible precaution to keep the rally low-key. They hadn’t printed any flyers. They’d done nothing to draw attention. The internet postings listed only the date, time, and location. Nothing political had been mentioned, although his followers knew differently.

Nonetheless, Elena Lenkova, his biggest financial supporter, had insisted he take precautions. Security is very important for a presidential candidate, she’d said on the one occasion they’d met. It had been a brief encounter in a wooded park. She had looked stunning sitting in the back of a BMW, wearing a business suit with diamonds around her neck and wrists. Her late husband had made over two billion dollars in Azerbaijani oil. She was spending it as Russia’s most generous philanthropist, and on Anatoly’s bid for an election that was a mere three months away.

Elena’s sole requirement for being his benefactress was absolute anonymity.

Something in his gut told him he didn’t want to know why she was being so generous. Tonight, he didn’t question what she might want in exchange for her money, although he could understand why a businessman would want to remain neutral. Oligarchs, even female ones, always had reasons. Anatoly’s heart wouldn’t be compromised. He was a man of the people. Elena was tomorrow’s worry. Tonight, nothing was going to bother him, not even the cold.

Anatoly paused on the top step, absorbing the energy from the mass of humanity cheering him. He glanced to his right where Yenko was filming by Yana, his new wife. Yenko had been with Anatoly at university. Now, Yenko and Yana managed the campaign. The happy couple behaved like lovebirds.

He took a deep breath. The frosty air gripped his lungs. The excitement made him feel weightless.

Crossing the stage to the podium, Anatoly stroked the beard he kept meticulously groomed, except when he wanted to go unrecognized. A few days of unchecked growth turned him into a Rasputin look-alike even his mother wouldn’t know. Today, he was very recognizable. His beard was trimmed, and he was dressed in his best: a dazzling white shirt, a black tie, and a gray suit that was too light for the weather. His eyes sparkled as he looked out at the crowd of Russians chanting his name and felt more love than at any other moment in his life.

Nik-o-la-ev!

Anatoly held up his arms. The crowd hushed as he leaned toward the microphone.

With your help, Vera Koslova will be the last despot to lead the Russian Federation.

Under the stars in Pobedy Park, the crowd cheered. Anatoly laughed. He glanced over his shoulder at the media screen alive with the images of thousands of happy Russians. He felt a pang of guilt remembering the bribe needed to get access to the screen. Elena’s money. Sometimes a little subterfuge was necessary when trying to do good.

Koslova wants to silence our voices. She doesn’t want to hear our demands to end corruption and create better lives for our children. Anatoly’s voice resounded through the park. I was born here, and spent my youth in the beauty and culture of Moscow. I walked freely on Moscow’s streets back then. I can’t any more. Soon, Vera Koslova will be hunting me down because she’s scared of our New Russia party.

The crowd jeered.

She’s afraid we’ll win!

More cheering. His days wouldn’t be easy. Koslova was dangerous. She had the ability to control his freedom and his life, if she could catch him. If Anatoly took power from her by winning the election, she had the money and means to make his life miserable, if not to end it. These were worries for tomorrow. Tonight, the thousands here who loved him believed he could move their country in the right direction.

We don’t need to be told what to think or do. We don’t need to be told how to vote. We can make our own decisions. The Russian government is not here to serve just the rich and powerful.

Nik-o-la-ev!

Anatoly basked in the warmth of mistress Russia. Imagine a world where free discourse is embraced, where everyone has a safe place to live, a job, good schools. Imagine a new Russia!

At the far edge of the crowd, there was a rush of movement. At first, he thought it a minor scuffle. Vodka can bring out the worst in people. The screams followed a moment later. A ‘V’ formation of police was forcing its way through the far end of the throng, headed for him. On either side, groups of police were bearing down on the stage. People fell under the swing of black batons. Men yelled. Others scattered in confusion. A father holding a child in his arms pushed his way toward safety. The angry fists of a young woman waved in the air. Shouts of fear cut through the outcry. People ran in every direction possible, save the only one where they would be safe—up toward the stars.

He glanced at Yenko, who was still filming. His gaze met Yana’s. She shook her head.

Either someone had talked, or Koslova had tracked them through the internet just as they had feared.

Hands roughly gripped Anatoly’s elbows and rushed him off the stage.

Come with me! he shouted over his shoulder. Anatoly couldn’t hear his own voice. He was sure his friends couldn’t hear him, either.

The bodyguards rushed him toward the trees, where a black sedan waited with lights out and engine running. He was shoved inside. Doors slammed. The car moved. Its speed thrust him against the back of the seat. Glancing out the rear window, he noticed another car racing off in the opposite direction.

Through the trees, he saw people running for their lives.

The sound of sirens got louder. The sedan wove through the park. Anatoly slammed against a bodyguard sitting next to him. They raced down Kutuzovsky Avenue. The sirens grew louder. The sedan took a sharp turn down a narrow street. Anatoly banged into the door. The sedan abruptly stopped. Anatoly’s head hit the seat in front of him. A bodyguard yanked him out into the street. Anatoly’s feet barely touched the ground before was shoved into a beat-up Lada parked alongside the curb. The black sedan sped off.

The Lada was cold and dark. His gaze raked the street. Rough hands pressed him down.

The siren’s deafening wail was upon them. Anatoly held his breath, certain that his first rally would be his last. Miraculously, the sound faded. Anatoly thought it was a trick, that the sirens would be back. But they didn’t come. A moment later, the Lada pulled out and drove at a leisurely pace along the darkened street.

Anatoly felt giddy from his escape. Then he remembered the crowd. Hundreds would be herded into vans like animals, arrested and imprisoned, because of him. Worse yet, how many dead?

Unhinged by the display of Koslova’s ironclad authority, the cold finally took hold. Anatoly’s body shook. Tonight had been a nightmare come true. Vera Koslova and her FSB were after him. If they arrested him, it would be the end of his noble campaign. Things were just beginning and already, he feared the worst.

***

Chapter 2

Vilnius, Lithuania

Alone at night in the kitchenette at the Baltic Watch office, Vit Partenkas watched a cup of coffee brew. In the past, he’d reported on cyberterrorism in the Baltic Sea pipeline, nuclear terrorism in Ukraine, military posturing in Uzbekistan, and more. The only event on the horizon was the Russian presidential election and it wasn’t interesting at all. Vera Koslova’s opponent, Anatoly Nikolaev, was a dark horse candidate who didn’t stand a chance.

Vit suppressed a yawn as the last few drops of coffee fell into his cup.

Fortunately, a lot was happening at home. Zuza was pregnant. Vit was thrilled at the prospect of becoming a father. His parents had divorced while Vit’s mother was pregnant with him. His father was never really in his life. An occasional visit, gifts, and phone calls weren’t the kind of relationship Vit wanted with his own child. Vit would help raise it and would be there at every turn.

Vit took a long sip of coffee and carried it back to his desk. He’d received an unsolicited e-mail a few days ago. A second e-mail was due soon. It was the most exciting thing that had happened in weeks. He glanced at the computer screen. Nothing had come in yet.

The sender had identified himself only as Simon. Often, people used first names and nicknames on accounts, so Vit didn’t think anything of it. At first, Vit thought he was being invited to speak. He occasionally gave talks on Russian and Eastern European politics.

In the message, Simon declared himself to be a dog-lover and wrote that Vit would be getting another message containing a link to pictures of Siberian Huskies. The message was due to arrive tonight. Vit was to open it right away and examine each photograph for a rewarding experience.

As a businessman, computer expert, and political investigator, Vit knew better than to ignore anything that fell into his lap. Unfortunately, Simon’s new message might be a cleverly disguised virus that could destroy everything on his computer. Vit had annoyed a number of influential Russians over the years. Vera Koslova was at the top of the list. His e-mail and the Baltic Watch website had been targeted by hackers in the past. Vit’s precautions had repelled the attacks so far. Sometimes, when he got unsolicited e-mails containing links, he deleted them just to be safe.

Vit rubbed his chin as he considered his options. Simon knew he’d be interested in anything involving Russia. Siberian Huskies, however beautiful, could be aggressive and unpredictable. They might be a clever reference to Vera Koslova herself. After all, he mostly wrote about her.

Vit had checked what he could in Simon’s first e-mail, including the address. It didn’t have the quirky characteristics of some junk mail, although Simon could have spoofed or disguised the internet address to hide where it came from. Vit had to admit that he was curious. There was only one way to find out what Simon wanted: open the message, click on the link, and hope for the best.

If the message contained a virus, Vit could always wipe his computer clean and copy everything back. It wasn’t something he relished doing. Still, having recently backed up his computer, he was prepared for the worst.

Taking another sip of coffee, Vit considered why Simon had chosen him. Vit wasn’t powerful. He’d exposed Koslova’s antics in the past, but Baltic Watch was a small organization. Although its news reports and analysis pieces were picked up internationally, they hadn’t received any acclaim. They weren’t widely known outside Lithuania except for small Lithuanian communities in other countries like the US. The few times Vit had publicized Koslova’s ruthlessness, she created a lie and somehow landed on her feet. In that respect, the woman had skills.

Perhaps he’d been selected because so few people in Eastern Europe were willing to poke Koslova in the eye with a stick. That Vit did so willingly, showed he was as crazy as she was.

That is, if his suspicions were right and Simon’s e-mail was really about Koslova, and not just junk mail.

He glanced at his computer screen again. The new message from Simon had come in at last. He opened the e-mail, clicked on the link, and held his breath.

Dozens of images of Siberian Huskies appeared on his screen. Some were playing in a park. Others were curled up in the snow. There was nothing important here. Vit felt like a chump. Then he noticed a video clip hidden among the images.

He clicked on the video. It was a dog sled race. Vit rolled his eyes. A few seconds in, Anatoly Nikolaev appeared on the screen. He was giving a speech in an outdoor venue. Vit knew there had been a rally earlier that evening because he’d read the reports. Apparently, no permits had been issued to the Nikolaev campaign and the crowd was illegally occupying a public place. Russian news had painted the event as a deliberate attempt by rogue candidate Anatoly Nikolaev to disrupt the peaceful Moscow evening with a political rant. They had reported that the small gathering had been dispersed without incident.

Vit suspected the video would tell a different story. He kept watching.

The video panned out to the massive crowd, and came back to a very brief shot of an attractive woman of about forty with curly hair, laughing at the camera. Suddenly, the video turned back to the crowd. They were chanting Nikolaev’s name. A moment later came yells and screams; the sounds of chaos. The video zoomed in on a different woman with her arms raised, protecting her face from the baton blows wielded by a helmeted security officer in camouflage gear. He kept beating her until she fell to the ground. Her glazed expression told Vit she was dead.

A shaky male voice in a heavy accent said, They may already be using SORM to find us.

Then the video ended.

Vit sat back in his chair, stunned. It was one thing to read about a deadly political rally in a third world country, but this was 21st century Russia. Stalin was dead. The purges were over. Even the August 1991 coup against Gorbachev had been bloodless. Then Vit remembered Putin critics who had died under suspicious circumstances: Boris Nemtsov, journalist Natalia Estemirova, and attorney Sergei Magnitsky. Perhaps killing one’s critics was still in vogue in Koslova-stan.

He replayed the video, looking for any indication that the scene had been staged. It was a crowd of at least several thousand. The people running for their lives told him it was real.

They may already be using SORM to find us. Vit had heard of SORM before, although he knew very little about it. He did a quick search and got several hits. One was on the Russian public search engine, Yandex. He read that SORM was a massive system used for targeted surveillance. It collected, analyzed, and stored a copy of the internet, mobile phone, messaging and social media information that was sent into, out of, and within Russia for people of interest.

Vit assumed Russia was using SORM to try to identify dissidents. He wondered if the companies providing internet service to Russia might be working with the FSB to actually track people down.

Simon had gone to the trouble of finding Vit and getting him the video, with the intention that he write about what really happened at Nikolaev’s rally.

Using SORM, Russia might be able to find Simon and track the communication to Baltic Watch. Vit hoped Simon had used a secure link to hide his identity. Simon had to be a code name. Otherwise, they’d both be in trouble. He hoped Simon knew what he was doing and understood the risks.

Vit copied the video and the dog images to a portable storage device for safe keeping, as was his habit. He locked it in his filing cabinet next to other information he used in his articles. Then he clicked the link again to replay the video. It was gone. Vanished. Vit wondered if he hadn’t opened his e-mail right after receiving it, whether he’d have missed it entirely. It left him cold, knowing that he was dealing with something so sensitive that its lifetime was limited to a few minutes.

Vit thought of the woman lying dead in the dirt, and the crowd sometimes stepping over her, sometimes not. The fresh venom he felt for Vera Koslova flowed from his heart to his fingers as he typed in the first paragraph of his report.

Koslova’s Storm Troopers Break Up Nikolaev Campaign Rally

A political gathering in Moscow for opposition candidate Anatoly Nikolaev ended tonight with a violent incursion by police. Among the thousands of Nikolaev supporters who had gathered to cheer the presidential hopeful, untold numbers have been arrested and injured. At least one woman may have been killed, allegedly bludgeoned to death by a security officer. With these horrendous acts of violence, Koslova has sent the clear message that she would rather arrest and kill her own people than allow them to vote for Anatoly Nikolaev.

After finishing the article, Vit sat back, his finger poised over the ‘Enter’ key. One stroke and his words would be posted for the world to see. Koslova might come after him again and try to shut him up for good. He thought of Zuza and the baby she was carrying. He had a lot to lose.

Anatoly Nikolaev, if elected, would remove any fear of Russian incursion into the Baltic countries and Vit’s beloved Lithuania. Nikolaev stood for positive change.

Even so, standing up to the wealth and power Koslova represented was like facing a nuclear blast. Vit couldn’t bring her down. He didn’t think Nikolaev could. However, it was worth a shot, especially if Simon kept sending him insider information. He just hoped the Russian secret police wouldn’t find either of them any time soon.

He didn’t know what form Koslova’s revenge might take. Russia could be very creative that way. Poison on a doorhandle or a skin prick from an umbrella on a busy street were old standbys. They’d used radioactive polonium to sicken Alexander Litvinenko in the UK after he criticized the Russian government. They were always inventing new ways to silence opponents. With a pang, Vit thought Zuza might become a target. She was an agent with ARAS, the anti-terrorism arm of Lithuanian Police. They wouldn’t dare touch her. Or would they?

Vit rubbed his eyes. Fatigue was letting his imagination get the best of him. He wasn’t interesting or powerful enough to incur such wrath. He pressed the ‘Enter’ key and posted his article.

As he slipped his computer into his shoulder bag, the idea that he may have just ruined his life returned and this time, it stuck. He walked home to Zuza, wondering who Simon really was, and imagining the worst of what could happen next.

***

Chapter 3

Bozeman, Montana

Come in and close the door, Gene, said Nick Banis, giving a quick glance to the photograph on his desk of his mother next to his wife of five years, Sally. Both women were smiling; both were gone. His mother had died in Lithuania, having refused to come to the US with him for a coaching job in DC after the break-up of the Soviet Union. Sally had died of cancer with a grace he still couldn’t fathom. Nick knew basketball, but those two women had taught him more about life and dignity than he ever expected to know. He needed some of that wisdom now.

Nick smiled at the small photograph of his girlfriend tucked into the corner of the frame. He kept it there to remind himself that life held surprises no matter how old you were, and that he was a lucky man.

The tall, lanky forward who had signed onto the Montana Lynx basketball team mere weeks ago, closed the door and strode into the office. Gene Zevonas was barely twenty-one. He came to prominence during his four years playing at Montana State University. His family was still in Europe.

Nick felt a kinship to Gene. Both were born in Lithuania, a tiny country five thousand miles from Bozeman. They knew its ancient language and quaint customs. Besides that, Nick was Gene’s coach.

Gene took a seat across from Nick. A few of Nick’s basketball trophies decorated the shelf behind Gene, along with photographs of Nick shaking hands with various celebrities. The most notable was the current vice president of the United States, although Nick dominated the picture with his snow-white hair and long, lean physique.

I need to be straight with you, said Nick.

Did I do something wrong, coach?

We have to talk about your off-hours behavior. Nick handed him a folded newspaper showing a picture of Gene outside a club. A beautiful young woman stood next to him, wearing a very short dress.

That your new girlfriend? said Nick.

Gene settled back in his chair and grinned. Yeah, she’s great.

You haven’t been on the team for a month, and already there are pictures of you in the paper partying with some girl. You’re not a celebrity. If you keep this up, you’ll never be one.

Whaddya mean? Other guys go out. A lot of them have girlfriends. I’m no different.

That’s not true, Gene. You are different. With your talent, you could go further than any of them. You have just so much time before your body can’t take the punishment of regular season play anymore. I know it doesn’t feel like that now, but it will and sooner than you expect. Sure, there are guys who seem to go on forever like Tom Brady. They’re not the norm. You have to plan for the worst case.

I can take care of myself. Look how fast I recovered from that fall in practice last week. Even you said it was amazing.

The next time something like that happens, your career could be over.

Nick got up and took a second to stretch to his full height before moving to the edge of his desk where he sat, closer to Gene. Nick loved the physicality of sports, but lately, after sitting for any length of time, his body creaked with stiffness whenever he got up.

Nick spoke. All of your time has to be put into establishing your career and making as much progress as you can while you’re healthy. Otherwise, you’re going to be just another player who had great potential, and made bad choices.

Gene crossed his arms.

Nick frowned. Gene wasn’t making this easy. The next time you stumble through practice like you’ve been up all night, or I see your mug in the newspaper outside some bar, I’ll kick your ass all the way back to Lithuania.

You can’t make me to go back there.

Gene could play basketball, but he wasn’t always the brightest light in the room. What I’m saying is that I’ll fire you.

Gene glared at him. What about my contract?

I’ll bench you and trade you as soon as I can. You have one more chance, said Nick, raising his index finger for emphasis. He hated being the bad guy. He had no choice. Gene needed to hear this.

I want you to call it quits with the new girlfriend. Maybe in five years things will be different and you can afford to date a nice girl. Maybe settle down. Have a few kids.

You’re wrong. I’ve been playing great ever since I met her, said Gene.

How do you explain that fall in practice? You weren’t focused. If that had happened during a real game, you would have been hurt. Badly.

Anybody can trip.

"Your teammate did everything he could to avoid injuring you. If he hadn’t, you both would have ended up with broken bones. Other teams aren’t going to be so considerate. They’re going to go after you in every single game because you’re that good.