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  When “spotted” by a university professor paid to be on the lookout for potential GRU recruits, he had jumped at the chance. The idea of being of value to the powerful Russian military appealed to him. Being recruited to work with their famed intelligence unit was beyond any dream he had ever had for himself.

  He had visions of fast cars, beautiful women, and James Bond style assignments. The reality couldn’t have been any more different.

  His training had been brutal. Not only was it physically demanding, it was also psychologically merciless. The instructors were sadists who took pleasure in abusing the cadets. One cadet ended up hanging himself in the barracks shower and it was Tretyakov who found him.

  He had never seen a dead body before and stood there for several minutes staring at it—the tongue protruding, purplish-black, from between blue lips, a bloody froth oozing from the nostrils, and saliva dripping from the mouth. The cadet’s member was erect and his trousers had been soiled. The sight should have repulsed him, but it didn’t.

  He felt a mixture of fascination and contempt. The cadet had not only been defeated, but had allowed himself to be defeated to such an extent that he had willingly given up his own life as a result.

  Tretyakov first respected, and then grew to covet that kind of power over another human being. The pursuit of it propelled him upward through the ranks of the GRU. With each new promotion and each new posting, he accumulated more. It was like a drug—the more he tasted, the more he wanted.

  Now, as the GRU Chief of Covert Operations for Eastern Europe, Tretyakov was at the pinnacle of his career, and his power.

  That made the middle-of-the-night call all the more disturbing. Transept was the most important assignment he had ever been entrusted with. If it failed, at best his career would be over. He didn’t want to think about what might happen at worst. There were only two things of which he was certain. If he failed he would not only get the blame, but would also not be around to argue in his own defense. The GRU, like the KGB’s successor the FSB, had a way of permanently “distancing” its mistakes.

  Tretyakov didn’t want to be a mistake. He believed in his mission. He was its author and wanted it to be a success. It was why he had taken such painstaking care over every detail—no matter how small. He knew how easily things could go bad.

  Pouring a cup of coffee, he waited a few more moments and then entered the encrypted chat room. Though he was concerned, he wanted to maintain the appearance of confidence and control. Showing up too quickly might suggest that he was worried.

  His contact was already there, and Tretyakov had been right. The news was bad—very bad. The Norwegian cell had been eliminated. All of them.

  The news was devastating and would not be received well in Moscow. He needed to figure out what had happened, and then what to do about it.

  At the very least, the remaining cells needed to be put on notice. There could be no mistakes, not one. The fate of the entire operation was in their hands.

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  UNITED NATIONS, NEW YORK CITY

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  The “consultations chamber” was a smaller, less opulent meeting room than the one most people saw on television. It had a narrow, U-shaped table in the center and glass windows running down the walls, behind which headset-wearing interpreters sat and carried out their duties.

  The fifteen-member Security Council was having a heated discussion about the drafting of a joint statement. A series of mass graves had recently been discovered in Syria. Russia wanted to go easy on the response. U.S. Ambassador Rebecca Strum, a tall, tough, brunette in her late forties wasn’t having any of it.

  “The United States will not agree to soften the language,” she said in reply to the Russian request. “Absolutely not.”

  The Russian envoy put on his most charming smile. “Surely words matter to the United States.”

  “Truth matters to the United States.”

  “Perhaps,” offered the French Ambassador, “we can change some of the words without changing the spirit of the statement. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds like more game playing to me,” Strum answered. “The Syrian regime must be held to account. Along with men, those graves were filled with women and children. The United States intends to paint this atrocity in the most vivid terms possible. The world must know.”

  The Chinese envoy threw up his hands. “We will be here all day. Let us finish this statement and get on with our other business already.”

  She looked at him and quipped, “It is so unusual to see the Chinese Ambassador agreeing with the Russian Ambassador, especially when it comes to Syria.”

  The diplomat bristled at the remark, but let it slide. He had tangled with Strum before and it hadn’t gone well. She was like a bear in a pit. If you climbed in with her, you might make it back out, but not without suffering tremendous damage.

  He had fulfilled his promise to his colleague. He had said his piece. It was up to the Russian envoy to convince the Americans to change the language.

  Still smiling, the Russian tried once more. “We don’t yet know, with complete certitude, who was responsible for these deaths. This is all the more reason for us to carefully craft our response.”

  Strum was about to respond when one of her aides stepped up behind her and whispered something in her ear. Gathering her things, she stood.

  “Where are you going?” the Russian Ambassador asked.

  The U.S. Ambassador motioned for her deputy to take her seat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse me. I will be back as soon as I can. Thank you.”

  Turning, Strum headed for the door and exited the consultations chamber alone.

  Down the hall was a café known as the UN Delegates Lounge. Here, United Nations diplomats and staff could meet and chat casually over coffee. The Americans, French, and British had nicknamed it the Russian Café for the “secret” bottle of vodka kept under the bar. Throughout the day, members of the Russian delegation would pop in, speakeasy style, to fill nondescript containers with the spirit before rejoining the current meeting or proceeding to their next.

  Off to the side, she saw the people she was looking for. Seated at the table were the Ambassadors for Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. All three stood as she approached.

  “Thank you. Please sit,” said Strum as she joined them. “I have bad news. And none of you are going to like it.”

  • • •

  Across the room was Russia’s Deputy Permanent Representative to the UN for Political Affairs. He was within sight, but out of earshot. As he sat sipping his morning “coffee,” he couldn’t help but notice the meeting.

  Strum was doing most of the talking, but it was obvious that her tablemates were not happy. In fact, the Baltic Ambassadors looked deeply concerned. One was so angry that after jabbing his finger at her, he stood and stormed out of the lounge.

  Something was afoot and he took careful mental notes. Any strife between NATO members was always of interest to Moscow. NATO was the only enemy Russia worked as hard to undermine as it did the United States.

  He waited for the meeting to end and once it did, returned to his office and began typing up his notes. His superiors were going to have a very interesting report to send to Moscow.

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THURSDAY EVENING

  The five-star Ristorante La Perla in Georgetown was known for some of the best Italian cuisine in the city. In addition to being walking distance from Embassy Row, it was also open until almost midnight. It was the perfect spot for a clandestine dinner that wasn’t supposed to appear clandestine.

  As Lydia Ryan walked in, carrying a Brooks Brothers shopping bag, her guest was already waiting for her. He sat at a table in the back, facing the front. Knowing his commitment to tradecraft, she figured he had arrived at least twenty minutes early, checked everything out, and then, given his proclivity for a
lcohol, had begun drinking.

  Artur Kopec worked under official cover at the Polish Embassy for the Agencja Wywiadu, Poland’s foreign intelligence service. He had been at the spy game for decades, and he looked it.

  His fair hair had gone white long ago. He carried a spare tire around his middle—the product of spending too much time behind a desk running spies, rather than just getting out and running. His red-rimmed eyes were milky with the onset of cataracts, likely sped up by a two-pack-a-day smoking habit. The end of his large nose was a sea of broken capillaries, brought on by his alcoholism.

  He had high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and symptoms indicative of the onset of diabetes. He also had a doctor whom he paid handsomely to keep all his medical issues out of his file and off the radar screen of his superiors. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. He had plenty of years of service left in him.

  The Pole watched as Ryan entered the restaurant. How such a tall, gorgeous woman had evaded marriage for so long, especially in a town like D.C., was a mystery to him. If he had been twenty years younger, he might have considered making a play for her. As it was, he was not only old enough to be her father, but he was dangerously close to grandfather territory. He stood to greet her.

  “Hello, Artur,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “Of course,” he replied, kissing her on both cheeks and then pulling out her chair. “It’s been too long.”

  “I know. I’ve been busy. I’m sorry.”

  He returned a gentle smile as he sat down. “Completely understandable. How is he?”

  Ryan sighed as she placed her napkin in her lap. “Not well.”

  “I was afraid of that. I tried to call him not too long ago. They told me he had been moved?”

  “He’s in hospice. According to the doctors, he has less than six months.”

  Kopec shook his head. “My God. Such a shame.”

  Ryan nodded solemnly.

  “Did he ever tell you the story of how we first met?” he asked, a smile coming to his face as he tried to buoy her mood.

  “He did,” she replied. Leaning down, she removed a wrapped parcel from the shopping bag and handed it to him. “This is for you.”

  The Pole, who had just picked up his glass, looked at it for a moment and asked, “What is this?”

  “Open it,” Ryan encouraged.

  Setting his glass down, he accepted the package and peeled away the brown paper.

  It was a framed set of handwritten notes from one of the most dangerous operations Reed Carlton and Artur Kopec had ever undertaken together.

  In the run-up to the first Gulf War, six American intelligence operatives sent to spy on Iraqi troop movements became trapped in Kuwait and Baghdad, and the U.S. had put out the call for help.

  The United States asked for assistance from multiple countries, including Great Britain, France, and even the Soviet Union. Only Poland had stepped up and agreed to help get the Americans out.

  The operation was dubbed Operation Simoom. And Carlton and Kopec were sent in to coordinate everything that would take place on the ground.

  Because of Poland’s extensive construction and engineering contracts in the region, it was uniquely positioned to help smuggle the Americans out.

  All six were issued Polish passports and then integrated into various construction camps and work groups. Somehow, though, Iraq Intelligence had caught wind that something was going on with the Poles and the Americans.

  There were many dramatic twists and turns. The operation almost collapsed multiple times. Even as they attempted to sneak the Americans over the border, they encountered an Iraqi checkpoint where one of the officers, who had spent time in Poland and spoke Polish, wanted to interrogate the Americans.

  It seemed that no matter what the Old Man and Kopec did, the deck was stacked against them. Yet they never gave up.

  Not only did they get the six intelligence operatives out safely, but the Americans brought with them secret maps and detailed notes critical to the planning of Operation Desert Storm.

  One of those critical pieces of intelligence was what Kopec now held, framed, in his hands. A small, engraved plaque centered in the bottom of the frame gave the date and location of that final border crossing.

  It was representative of the kinds of gifts that often passed between teammates and allies.

  As soon as Kopec realized what he was looking at, he smiled.

  “I thought you would appreciate it,” said Ryan. “And I know he would have wanted you to have it.”

  “Thank you. Where did you find it?”

  “Since he was moved to hospice, I’ve been going through all his personal papers.”

  “It was lovely of you to frame this for me,” said Kopec, as he waved the waitress over. “But something tells me this isn’t why you wanted to see me.”

  Ryan hesitated for a moment, visibly struggling to find the right words. Finally, she said, “I don’t know how else to put this. We have a problem. I need your help.”

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  “By we, do you mean you and Reed?” asked Kopec after the waitress had left their table with their order.

  Ryan shook her head. “I’m talking about the United States.”

  “Whatever you need, consider it done.”

  “It’s not a small problem.”

  Once more, the Pole smiled. “In our line of work, it never is.”

  “Artur, on behalf of the United States, we need your help, but we can’t involve the Polish government.”

  “Now things are getting interesting. Why don’t you tell me what it is we’re talking about.”

  “As part of our NATO partnership, the United States has been prepositioning certain military equipment in Central Europe.”

  “Tanks, Humvees, and other items. We know this. What’s the problem?”

  Ryan took a deep breath. “There are some things we’ve been storing that you don’t know about.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  The Pole laughed. “I can’t help you, Lydia, if I don’t know what it is you need.”

  “Yesterday, a U.S. Army transport was robbed in Poland.”

  “Robbed? In Poland? What are you talking about? Where?”

  “Just outside Warsaw,” said Ryan. “The soldiers had been traveling from their base in Z˙agan´ in western Poland and had pulled off at a truck stop for a break.”

  “And?” asked Kopec.

  “The lot was crowded and they didn’t park line of sight. They thought their trucks would be safe. But while they were inside, one of the vehicles was broken into and a theft occurred.”

  They paused as the waitress brought Kopec another vodka and Ryan a glass of Sancerre.

  “What was taken?” he asked after the waitress had left.

  “Six crates.”

  “Six crates of what?”

  Ryan demurred.

  When she failed to answer his question, he asked, “Am I supposed to guess?”

  “For the record, the soldiers had no idea what they were transporting. The crates had been purposely mislabeled and the paperwork altered.”

  Kopec took a sip of his drink and leaned forward. “Now you absolutely have my attention.”

  “The equipment in question never should have been delivered to Poland. Somebody screwed up.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  Again, Ryan hesitated.

  “Lydia, ask any of my ex-wives. I’m a terrible mind reader.”

  “Upgrade kits for BGM-109G missiles.”

  Kopec laughed—quietly at first, and then his laugh grew louder. Ryan looked around, concerned that he was drawing attention.

  Catching his breath, the Polish intel officer shook his head. Also known as the Gryphon, the BGM-109G was an American ground-launched cruise missile capable of carrying multiple types of warheads—including nuclear. It had long been outlawed under the Intermediate
-Range Nuclear Forces treaty with the Russians.

  “What you’re saying is impossible,” he chuckled. “There aren’t any Gryphons in Europe. There aren’t even any Gryphons in America. They were all destroyed under the terms of the INF treaty.”

  After another look around the restaurant, Ryan leaned forward. “No, they weren’t.”

  Kopec was shocked by her admission. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

  It was a rhetorical question. She didn’t need to answer.

  “How many of them are in Europe?” he asked.

  “I can’t discuss that.”

  “Fine. Let’s back up. Are there any in Poland?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “The ones that are in Europe, where are they located?”

  “Artur, you know I can’t discuss that either.”

  Kopec laughed once more. “If you want my help, you have to work with me, Lydia. How about this? How many trucks were there?”

  She took a sip of her wine, using the time to weigh what she should tell him. “Three,” she replied.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. What was their destination? Where exactly were they headed?”

  Reluctantly, she divulged the information. “The Baltics.”

  “Can you be more precise?”

  “Deliveries were scheduled for Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia.”

  The Pole let out a slow, slightly boozy whistle. “If the Russians find out, they’re going to lose their minds.”

  “We obviously don’t want that to happen. The missiles are simply an insurance policy.”

  “Insurance against what?”

  “Russian incursion.”

  “Incursion where?”

  “Anywhere under NATO protection. If push comes to shove, we won’t hesitate to use Gryphons.”

  “Is there something going on that I don’t know about?” Kopec asked, concerned. “Is the United States or NATO anticipating some sort of hostile action by Russia?”