Matthew Dunn - Sentinel

Laith said, “Maybe this isn’t the trigger.” He looked at Korina. “Could be something else that you’ve not been cleared to read.”

Korina shook her head. “No. This is the trigger. Without a doubt.”

Will looked sharply at her. “How can you be certain?”

Korina blew out smoke. “Because the intelligence report was written by Taras Khmelnytsky.”

Will went cold. “Who was his source?”

Korina seemed hesitant.

“I have to know!”

She looked incredulous. “You can’t expect me to reveal the identity of an agent.”

“Under the circumstances, yes, I bloody well can.”

She puffed on her cigarette. “He’s a low-level American sailor, but he works for an admiral and therefore has a higher security status than others of his rank. Razin’s his case officer. Beyond that, I’d have to check my database to get extra details.”

“Can you get his identity and naval facility?”

“I can, but not until morning. If I log on now, it might look suspicious to GRU HQ.”

“Okay.” Will clapped his hands together. “There’s still a chance. The Americans can put the squeeze on the sailor-get him to send a message to Khmelnytsky saying that the subs are deploying on a different date, that they have to meet in person so he can give him the details. That’ll grab Khmelnytsky’s attention. Then”-he smiled-“we grab the bastard.”

Roger frowned. “Why don’t we just get the submarines to turn around so that the incident is avoided?”

“No. If we do that, Razin will strike another target and we’d have no idea when or where that would be.”

“He might, but unless he’s lucky it would be unlikely to spark war.”

“I can’t take that chance.”

Roger looked incredulous. “And yet you’re willing to take a gamble on something that certainly will lead to war if we fail.”

Will thought about this. “If we’ve not got him by the time the subs are drawing close to Russia, I’ll call it in.”

Korina said, “You’ll have to move quickly because the submarines will be entering Russian waters in four days’ time.”

Will’s smile vanished.

Four days.

One explosion.

War.

Colonel General Platonov walked through the grounds of his estate. It was late evening and dark, though the driveway’s lamps and discreetly positioned halogen lights gave him glimpses of the large garden’s brook, oak trees, ornate stone bridges, and special forces men with AEK-919K “Kashtan” submachine guns slung by their sides.

He hated having the bodyguards in his family home, but he was the highest-ranking military officer in the Russian armed forces and protection came with the job.

The man by his side was silent. That was understandable. The Russian president had a lot on his mind.

They stopped on a large rectangular area of concrete, where snow had recently been brushed away to reveal a symmetrical pattern of squares. At opposite ends of the yard were tall plastic chess pieces. On the edge of each corner of the yard, overlooking the giant chessboard, were man-sized stone statues of knights, their bodies and heads cloaked and hooded, their faces solemn, their hands clasped over the hilts of downward-facing broadswords.

Platonov looked at his house. The curtains were still open, all of the rooms illuminated. He could see the premier’s wife and his wife talking, smiling, glasses of wine in their hands. Upstairs, the young pajama-dressed children of Russia’s most powerful general were bouncing on beds with the children of Russia’s supreme leader. They were having a sleepover tonight. Their excitement was palpable.

The two men lit Montecristo cigars. Platonov could still feel the pleasant burn of his postdinner cognac in his throat. The evening had gone well. His wife was an excellent cook and a very intelligent hostess. As he looked at her now, he knew that he loved her as much as when he’d first met her. Then he’d been a muscular, blond-haired, idealistic lieutenant. Now he was a slim, ramrod-backed, gray-haired general with wisdom and a scar that ran from a blue eye down to the corner of his mouth.

A memento from Afghanistan.

A mujahideen knife.

He looked at his premier and spoke quietly. “What are your orders?”

The president blew out smoke. “You’d accept them?”

“It depends on whether they’re right.”

The president smiled. “Perhaps you forget your status.”

“Perhaps you forget whose fucking house you’re in.”

The premier laughed, then frowned. “I’m tempted to expel the American ambassador.”

“Go ahead. But you’ll make a fool of yourself.”

“I don’t need your blessing.”

“No, but you’ll need my army if it all goes wrong.”

“ My army.”

“Your army, if you like.” He kept his eyes on his children before turning to his commander in chief. “We’re not seven years old. Your army. I don’t care.”

The president was silent for a while. “Why are you angry with me?”

“Not you. I’m angry with history. Every Russian president has made his general into a psychopath.”

“I think you’ve had too much Hennessy.”

“No, I’m stone-cold sober.” Platonov looked sternly at his leader. “Don’t bait the Americans. They can slaughter us.”

“I’ve no intention of baiting them. On the contrary, they’re the ones who’re being provocative.”

“Then sort it out. Politically.”

The president blew out more smoke; it hung in the icy air. “With you in charge, there’d be no slaughter.”

“Rubbish.” Platonov looked at his wife moving across the kitchen. It marveled him that she’d not lost her effect on him. He looked at the children and felt a chill run through his body. “If you fuck up, I’ll send every Russian soldier to meet an American invasion force. They’ll all die, but that’s what we do and that’s how we fight. And I’ll just be another psychopath.”

“I don’t want a fight.”

“But you’ll have one at the drop of a hat.”

“You read me wrong.”

“I read you fine.”

The president moved closer to Platonov. “How is the nuclear training exercise progressing?”

The question lightened Platonov’s mood. “It’s going very well. But Colonel Khmelnytsky still has more work to do. In particular, we need to test the feasibility of deploying the devices from sea. The final phase of the exercise will be focused on targeting naval installations.”

“Good.” The president was keen to get back into the warmth of the house. “Should we be concerned about the three American submarines?”

Platonov laughed. “They’re just playing games. But one of our new stealth destroyers will be waiting for them in the Barents Sea. It will make them turn around.”

The premier flicked his cigar onto the chessboard. “Come on, let’s get another drink.” He stepped forward, then stopped. “I’m not going to fuck up, and I hope the Americans don’t either. I’m sure it will be fine, but-” He shivered. “My orders. If anything does happen, make sure our entire military is battle-ready.”

Morning broke to reveal a sky filled with gray clouds pouring snow over the city of Vladivostok.

The lounge in Korina’s house was thick with the smoke from cigarettes and steam from mugs of coffee. Korina had been out of the room for thirty minutes, and when she reemerged she was showered and had changed into smart charcoal gray pants, a white blouse, and a box jacket. Her body lotions and perfume brought a welcome fresh scent into the musty room.

She looked directly at Will. “I’ll need an hour in my office to go through GRU databases.”