Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

“Which one do you support?”

“Me, I do business with the devil so long we make money. Russia fears if Kozhanovskiy wins, Ukraine joins NATO, and worse, terminates lease of Sevastopol as base for Russia’s Black Sea navy fleet. For Russia, this is casus belli. My sources tell me there is a plot to assassinate Cherkesov.”

“Sources…?”

“The same sources that led me to you.”

“SVR?” Scorpion asked.

“I will tell you once we agree. These same sources assure me that if Cherkesov is killed, Russia will invade. Ukraine will call upon NATO. This will be most dangerous world crisis since Cuba.”

“You want me to stop this supposed plot to assassinate Cherkesov?”

“I want you to stop a war.”

“Over killing a single person?”

“Why not? World War One began with the assassination of a single person,” Akhnetzov said. Neither man spoke. There was a throb as the engines slowed. Through the salon windows, Scorpion could see the harbor and buildings of Monte Carlo piled against the backdrop of the Alpes Maritimes.

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Scorpion said, putting down his drink. “This is not my type of assignment. Besides, I’m not a bodyguard.”

Akhnetzov shrugged. “Cherkesov has dozens of bodyguards. This is not what is needed. What I need is an operative, the right operative.”

“It’s no good. What makes me effective is a certain unique combination of skills,” Scorpion said, leaning forward. “Languages, for one. I don’t speak Ukrainian and my Russian is pretty limited.”

“But you speak some Russian, yes? Nearly all Ukrainians speak Rossiyu.”

“Just basic Russian plus some of the dirty words.”

“The best part of any language.” Akhnetzov smiled, but his eyes weren’t smiling. “But you are wrong. What makes you effective is your knowledge and ruthlessness. Like wolf, like me.”

Akhnetzov leaned forward and wrote something on a piece of paper.

“What’s that?” Scorpion asked.

“A number,” still writing.

“Six figures?”

“Seven,” Akhnetzov said, turning the paper so Scorpion could see. It was a big number, enough for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life.

“That’s a lot of money,” Scorpion said carefully.

“BNP Paribas is private bank near the casino in Monte Carlo. Monaco has the same bank secrecy laws and discretion as Switzerland. You can have half this money in your own account within thirty minutes. So, Mister Whatever-your-new name and nationality is,” Akhnetzov said. “As the Americans say, we got a deal?”

Forget the money, Scorpion told himself. That isn’t what this is about. Rabinowich wanted this to happen or he never would’ve told anyone about the back channel. And the only reason he would’ve done it was because something absolutely vital to American security was about to go down. Rabinowich was the smartest guy in the American intelligence community. There was more to this than just some Eastern European politician. A lot more. And it was a lot of money.

“When’s the election?” he asked, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket.

“In eight days. The assassination could happen any time.”

Bucharest

Romania

The two men sat in the back of a cafe in Lipscani, Bucharest’s Old Town district. It was late and the cafe was almost empty. Through the window, Scorpion could see the wind blowing the falling snow, the occasional pedestrian holding onto his hat as he headed for home.

“Akhnetzov. Who’s he fronting for?” Scorpion asked.

“You mean is he a shill for the SBU?” Shaefer said, referring to the Ukrainian secret intelligence service. A big lanky man, African-American, with a clipped mustache and a fullback’s shoulders, Shaefer was the CIA core collector in Bucharest, a backwater to which he had been posted for being too outspoken inside Langley. He was also Scorpion’s best friend. Sometimes, Scorpion thought, his only friend. They had been in the Joint Special Operations Command’s Delta Force together; the only two survivors of an ambush by the Taliban at Forward Operating Base Echo in the Chaprai Valley in North Waziristan-where, officially, American troops didn’t exist. FOBE had forged a bond between them; in Scorpion’s mind, a blood bond. It was Shaefer who had originally recruited him for the CIA.

“Or the SVR?” he asked, meaning the Russians.

“Or the SVR,” Shaefer agreed.

“Is he?”

Shaefer nodded. “He swims in pretty oily waters. He’s bound to get dirty.”

“He left messages for me at various marinas in Europe. Rabinowich was the only one who knew about that channel.”

“What you’re really asking is, are you blown?”

“Am I?” Scorpion said, his mouth suddenly too dry to swallow.

Shaefer shook his head. “Dave provided a list of marinas to Akhnetzov.”

Scorpion felt a flood of relief. “So I’m not blown?”

“Not even your hair mussed. No one even knows which marina you picked the note up from, including me,” wiping beer foam from his mustache. “You have a boat?”

“A sailing ketch. You get out at sea, it clears your mind.”

“Bullshit. In this business, if you think you understand something, you probably got it wrong,” Shaefer said, and they both laughed. He motioned Scorpion closer, holding the bottle in front of his mouth to cover what he was saying. “This thing with Akhnetzov-the Company can’t go near it, but Langley’s desperate to see you in Kiev.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Above my pay grade, but-” Shaefer hesitated. “It’s hot.”

“You wouldn’t be holding out on me, Top?”

Shaefer looked at him sharply. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, and Scorpion knew he was talking about FOBE. His friend studied his long fingers, which Scorpion had seen him bend coins with without even trying. “All I know is that Dave Rabinowich wanted you on it because somebody way high up is scared shitless.” He looked up. “That good enough for you, bro?”

Scorpion took a deep breath. Now he understood why Rabinowich had pointed Akhnetzov toward the marinas-his emergency back channel-instead of just giving Akhnetzov one of the dummy Gmail addresses that were his normal contact points. Rabinowich had done it to get his attention. Something was up all right. But why? Ukraine seemed out of the way, a minor regional dispute. Why would someone high up be so anxious for him to go in?

“I could use a few things,” he said.

Shaefer nodded. Scorpion told him what he wanted, and Shaefer nodded again.

“One thing still bothers me. Why me?”

“You have to remember, they’re Eastern Europeans.”

“Meaning paranoid?”

“Wait till you have to live here like I do. If they were a whole lot more trusting, they’d be paranoid.”

“Sounds like they wanted someone independent,” Scorpion said. “Someone who could play both sides. Especially if the CIA is involved.” After a moment he added, “So are we?”

“What a dirty little mind you have.” Shaefer grinned.

“It’s a dirty little world.”

A young Romanian couple got up and walked past their table. For a moment the two men fell silent. They waited till the couple went out into the night.

“Akhnetzov says Russia will invade if anything happens to this politician, Cherkesov,” Scorpion said.

“Does he?” Shaefer said. “Who’s feeding him this stuff?”

“He says SVR.”

“Did he tell you who his contact is?”

“Somebody named Gabrilov, Oleg Gabrilov. Cultural attache at-”

“I know who he is.” Shaefer made a face. “Gabrilov is SVR, all right; Directorate S for Kiev.”

“Akhnetzov says it could mean war. Lot of saber rattling going on.”