Arctic Storm Rising Dale Brown (literature books to read TXT) 📖

Murphy sighed. “And all of the State Department’s efforts to persuade the Russians to step back from the brink of open hostilitieshave been rebuffed so far. So have the president’s own personal attempts to reach out to Zhdanov.”

“Is this heading where I think it is?” Reynolds asked, keeping her voice even lower.

The DNI nodded again. “The president’s decided to meet the financial demands made by this would-be defector and his backers.”He shrugged. “In the circumstances, he’s willing to take the chance that we might be dealing with some very unsavory characters.”

“If it means avoiding war, funneling money to criminals might not seem so bad,” Reynolds agreed.

“Exactly,” Murphy said. “Anyway, as far as the president is concerned, the sooner that stealth bomber is firmly in our hands,the better. Once that happens, Zhdanov will have to come to terms and negotiate for its return.” He smiled tightly. “Whichwe will gladly do . . . once our technical experts have finished studying its avionics and other systems.”

She eyed him closely. “So you want me to . . .” she said slowly, drawing it out. Like his boss, Murphy was a politician first.In the past, CIA officers had gotten into a lot of trouble for acting on the basis of winks and nods from occupants of theOval Office and their subordinates—only to have the ground cut out from under their feet when things went sour.

“Signal our agreement by encrypted email through that secret server of yours,” he confirmed, with a crooked grin of his ownthat told her he knew exactly what she was doing. “Treasury officials are already transferring the necessary funds, threebillion dollars, to your agency’s ‘black accounts.’ Now we just need you to let Petrov’s backers know that they’ve won.”

Thirty

Aboard the Megayacht Polyarnaya Zvezda, off the Island of Ischia, Italy

A Short Time Later

Not far from Naples, a sleek, hundred-meter-long ship rode at anchor off the volcanic island of Ischia. Though it was as largeas a naval frigate, the vessel’s big, gleaming windows, luxurious fittings, swimming pool, and aft helicopter pad marked itas a rich man’s plaything.

High up on the megayacht’s top deck, Dmitri Grishin stood at a railing. Through half-closed eyes, the Russian oligarch surveyedthe glittering, moonlit waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Streetlamps illuminated the faded stucco facades of the restaurants,shops, and hotels that lined Ischia’s beaches and small harbor. He rolled his shoulders, in an effort to ease some of thetension eating away at him from the inside.

Abruptly, he turned as he heard quiet footsteps behind him.

It was Pavel Voronin. In a concession to the Mediterranean fall climate and his employer’s desire for discretion, he’d traded in his usual tailored business suits for an open-necked shirt, blazer, and khaki slacks. He’d flown in from Moscow the day before, and as far as Grishin’s family and the ship’s crew were concerned, the younger man was just another of the junior corporate executives the oligarch sometimes rewarded with brief stays on his yacht.

“Well?” Grishin asked.

“They’ve met our price,” Voronin told him with a slight smile. “I just confirmed it with our financial networks. All the requiredfunds have been securely transferred.”

Grishin breathed out in relief. “Who met our demands? Moscow or Washington?”

“Both of them,” Voronin said, smiling more broadly now.

For a moment, the oligarch stared at him in astonishment, taken completely by surprise. But then a sly, triumphant grin spreadslowly across his own face. This was beyond his wildest and most optimistic expectations. In the blink of an eye, the operationhe’d dubbed Vanishing Act had just netted him close to six billion U.S. dollars. True, on paper, that was still less thanhis publicly declared net worth. But until now, most of his nominal fortune had consisted of hard assets—of factories, mines,oil and gas wells, ships, and fleets of trucks and railcars. Unfortunately, in Piotr Zhdanov’s Russia, tangible possessionsand investments were not real wealth. They were only hostages: hostages to a government that could seize them by decree, eitheron a whim or to appease an angry mob looking for scapegoats for their country’s increasingly dire economic conditions. UnderMoscow’s despotic and unpredictable rule, today’s billionaire could all too easily become tomorrow’s imprisoned pauper.

But now, Grishin thought with growing delight, he’d broken free. Close to six billion dollars, sheltered in an impenetrable web of dozens of secret accounts, represented both security and continued power and influence for himself and for his family. Even if Zhdanov tried to throw him to the wolves, he would fail. Grishin could safely ride out the coming economic and political storm abroad—biding his time until the moment arrived to choose the next winner in Russia’s ongoing cycle of internecine power struggles.

Jubilantly, he clapped Voronin on the shoulder. “Well done, Pavel!” He chuckled out loud. “Now you’re a rich man, too!”

Voronin had been promised a 1 percent share for his work in coordinating and orchestrating Vanishing Act. Perhaps such a sumwas not true wealth when compared to that possessed by his employer, but it was a fortune nonetheless and ample reward forhis labors, Grishin believed. Somewhat smaller shares had been promised to Bondarovich and the other ex-Spetsnaz soldiersVoronin had hired for the real dirty work. More, naturally, had been promised to Colonel Alexei Petrov for his part in theconspiracy.

“Which nation’s payment will we honor?” Voronin asked dryly. “After all, I need to let Petrov know in which direction thebomber should fly—once the winds ease up enough for it to take off again.”

Grishin shrugged. “Tell him to return the PAK-DA prototype to our own country, of course.” He turned back to the rail andlooked out across the water again. “I’m willing to bleed Zhdanov and his cronies, but I’m no traitor. Not to the Motherland.”He glanced at the younger man. “The Americans were dupes, leverage to use against Moscow—never anything more.”

“Naturally,” Voronin agreed.

Grishin eyed him. “Once the stealth bomber takes off, are your men ready to clear off themselves?”

The other man nodded. “Bondarovich and the others have their orders. They’ll head for the Canadian border by snowmobile, whereI have a bush plane waiting to