Shadow War (23 page)

The Wolf stood outside the smoking building, staring at the back end of the garbage truck, the only part not buried in the wall. There were policemen on the scene, but they seemed mostly intent on extricating the stolen city property and getting it back on duty.

It's a tank,
he thought, as he stared at the hard metal frame.

“It's a miracle no one was killed,” an older man was saying.

It's not a miracle,
the Wolf thought.
It was intentional.

Eight wounded, none dead. It would have been easier to wipe them out. One incendiary device, fired or planted. Boom. Nothing. No worries, no risk. Killing people was the simplest act in modern warfare, if you simply wanted them dead. That was why the world had spent the last hundred years figuring out how to make better munitions. No, this was specialized, like a laser-guided missile.

“They were pro-Russians,” the old man is saying. “They were wearing separatist uniforms.”

Unlikely,
the Wolf thought. This was a professional team. The combination of brutality and precision. The spectacle of the garbage truck and the staged “clumsiness” of the shooting. They missed from point-blank range! No, they didn't. This was a message.

Or a distraction.

“Why here?” the old man was lamenting to no one in partic
ular, or maybe to the Wolf, who wouldn't even turn toward him. “Why in my building?”

Good question, old man,
the Wolf thought.

He walked around the side of the building. Witnesses had seen six men run this way. They had been wearing gas masks, the old-fashioned Soviet kind with the greenish-brown face cover and the alien-like breathing hose. Masks that could be sourced locally, and were ghoulish enough to distract from any other details.

Maybe they were separatists. Maybe. But he didn't know anyone else at his level working the area.

He thought of the Ukrainian. Maltov. He had tracked the man to Kramatorsk, where his henchmen had dropped him off for the night. Somehow, he had slipped out during the night. The safe house turned out to be his mother's apartment. Nice lady. Excellent blinis. Far too trusting for this day and age.

Karpenko was here, and so was his hired team. There were too many coincidences to think otherwise. But why? What was their objective in this nothing town?

The Wolf walked the side street, checking the surroundings. He walked to the front of the building. A gas facility was five hundred meters away, its pipework visible behind the surrounding walls and two low houses. The guards were wearing militia uniforms, but the Wolf knew them immediately for Russian Spetsnaz. He had worked with them for decades, all the way back to Afghanistan. They had stormed the Crimean parliament, in a similar disguise. They were the tip of the spear. The pressure point . . .

“Americain?” he heard someone say.

“No, no.” It was the same old man, muttering, still in his pajama bottoms, the Wolf noticed, at four in the afternoon.

“Americain?” the foreign woman said, turning to him and holding out her phone for him to see.

“Shit,” I said, as I watched the surveillance feed of the crowd outside the club.

“What?” Miles said, appearing at my shoulder.

In America, there would have been a crowd of news crews and gawkers. Here, two months into the street fighting, there was already a weary acceptance. If the insurrection lasted another year, this kind of tragedy would be so commonplace, even this sparse crowd wouldn't bother.

I pointed to Alie.

“An American.” Miles said, leaning in. “What's she doing? Charro, can we get a closer look?”

The camera zoomed in, but I didn't need to see what was on her cell phone. I knew it had something to do with me. Why else would she be in Kramatorsk?

“She's looking for me,” I said.

Miles looked up, confused. I could tell he was trying to put this together.

“You know this woman,” Karpenko said. It didn't sound like a question. For a boss, he had a way of slipping into the edges of conversations. Dangerous.

“From an old job,” I muttered, glancing at Miles, wondering if he remembered her from Burundi. It had been ten years, after all. “I ran into her in Kiev four days ago. She knows what I do.”

“How does she know you're here?”

Exactly what I was wondering. “I don't know,” I admitted, “but I think we need to find out.”

Miles was shaking his head no. I tried to turn away, but he pulled me aside. “Is that who I think it is?” he hissed. “The white girl from Burundi?”

“Half white,” I said.

“The one you risked everything for at Gatumba?” I knew by
everything
, he really meant everything: the mission, the country, thousands of lives, his respect. He hadn't forgotten.

“She's a reporter,” I said. “We can't leave her on the street.”

“She's an emotional attachment,” he snapped. “You have to let her go. We've already risked too much.”

He was right. The operation at the club looked like a success, at least in terms of spooking the local thugs back into their holes. But if it brought too much attention, if it spiraled into other loose ends I needed to tie up . . .

“Mission focus,” Miles said, his arm on my shoulder, his head close so no one else could hear. “I don't care about your past. That's over. You know that.”

It should have been over. I promise, Miles, I thought it was.

“She's smart, Miles. She's making noise. She knows I can't have my picture shown around.”

“Ten hours,” he said. “And we're done. We're out of here.”

But it wasn't done. And I wasn't out.

“Actioning her isn't personal,” I said.

“It isn't professional,” Miles countered with bite. “We're warriors, Locke. We're here for a mission. We don't do damsels in distress.”

She wasn't a damsel, I wanted to say. And she wasn't in distress.

“I determine the mission parameters,” I said, turning to the computer monitor to let him know this discussion was over. Miles was my NCO, my second, but I was still the unit commander.

Miles didn't like it, but he took it. Like a professional. I almost turned to say something to him, to say I appreciated his support and his trust, not in a dickish way, but sincerely, because it really did mean everything to me.

But I didn't. I let it go. I leaned in toward the monitor, watching my old love show her cell phone to a stream of Ukrainian men.
Are you thinking about opsec, Locke?
I asked myself.
Is this about maintaining secrecy?

Or is it about Alie?

The Wolf stepped into the shadows, where he could keep an eye on the attractive American without being seen. You never knew, after all, who was watching. He took out his cell phone. One of his Chechens answered.

“He is here. Yes. Karpenko. Kramatorsk. It's a town. No. With a gas facility.” The Wolf looked at his watch, a Soviet military model he had been wearing since Afghanistan. It was 1923. “Yes. Fine. The whole million. For as many as you can bring, but only if you can get them here by midnight.”

The Wolf hung up. He would give the Chechens the entire FSB million-dollar bounty on Karpenko's head, assuming the oligarch was actually in Kramatorsk. Karpenko didn't concern him, as long as it got the Chechen hunter-killers here.

He wanted the American special forces team, the one that had outmanuevered him in Poltava. He wanted the reward for them, and for proof of an American invasion, and knew it could set him up for life.

And revenge? Well . . . there was nothing wrong with that, either. Once a mercenary reached the age of the Wolf, everything felt like revenge for something.

Now this is a room,
Brad Winters thought, as he eased into a large leather chair next to a massive fireplace mantel, probably Renaissance Venetian. Across from him was a huge carved desk from the 1700s with the ancient crest of England carved into its front. An old-fashioned brown globe in a ponderous metal stand sat nearby. The walls were dark red silk damask, with old paintings hung by wire from the ornate crown molding. The ceiling was coffered, with gold leaf detailing; palatial Persian carpets overlapped to cover the floor. The leather club couch was so deep you could knife a wayward assistant (or willing secretary) without disturbing the adjacent office.

The building, like the Special Forces Club, was a row house, but not the American kind, a hundred years old and built for the upper middle class. In the London neighborhood of Belgravia, the stone buildings were three hundred years old and built by those in the process of conquering the world. Nothing in the New World could compare. This, after all, was the real thing: the seat of Empire. It was what the inhabitants of Washington, DC, aspire to, and what New York hedge fund managers had never understood. To them, the world was now. How can I make unfathomable money, and spend unfathomable money, before I die? In America, three months was a window.

For these men, three decades was a first step. They were connected to power, and wielded power, in ways Winters could
only imagine. Their bank was not listed in any phone directory; it's true holdings not recorded in any database. Most of its clients' wealth was older than the desk. If you worked here, you thought in generations and centuries, not quarterly reports.

He had stepped out of the gutter, Winters felt, when he started to think that way, too. But he had no illusions. He was little more than a curiosity here, an ambitious nouveaux man on the rise. Still . . . he was here.

“Mr. Winters,” a man said, extending his hand as he entered the room.

“Mr. Cavendish,” Winters said. The great irony, he supposed, was that Eastern European oligarchs, who made American hedge fund managers seem like long-term thinkers, were now these bankers' richest clients, because they were now the richest men in England. It was through Karpenko, in fact, that Winters had entered their circle, albeit on the fringe. That was how he knew Ukraine mattered: because these men cared.

“My associates,” Cavendish said.

Winters shook hands with the other two men. One was classically British, Sir Hyphen-Something, no doubt followed by a string of letters for arcane knighthoods. The other was Indian subcontinent by race, English by every other measure. No doubt his ancestors had been among the collaborators who made the Empire possible. Despite his dark skin, he was as British as Cavendish, from his facial expressions to his pointy shoes.

The last man in the group, who didn't seek or receive a handshake, was younger than the others, but impeccably groomed and attired. No doubt he was next in a line of private bankers that stretched back to the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and forward as far as London's existence. He took a seat in the back. He was empty-handed, without a pad of paper or cell phone. Win
ters hadn't noticed electronics anywhere, even though he knew this bank was connected.

“Have you given up on North Africa?” Cavendish asked.

“Temporarily.”

“Why?”

Winters shifted, already off guard. How did the bankers know about his North African operation? “There's more opportunity in Eastern Europe,” he said.

“I doubt that.”

“A better opportunity, anyway. For me. And you.” He had to be careful here.

Cavendish turned and walked past the large brown globe to his desk. Winters could taste the skepticism, but then again, it could have been the British mannerisms. These men had a way of looking down their noses at everything, including their own noses. He wouldn't have brought his partners, Winters assured himself, if he wasn't interested.

“I know you have interests in Ukraine,” Winters said.

“We have interests everywhere.”

“Yes, but Ukraine is special. There's enough shale gas there to power Europe until Putin retires, and enough infrastructure to get it here within six months.” It wasn't the right word, men like Putin never
retired
, but he had shied away from
expires
. Look how long Castro had held on. Putin would outlive Sir Hyphen for sure, and probably a few others.

The bankers weren't impressed. They hadn't agreed to meet him for his philosophy. It was time to be American.

“I know you secretly backed the Nabucco pipeline,” Winters said, shifting into direct mode. “It was a smart idea. Bring gas directly from Turkey into Europe, castrating Gazprom and dimming Russia's influence. I know that, in retaliation, Putin began a pipeline of his own, South Stream, from Russia through the
Black Sea. It was an old-fashioned arms race, with pipes instead of nukes, and it killed Nabucco. You took a haircut. A big one. Do you know why he did it?”

Nothing.

“Because he could.”

Cavendish breathed deeply. Or maybe he just breathed. “Your point, sir.”

“I can change the dynamic. I can put Putin on his heels, and Europe in the driver's seat.” He was mixing metaphors, losing his edge.
Jesus, Brad, get a hold of yourself.
“But it's more than that,” he said, moving quickly past the momentary stumble. “It's more than business deals or a few billion dollars.” Let them chew that number. “It's victory, gentlemen. I'm talking about taking Russia off the world stage and snuffing out its last chance to rival the West. The end of an era.” He glanced around the room for effect. “The end of an enemy.”

The bankers stared at him in silence, but Cavendish must have signaled for the meeting to proceed, because after a few seconds the younger man rose from his seat and walked to the credenza, where an ornate crystal decanter of Scotch was perfectly positioned on a silver tray. He poured four glasses, and added a few drops of water to each. Winters took his with a nod. Nobody else acknowledged the young man's existence.

“Tell us,” Cavendish said.

It was a blunt statement, but Winters could read the significance.
We are listening.
These men knew war. They had profited off everything from the Boer War to Afghanistan. He wouldn't be surprised if they had backed the winners at the Battle of Hastings. But they rarely started wars; they finished them. That was why they endured. He was going to have to make them stretch.

“We have the power, gentlemen,” Winters said. “The West is distracted by the Arabs, and our citizens are tired, but Russia is
worse. It is hollow. Their economy is one-dimensional, dependent on oil and gas, and any rupture—supply, transport, price drops—will cripple them. Their military has spent a decade feasting on children—Georgia, Chechnya, Azerbijan—to hide its inadequacy, but their officer corps is thin and their soldiers poorly trained. They couldn't even control a third-tier shithole like Georgia without the help of mercenaries.”

“And America couldn't control a second-tier shithole like Iraq, even with mercenaries,” Sir Hyphen huffed, but for business purposes—the business purposes only—Winters let it slide.

“They are a paper tiger, gentleman, fatally flawed on two fronts. All we need is a spark, and they will go up in flames.”

“And the invasion of Ukraine is that spark,” Cavendish said, in the dry British way that made it impossible to tell questions from answers.

“My firm has three hundred top military professionals operating in the Balkans. I've trained hundreds of fighters in the region. Within three months, I could have an army of thousands, well trained, heavily armed, and under elite command. And that doesn't include the official Ukrainian army. With minimal effort, we could hold Russia in a stalemate for years. That's not an opinion. That's a fact. But why settle for that? It gains us little. Why not destroy them instead?”

“How?”

“First, we break their military in Ukraine. It is easier than you imagine, and more effective than you might think. Putin has wrapped Russia in the symbolism of strength. A proud nation resurgent, a northern bear reborn. When we shatter that image, we shatter the people's faith. Then we break them economically.”

“With oil.”

Winters nodded. “Once we roll back the Russians, I will in
stall my own man as the Ukrainian Minister of Energy. We will control their shale gas reserve in the East, which only the violence has kept Shell from exploiting. We will control the pipelines between Putin and the West. Ukraine has enough untapped natural gas reserves to become Europe's main supplier of energy within two years. That will make you powerful, gentlemen. And better, it will make Putin poor.”

“It could also cause a devastating spike in energy prices,” Sir Hyphen said with unprofessional fluster. He was probably a legacy. “Just the threat of all-out war could cause a market panic that could crater the world economy.”

“That's the fear Putin counts on,” Winters said calmly. “It's his currency of power. But the window here is small: only two years before the East—
our
East—is pumping enough oil to make Gazprom dispensable. There is easily enough oil output amongst our other suppliers: Norway, Venezuela, Nigeria, Saudi Arabia . . .”

“The Saudis hate Putin,” Cavendish said thoughtfully, “because Putin is propping up Syria and Iran.”

“Exactly. It's to the Saudis' advantage to fill the supply gap. And you have the contacts”—Winters glanced quickly from man to man—“to show them why.”

Cavendish nodded. Winters was coming to them with a different kind of proposal: a request to use their influence, instead of their cash. At least, Winters assumed it was a new kind of proposal, because it was unlike any he had made before.

“This all hinges on your man in Ukraine,” the Indian said languidly, speaking for the first time.

Exactly, Winters thought, hoping the change of direction meant they had bought the oil argument. “As you probably know,” he said, “I have been grooming Kostyantyn Karpenko for some time.”

The Indian sipped his Scotch, as if he'd never heard the name. But these men not only knew Karpenko, they owned him, or at least the part of him not currently listed on the London Stock Exchange. Karpenko had told Winters as much.

“You are invested in him, I believe, to the tune of a billion or more. So am I, but in sweat equity and personal reputation. Right now, in fact, his future is in my hands. Which practically makes us partners.”

The Indian scowled, and Winters regretted his flippancy.

“Tomorrow morning, Karpenko will lead an assault on a Russian army unit that has taken over a strategic natural gas facility in the city of Kramatorsk. Karpenko's forces are Ukrainian patriots, all men who have volunteered, a citizen army . . . with a bit of professional help, of course. It will be a small battle, but an enormous symbol. These are Russian troops, threatening a major energy hub, a hundred miles from the Russian border. When Karpenko climbs on a troop carrier to proclaim his victory, he will show the world not just proof of an invasion, but his personal resolve to fight for Ukrainian freedom. This will be his Yeltsin moment.”

“You have press, I assume?”

“Two helicopters, thirty passengers each. Reporters, photographers, video, Internet and traditional outlets, from Europe and the United States. We will manufacture a CNN effect, and drive the news cycle until it gets enough airlift. After Kramatorsk, it is a short drive to the next pipeline trunk station, and an even shorter one to the next. Within a week, Karpenko will become a national hero, my army will make sure of that.”

“And then?”

“Ukraine will rally to him, and so will the West.”

Another long pause. The Brits were masters of feigned disinterest. “The Americans will never go for it,” Cavendish said.

“Do you think I would come,” Winters said slowly, “if I didn't have that angle covered?”

He saw Sir Hyphen squirm. Was he impressing them, or had he gone too far? The only way to find out was to plunge on.

“If you've seen the news from our Congress, you know the United States is looking for a point of entry”—this wasn't true, they were looking for a way out, but there were layers under the administration with more insight and courage. “The congressional resolution in support of Ukraine introduced this week; the war hawks on the talk circuit. Freedom gas. The timing is not an accident. There are many who agree with my plan, even if they don't know the details, and we have been carefully amplifying their voices. Karpenko's triumph will prove they were right to demand action, and give them a way to respond.”

“Obama will never agree to military action.”

“He doesn't have to. I have Houston, gentleman. I have the Pentagon and cover in Congress. I have five current contracts with the United States government that can be rolled into a private military offensive under Ukrainian army cover. All Obama has to do is stand aside and let me work, and he will, because he always avoids hard choices, and that is the easiest choice.”

In the silence, Winters realized he was leaning forward, and that he'd spoken with more passion than he'd intended. He wanted to say, Fuck it, this was years of work, this is my big chance, I'm not going to come in half-cocked. But instead, he sat back and adjusted his cuffs, to signal his casual reserve.

“You're absolutely right,” Winters said. “The U.S. won't intervene to help us. But they won't stop us either”—as long as we're winning—“not with my business, military, and Congressional coalition. If you can simply rally the EU, publicly or privately . . .”

He left them the opening, but the bankers didn't respond. They could rally the British—they could make the British government do almost anything—but they wouldn't commit. Yet.

“Are you sure Karpenko will do as you ask?” It was the Indian again.