Though he stood six-feet tall, people sometimes said he bore a similarity to the much shorter Vladimir Lenin—also of Kalmyk descent.
Lenin had died at fifty-three. Tretyakov was now fifty-two and had no plans to follow the great revolutionary leader and founder of the Soviet Union in an untimely demise. He had many more years of useful service to render to his country.
Throughout his career he’d been an adept recruiter and runner of spies, but he had made his true mark in the realm of subversion, sabotage, and special operations.
The son of an accomplished father who had taught applied mathematics at Moscow State University and a mother who had taught piano at the Moscow Conservatory, he had been a child prodigy. He was skilled in both mathematics and music, but had had no desire to follow either path.
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.