his heels, he trotted down the steps cut into the hillside at the back of the bunker. A stocky, gray-haired man stood at the bottom waiting patiently for him. Like Dudarev, he wore a drab dark overcoat and stood bareheaded in the bitter cold.
The president turned to his aide. “Go ahead and make sure everything is ready for our departure, Piotr. I’ll be along shortly.”
The colonel nodded. He walked away without looking back. Part of his duties included knowing exactly when to vanishand exactly what not to see °r hear.
Dudarev turned back to the gray-haired man. “Well, Alexei?” he asked softly. “Make your report.”
Alexei Ivanov, an old and trusted comrade from the KGB, was now the head of a little-known section in the KGB’s successor, the Federal Security Sen ice, or FSB. On formal organization charts circulated by the Russian government, Ivanov’s department carried the rather boring title of the Special Projects Liaison Office. But insiders called his shadowy domain “The Thirteenth Directorate” and tried very hard to stay out of its way.
“Our friends have signaled that HYDRA is in motionand on schedule,”
he told the Russian president. “The first operational variants are taking effect.”
Dudarev nodded. “Good.” He looked up at the bigger man. “And what of those information leaks you found so troubling?”
Ivanov scowled. “They have been … sealed. Or so it is claimed.”
“You are not sure?” Dudarev asked, raising an eyebrow.
The head of the Thirteenth Directorate shrugged his massive shoulders. “I have no real reason to doubt these reports. But I admit that I do not like this game of working by remote control. It is an imperfect process.” He frowned.
“Perhaps even a dangerous one.”
Dudarev clapped him briskly on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Alexei,” he said.
“The old ways are dead, and we must move with the times. Decentralization and power-sharing are all the rage these days, are they not?” His eyes turned cold. “Besides, HYDRA is a weapon best employed at a safe distance and with total deniability. True?”
Ivanov nodded heavily. “That is true.”
“Then you will continue as planned,” Dudarev told him. “You know the timetable. Keep a wary eye on our friends, if need be. But do not interfere directly unless you have no other choice. Clear?”
“Yes, your orders are clear,” the bigger man agreed reluctantly. “I only hope your faith is justified.”
Amused, the Russian president raised an eyebrow. “Faith?” His lips twitched upward in a brief, icy half-smile. “My dear Alexei, you should know me better than that. I am no true believerin anything or anyone. Faith is for fools and simpletons. The wise man knows that facts and force are what truly govern the world.”
Tbilisi, Georgia
Georgia’s capital lay in a natural amphitheater, surrounded on all sides by high hills topped by ancient fortresses, crumbling monasteries, and dense forests. On a clear day like this one, the far-off snow-capped peaks of the Caucasus Mountains appeared on the northern horizon, standing sharply etched against a pale blue sky-Sarah Rousset, a correspondent for The New York Times, leaned on the railing of the balcony of her top-floor room in the five-star rated Tbilisi Mar-riott. She was only in her mid-thirties, but she had allowed her originally chestnut-colored hair to go mostly gray. Looking older than she really was somehow reassured both senior editors and potential news sources. With one eye shut, she focused through the viewfinder of her digital camera and began snapping pictures of the enormous crowd filling the wide, tree-lined avenue below.
She zoomed in on a diminutive white-haired woman holding a rose-colored banner aloft. Black mourning ribbons fluttered from the staff. Tears trickled unheeded down the woman’s wrinkled face. With one light tap of her finger, Rousset froze the powerful image and stored it in her camera’s memory. That one
The president turned to his aide. “Go ahead and make sure everything is ready for our departure, Piotr. I’ll be along shortly.”
The colonel nodded. He walked away without looking back. Part of his duties included knowing exactly when to vanishand exactly what not to see °r hear.
Dudarev turned back to the gray-haired man. “Well, Alexei?” he asked softly. “Make your report.”
Alexei Ivanov, an old and trusted comrade from the KGB, was now the head of a little-known section in the KGB’s successor, the Federal Security Sen ice, or FSB. On formal organization charts circulated by the Russian government, Ivanov’s department carried the rather boring title of the Special Projects Liaison Office. But insiders called his shadowy domain “The Thirteenth Directorate” and tried very hard to stay out of its way.
“Our friends have signaled that HYDRA is in motionand on schedule,”
he told the Russian president. “The first operational variants are taking effect.”
Dudarev nodded. “Good.” He looked up at the bigger man. “And what of those information leaks you found so troubling?”
Ivanov scowled. “They have been … sealed. Or so it is claimed.”
“You are not sure?” Dudarev asked, raising an eyebrow.
The head of the Thirteenth Directorate shrugged his massive shoulders. “I have no real reason to doubt these reports. But I admit that I do not like this game of working by remote control. It is an imperfect process.” He frowned.
“Perhaps even a dangerous one.”
Dudarev clapped him briskly on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Alexei,” he said.
“The old ways are dead, and we must move with the times. Decentralization and power-sharing are all the rage these days, are they not?” His eyes turned cold. “Besides, HYDRA is a weapon best employed at a safe distance and with total deniability. True?”
Ivanov nodded heavily. “That is true.”
“Then you will continue as planned,” Dudarev told him. “You know the timetable. Keep a wary eye on our friends, if need be. But do not interfere directly unless you have no other choice. Clear?”
“Yes, your orders are clear,” the bigger man agreed reluctantly. “I only hope your faith is justified.”
Amused, the Russian president raised an eyebrow. “Faith?” His lips twitched upward in a brief, icy half-smile. “My dear Alexei, you should know me better than that. I am no true believerin anything or anyone. Faith is for fools and simpletons. The wise man knows that facts and force are what truly govern the world.”
Tbilisi, Georgia
Georgia’s capital lay in a natural amphitheater, surrounded on all sides by high hills topped by ancient fortresses, crumbling monasteries, and dense forests. On a clear day like this one, the far-off snow-capped peaks of the Caucasus Mountains appeared on the northern horizon, standing sharply etched against a pale blue sky-Sarah Rousset, a correspondent for The New York Times, leaned on the railing of the balcony of her top-floor room in the five-star rated Tbilisi Mar-riott. She was only in her mid-thirties, but she had allowed her originally chestnut-colored hair to go mostly gray. Looking older than she really was somehow reassured both senior editors and potential news sources. With one eye shut, she focused through the viewfinder of her digital camera and began snapping pictures of the enormous crowd filling the wide, tree-lined avenue below.
She zoomed in on a diminutive white-haired woman holding a rose-colored banner aloft. Black mourning ribbons fluttered from the staff. Tears trickled unheeded down the woman’s wrinkled face. With one light tap of her finger, Rousset froze the powerful image and stored it in her camera’s memory. That one
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