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MOSCOW, RUSSIA
SHVETS anxiously checked his watch. They'd been in there for more than an hour, and each passing tick of the clock only added to his apprehension. For starters, he didn't like sitting in the waiting room of Director Primakov's office on the top floor of SVR headquarters. Any trip to these lofty heights would test a man's nerves, but considering the events of the past few days, Shvets worried that he might be leaving the building in shackles. He doubted that Primakov knew about the missing money, or the other mistakes that were piling up. The SVR was an entrenched organization with thousands of operations, and Ivanov was regarded as a daring man who knew when to be ruthless and when to smile, and in the years between Stalin's violent mood swings and the collapse of the CCCP, that would have been more than enough. Now, he wasn't so sure.
This was a brave new world. The money grab was in full swing. Oligarchs were popping up and riding the wave of decentralization, but not without problems. The peasants were growing dissatisfied with what they saw as unbridled greed and corruption, and the one thing every Muscovite feared more than even a tyrant like Stalin was the rage of the mob. The mob was like some ancient god who needed regular sacrifices. The men in charge knew that, and in order to satisfy that mob and keep it from bubbling over into the streets, they would look for a few bodies to throw them. One or two public executions would go a long way toward calming the hordes.
It was Shvets's plan. After he'd forced some real food into Ivanov's gullet the previous afternoon, he began to sketch out their strategy. It would be centered on Primakov's distrust of Islamic Jihad and its sister organizations. The missing funds would be laid at their feet, along with the assassination of the banker. As Ivanov's devious brain began to work, he hit upon the idea of blaming them for Hamdi Sharif's murder as well. Shvets wasn't so sure. He was from the new generation. Ivanov was from the old, whose motto was, If you are going to lie, lie big.
The tricky part was this agent they were offering up. They had confirmed through one of their sources inside the CIA that
Mark Cummins did in fact exist and that he had worked in Moscow before being stationed in Damascus. If Ivanov could deliver someone like that, Primakov might be willing to forget the missing funds. The only problem was coming up with the money to pay off the Palestinians. Ivanov would have to convince Primakov to give him the funds necessary to complete the transaction.
And then this morning Sayyed called and things became infinitely more interesting. He explained that he was now in possession of two more Americans, who had been sent to try to buy the release of Agent Cummins. One of the men was nothing more than an underling, but the other was the catch of a lifetime. When pressed, Sayyed refused to give details, saying he would only discuss the matter in person, when they arrived in Beirut. Still, there was no mention of Dorfman and the missing money.
Sayyed's continued silence over the missing funds had caused Ivanov to rethink the issue. What if Islamic Jihad and Fatah no longer feared him? What if they thought Russia too disorganized to care? There had been plenty of heated feuds between the various Palestinian factions over the years, and Sayyed was the man who had profited the most by peddling arms to all sides. What if that thug Mughniyah had decided to take what he wanted? Kill Dorfman, take all the money, solidify his position, and thumb his nose at Ivanov?
That thought had caused Ivanov to reach for the vodka, but Shvets had stopped him. He was scheduled to meet with Primakov in less than an hour, and he needed to be sober. The problem had become clear to Shvets as well. Why else would Sayyed stay quiet over the missing funds? If his money was gone as well, he would be demanding answers. The only logical reason for his silence was that they had taken the money and they were daring Ivanov to bring it up.
Ivanov had to assume they had every last shred of damning information that Dorfman had kept. All of the various accounts, and how Ivanov had bilked his own government out of millions on the arms shipments by playing the middleman with Sayyed. That information alone could sink him. Ivanov's hands were tied, at least for now. That was how Shvets had counseled him. Go along with this ruse. Go to Beirut and look the liars in their eyes, and then ask them where the money had gone. Bring a show of force that will make them think twice about stealing from you.
Ivanov liked the idea. As he walked into Primakov's office he turned and told Shvets to wait outside. Shvets knew his boss too well to think he was anything other than a duplicitous snake. As he nervously checked his watch, the minutes ticking by, he figured out what Ivanov was up to. He was in there right now, blaming him for the missing funds. He'd probably already ordered someone to begin creating a false trail between him and Dorfman. That way, when it really did blow up, Ivanov could step back and blame his inept deputy Shvets. Shvets didn't know if he was more upset with Ivanov or with himself for not seeing it sooner. He should have left him in bed and gone to Primakov and taken his chances.
When the door finally opened, Ivanov appeared with a stoic look on his face. He never broke stride as he headed for the elevator. As he walked past his deputy he snapped his fingers for him to follow. Shvets hopped to his feet and buttoned his jacket, hustling to catch up.
Once in the elevator, Shvets asked, "Well?"
"It was good. He understands what must be done."
Shvets started to ask another question, but Ivanov shook his head in a very curt way that told him this was not the place to talk. When they entered Ivanov's office less than a minute later, the director of Directorate S went straight for the vodka. Shvets did not try to stop him this time. It was approaching midafternoon, and he took it as a victory that he'd kept him sober this long. He waited for his boss to consume a few ounces.
When Ivanov looked relaxed enough, Shvets asked, "What did he say?"
Ivanov yanked at his tie. "He sees things our way. He knows the true character of those Palestinian carpet monkeys."
Shvets was used to his boss uttering racist slurs, so he paid them little attention. He also knew that his boss was paranoid enough in general, but especially today. He was worried his office was bugged. "So what is the plan?"
"We leave in the morning."
"Alone?" Shvets asked, honestly scared.
"No." Ivanov had a huge grin. "The director has been quite generous. He is sending along some Spetsnaz. One of the crack Vympel units."
Shvets wasn't sure if that was good or bad news. The Vympel units specialized in assassination and sabotage, among other things. "Why a Vympel unit?"
"Because he's sending us with cash."
"How much?"
Ivanov smiled and held up five fingers.
"Really?" Shvets's surprise was evident on his face.
"Don't be so shocked. I have no doubt it will be counterfeit. Probably being printed as we speak."
Shvets had heard rumors about the old KGB printing presses that could turn out francs, deutsche marks, pounds, and dollars on demand. "Will they be able to tell?"
"If the Americans can't tell, how will the Palestinians be able to tell?"
Shvets wasn't so sure but he went along with it.
