EndWar

Viktoria Antsyforov was a colleague of Doletskaya’s at the GRU, a woman who had recently proven her mettle by helping him coordinate several attacks on selected EF targets. She had worked her way up through the ranks, an impressive accomplishment and evidence of the more progressive policies instituted by the GRU. The first time they had met, she had been quick to point out that Russian women had made major contributions to the defense of the Motherland.

The 1st Russian Women’s Battalion of Death had formed during World War I, and while they’d never officially been part of the Motherland’s other armies, their victories had been well documented. She had gone on to give him a history lesson that had proven quite fascinating.

Rumor had it that Antsyforov was an excellent marksman and that she had excelled in all of her martial arts training. Doletskaya hadn’t taken much more time to do research into her background — that was, until she had invited him to dinner to discuss a few ideas.

And so he had learned that at thirty-six she had never been married, had a brother in the navy, and dedicated some of her free time to environmental causes. She also donated a lot of money to charities, particularly those that helped victims of radiation poisoning and those focusing on cancer research.

“You’re still looking at me like something is wrong,” she said.

“Nothing. I’m sorry.” He’d lied. He was having painfully wrong thoughts about her.

The waiter arrived. They ordered vodka, appetizers, and lit up cigarettes.

He glanced around. She certainly knew how to pick a restaurant. The place was called Kupol, owned by the family of world-famous chef Anatoly Komm. The dining area offered a spectacular view of the Moscow river.

“I’ve never been here.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Even better when you’re not picking up the check.”

She laughed. “It’s okay. I thought if I bought you a nice dinner, you might want to jump into bed with me.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, grinning himself.

“But your wife would not approve.”

He shook his head. “Colonel, I’m in a good mood. And I’m going to let your little joke go unnoticed. I want to thank you for bringing me here. I suspect we will have a magnificent meal.”

Her expression grew more serious. “Yes, we will.”

They made small talk, drank some more, and ate like a king and queen. Not once did she mention any of her “ideas,” and toward the end of the meal, Doletskaya, tipsy as he was, blurted out, “So was this a plan to seize my body… or my mind?”

“Maybe a little of both.” She lowered her voice, leaned forward, and in a few carefully chosen sentences, unfolded a plan that left Doletskaya beaming.

She had taken the obvious, exploited it, turned it around, and made it all seem new again. Step by step she covered the details, as he did, trying to shoot holes in her assertions, but she countered his every attempt.

“I’m sure the Americans have considered this,” he told her.

“Which is why I’ve worked their expectations into our plan. Pavel, a battle plan is like a narrative, a story that must be carefully constructed, familiar yet surprising.”

“A story?”

“Yes. All stories are about desire.”

When the word came out of her mouth, Doletskaya gasped. “Go on…”

“Our desire is to overcome the obstacles.”

“And reach the goal,” he concluded.

She nodded slowly. “But not before the climax.”

“What is Operation 2659? Who is Snegurochka?”

Suddenly, Major Alice Dennison was now sitting at the table with them, demanding that Antsyforov tell her what she wanted to know.

“Please, Major,” said Antsyforov. “We haven’t even had dessert yet. I understand the ice cream here is incredible. You like ice cream, don’t you?”

Dennison, an XO in the JSF and a woman almost always under complete control, would not do what she did. At least Doletskaya thought so. But this was his imagination, and he could imagine her doing anything he wanted.

So she lifted up the table, throwing everything onto the floor with a horrible crash and drawing the stares of everyone in the restaurant.

As a team of waiters came rushing over, she screamed at Doletskaya, “What is Operation 2659? Who is Snegurochka?”

He and Antsyforov exchanged a knowing grin.

And when Doletskaya opened his eyes, he was sitting in a chair and staring into the beefy, bearded face of one of his interrogators, who asked again, “What is Operation 2659? Who is Snegurochka?”

SEVEN

President of the United States David Becerra, fifty-six and the first Hispanic chief executive, was seated aboard Air Force One flying on a southwesterly heading at 38,500 feet above the Atlantic Ocean.

Recent news had left him with pain behind his eyes and a pit in his stomach; it seemed unlikely those discomforts would dissipate any time soon.

He was on a conference video call with Europe. The screens before him displayed European Federation President Nathalie Perreau, Enforcers Corps General Amadou de Bankolé, and Enforcers Corps Executive Officer Capitaine Ilaria Cimino.