Oath of Office

As far as Yermilov was concerned, “me” and the Rodina — Mother Russia — were one and the same.

“It is not my place to think of such things,” Dudko stammered, almost hearing the doors to Lefortovo Prison slam shut behind him.

“No,” Yermilov said, offering slightly more shoulder as he walked. “It is not. I will tell you this, though, our Black Sea bots would make short work of Ryan’s reputation. Whether it is us or not, I am more than happy to take advantage of the situation.”

Already drowning, Dudko threw away any flotation he had. “But President Ryan, sir, he already suspects our activities on the Internet.”

Yermilov wagged his head from side to side. “Jack Ryan will do what Jack Ryan will do…”

Had the army of Russian Internet bots, run out of various warehouse locations around the Black Sea, been involved, Yermilov would surely know about it, for there was little that went on inside or outside Russia of which he was not aware.

“Byla ne byla.” Yermilov shrugged. Literally, “there was, there was not,” the proverb more figuratively meant “Let the chips fall where they may.” It was a brash sentiment for the most powerful man in Russian, but had worked well for him up to this point. “Besides, his own citizens are questioning his so-called Ryan Doctrine for what it is — state-sponsored murder.”

They walked slowly along the river, reaching the security men again. Former KGB mongrel that he was, Yermilov was still a political animal. He took a moment to wave at the press before taking back his own fly rod.

“I think there is a fish on there, Gospodin President,” the young security officer said as he handed it off.

“No,” Yermilov said smugly. “I am quite certain there is not.” A moment later he began to fight a fish. “Look,” he said to Dudko, ignoring the security man completely. “I have caught another. Sorry to say it will have to be the last. I have much to take care of.”

“Of course,” Dudko said for at least the hundredth time in the past hour. “That is a nice catch there, sir.”

“You take the fish,” Yermilov said, holding the stringer up and foisting it on his aide so the media could see his generosity as well as his faith in the Moscow River. “You can tell me how they tasted tomorrow.”

“I will make some calls,” Dudko said.

Yermilov leaned away. “To whom?”

“The generals,” Dudko said. “To begin Operation ANIVA.”

Yermilov waved away the thought. “Do not trouble yourself, Maksim Timofeyevich. Colonel Grokin will contact the necessary players.”

“I…” Dudko paused, looking helplessly at the wall of stone that Yermilov’s face had become. He bobbed his head again. “Of course, Gospodin President.”

Dudko’s guts twisted. The muscles in his face began to twitch and he had to move his jaw to make them stop. And just like that, he was on the outside looking in, with that fool Colonel Grokin contacting the necessary players. And now the wily old yes-man would probably get an invitation to go fishing in Irkutsk as well. Dudko had to do something. A grand strategy that would bring him back into good standing. He was good at strategy — a master, really. That’s why Yermilov had kept him around, wasn’t it? He’d had a dry spell. That was all. But what to do now? This thing with the American President had some promise. There were Russian fingerprints all over it, though the Americans who hated Ryan had certainly kept the ball rolling, so to speak. Yes, this might provide a way back into Yermilov’s good graces if Dudko played his hand correctly. By the time they climbed the concrete steps up the Sofiyskaya Embankment to Yermilov’s waiting ZiL, Dudko had begun to see the way before him. The armored sedan was set up in vis-à-vis fashion and he started to climb into the rear-facing seats across from the president.

Yermilov stopped him. “You must take home your catch,” he said. “One of my men will give you a ride.”

Yermilov gave a flick of his hand, like a cavalry officer signaling forward, and the motorcade sped away. Dudko found himself standing on the sidewalk with a plastic bucket full of fish and a lone member of Yermilov’s security team.

“Your residence, Comrade Dudko?” the young man asked.

“Yes, of course,” Dudko mumbled, preoccupied in the fog of his nascent plan that swirled in his head.

This could work. He would make the call as soon as he dropped off the poison fish and returned to his office. One of the benefits of being in the inner circle for so long was that he knew things about people.

Elizaveta Bobkova would not be happy about his proposal. No, she would yowl like a cat over a bathtub, trying everything to scratch and claw her way out. But what could she do? He knew too much about her, and as chief SVR officer of Washington Station, she had far too much to lose.

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