Oath of Office

America’s Keyhole and other spy satellites would observe troop enhancements and naval buildup, but Yermilov didn’t fret over that. They’d been at this game for years. Yermilov was a better chess player than his predecessors were. He was already two or three moves ahead of Ryan — and with everything going on off the board, the Americans would not even know they were beaten until the game was already over.

“I realize that some of you have concerns,” Yermilov said when General Gulin finished. “But they are, I believe, unfounded. Russia has an inherent right to conduct military exercises as we see fit. They do it. We do it. Everyone is happy. Everyone is prepared. Our Russian brothers and sisters in Ukraine expect us to rescue them from the yoke of oppression. It is our duty, is it not?”

A resounding chorus of “Yes” went around the table.

Admiral Bylinkin of the Black Sea Fleet leaned back, lips pursed, as if he’d eaten a sour lemon.

Yermilov’s gaze settled on the man.

“What is it, my friend? Do you have something else?”

“No, Gospodin President,” the admiral said. “I would only point out—”

“So you do, in fact, have something else to say?” Yermilov interrupted.

The admiral slumped noticeably in his seat. “No, Gospodin President.”

“By all means, continue,” Yermilov said, now that the man was off balance.

“I realize that Ukraine is not a signatory to NATO, but considering President Ryan’s bluster and bravado, he does not seem to know this.”

“Perhaps,” Yermilov said. “Ryan certainly has the will. And he does possess the means, militarily speaking. But I do not believe he will have the time. Events on the world stage are unfolding, even as we speak, that will most certainly render Jack Ryan so busy at home that he will have no time to fret over matters abroad, to worry with a country that is not a member of NATO. His hands are full.” Yermilov smiled broadly, pushing up from the table to signal that the meeting was over. “It will not be long before he has too much to carry.”

* * *

At the far end of the office, seated along the wall instead of at the table, Maksim Dudko tapped a pen against the cover of his leather folio binder. The muscles under his right eye twitched with the anticipation.

You have no idea, my friend, he thought. I will yet be invited on your little fishing trip…

* * *

This conversation was far too sensitive to be held in Elizaveta Bobkova’s embassy office, even in the wee hours of the morning. Too many ears there. Too many spies, doing what spies did best.

Bobkova had worked for Russian intelligence long enough to know that spies did not customarily murder people from the opposing team, certainly not in their home country. Traitors were one thing, but this just did not happen, at least not on purpose. Still, her orders were crystal clear — follow through or be recalled to Moscow. After that? That weasel Maksim Dudko said he was in possession of kompromat—a file of compromising information in the form of photographs, bank accounts, proof that she was padding her pockets like the rest of them were doing. Stowing away a little money wasn’t a crime the president would worry over. However, if such an indiscretion were to leak, Yermilov himself would be embarrassed. In Stalin’s day, disobeying an order — or obeying one and making the boss look bad — meant long and brutal conversations with the NKVD while locked in the dungeons of Lubyanka Prison. After a short but detailed confession admitting to treason, if the bones in your legs were still intact enough to hobble, they marched you through the gates of the Communarka killing grounds. Now such matters in modern Russia were handled with a subtler, though equally brutal, hand.

There was simply no way for her to refuse the order from Dudko, no matter how insane. She would take care of this like the professional she was, and then deal with Dudko when it was over. Two could play the game of kompromat. A man like him stank with the rot of conspiracy. There would be mountains of dirt. The weasel had actually referred to her as Lizon’ka, the more familiar, diminutive form of Elizaveta. Only her grandfather got to call her that.

But to get that far, she could not be caught — and the Americans were very good at catching.

She’d gone for a long run through Glover Park near the embassy as soon as she’d ended her secure video call with Dudko. The run stilled her nerves and allowed her to work through the specifics of a plan — and choose her team.

The meeting tonight had to happen someplace neutral. A hotel she’d never used to meet another operative, or to administer a polygraph to a potential foreign agent. It had to be someplace not frequented by spies — no small task for an area like D.C., where spying was the national pastime.