The Judas Project. Don Pendleton
slept in his uniform and probably at attention.
“You know why I asked to meet you?” Berienko asked.
“Only that it had something to do with the Unit.”
“Specifically Black Judas.”
Berienko unbuttoned his coat, reaching inside to take out a thick cigar. The Cuban cigars were probably the only vice Berienko allowed himself. He lit the cigar with a battered old lighter he had carried around with him for years. When he was satisfied the cigar was well lit he turned his attention back to Krushen.
“Someone is trying to infiltrate Black Judas. I want you to find out who and put a stop to it. The last thing we need is some outside party attempting to access the project.”
“Do you know who is behind it?”
Berienko studied the end of his cigar. “I have my suspicions.”
“I would place Federov at the head of any list I had,” Krushen said. “There is more to him than just a watchdog. We know how ambitious he is. He makes no secret of his desire to become even more powerful than he already is.”
“Discretion is required here, Mischa. The Unit might still exist but I have people watching every move I make. You understand the situation as well as I do, Mischa. If Federov could gather enough evidence, he would have us removed. The man is just waiting for his chance.”
Krushen understood that. Karl Federov was in charge of an oversight directorate, charged to monitor sections of the FSB. He was fanatically ambitious, a man who viewed everyone around him as a potential threat to himself and what he wanted. Krushen had run-ins with the man on a regular basis. He found it difficult to hide his contempt for Federov.
“Doesn’t he realize the Unit is still an important asset? That the work we do is for the good of the country?” Krushen shook his head. “I begin to wonder whether Federov is as loyal as he makes out.”
“His loyalty is to himself. Mischa, you must look beyond your mistrust of Federov. The man works for Alekzander Mishkin. Both of us know that Mishkin also has ambitions that go far beyond his present position. He is a minister in the Security Directorate, but he wants more. He has his eye on becoming president one day. Mishkin placed Federov to oversee the FSB so he had eyes and ears there. And the ploy is paying off.
“Look how many have died. The department is culling itself by weeding out those who even hint at any disloyalty toward Mishkin and his cronies. Assassinations. Accidents. Mysterious poisonings. There are times, Mischa, when I wish I was back in Afghanistan fighting those tribesmen. At least that was good, clean combat. You knew who the enemy was then. Now it is like battling in the dark with my hands tied behind my back. I trust no one inside that building,” Berienko said, staring across the square at the monolithic yellow structure, “except you and the Unit. Mischa, we must do what we can to protect Black Judas. I want you to gather your people and look into this. Do whatever it takes. There is no place for being squeamish. Understand what is at stake here. Go where you need to, even America, which may be necessary to protect Black Judas. We need to secure our people there. I will try to find out who is betraying us here in Russia. And who, between Federov and Mishkin, is the greater threat to us.”
“You can rely on me, General.”
“Nothing on paper, Mischa. That is why I suggested this meeting. You can use any of the hidden accounts to fund your operation. Cash money is no problem. I’ll wager that fact hasn’t escaped Federov. That we have secret accounts available. It is well known Federov likes money. So beware. And make deals with only those you can really trust.”
“Contact?”
“Nothing official. My own cell number only. I will call only on your cell. Let us hope no one has discovered those. Keep calls to the minimum. If I discover anything that might assist, I will inform you.” Berienko toyed with his cigar, deep in thought. “The committee is meeting later today. We need to satisfy them we have everything under control. Be there, Mischa, but keep this meeting between ourselves.”
Krushen picked up his cup of coffee. It had started to cool. As he drank, he found himself staring out across the square to Lubyanka. A slight shiver ran through him. He was sure it was only the cold, but for a fleeting moment he felt as if the building was watching him.
He lingered over his coffee, trying to put off the time when he would have to return to his department office and take up his work. His concerns had not been eased by Berienko’s remarks, but there was little he could do about that.
KARL FEDEROV AND his companion were driving alongside the Moscow River, the Ivan the Great Bell Tower and the Kremlin beyond the red brick wall on their left. The river had that gray, choppy look to it that mirrored Federov’s mood. He had picked up Chenin at the last intersection. The man was hunched in the corner of the rear seat as if he were trying to make himself invisible.
“No one can see in through these tinted windows, Yan.”
“So you say.” Chenin stared at the back of the BMW’s driver. “Can he hear what we are saying?”
“I am unlikely to employ a driver who is deaf, dumb and blind, Yan. Of course, he can hear. Now let’s get this done.”
“Krushen met General Berienko this morning at the Loft Café. They spoke for about twenty minutes before Berienko left. They looked as if they were deep in conversation. And Berienko out of uniform is enough to create suspicion. I’m sure this all has to do with them working toward activating their Black Judas project.”
Federov managed a thin smile at that information. “I knew that pair was up to something. Good. Maintain a watch on Krushen. I can keep the general under observation once he is inside the building. Be careful. If Krushen even suspects you are watching him, I’ll be arranging a section funeral for you.”
Chenin’s eyes widened with alarm. “Not exactly the most comforting thing to be telling me.”
“Think of it as your sacrifice for the good of Russia.”
“What about Mishkin?”
“I know his game, Yan. Mishkin has his eye on the premiership. He believes I am obeying his orders to the letter, and so I am. But only part of the truth reaches him. I tell him enough to make it seem he has the upper hand. Do whatever you need to gather information from Krushen.”
They drove to the next intersection and Chenin got out. The moment the door closed, the black BMW glided away.
“Well, Kyril, what do you think our comrade will be doing after that conversation?”
Federov’s driver found it difficult to keep the humor out of his reply. “Hurrying home to change his undershorts I should imagine, Colonel.”
“I believe you may be right, Kyril.”
“Where to now?”
“A slow drive back to Lubyanka. Take your time, Kyril. I’m in no hurry to return to that damn mausoleum. In fact you can drive to Kirov’s apartment. I need to bring him up-to-date.”
LEOPOLD BULANIN REPLACED the receiver, smiling to himself at the conversation he had just had with Mischa Krushen. He reached out and ran a hand across the smooth surface of the digital recorder that monitored every call he received. Bulanin had always believed in insurance, in one form or another. And the digital kind was the most lucrative of all. Of course it might never need to be used, but just in case matters got out of hand, it paid to be prepared.
He had recently accepted a contract from Krushen that required him to provide extra men to keep a check on some people who might pose a threat to the status quo.
Captain Pieter Tchenko was an investigative Moscow cop who had been running an investigation that was getting too close to Krushen and the FSB. Krushen wanted the cop out of the picture in case he started making waves, and he was not overly concerned how the task was done. He also wanted to know if Tchenko had any data that might point fingers at Krushen and his department. Despite