Page 11 of Spymaster

While this was likely due in part to the healthy suspicion endemic in all law enforcement agencies, it was Poland. Only thirty years earlier, it had still been under the yoke of the Soviet police state. Suspicion was woven into the DNA of entire generations of Poles. Patrol officers back then were police academy instructors and even agency commanders now. Echoes of the old days still reverberated across the country.

Not wanting to leave a trail of digital breadcrumbs as they passed from one cell tower to another, the thieves had disassembled their phones and placed them in a signal-blocking pouch. Similarly, they had chosen an older vehicle and had not employed a GPS unit to assist them in their navigation. They had gone “pre-tech.” While the driver drove, the passenger navigated using a red-lensed flashlight and a detailed paper map.

With practiced military experience, the passenger called out upcoming turns and forks in the road, then repeated them for certainty. The driver parroted each direction back.

It took several hours to get to the drop-off location. Once they arrived, the passenger removed a semiautomatic WIST-94 pistol, conducted a press check to confirm a round was chambered, and exited the van.

The night air was cold. The sky was clear and crowded with stars. They were in the countryside. The chilly breeze brought with it the scent of livestock.

After taking a quick look around, the passenger reappeared, and flung open the doors to an old, decrepit barn. The driver advanced the van inside. Waiting for them was a silver Škoda Kodiaq SUV.

After wiping down the van for fingerprints, the driver and passenger unloaded the crates they had stolen from the American soldiers.

The Škoda, seats already folded down, was ready to receive the cargo. As they emptied each crate, they cast it aside.

Once everything was loaded, they covered it with blankets, and the driver pulled the SUV forward, out of the barn. Closing the heavy wooden doors behind him, the passenger got into the vehicle.

“Ready?” the driver asked.

The passenger nodded and, pulling up the onboard GPS, plotted their course for Belarus.

CHAPTER 9

KALININGRAD

Oleg Tretyakov’s cell phone woke him from a sound sleep. Even in the dark, he knew which one it was. He could tell by the ringtone.

Only a handful of people had the number. But no matter who it was, they had bad news. There was no other reason to be calling that phone at this hour. Reaching over, he depressed the power button, thereby declining the call. Instantly, the phone fell silent.

He picked up his watch and looked at the time. It felt as if he had just gone to sleep.

Throwing back the duvet, he got out of bed. The apartment was cold. He put on his robe, picked up his laptop, and headed for the kitchen.

The timer on the coffee machine had been set for 5:00 a.m. Overriding it, he began the brewing now. He wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep. And whatever problem had required waking him in the middle of the night, he wanted to be as sharp as possible for it.

As the coffee machine gurgled to life, he pulled out a stool, sat down, and powered up his computer.

Russia had the largest Internet population in Europe and the sixth largest in the world. With over 109 million users, monitoring people’s every keystroke was virtually impossible. To ferret out dissidents and spot potential trouble, the Russian government used highly sophisticated algorithms to monitor its citizens. The algorithms searched for thousands upon thousands of keywords and phrases. But despite their sophistication, a lot of traffic was swept up that posed no threat to the Russian state.

A colonel in Russia’s vaunted military intelligence unit, the GRU, he knew how to mask his Internet usage. He didn’t have anything to hide from his own government, but operational security was of paramount importance in his business. Spies within the Russian security apparatus were always a possibility, as were hostile foreign nations hacking from the outside.

Via an anonymous portal controlled by his headquarters near Moscow, he logged on to one of his dummy social media accounts. From there, he leapfrogged over to a benign photographer’s profile, scrolled back through the correct number of posts, and “liked” an obscure photo. With that, his contact would know that he had received the phone call and was online.

Tretyakov stroked the manicured beard that covered his lean face. He had prominent cheekbones, dark receding hair, and dark brown, almost black eyes—gifts from his ancestors who had migrated from the Kalmyk Steppe.

Though he stood six-feet tall, people sometimes said he bore a similarity to the much shorter Vladimir Lenin—also of Kalmyk descent.

Lenin had died at fifty-three. Tretyakov was now fifty-two and had no plans to follow the great revolutionary leader and founder of the Soviet Union in an untimely demise. He had many more years of useful service to render to his country.

Throughout his career he’d been an adept recruiter and runner of spies, but he had made his true mark in the realm of subversion, sabotage, and special operations.

The son of an accomplished father who had taught applied mathematics at Moscow State University and a mother who had taught piano at the Moscow Conservatory, he had been a child prodigy. He was skilled in both mathematics and music, but had had no desire to follow either path.

When “spotted” by a university professor paid to be on the lookout for potential GRU recruits, he had jumped at the chance. The idea of being of value to the powerful Russian military appealed to him. Being recruited to work with their famed intelligence unit was beyond any dream he had ever had for himself.

He had visions of fast cars, beautiful women, and James Bond style assignments. The reality couldn’t have been any more different.

His training had been brutal. Not only was it physically demanding, it was also psychologically merciless. The instructors were sadists who took pleasure in abusing the cadets. One cadet ended up hanging himself in the barracks shower and it was Tretyakov who found him.

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