Page 21 of Dead Fall

“Also, a high-profile death makes the conspiracy surrounding the club even more salacious and draws in exponentially more eyeballs. A dead body stinks in more ways than one, and some of that stink risks sticking to members in ways that none of them deserve.”

“So, the Kremlin gets a potential twofer in bumping off Burman. That still doesn’t give us enough proof to make our case.”

“True,” Carolan responded as he turned off the engine and reached into the backseat for his jacket. “For that, we’re going to need to do a little more legwork. Let’s see what the Commodore’s staff can tell us about Burman and what may have happened last night.”

Glad to be getting out of the car and taking some action, Fields was first to open her door and step into the parking lot.

As she did, the heavyset, redheaded man from earlier raised his camera and began snapping more photos.

It was no coincidence that he was there at the same time. Someone had sent him. The question was, who and why?

CHAPTER 6

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

From his polished wingtips to his manicured hands, Leonid Grechko was one of the more interesting men in Russian Intelligence. He was a gentleman’s spy—well-educated, urbane, and a keen observer of human behavior. He was also ruthless.

He had held all of the plumb Western assignments—London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Madrid, and eventually Washington.

Not only could he speak like his counterparts, but he could also think like them, which made him particularly useful to his superiors.

Upon returning to Moscow, he had been summoned to the Director’s office, promoted, and tasked with assembling a department with the goal of conducting a “heart transplant.”

In 1923, Joseph Stalin had established an effort known as the Special Disinformation Office, which eventually became known as the Active Measures Department. His goal was to shape world events via political warfare and it allowed for everything from espionage and propaganda to sabotage, assassination, and beyond.

Active measures were looked upon as an art form. They had been rhapsodized as the heart and soul of Soviet, and then Russian, intelligence. Its foremost practitioners were lavished in espionage circles with the types of praise reserved for poets and composers.

As the masters of these dark arts began to die and fade away after the Cold War, it sent the value of operatives like Leonid Grechko soaring.The Kremlin was willing to make the next stage of his career very worth his while.

He was provided with a generous increase in pay, a substantial budget, and, as he wanted to break from the existing groupthink of the Foreign Intelligence Service, also known as the SVR, he was allowed to set up shop “off campus.”

Grechko chose a narrow, three-story building west of Red Square in the Arbat District. Its location provided easy access to the Kremlin, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and a range of other organizations that he needed to call upon from time to time. Even better, the neighborhood was popular with tourists.

It played host to an array of Western eateries including Brisket BBQ, Ulysses Pub, and even a Hard Rock Cafe—all of which Grechko encouraged his staff to eat and drink in as often as possible. He wanted them marinating in the tastes, sounds, and smells of the cultures they were working to influence. The better they knew the enemy, the more successful their efforts would be.

Unlike his subordinates, Grechko already knew the enemy. What’s more, he had sacrificed almost his entire adult life in service to his country. While he believed in the cause, he also believed in enjoying the perks of his position. As a result, he had no problem flexing his expense account at Arbat’s more elegant bars and restaurants. The glamourous White Rabbit, with its never-ending city views and world-renowned chef, as well as the sleek, wildly trendy Sakhalin, were two of his favorites.

This evening, however, he was at a hole-in-the-wall called Nazhrat’sya—Russian slang for “shit-faced.” It was in the basement of a building just off Pushkin Square, a couple of blocks from the Chekhovskaya metro station.

Grechko ignored the hundred-plus bras hanging from the ceiling, laid a five-thousand-ruble note on the bar, and told the bartender exactly what he wanted.

A “Revolver” was essentially a Manhattan, but with a twist. Grechko preferred Bulleit rye, something extremely hard to come by since sanctions had been imposed. Most shifty Moscow establishments, a club towhich this one appeared to belong, often refilled their higher-end liquor bottles with inferior product, figuring their unsophisticated patrons wouldn’t know the difference. Grechko assured the bartender that hewouldknow the difference and warned him against trying to rip him off.

Uncomfortable with the man’s vibe, and unsure of whether this well-dressed customer was a government official or an organized crime figure, the bartender handed his keys to a colleague and sent him to retrieve an unopened bottle of the American bourbon from the office.

When the employee returned, the bartender presented the bottle to Grechko and, once the man nodded his approval, began making the cocktail.

Instead of the sweet vermouth found in the Manhattan, coffee liqueur is used, followed by a few dashes of orange bitters. The bartender withdrew a lighter and was about to flame the orange peel garnish, but Grechko waved him away. The only thing he liked less than cocktail umbrellas were cocktail pyrotechnics.Shake it, serve it, and fuck off.That was his mantra.

Once again, the bartender seemed to be able to pick up on the man’s vibe and disappeared to deal with another customer.

Grechko sipped his drink. Despite the peeling paint, the floor that stuck to his shoes with every step, and the women’s lingerie hanging from the light fixtures like pennants strung across a Himalayan base camp, the staff could mix a decent cocktail. As he drank, he took a look around.

This early in the evening, the clientele was thin—a few Russian students mixed with some tourists who were either lost or traveling on next to no money.

The intelligence operative checked his watch. His contact was late. Grechko didn’t like that. Being punctual was a sign of respect. So was choosing a meeting location commensurate with the standing of the participants. As a former diplomat turned full-time presidential advisor, Oleg Beglov knew better. Being a member of the Kremlin’s most inner circle, however, meant that he didn’t have to care.

Providing reports directly to Beglov had become routine. The war had been a disaster from the start—both from a military and a PR standpoint. President Peshkov detested the comparison to Hitler’s invasion ofCzechoslovakia’s Sudetenland. This, despite the fact that he was voicing his own version of one of Hitler’s key justifications—that he was stepping in to defend ethnic Russians who were being unfairly treated.

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