Page 23 of Dead Fall

Normally, such illicit lethal cargo—evidence of Iran’s violations of UN Security Council resolution 2624—would remain stored at U.S. bases across the region until official proceedings could be undertaken.

“Damn it,” the advisor responded. “That should have been tied up in red tape for at least another year. We were assured that we had enough votes to keep it stalled.”

“Our special military operation,” Grechko replied, using the carefully crafted term concocted by the Kremlin, “remains unpopular even among some of our friends. I’m told Beijing was unwilling to block the transfer.”

At the mention of China, Beglov grew angry. “The goddamn Chinese are not our friends. And don’t let anyone tell you that they are. They’re ravenous for resources. They want our coal, our gas, and our aluminum. All of it. And they want it as cheap as possible. The more we suffer, the further prices fall. Believe me, they’re not crying any tears for us.”

Grechko knew that the relationship between Moscow and Beijing was eroding. It wasn’t frosty, not yet, but it was heading in that direction.

The Chinese had been supplying Russia with certain military technology such as navigation and jamming equipment, as well as fighter jet parts. But what Moscow really needed was more,lots more, lethal aid—things like bombs and missiles, rifles and ammunition.

Beijing had been warned by the Americans not to send any; that it was a bright red line with enormous consequences if they crossed it. But the Chinese being the Chinese, they had crossed it.

China, however, hadn’t done so in order to help Russia win the war in Ukraine, but rather to keep the Russians bogged down in it. They wanted to see it dragged out. The longer the war ground on, the further America would deplete its military stockpiles.

If they could sufficiently bleed the United States, they would have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—the ability to take Taiwan without the American military being able to mount an effective and sustained response.

Thus, the war in Ukraine was a proxy war for the Chinese. They didn’t give two fucks about Russia’s well-being.

Grechko didn’t blame Beglov for being unhappy with them. In advance of their own invasion of Taiwan, China was getting free lessons on everything from keeping a battered, heavily sanctioned economy afloat to how President Peshkov had managed to hold on to power.

Grechko had wondered as well. Considering how badly things had been going, he was stunned that the Russian leader hadn’t been toppled and replaced, much less assassinated. The man was either the most skilled politician in Russian history or its luckiest.

The extent to which the oligarchs around him had suffered—the freezing of bank accounts, the seizure of real estate, yachts, and private jets—it was enough to make the Pope himself think about hiring an assassin. Peshkov was living on borrowed time. At some point, his luck or his skill was going to run dry. Then the real struggle for power would begin.

While, as the heir apparent, he might entertain such thoughts, Beglov was far too wise to ever discuss such things—much less in public, and lesser still with someone he had only recently begun a professional relationship with.

For his part, Grechko was both smart enough and experienced enough not to raise such questions. To do so would have been an act of treason. If there was one thing he knew, it was that in Russia,everyonewas replaceable. Even him.

Having vented about the Chinese, Beglov got back to business. “Unfortunately, I am taking my wife for dinner shortly. It’s her birthday, so we’ll need to be brief. The President has been concerned about the Americans, particularly their support for Ukraine. What can I tell him about your efforts?”

The advisor was a real piece of work—cutting an intelligence meeting short in order to have a tryst with his mistress, on his wife’s birthday. It was a wonder that the entire country hadn’t yet risen up against the political class and hanged them from lampposts.

“The software problem has been fixed,” he said, referring to Burman’s death in D.C.

“Excellent. And our internet source will make sure it is documented?”

“It has already been added to the site,” Grechko replied. “Complete with photographs from the scene. A follow-up story is in the works.”

“Make sure I get links to everything.”

The intelligence operative didn’t know why that should be his problem, but he nodded anyway.

“What about Dasher?”

Grechko couldn’t believe the advisor was using an actual operational codename in public, but especially one like Dasher. The American was one of the best assets the SVR had ever recruited. He quickly scanned the room to make sure no one had overheard them.

“Everything is on track.”

“The President wants your efforts accelerated.”

This was exactly what Grechko had worried about. As the war ground on, Peshkov was going to get more desperate. Having established a direct line of contact via Beglov, the Russian President was able to assert his will without any pushback from FSB headquarters.

He was a man who despised being compared to Hitler, so it was odd to see him taking this kind of micromanagement right out of the Führer’s playbook. Regardless, Grechko was stuck.

Even though it meant taking on more risk, and on American soil no less, he would have to do as Peshkov had ordered. His activities would be moved up.

His superiors were going to be pissed and his operatives on the ground in the United States jumpy. But without missing a beat, he replied, “I’ll make it happen.”

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