Page 107 of Denied Access
Hurley shrugged. “No one seems to know for sure. My guess is that he saw the negative publicity around the clusterfuck that was Cooke’s death as an opportunity. An opening to drive a wedge between the United States and Europe while mortally wounding the CIA in the process. And if his actions brought down his old nemesis, Stansfield, in the process, so much the better.”
Rapp considered this as he took a massive drag from his cigarette. He’d dabbled with smokes just to be cool in high school, but as an athlete, he’d never been tempted to pursue the habit in earnest. This particular cigarette, however, had him second-guessing that decision. The nicotine buzz banished his fatigue and ordered his scattered thoughts.
“I hear what you’re saying,” Rapp said, “but Petrov is one guy. How’s he doing this alone?”
“He’s not. Petrov spent the majority of his KGB career assigned to Department S working as an illegal. This made him a great fit for his final KGB assignment—overseeing Directorate Five.”
“The Vympel units,” Rapp said.
“Exactly, though they were called Vega when the units were still part of the KGB. Anyway, they might have a new name, but their specialty hasn’t changed—wet work. That’s who we think you encountered in Barcelona and Tunisia. They’re probably also the ones setting bombs in Latvian bars. And that shit’s working, by the way. Stansfield said the first Russian military transports have already landed at the air base near Daugavpils. Anyway, one of the top Vympel assassins is a guy named Ilya Lebedev. Most Vympel units work in hunter-killer teams, but Lebedev is more of a lone wolf. Based on a tip from Volkov, we relooked atthe CCTV video from Youssef bin Muhammad’s assassination in London. The shooter was wearing a disguise, but we think it was Lebedev. Take a gander.”
Hurley opened a false bottom in the messenger bag, withdrew a photograph, and set it on the coffee table. “This is from his personnel file. It’s at least fifteen years old, but it’s all we’ve got.”
Rapp picked up the photo and swore. The rest of Lebedev’s features had changed with time, but there was no mistaking his asymmetrical eyes. The assassin’s right eye opened wider than his left.
“I take it you two have already met?” Hurley said.
“A car nearly ran us off the road just short of the turnoff to Ohlmeyer’s estate. Lebedev was behind the wheel.”
“That tracks. He’s Petrov’s operative of choice.”
“I still don’t get how Petrov’s operation is unsanctioned. If the SVR officers Volkov bumped know about it, then surely the director of the FSK does too. What’s his name again?”
“Barannikov.” Hurley ground his cigarette butt into the coffee table before dropping it into his empty water bottle. Apparently, he wasn’t worried about collecting the apartment’s security deposit. “I’m not saying he didn’t know about Petrov’s op. I’m saying he didn’t approve it. Look, there’s no love lost between the FSK and SVR, so some of the reporting Volkov gathered is probably slanted, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Barannikov is just watching to see what happens. If Petrov is successful, he can claim credit. If the old guy fails, he gets moved out, and Barannikov has plausible deniability.”
“I don’t understand. Counting Lebedev, there are at least three operational Vympel teams working for Petrov, maybe four. That’s way too big of an effort for Barannikov to be able to claim plausible deniability. Either he knew about Petrov’s operation and authorized it, or Petrov did this without Barannikov’s knowledge, which means that the FSK director is incompetent. Where’s the plausible deniability?”
“Simple. The operational Vympel teams aren’t working for Mother Russia. They’re freelancing.”
CHAPTER 59
RAPPstared at Hurley, convinced he’d misunderstood. “Mercenaries?”
“Exactly.”
“Who’s paying them?”
“That’s the genius part. Remember how the SVR got into trouble because of the slush fund Ivanov was running with Hezbollah shitbags?”
Of course he remembered.
ThetroubleHurley was referencing was the impetus for Rapp’s trip to Beirut and all that followed. Mikhail Ivanov had been the deputy director of Directorate S back in his KGB days, but unlike Petrov, he’d moved to the SVR when his old intelligence service had been disbanded. While in that role, he’d convinced his superiors to fund a Hezbollah terrorist cell operating in Beirut. As dirtbags were prone to do, Ivanov starting skimming money, which in turn got him into trouble, which in turn eventually got him dead.
“Let me guess,” Rapp said, “not to be outdone by their sister service, the FSK also has a slush fund and Petrov runs it?”
“Yes, but it gets better. The SVR used outsiders to manage their dirtymoney. Sketchy banks in Switzerland, Germany, and the Caribbean. The kind of financial institutions known for accepting deposits and not asking questions. Petrov works differently. He runs his operation in-house.”
Rapp looked at Hurley in disbelief. “He has his own banker?”
“Not just any banker. Florian Schmidt. He’s former Stasi, but his specialty was rather unique. When most of his fellow East German intelligence officers were attempting to steal Western military and state secrets, Schmidt was focused on industrial espionage until he moved on to an even more lucrative target—West German banks.”
“That was a thing?”
“It’s still a thing. Think of him as Ohlmeyer’s equivalent. He and Petrov worked together when Petrov was stationed in East Berlin. After the wall came down, Schmidt accepted Petrov’s offer to join him in Moscow. Schmidt still works for the FSK today. Right now, his portfolio includes paying Vympel teams to run off-the-books operations against Petrov’s enemies.”
“This really is someTinker Tailor Soldier Spybullshit,” Rapp said. “You had the Boys from Berlin in Volkov, Muller, Bauer, and Ohlmeyer. On the other side of the Iron Curtain, Petrov was working against you with Schmidt, Lebedev, and that CIA-turncoat piece of shit, Alexander Hughes. Two competing espionage cells, each manned by spies, traitors, and cutthroats.”
Hurley gave a slow nod. “That was the Cold War in a nutshell, kid.”
