The Judas Project

PROLOGUE

Lubyanskaya Square, Moscow

From the terrace of the Loft Café overlooking Lubyanskaya Square, Mischa Krushen could see the former Lubyanka KGB headquarters, now the FSB, where he had worked alongside the other members of the Unit. Those had been busy, heady days, when the Soviet juggernaut had been in full flight. Then life had had a definite purpose. They were safeguarding the status quo, working against the enemies of the state and orchestrating policy against them. For the Unit that had meant working every conceivable angle to bring disorder and chaos against the United States of America. They had an open mandate. Nothing, nothing, was barred: blackmail, out-and-out coercion, the use of terror and even death. It was all fair game to the Unit. It was the ultimate level in state covert action against America.

With the breakup of the Soviet Union many things changed. They didn’t happen overnight, and behind-the-scenes power struggles and interdirectorate rivalries resulted in bloodless, and not-so-bloodless, coups. There were unexpected nighttime strikes, when dazed victims were hauled out of bed and driven to lonely spots. Many grievances were settled in that way. A single pistol shot to the back of the head cleared the way for new positions to be created. The culling lasted a short time, but when the smoke cleared there were new faces to be seen behind desks. Questions were posed, but seldom asked. Political maneuvering at the top seeped down through the ranks, affecting all aspects of government activity. The breaking away of Soviet satellite states simply added to the confusion. There was a hectic period when no one knew friend from enemy, and there was a great deal of closing ranks. The faithful remained together, watching one another’s backs, and there were survivors. When the tidal flow receded and a kind of sanity returned, the time was ripe for new alliances and a rekindling of old ones. On the surface the New Russia showed a fresh face, embracing its hard-won freedom from the Soviet yoke. In the background the old guard drew into the shadows, watching and waiting, shaking heads in mistrust of free enterprise and the “me” culture, seeing values shrink and greed rear its ugly head in the form of the Russian mafiya, drugs, prostitution and the loss of military power. The early years of freedom, eagerly lapped up by a population long-starved of the consumer life, overshadowed the machinations of the political and the guardians of Russia’s security.

The KGB became the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the FSB. The Federal Security Service had a fresh face that masked much of its KGB origins, and hidden within its many layers, the Unit still existed. It was employed in much the same way as it had been in previous years. There were still enemies to deal with. Conspiracies to uncover. Policies to carry out. Long-dormant projects to be dusted off and brought into the cold light of the new day.

Which brought Mischa Krushen to his vantage point, drinking a latte while he waited for his section chief to join him.

The day was chill, a searching breeze swirling across the square. It had the sharp bite that threatened snow. Krushen felt it against his face. He was well protected in a heavy overcoat and fur hat. He glanced up as he heard a chair being moved and saw General Yuri Berienko sitting down on the far side of the table.

Berienko had to have been in his late sixties now, his broad, Slavic features as severe as they had always been. Berienko seldom smiled. He viewed life and the world as serious matters, and especially the condition of his Russia since the disintegration of the union. Old guard he may have been, but his undying loyalty to the old Soviet Union was possibly even stronger than it had been when he had served it in the military. As a young commander in Afghanistan, his units held the records for the most favorable successes ever. His zeal and his ruthless attitude toward the enemy had never been bettered. He literally took no prisoners.

On his return to Moscow after the war he was to take up a command position within the KGB, where he helped to create and staff the Unit. He ran it as if it had been one of his military squads. He brought in men who had served with him in Afghanistan, men who were loyal to the state, but covertly more loyal to General Berienko. Under his control the Unit thrived. It held its mandate proudly, carried out its missions with unerring success and anyone who stood in the glare of its spotlight knew they were facing a formidable enemy.

Looking across the table at his commander, Krushen admitted to a degree of trepidation. As it should have been, he had always regarded Berienko with reverence and not a little fear. Krushen understood that was the way it had to be. He cleared his throat.

“General. Unusual to see you out of the office.”

Berienko barely nodded. Like Krushen he was wearing a thick overcoat, the collar turned up. On his head he wore a black, wide-brimmed fedora. The thought crossed Krushen’s mind that this was one of the few times he had seen the man out of uniform. It had been a well-kept joke within the Unit that Berienko most likely 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 the FSB’s reputation when it came to stamping out such interference, Krushen wanted the matter resolved by an outside source. Mainly because he didn’t entirely trust all those who worked with and around him. It was not the first time he had used outside help.