Arctic Storm Rising

Not far from Naples, a sleek, hundred-meter-long ship rode at anchor off the volcanic island of Ischia. Though it was as large as a naval frigate, the vessel’s big, gleaming windows, luxurious fittings, swimming pool, and aft helicopter pad marked it as a rich man’s plaything.

High up on the megayacht’s top deck, Dmitri Grishin stood at a railing. Through half-closed eyes, the Russian oligarch surveyed the glittering, moonlit waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Streetlamps illuminated the faded stucco facades of the restaurants, shops, and hotels that lined Ischia’s beaches and small harbor. He rolled his shoulders, in an effort to ease some of the tension eating away at him from the inside.

Abruptly, he turned as he heard quiet footsteps behind him.

It was Pavel Voronin. In a concession to the Mediterranean fall climate and his employer’s desire for discretion, he’d traded in his usual tailored business suits for an open-necked shirt, blazer, and khaki slacks. He’d flown in from Moscow the day before, and as far as Grishin’s family and the ship’s crew were concerned, the younger man was just another of the junior corporate executives the oligarch sometimes rewarded with brief stays on his yacht.

“Well?” Grishin asked.

“They’ve met our price,” Voronin told him with a slight smile. “I just confirmed it with our financial networks. All the required funds have been securely transferred.”

Grishin breathed out in relief. “Who met our demands? Moscow or Washington?”

“Both of them,” Voronin said, smiling more broadly now.

For a moment, the oligarch stared at him in astonishment, taken completely by surprise. But then a sly, triumphant grin spread slowly across his own face. This was beyond his wildest and most optimistic expectations. In the blink of an eye, the operation he’d dubbed Vanishing Act had just netted him close to six billion U.S. dollars. True, on paper, that was still less than his publicly declared net worth. But until now, most of his nominal fortune had consisted of hard assets — of factories, mines, oil and gas wells, ships, and fleets of trucks and railcars. Unfortunately, in Piotr Zhdanov’s Russia, tangible possessions and investments were not real wealth. They were only hostages: hostages to a government that could seize them by decree, either on a whim or to appease an angry mob looking for scapegoats for their country’s increasingly dire economic conditions. Under Moscow’s despotic and unpredictable rule, today’s billionaire could all too easily become tomorrow’s imprisoned pauper.

But now, Grishin thought with growing delight, he’d broken free. Close to six billion dollars, sheltered in an impenetrable web of dozens of secret accounts, represented both security and continued power and influence for himself and for his family. Even if Zhdanov tried to throw him to the wolves, he would fail. Grishin could safely ride out the coming economic and political storm abroad — biding his time until the moment arrived to choose the next winner in Russia’s ongoing cycle of internecine power struggles.

Jubilantly, he clapped Voronin on the shoulder. “Well done, Pavel!” He chuckled out loud. “Now you’re a rich man, too!”

Voronin had been promised a 1 percent share for his work in coordinating and orchestrating Vanishing Act. Perhaps such a sum was not true wealth when compared to that possessed by his employer, but it was a fortune nonetheless and ample reward for his labors, Grishin believed. Somewhat smaller shares had been promised to Bondarovich and the other ex-Spetsnaz soldiers Voronin had hired for the real dirty work. More, naturally, had been promised to Colonel Alexei Petrov for his part in the conspiracy.

“Which nation’s payment will we honor?” Voronin asked dryly. “After all, I need to let Petrov know in which direction the bomber should fly — once the winds ease up enough for it to take off again.”

Grishin shrugged. “Tell him to return the PAK-DA prototype to our own country, of course.” He turned back to the rail and looked out across the water again. “I’m willing to bleed Zhdanov and his cronies, but I’m no traitor. Not to the Motherland.” He glanced at the younger man. “The Americans were dupes, leverage to use against Moscow — never anything more.”