The library, Duovograd University, Duovograd, United Soviet States of Svadyetsk, fifteen years ago
The library at Duovograd University was an impressive space, richly carpeted to muffle the sound of footsteps and well furnished with tables and armchairs from which one could peruse texts for hours on end. The collection housed within the walls of the library was extensive, rivaling many other establishments across Kali Yuga, though some of the older texts could be found with large sections blacked out in thick marker. The space was usually occupied by a grouchy old hag of a librarian who ruled the library with an iron fist and an ever-changing slew of students looking for reference texts for their assignments.
Svetlana Yefimova was settling herself into a quiet corner of the library, copy of A Concise History of the Bayan in hand, when someone else sat down in the seat on the other side of the reading table.
"Excuse me, Comrade, is this seat taken?" The newcomer was a slim man in a light grey suit and dark blue collared shirt. His neatly parted white-blonde hair and glasses gave him a professorial look and he had a friendly smile on his face. Svetlana had seen him before, hanging around the course lectures. Maybe he was a teaching assistant or something.
"Sure," she acquiesced. The man in the grey suit rotated slightly to face her, glancing at the book in her hand. He seemed... nice enough?
"A Concise History of the Bayan. Faculty of Music, I presume?" He returned her questioning look with another smile. "So nice to see overseas students taking interest in our national instrument."
Svetlana frowned. "How do you know I'm an overseas student?" She had been speaking to him in fluent Rostovian, courtesy of her father's insistence that she get in touch with her heritage. She also had the dark hair and pale complexion that most of the Soviet population possessed.
"Your Rostovian has a very faint accent to it, you're more open to strangers than someone who grew up in the system would be, and you're wearing a Langenian football shirt." Svetlana looked down. Of course. She shouldn't have risked standing out, but she'd been homesick and her boyfriend Andres had given her this shirt as a parting gift. "And, of course, I read your file, Comrade Svetlana Nikitovna."
She went pale. "Who are you?" That in itself was obvious. He's GUVD. Oh god.
"Merely someone who wants to chat. I think we can both help each other." The smile no longer seemed friendly, more like that of a shark about to devour it's prey. Svetlana began to feel deeply afraid.
"If you try anything, I'll scream," she warned. The man's smile grew wider.
If I wanted you to disappear, you would have been dragged off the street into a van and we'd be having this chat in an interrogation room. And what makes you think anyone here would be brave enough to help you if I forced you out of here and into my car? No, my dear, it's best if you sit tight and listen to what I have to say."
Svetlana nodded slowly. "What do you want?" she asked. For me to betray my father?
"Let me put it to you this way. You grew up in Langenia. You have Langenian citizenship. Your father, despite being an outright communist who voices criticism of the Langenian government, has been ruled out as a potential spy and such sentiments extend to yourself. You speak fluent Langenian and are familiar with the country and its customs. Need I go on?" The man's smile faded to a smirk as realisation dawned on Svetlana's face.
"You want me to become a spy." There was no question about it. "And why would I agree to help you?"
The man laughed. "Firstly, I can have you disappear. Permanently. I gather your father has probably shared the story of what happened to your grandfather, though he wouldn't have the full details. I, on the other hand, have the file regarding your grandfather. Speaking of the late Arseny Yefimov, he is still technically an executed traitor and your father is still persona non grata in our country." He clasped his hands together before continuing. "Your father clearly desires to one day return to the Soviet motherland and I can clear the way for him. I can also expunge the stain surrounding your family name and posthumously rehabilitate your grandfather. If that is not incentive enough, then perhaps we can discuss how you yourself can benefit from entering into partnership with me."
"How so?" It was tempting, Svetlana thought, to go along with what this man had in mind.
"You clearly have talent, I've watched you perform in the recent recital. But talent alone sometimes isn't enough to get what you want in life. With my help, you can secure patronage from our government, a place within the cream of our cultural elite. Think of how much easier it would be to secure concert performances, residency, appointment to the roles which you desire. And, if that isn't enough, I suppose I can sink to simple bribery." The man buttoned his jacket and stood up. "Think about my offer."
Svetlana watched him leave. On the one hand, what he was suggesting was a betrayal of everything she'd known since childhood. On the other, this was an opportunity that would never present itself again. Amnesty for her father, exoneration of her grandfather? Job security? Svetlana knew from her father's insistence that she research her chosen career path that the life of a musician wasn't guaranteed to always put bread on the table. "I'm in," she called after him. The man stopped and looked back, smiling once more.
Montiel Household, Aragon, Langenia, present day
There were times that Svetlana, now Mrs Montiel, wondered if she'd done the right thing all those years ago. It was true, she'd risen to new heights as a result of her arrangement with the man who had recruited her. She had become the go-to musician whenever the Soviet embassy in Aragon needed someone to perform and the ambassador had been keen to leverage his contacts in the Langenian cultural domain to get her as many gigs as she wanted. Then, there were the lavish gifts, officially presented on behalf of the Ministry of Culture, which ranged from jewellery and other items of value to the highest quality instruments produced in the United Soviet States of Svadyetsk. Svetlana had a solid career, two children, and was married to a man who she loved dearly and whose own career had reached its own lofty heights. They were inseparable, high-school sweethearts whose blossoming romance had evolved into something far greater than either could have imagined back when their greatest concerns had been exams and the universities they might try for. Despite the restrictions his job placed upon his time, Andres would do anything for her, and Svetlana would do anything for him.
And, of course, she was spying on him.
She hadn't realised at the time what she was agreeing to do. It had started so simply, a brief to keep her ears open and pass on gossip she heard, usually from Andres' military family when she went over to visit, to the man at the embassy who had become her handler. The year after she agreed to spy for him, the man in the suit had appeared in the library again, taking her in his car to the monument to all of those persecuted under the previous regime to show her the shining new plaque which bore her grandfather's name. What she was doing seemed so innocent, barely espionage at all. Was it her fault if Andres' father was careless enough to let slip something in front of her, given that his own son adored her with all his heart? And it wasn't like she was passing on secrets from the highest level of the Langenian military establishment, was it? Andres had been good enough not to discuss his work in the Military Intelligence Service in front of her.
Things had changed, though. Two things happened, making events far more serious. Firstly, Andres had landed a promotion at work, one which found him with a higher security clearance and, more importantly, a higher salary. Secondly, emboldened by his new financial prospects, he had proposed to her. Svetlana, barely having graduated from Duovograd University with first-class honours, had been taken aback but she had enthusiastically accepted. She loved Andres, after all. What had followed was a tense period during which she found herself facing a vetting panel of Andres' superiors. She was, to be frank, the daughter of a foreign national and a holder of Soviet citizenship to boot. Svetlana had waited fearfully for the day someone knocked on the door to arrest her as a spy, but it never came. Instead, the men from the Military Intelligence Service had dismissed their own concerns about her and Andres had been free to sweep her off her feet.
With the scrutiny over, all that had to be done was plan the wedding. Both of them had wanted a small ceremony, with family and close friends, nothing fancy. It had been a shock to see the man who had recruited her, though he had told her friends and family that he had been one of her lecturers at university and that she had been one of his best pupils. It was scary, Svetlana recalled, how knowledgeable he had been about the subject he claimed to have taught her. He'd cornered her at the end of the evening. The game had changed, he warned. Her marriage to Andres now put her in an unparalleled position to pass intelligence to her handler and he expected her to make use of the opportunity. If she didn't, well, he had a whole file of everything she'd given them and it would be a crying shame if it were to fall into the hands of Andres' superiors. Not only would she spend the rest of her life in a cell, Andres' career would be ruined and her parents would come under new suspicion. That said, there would be many benefits that would come to her. It was important, he had added, to offer the carrot as well as the stick.
"Svetlana?" Her brooding was interrupted by Andres. He came up behind her and put his arms around her as she looked out of the bedroom window at the darkened garden. "Are you all right, mi reina?"
"I'm just gathering my thoughts," she murmured. "After everything that's happened..."
"I know." His embrace tightened as she snuggled into him. "I thought I lost you."
"I know," she echoed, turning to face Andres. Gently, she kissed him on the cheek. "I'm going to get ready for bed, darling."
Slowly, she walked to his office, to the safe. It was a nightly ritual, though one that took longer if she had taken the time to look her best. Take off the necklace, a silver chain with a locket containing a photograph of the two of them on their honeymoon, an anniversary present from Andres. Put it on the top shelf with her other jewellery. Remove the earrings, put them in their box. Her wedding ring stayed on, she'd take it off and put it on the bedside table in a few moments. And then, lastly, she looked through Andres' work papers, checking to see if there was anything new.
There was. A report about the Military Intelligence Service's initial findings regarding the terrorist attacks that had rocked the nation. Svetlana looked back towards the bedroom, the sound of the shower meant that Andres was otherwise occupied. Quickly, she took out her phone, tapped on the icon for what seemed to be a music app. The screen changed, demanding a password. She entered it, bringing her to a new home screen, bare save for a camera app and a contacts icon. Laying out the report flat on the desk, Svetlana carefully photographed each page. When she was done, she returned everything to the safe, exactly as she'd found it. On her phone, she exited the encrypted mode and returned it to her pocket.
As she closed the safe, Svetlana noticed that Andres' service pistol, which he normally kept secured, was missing. When she went back into the bedroom, Andres was vigorously toweling himself off in the en suite. She found the gun, loaded, in the drawer of his bedside table.
Sub-Directorate of Foreign Intellligence, GUVD Headquarters, Yeremenko Square, Duovograd, United Soviet States of Svadyetsk
Lieutenant General Maksim Filatov came charging out of his office to find the main floor area of his department seething with activity. Officers shouted into telephone mouthpieces while others typed furiously on their typewriters, the GUVD firmly believing that a non-electronic system was far more secure than having desktop PCs. A large map of Parador and its neighbours was being displayed on the bank of monitors that stretched from floor to ceiling along one wall. Pertinent information was being printed from the computers, which required multiple authorisations to use, and pinned to the boards arrayed beside the map display. The Lieutenant General skidded to a halt in front of the displays, grabbing one of his subordinates by the lapels.
"What is going on here?" Filatov spat.
The major, whose jacket was being seized in a vice-like grip, gulped nervously. "Fabio Moreno has declared war on Langenia-" Filatov's grip tightened. "Furthermore, his speech indicates that Moreno aided, or at least supports, the terrorists who attacked Langenia."
Filatov released the officer and paced furiously as his people continued to scurry to and fro. "Send the information to everyone who needs to know," he growled. "And get me Korov."
Offices of the Special Services Department, somewhere in the bowels of GUVD Headquarters
Valery Korov's domain was located some three floors below what was officially the lowest basem*nt level of the headquarters building. Filatov, who had found himself forced to descend into the depths of his subordinate's little kingdom, fumed as the elevator creaked downwards. Finally, the doors opened with a ping to reveal a series of darkened doors lining a corridor that led to Korov's office. The head of Foreign Intelligence passed half-open doorways that revealed myriad sights that deeply unsettled him. In one office, two men with the look of hardened members of the Svadyetskan Bratva lounged in chairs as a third man counted out bricks of foreign currency. In the next, a woman clad in an apron and gloves carefully put the finishing touches to a disturbingly accurate reproduction of a passport. A man with the countenance of an accountant looked up as Filatov passed, his hands busy arranging scalpels and the kinds of tools usually associated with medieval torture chambers. A small voice at the back of Filatov's mind whispered that Korov couldn't be so stupid as to have all of this on view to anyone who happened to wander down to his office for a chat. He was, in fact, correct. Korov made sure to keep a variety of such activities on display to ensure that all visitors were sufficiently rattled by the time they darkened his door.
"I don't appreciate it when you don't respond to my summons," Filatov said, closing Korov's office door behind him. He felt nervous. Rumour had it that people occasionally came down to this level of the building and never left.
"I don't appreciate being summoned," Korov replied. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
Filatov choked down an insult. "The situation in Parador has become more urgent. Moreno has-"
"Declared war on Langenia, I know." Korov idly waved a hand at a folder on his desk.
"How did- Never mind." Filatov again wondered how many spies Korov had at his disposal. "The point is, I know you have operations ongoing in Langenia as part of our country's response plan. You need to put them into action, ensure that the Langenian response to recent events is...muddled."
"Of course." Korov picked up another report and started reading. When Filatov made no move to get out of his office, he added, "My people are in motion, things are being carried out. There is no need to lift a finger at this point. Would you like me to make a phone call so you feel like I'm doing something?"
"Wait, how did you know to set things in motion before I told you to do so?" Filatov had to know.
"Easy." Korov continued reading. "I guessed."
Somewhere over the Chucharan Sea, en route to Langenia
The aircraft travelling from Gran Cuscatlan to Langenia shuddered as it hit turbulence, sloshing the drinks of everyone currently enjoying the dubious quality of their in-flight meals. There was a bing as the fasten seat-belt sign was switched on.
The man named Ivanov reflected on his recent exploits as he chewed through an omelette with the consistency of a rubber glove. After Zaytsev's unfortunate demise at the hands of the unfortunate prisoner, he'd moved to the second part of his assignment: dealing with Grankin's killers. Since simply arranging for them to die was likely to raise suspicions, Ivanov had lain in wait until two men, both from the department responsible for making Paradorian dissidents disappear, broke into the deceased colonel's office to remove evidence of their activities. They were promptly ambushed by the head of security, whom Ivanov had tipped off anonymously, who attempted to arrest them for stealing state secrets. One of the men had opted to go down fighting, gunning down two members of the arresting party with his sidearm before they shot him more times than was actually necessary, while the other had made a break for it. He was later found at the bottom of a staircase, having apparently tripped and broken his neck in the attempt to flee the building. The head of security's report neatly wrapped up the matter, thus diverting General Simonova's suspicions should she choose to investigate, and Ivanov was free to move on to his next assignment. It was likely, he thought, that Simonova wouldn't particularly care too much about the two hitmen. They had ultimately been Zaytsev's men, not from her own stable of professional killers.
At any rate, it had been a simple matter to slip over the Paradorian border into the neighbouring country of Gran Cuscatlan. From there, a fake passport served to get Ivanov onto the aircraft on which he now found himself. Unlike many people travelling on false identities, Ivanov chose to change his first name and keep his surname, rather than the conventionally accepted method of simply choosing a fake surname to go with one's real, and thus easily remembered, given name. To be fair, he had always been referred to as Ivanov, even at a young age. Where his peers had been know as Ivan Ivanovich, or Pyotr Denisovich, or some other combination of first name and patronymic, he'd always been Ivanov. Nobody, he supposed, had liked him very much to try and get to know him. To avoid attracting attention in foreign parts, Ivanov had settled on Johnson as a more Western-sounding alternative for his false passports.
Unfortunately for Ivanov, this next assignment wasn't like his usual work. That he was being instructed to carry out this job was a result of the trust that Colonel Korov had in him, though it meant that he was unlikely to have to kill anyone in the course of his duties. A pity. Ivanov liked killing. More specifically, he enjoyed engineering the sort of deaths that wouldn't point the finger towards himself or his boss, or dispatching someone in a manner likely to be ruled an accident or suicide. It was all a puzzle to Ivanov. To be fair, he was also rather good at simply murdering everyone in his path if it came to that, but it never felt the same, it never felt right. Ivanov didn't really get emotions like other people did, though he was good at faking normality. People weren't anything special, just random variables that he could try and predict, walking bags of meat that he could manipulate and eventually dispatch. The Colonel got it, he knew how Ivanov's mind ticked. That's why he was the Colonel's go-to man when it came to tidying up troublesome loose ends.
The woman sitting on the opposite side of the aisle caught him staring and quirked her eyebrows suggestively. In actual fact, Ivanov hadn't been checking her out. He'd been interested in the meal sitting in front of her, ever since he'd seen her swallow a few pills before starting on her food and taken note of the label on the bottle. A few extra pills ground up and added to the omelette while she went to the bathroom, the horrid flavour would mask the taste of the drugs, and nobody paying attention to anything but their food? A simple case of an accident. If necessary, he could swap his half-eaten food for hers in case anyone wanted to run tests on it. It wouldn't be flawless, but people weren't perfect, people made mistakes. Nothing but a miscalculation of her usual dosage. Ivanov smiled back at her and told himself not to do anything stupid. He was stuck in a metal tube with no way off for the next few hours and his job wouldn't be made easier if the plane was greeted by a gaggle of paramedics when it landed. Best to slip into the country without attracting attention.
The fasten seat-belt switched off. Ivanov gave another smile, this time to the air hostess coming with the drinks trolley. Half a dozen rows behind him, Zoya Fedorova tried not to retch as she ate her meal.
Aragon, Langenia
The aircraft carrying Ivanov and Zoya Fedorova landed at the airport amid heightened security. Ivanov deplaned, passed through customs and immigration without incident, then took the bus into the city centre. Once in the heart of Aragon, which boasted a major security presence, he ran a surveillance detection route to ensure he wasn't followed before making his way to a clothing store where he purchased, based on what he had seen so far, three of the most common styles of shirt worn by the average male Langenian, two pairs of trousers, again the most common styles, and two jackets. As someone with a very unmemorable face, Ivanov found it very easy to blend in, assuming of course that the majority of people where he was happened to be relatively fair skinned. To further distract from his features, he added to his purchases a number of distinctive hats in subdued colours and, after some consideration, the football strip of one of the local teams. Far better for someone to focus on a particular item of his clothing rather than his face if they stumbled upon him doing something he shouldn't. 'The 'man in the green baseball cap with the chevrons' wasn't going to be particularly helpful to anyone. Purchases made, Ivanov stuffed everything into a bag and made his way to the first rendezvous.
The clerk from the Svadyetskan embassy had been most surprised when one of the embassy's GUVD attaches had accosted him in the corridor and told him to go to his regular gym session. He had protested, saying that it might not be safe for a Svadyetskan citizen to go wandering around Aragon so soon after the bombings. Furthermore, he wasn't even sure if the gym was open, given the situation. Somewhat reluctantly, the clerk had gotten into his car and driven from the embassy to the parking garage a short walk from his gym. Exiting the vehicle, he made the trip on foot to the premises where he found, as he had feared, that they were closed. Returning to his car, the clerk bemoaned the secrecy employed by the GUVD and wondered what possible purpose this little sojourn had served. Though he wasn't to know it, in the short time during which his car was left in the parking garage, Ivanov had walked past, popped open the boot and removed the equipment bag that Korov's man at the embassy had placed inside. Suitably equipped for whatever might come, Ivanov made his way to the safehouse.
GUVD Safehouse, on the opposite side of the street to the Montiel residence, Aragon, Langenia
If anyone had made enquiries, the house diagonally across the street from the one occupied by Andres, Svetlana and their children was owned by a company that rented out property and which had an address on the other side of the capital. If one was to make more detailed enquiries, they would have discovered that said address was a storage unit that had remained unoccupied for several years, though someone, somewhere, was still paying the rent for it. The house had lain empty for quite some time until Korov's team moved in.
Ivanov walked up the drive, bags in hand. He found the key behind a loose brick around the side of the house and let himself in. Dust sheets covered the furniture and the light fixtures were old. He didn't bother with the lights, making his way up to the bedroom at the front of the house on the second floor. The only recent modification anyone seemed to have made to the house was the addition of blackout curtains and blinds that would allow him to look out onto the street without being observed. Ivanov dumped the equipment in the room and made a circuit of the house. Everything seemed in order. He made a start on the equipment he had acquired.
When Zoya Fedorova approached the house, the door opened to quickly let her in. Wordlessly, Ivanov led his partner up to the bedroom. He had set up the surveillance camera, pointing it at the Montiel house. Binoculars rested on the window sill. A neat arrangement of listening devices and small cameras had been laid out on the bed. Also on the bed were two manila envelopes containing new identities for the two of them and a selection of weaponry in case things got too hot.
"An assault rifle, really?" Zoya raised an eyebrow. "I thought this was a surveillance job."
Ivanov shrugged. "Better safe than sorry." He didn't look like he'd mind if he had to shoot it out with the Langenian authorities. If anything, he looked bored at the prospect of violence. Not for the first time, Zoya wondered what she'd done to wind up as this guy's partner.
"Anyway," she said, changing the subject. "Who's the target?"
Ivanov picked up a folder and took out a colour photograph of Andres. "Major Andres Montiel, Langenian Military Intelligence Service. The wife's Svadyetskan, daughter of expats who fled after Yeremenko stepped aside. High-ranking, though seems to have had an uneventful career."
"What's the Colonel want with this guy?" Zoya couldn't see why Korov would be interested in a glorified pen pusher. "Does he think that he can lean on Montiel, get him to side with his wife's country?"
"I don't get paid to care," came the reply.
"What now?" Zoya looked around. Ivanov gestured back towards the landing, where two camp beds could be seen set up in one of the back rooms.
"Now? We wait."
The Disputed Avalon Valley, somewhere not too far from the border with Langenia, Parador
"Again," Ilya Sergeyev barked in accented Paradorian. Immediately, the air was filled with the crack of rifle fire as two dozen villagers took aim at the paper targets less than a hundred metres away from them and opened up. "Single shots, take your time," he bellowed as about half of them missed the targets completely.
To be fair to the villagers, they weren't as bad as they'd been a week ago. Some of the other guys Sergeyev was drilling in one of the other villages actually did pretty well at this sort of stuff. Unfortunately, he was pretty sure they'd be less useful once the Langenian armour rolled over the border, even once he'd gotten onto the bit about using antitank weapons. As long as they knew how to handle the weapons properly, Sergeyev was confident that they could form the backbone of a semi-competent insurgency behind Langenian lines. Assuming, of course, they didn't get drafted into Gruppa Bayan's ad hoc combat formations once the invasion happened.
While the villagers took a stab at firing their weapons with a vague degree of accuracy, half a dozen Gruppa Bayan contractors were in the process of unloading a truck full of small arms, ammunition and plastic explosives. The village in which the Svadyetskans were currently located was sufficiently far enough away from Gruppa Bayan's forward positions that it was more likely that the villagers would be 'encouraged' to wage a guerilla campaign against Langenian forces rather than being mobilised in an attempt to pad out the forces under Gusev's command. Once the Langenian offensive had reached far enough into the Avalon, it was hoped that a concerted effort by the locals would keep their supply lines under sufficient pressure that a successful counterattack, probably mounted by the Paradorian regular army in tandem with the Soviet troops operating in the country, would be enough to roll up the Langenians and force their government to the negotiating table.
With a wave, one of the contractors indicated to Sergeyev that they'd finished unloading. When the villagers had paused to reload their weapons, he clapped his hands and indicated that they should gather around.
"Listen to me," Sergeyev intoned sombrely. "I know that many of you are not as fond of your government as it would like you to be. I know some of you might have reason to hate the communist system. But I want you to look around. Look at the man to the left of you. Look at the man to your right. These are your friends, these are your neighbours. Langenia is coming, my friends, and they will take your land as their own. They will not care about the history that you have with this land, that your fathers and forefathers have toiled in these fields, these forests, walked these paths. Langenia thinks that because of some historical basis this is their land, because of some old map with lines drawn on it, because some of them once lived here long ago. With nobody standing in their way, they would bulldoze your homes and plunder the resources of this earth for their own gain. If the government in Apure is a corrupt entity that would rob you of everything you work for, why would Langenia be any different?"
He paused to let his words sink in. "So fight, comrades. Not for the regime in Apure, not for some ideology whose slogans your children are taught to parrot. Fight for your families, your friends, your neighbours. Fight for your freedom. When Langenia is defeated, when they are pushed back, the old order will have to change or be cast down. And you can hold your heads high, say, "I fought the invader", and lay claim to a share of the victory."
Sergeyev spread his hands. "And who is it who trains you, arms you to defend your land? Who built the power lines that bring electricity to your homes? Who built the new sanitation plant over that hill? We did, not your government. Even if your government forgets you, we will not. Every one of you who ends up in the hands of the Langenians we will fight for, to bring you home as surely as we would any of our guys. All we ask in exchange is that you stand your ground. Fight. Make life hell for the Langenian dogs. What do you say?"
There was a moment where Sergeyev was met with silence. He was wondering if maybe he'd mangled the speech or if his accent was making it hard for the villagers to understand when the first hand went up, then another. Clenched fist after clenched fist was raised, in defiance of Langenia, perhaps even in defiance of Parador's government. Sergeyev smiled. "Thank you," he murmured.
The Houses of Leadership, Duovograd, United Soviet States of Svadyetsk
When Viktor Yegorev arrived in General Secretary and President Alexei Petrov's office in response to the summons, he found the man himself absent. In his place, Viktor found Generals Mikhailov and Bogdanov lounging in the chairs in front of Petrov's desk while an unpleasantly familiar man made himself a coffee at the small kitchenette that had been installed in the office.
"Ahhh, Viktor Sergeevich, so nice to see you again. It's been too long." The other man picked up his coffee, in a mug with #1 Comrade printed on the side, and perched on the edge of the desk. "How are you?"
"Barinov," Viktor acknowledged tersely.
Sergei Barinov was the Minister of Road Transport and Highway Construction, a nebulous and seemingly inconspicuous position that belied the influence that the man held. Barinov was also chairman of the State Committee for Procurement of Industrial Materials. This vaguely worded post meant that he had a say in how factories and plants all across Svadyetsk got their supplies of raw materials. It also meant that Barinov wanted Viktor's job, or at least the bits of Viktor's job that related to foreign trade. After all, some of those factories needed items from abroad in order to function. Viktor had a nasty feeling that Barinov wanted a say in the mess that was going on in Parador, otherwise why was he here?
Before Viktor could shut down whatever Barinov wanted, the door opened to admit Petrov and Chief of the General Staff Volodin. As the General Secretary and President settled into his chair, the military men glared frostily at Barinov. Clearly, the apparatchiks on the State Commitee for Military Procurement had been complaining to their uniformed allies about Barinov and his cohorts.
"Comrade Alexei Andreyevich," Barinov purred. Viktor felt shocked. Was Barinov buttering up the General Secretary and President? "Thank you for acceding to my request for this meeting. I feel there are certain... concerns that were not addressed by the Parador Working Group."
"Really, Comrade Minister Barinov, I didn't know you and your people were building roads out in Ameripacha," Viktor interjected. "I believe this is not your departm-"
"It IS my department when it affects supply," Barinov responded coolly. Sipping his coffee, he continued, "The imminent escalation of the situation in Parador will prove disastrous to the supply of imported raw materials to our factories. This will, naturally, have a knock-on effect on our entire domestic supply chain."
"Now hold on a minute." General Mikhailov had an angry expression on his face, meaning he looked like he usually did. "Foreign trade is Viktor's area." Viktor was pleasantly cheered by this unexpected interruption. While he might have clashed with the old soldier before, it was nice to know that Mikhailov respected him in some small way. "And before you open your mouth again about things being disastrous to the supply of raw materials, please, I have to know. Do we really need so many tractors that we don't have enough tanks rolling off the production lines? If you're concerned, you impudent little pen-pusher, about Parador, then maybe you should think about replacing the gear that we've had to send off to them!"
"Please, we have export sales targets to meet." Barinov put down his coffee mug and took out a pipe. While filling it, he added, "I'm sure I could review the resource allocation at the next committee meeting if it concerns you so much. I merely brought to Comrade Alexei Andreyevich's attention the implications of a state of war existing between our country and Langenia. I'm sure with a little brainstorming Viktor here and-" his lip curled distastefully, "-our comrades in uniform could come up with some arrangement that satisfies our obligations to Parador while being less disruptive to our trade relations. After all, if we are officially at war with SACTO, then we will have cut ourselves off from many of the markets which our industries depend on, either because those countries would no longer trade with us or because a SACTO blockade prevented the passage of goods from them to us and vice versa. But if we came up with some linguistic phrase, some insistent terminology that we were not technically at war with Langenia..."
"Maskirovka. I like it." The other military men glared at Bogdanov. The GRU chief pointedly ignored them. "Or something similar," he added.
"Wait, wait, wait. How are we supposed to claim that we aren't at war with Langenia while our own men are firing weapons at Langenian troops?" Viktor looked aghast. "I don't think anyone will believe any statements denying our involvement when there would be, I don't know, direct combat footage showing our people attacking Langenian positions?"
"If we take recent events into account," Bogdanov pointed out, "Then there is precedent for military operations to be conducted without any formal declaration of war. Take, for instance, Nifon's recent 'special humanitarian operation' in Altaia."
"There you have it!" Barinov clapped Viktor on the shoulder. "Simply issue a statement when the fighting breaks out and tell the world that we are conducting a special... something or other... operation. I'll leave the exact wording up to you."
In the silence that followed, filled only by the sound of Barinov lighting a match to ignite the contents of his pipe, Viktor looked for someone to support him. Mikhailov looked thoughtful, as if he was now convinced. Volodin looked like he didn't particularly care about the politicking. Bogdanov, on the other hand, looked like he was already planning deception operations to be carried out against the Langenians. Finally, Viktor made eye contact with Petrov, who shrugged.
"I think he's right, Viktor Sergeevich. If we don't minimise the effect of a conflict in Parador on our own economy, we will have problems. It's best to try and contain things from the get go." Petrov looked a tad apologetic. Clearly he was aware that Viktor and Barinov didn't get on.
"Right." Viktor looked at his shoes. "I guess I'll write up a draft or something, unless there's anything else?"
"Not really." Petrov checked his watch. "If anyone has anything to add, I'd like to continue this down in the canteen."
Somewhere off the coast of Langenia
Antonio Valdez checked the instruments which indicated the status of his rusting old fishing boat once more and adjusted course to maintain his heading. The client had been particularly firm about the exact location he wanted to go to. Antonio didn't mind too much. After all, the client was paying him a lot of money for this, money that allowed Antonio to keep the bank from repossessing his boat. Best of all, he paid in cash.
The client, a Eulabian gentleman whose name was nominally Emil Desjardins, was standing towards the front of the boat, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his overcoat. Senor Desjardins had hired Antonio's boat on many occasions over the past few months, though this was the first time that Antonio was actually captaining the vessel. He was fairly sure that his client was part of some Eulabian crime syndicate, smuggling drugs from Parador through Langenia and transporting them to an ocean-going vessel using Antonio's decrepit tub. Certainly, that would explain the half dozen Paradorians busying themselves with the cargo, a series of blue plastic drums. While Antonio might have been a proud Langenian, he was also a realist. The drugs, clearly, were not ending up in Langenia, so it was not his problem. Also, the money helped soothe his conscience. Senor Desjardins had come to him the day before and explained that, because of their good relationship, he wished to present Antonio with a token of his gratitude and to explain what was going on. Not that he had to. Antonio had it all worked out.
The man who called himself Emil Desjardins was not, in fact, a Eulabian gangster, though law enforcement agencies might disagree. Emil Desjardins was the legend currently in use by one Roman Chevchenko, former Kazovian separatist. Chevchenko had been part of the Uhtrovsk Liberation Front, a particularly violent pro-Svadyetskan militia group operating in the east of Kazovia, until the day that the organisation had changed tack and adopted a less bloody course of action. Chevchenko, an experienced bomb maker, had found himself out of work, even in a country with a higher than average number of former terrorists per capita. It wasn't like he had that many transferable skills. Consequently, Chevchenko had jumped at the chance when an offer had come in via his old comrades in the ULF. All he had to do was travel halfway across Kali Yuga and train some guys up before coordinating an operation, the broad aims of which had been laid out by his employer and the exact details of which were left to him.
The task which Desjardins/Chevchenko had to accomplish was to divert Langenian resources away from the brewing conflict in Parador. Naturally, his first thought had been to orchestrate a bombing campaign similar to the one he had taken part in during his previous career. Unfortunately, the quantities of explosives needed to make this an effective strategy had proven hard to come by, at least without attracting attention. In a stroke of genius, brought on by his Paradorian flunkies accidentally ordering too many drums for making barrel bombs, he had hit upon a plan which, if successful, would prove both extremely cost effective and psychologically damaging to the Langenians.
Chevchenko's brilliant idea was to dump as many of the blue plastic drums as he could get his hands on, and he could get his hands on very many thanks to the conveniently located wholesaler two blocks from their makeshift bomb factory, into the ocean in places where they would wash up on Langenia's beaches or drift into harbours or sea lanes. Then, all he had to do was fit a handful of the drums with explosives and make sure they were noticed when they went off. With the Langenians alerted, it would force them to deploy bomb disposal units or, with the sheer number of suspect drums that would turn up on the Langenian coast, the army to deal with the massive wave of possible bombs. Chevchenko had already dumped hundreds of blue plastic drums into the sea and, to sell the illusion, each one had a suspicious package taped to the inside with wires and sensors that would trip when the drum was opened. Of course, with the exception of the real bombs, the drums actually contained charges made of modelling clay or plasticine in order to keep people guessing. The more the decoys resembled the genuine explosives, the more resources the Langenians had to waste.
Chevchenko wasn't too worried about being discovered. The bomb factory, a disused warehouse, was being rented by one of the Paradorians under a false name. The various materials, the drums, the large quantities of modelling clay that had depleted local stocks in all toy shops within a three kilometer radius around the warehouse, had all been purchased by the Paradorians. The only link he had to what was clearly a Paradorian operation targeting Langenia was the impoverished fisherman in the wheelhouse behind him, and even then there was no paper trail. When the Langenian public was freaking out over every barrel they saw washed up on the beach, Chevchenko would be back home in Kazovia, living it up on the three million korony he had been promised. Maybe, one day when the fighting had died down in this part of Kali Yuga, he could buy a round at the local bar and brag about how he had saved Parador with a thousand empty barrels and a metric ton of play dough.
Anyway, the time had come to tie up loose ends and set the whole scheme in motion. In one fell swoop, Chevchenko was about to liquidate the unfortunate fisherman and dump the genuine explosives into the sea. He decided, since the fisherman wouldn't be making it back to land, to grandstand. Okay, perhaps Chevchenko had been watching too many subtitled spy thrillers in his rented room, but he felt like monologuing like some villainous character out of a cheesy flick. Besides, he really wanted someone to comprehend his vision. "So, Mr Valdez, I'm sure you're wondering what it is we are doing out here," Chevchenko began as the fisherman dropped anchor at the spot Chevchenko had specified.
"Don't worry, Senor," Antonio replied. "I've worked it out for myself."
Wait, what? Chevchenko was baffled. How could the simple fisherman have figured out his genius plan? The man had seen nothing but barrels, he hadn't even accompanied them out here before since one of the Paradorians could man the boat. Had they slipped up somewhere? "You... have?" He decided to proceed cautiously.
"Of course." Antonio gave his client, who was staring at him with an expression of utter confusion, a reassuring smile. "Rest assured, I have no objections to helping you with your smuggling. Certainly, based on what I've seen, your organisation must be powerful indeed to move such large quantities in the short time between shipments."
"...smuggling?" Chevchenko couldn't believe it. "You think we're smuggling?"
"Indeed," Antonio nodded. "I did wonder at first why you wanted the boat, but I soon deduced what was happening. Your associates are clearly Paradorian while you yourself are a Eulabian businessman. What possible reason could these men have to work with yourself? The answer, obviously, must be drugs. Parador is a major producer of narcotics and you must be the man in charge of procuring the goods." Antonio wasn't sure why Desjardins was regarding him as if he had sprouted an extra head.
"Now hold on a minute," Chevchenko managed. "How the hell did you come to the conclusion that we were smuggling drugs?"
"Simple, I noticed that you were arriving with a lorry full of those blue plastic drums but that no such drums were present when you returned with my boat. Clearly, the drums must have been disposed of at sea. Combined with my previous deduction regarding your associates, it was therefore obvious that the purpose of our trip today is to rendezvous with an ocean-going vessel in order to transfer the drugs. While I am certainly fond of my boat, I am under no illusions as to its capability to travel the open ocean. That you have asked me to accompany you on this trip suggests that we have developed a certain level of trust. Senor Desjardins, I have no objections to continuing this fruitful partnership. If there are any doubts in your mind, please, let me know how I can dispel them." Antonio frowned. "Are you all right?"
Chevchenko was doubled over, laughing hard enough to make his sides hurt. The poor fisherman had no idea how badly he'd gotten it wrong. Drugs! He was a major Eulabian narcotics kingpin! Wait till he told the guys back home. "While I can certainly see your logic," he gasped, "You're quite mistaken." By now the Paradorians had finished prepping the barrels and were standing around chuckling. He was about to start into the monologue he had prepared before Antonio came out with his far-fetched theory when one of them stopped laughing and dropped a garrotte over the fisherman's neck. Chevchenko sighed. Maybe next time he could indulge himself and outline his plans to someone else.
WIth a nod, the Paradorians began unloading the barrels, dumping them over the side. Also thrown overboard was the corpse of Antonio Valdez. The series of splashes heralded the start of what Chevchenko hoped would be an enormous pile of headaches for the Langenian authorities.
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