CHAPTER 67

Basel, Switzerland

October

COLONEL ANDRENOV WELCOMED GREY into his opulent home like a returning son, something that meant a great deal to someone who had grown up without a father. Grey wasn’t naï ve, but he wanted to think that he was more than a mere asset to Andrenov. Nonetheless, he was relieved and excited to have finally arrived. He had never felt more important, more needed.

A lavish lunch had been prepared for them by Andrenov’s staff, and Grey’s appetite met the challenge, putting down roast beef, lobster, and a variety of desserts. Andrenov was unapologetically Russian but his world travels had expanded his taste in cuisine far beyond the steppe.

Chilled vodka, Russian, of course, was served with the meal and Grey’s head swam as he followed his mentor into the library. The room was nearly three stories high, with an elaborately carved and paneled bookcase rising to the ceiling. A black and gilded wrought-iron staircase allowed access to the upper levels of the collection, where leather-bound editions of Russian literary classics and treasured manuscripts pilfered from third-world libraries and museums lined the shelves.

Andrenov’s desk sat opposite the books in front of a large granite fireplace, where flames danced around the logs as if trying to escape. Above the mantel hung a masterfully done copy of his favorite painting, Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. The 1891 oil depicts a crowd of laughing men composing a profane and insulting reply to Sultan Mehmed IV of the Ottoman Empire’s demand as the “Son of Mohammed; brother of the sun and moon; grandson and viceroy of God. . . ” that they “voluntarily and without any resistance” submit to Turkish rule. The Cossacks’ irreverent response read, in part, “O sultan, Turkish devil and damned devil’s kith and kin, secretary to Lucifer himself. What the devil kind of knight are thou, that canst not slay a hedgehog with your naked arse? The devil shits, and your army eats. Thou shalt not, thou son of a whore, make subjects of Christian sons; we have no fear of your army, by land and by sea we will battle with thee, fuck thy mother. ”

Ilya Repin’s original painting hung in the State Russian Museum in St. Petersburg but it would soon find its way into Andrenov’s home if his plans came to fruition. The painting, as well as the Cossacks’ letter to the sultan, epitomized Andrenov’s disdain for his enemies. It was an ever-present reminder that the struggle between East and West was an enduring one.

Grey admired the painting as well as its surroundings; it was a grand and masculine room. It had been three years since he had seen the cold warrior. He had aged visibly but wore his years well for a man who had seen and done so much. Grey guessed Andrenov’s age at seventy but couldn’t be sure and would never dare ask. He wore a brown custom suit of what looked like fine cashmere with a starched white shirt underneath, open at the collar. The Edward Green country boots on his feet were highly polished, and he looked every bit the wealthy European gentleman. A paisley pocket square completed the ensemble. His hair was salt-and-pepper and his neatly trimmed beard matched, framing an unremarkable face. His eyes, though, were anything but unremarkable, a hypnotic gray, nearly silver in their luminescence. They could calm or strike fear, seduce or amuse. Grey wondered what mood Andrenov’s eyes would betray next.

“Let us drink to your journey, Oliver, ” the Russian offered.

The men raised their glasses and toasted to victory.

“You have come so far and are at my side, where you belong, at long last. ”

“You will soon lead Russia back from the brink, ” affirmed Grey.

“This is your home, at least for now. You are safe here. You have worked hard for me, Oliver, for Russia. You have brought us the keys to our country’s future. ”

“You believed in me when my own country didn’t. ”

“That’s because that was not your country, Oliver, just an unfortunate place of birth. Their oceans and their wealth make the Americans arrogant. They are like the rich man’s son who thinks he’s earned his wealth. They would never see in you what I see. You recruited one of our very best assets, Oliver, and the mission that you planned in London was executed beyond our expectations. I am proud of you. ”

“Thank you, Colonel. What can I do now? How can I help? ”

“You must be my eyes. You must travel where I cannot. We are close, Oliver, so close, but only you can get us there. I say this without exaggeration, Russia’s future depends on you. Islam is destroying us from within. The Muslim population continues to grow, while our ethnic population is in a steady decline. President Zubarev is too weak to stand up to them, too weak to do what must be done. We need justification, Oliver, justification to liberate the ethnic Russian people of Ukraine and push all the way to Azerbaijan in the south and Poland to the west. ”

“Are the snipers ready? ” Grey asked.

“They are. And they are en route to the site as we speak. ”

Grey nodded. He was finally part of the varsity team and it was almost time for the championship game.

“Oliver, I fear that a simple assassination will not be enough to achieve our goal. It is not 1914 anymore. Assassinating Archduke Ferdinand was enough to plunge the world into the Great War back then. Today it will take something more. ”

“I see. ”

“Today the assassination of a world leader would be met by days of mourning and sanctions. The Chechen, Tasho, will help give us the justification we need but that will not be enough. We require something that cannot be ignored. ”

“What is that? ” Grey asked, though he already knew the answer.

“The West calls it a CBRN attack, for chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear. We are going to focus on the chemical. ”

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