Who Is Working for Who?

PxHere

Loshchilov, Koltsov, Savelievna, and Borisovna were gathered in the large sitting room of Loshchilov's and Savelievna's room. Koltsov had laid out the information he had gathered on the chalet, its current occupants, and its permanent staff.

Koltsov looked up at Loshchilov who nodded and said, "What do you have for us, Iosif Semyonovich?"

"There are three permanent staff at the chalet, which Obrecht cleverly calls das Haus der Macht, the House of Power, there is a gardener/handyman, a cook, and a maid, all of whom are Swiss nationals, all from this region, all native German speakers. The maid, one Fiona Stahler, also speaks English, French, Italian, and is conversant in Russian. Obrecht is the sole owner of the place, which he purchased through an agent in late 2025, he paid cash."

"Obrecht lives there full time, he has an office within Zürich for his import/export business, of which there is almost no record of exactly what it is they import and export. The Swiss don't mind as he pays his taxes on time and employs a number of local people.'

"Currently there are six more people in residence at the chalet: Rafael de Lima, Portuguese, Pierre Mallet, French, Elihu Baum, Israeli, Tahara Yoshimatsu, Japanese, Aziz Haghighi, Iranian, and Ruben Klerk, South African. All of them are extremely wealthy and all of them seem to be in a conspiracy with our very own Kliment Ilyich Kargin. Who thinks he is running the show."

Loshchilov interrupted Koltsov's briefing at this point, "Now what you all don't know is that Kliment Ilyich thinks that I work for him as well. Just as he thinks that he is the man in charge of this group in Zürich."

Savelievna looked up in shock, she half expected Loshchilov to pull out a pistol and kill them all. But the man was smiling. Koltsov looked completely unsurprised as did Borisovna.

Loshchilov turned to her and smiled at her shocked look. "My dear Angelika Zakryatina, you are new to our little group. You should know then that I am fiercely loyal to the Rodina¹ and would no more betray my country than I would my mother. I served with Maksim Vladimirovich² in Ukraine, he is one of my very closest friends. This man Kargin and his group of wealthy bastards under Obrecht are scum. They threaten the peace of the world and do so for monetary gain."

"Kargin is upset with Obrecht and wants me to send a 'message' to Obrecht and his people, essentially he wants me to butcher Obrecht in front of the others. Then Kargin will run things directly."

"However, our President knows of this, he has ordered me to take out the entire cabal here in Zürich. He also wants an example made of Kargin."

When Loshchilov finished speaking, the others sat in stunned silence. Koltsov, for one, had thought that Kargin was sanctioned by the State. To discover that he was just another wealthy, corrupt oligarch, made him sick to his stomach. He too considered himself a Russian patriot.

Loshchilov smiled then looked around at his colleagues, "Are any of you in any doubt as to who we serve?"

They all shook their heads, Koltsov spoke the old phrase from the days of the USSR, "I serve the State, Svyatoslav Petrovich, I serve the Rodina!"

The women nodded their heads, Loshchilov knew that this team was a good one.

"Now my dear Iosif Semyonovich, how do we destroy this nest of vipers without harming any Swiss nationals or embarrassing the Swiss state. Also you need to factor in Kargin, can he be lured to the chalet? Then we can eliminate them all."

Koltsov grinned, "Given Kargin's ego, that should be no problem at all."

Kliment Ilyich Kargin was back at his apartment in Moscow, his burner phone rang, it was Loshchilov.

"Slava my friend, how are you?"

"Enjoying a very pleasant stay in Zürich. I was wondering if you would be able to come visit this time?"

"Ah, do you miss me, old chum?"

"Of course, but I have some business outside of the city that I believe you would be very interested in. I would like you there when the deal is made."

Kargin thought that odd, but then again, he would love to see the look on that Nazi swine's face when Loshchilov put a bullet into him. Obrecht was a pig, Kargin was suddenly very interested in seeing him butchered.

"I can be there tomorrow night? Is this acceptable?"

"Of course, Kliment Ilyich, we're having the meeting the next morning. You can have nice meal and a good night's sleep beforehand."

"I look forward to it. I will see you tomorrow, Slava."

Loshchilov put his phone away and smiled.

"You were right, Iosif Semyonovich, Kargin's ego is vast. He'll be arriving in Zürich tomorrow night. I want to destroy the House of Power the very next day," he thought for a moment, "that gives us roughly 36 hours to prepare and set things up. Is that sufficient, Iosif Semyonovich?"

"It should be, I think we should make it look like a terrorist attack. Some previously little known Middle Eastern or African group with a hatred of Obrecht and his type."

"I daresay, we could probably find any number of such people to do the job for us." Loshchilov said.

Koltsov nodded, "They will probably take credit for the act even if they didn't do it."

Loshchilov nodded, "I'm sure they will."

Then he clapped his hands, "Ladies, can I offer you dinner while Iosif Semyonovich works his magic?"

Savelievna said, "I'd love to."

Borisovna demurred with a grin, "I will stay and help Koltsov, what sort of wife would I be to leave him here at his work while I party with you two?"

Loshchilov grinned, "Well then, Angelika Zakryatina, let's leave these two love birds to their work. You and I are going to the elmira, I ate there the other day with Herr Klerk, the food is superb."

"What if we run into this Klerk?"

"He knows I'm in Zürich with a team, he would not think it odd. However, I do believe that Obrecht is making them all stay at the chalet for a few days."

He offered her his arm, "Let us be off them, I am famished."

¹ Motherland (Russian - Родина).

² The Russian President, see this post.

Zürich

Zürich Airport
Source

The four FSB¹ agents got off their plane at Zürich's airport and headed to Customs, as Russia was not part of the Schengen area,² they were required to go through Customs. Loshchilov wasn't worried about that, the FSB's document section was superb. Their passports were not in their own names, but one would have been hard-pressed to spot them as fake.

Two men, two women, Loshchilov liked having his team look as normal as possible, two married couples traveling together looked far less suspicious (and less threatening) than four men traveling together. He had brought Iosif Semyonovich Koltsov, Angelika Zakryatina Savelievna, and Lara Cherkashina Borisovna. Savelievna would pose as his wife, Koltsov and Borisovna were the other couple in the group.

According to their passports he and Angelika were Klaus and Johanna Winkmann, Koltsov and Borisovna were Josef and Lara Gruber. They were posing as Germans from the Berlin area. Which fit well as all had spent time in Berlin and when they spoke German, they spoke as a Berliner would.

Customs was a breeze and soon they had collected all of their belongings and had loaded up their rental car. Loshchilov had booked a very nice hotel for them, after all the FSB was paying for it. As the area was popular with tourists, they would have no trouble fitting in.

Ruben Klerk, from South African, had made his fortune in the illicit diamond trade, now he listed his profession as "financier," which was, on the face of it, true. However, most of the things his money financed were illegal and caused people to die in unpleasant ways. He was a major player in the illegal weapons trade. An acquaintance had once joked at a party that "Ruben has his fingers in more revolutions than Lenin!"

It had gotten a good laugh at the party, six weeks later when that man had died in an unfortunate boating accident, Klerk wondered if he had been laughing then.

He didn't feel a part of the group, perhaps because of all of the millionaires, three were actually billionaires, he was the "poorest" of the group, he was worth less than 350 million dollars. It angered him at times. Obrecht bossed everyone around, the man was nothing better than a thug. Claimed to be Swiss, was about as Swiss as a Kalashnikov.

He knew that Lima, Mallet, Baum, and Tahara detested the man. Haghighi he wasn't sure of, he seemed friendly towards Obrecht one moment, then he'd disparage him behind his back. Guy was two faced and Klerk didn't trust him, then again, he trusted no one.

The women had gone out shopping, there were certain things which could be obtained locally which they would need for their mission. Koltsov was on his laptop, gathering information on the target area. Google Maps, local surveys, tax data, he had never ceased to be amazed how much information could be gleaned from the Internet.

Loshchilov, for his part, was headed down to the Oberdorfstrasse to visit Russia's honorary consul in Zürich. While it wasn't much of an office, they did have diplomatic immunity and could ship things via diplomatic pouch.

Loshchilov carried a rather hefty briefcase with him, at the moment it contained a number of documents which would be normal for an arms dealer to carry about. He carried papers identifying him as a representative of the Germans arms company Rheinmetall. Moscow chose that cover as they had made a lot of money supporting Ukraine in one of the early wars. He considered it the second, some called it simply a continuation of the first. The third (or second, depending on how you counted it) had been won by Russia, though with crippling losses. Moscow felt that Rheinmetall should pay for that, this little operation would not benefit that company.

He arrived at the consulate, a fairly nondescript place sharing a building with a local architect. But he didn't care about that, the consul had a package for him, something needed to send a message to a certain group based near Zürich.

His briefcase was rather heavier when he left the consulate. He now had the weapons and explosives needed for their little task. He also had a phone number, apparently someone inside the group his team would be visiting wanted to change sides. As the lake wasn't far from the consulate, he decided to walk down there, it would be a good place to make a phone call.

When he arrived and found an empty bench, there were many as it was October and the weather, while still clear, was getting rather chilly. He set his briefcase down and pulled out the phone the consul had provided him. He hit '1' on speed dial.

"Yes?"

The voice sounded almost Dutch, with just a hint of an unfamiliar accent. Loshchilov spoke, "This is Herr Winkmann, am I speaking to Herr Klerk?"

"How did you get this number?" the voice spoke, it struck Loshchilov that the man was South African, not Dutch.

"A mutual friend, a Frau Siegler from Bern."

"Oh, that Herr Winkmann Sorry, it's been a hectic day. Can we meet? Perhaps for dinner?"

"I would like that, Herr Klerk. I am not that familiar with Zürich (a lie), perhaps you could suggest a place?"

"Yes, elmira, it's a favorite of mine, the food is exquisite. Are you familiar with it?"

"No, but I'm sure my hotel's concierge is. I'm at the Sheraton."

"Oh yes, they'll know. How about 9:00 PM?"

"That would be excellent."

"Give the maître d'hôtel my name when you arrive. I look forward to meeting with you."

The man disconnected. Loshchilov was suspicious, the man seemed far too eager. Ah well, he would bring Koltsov with him as backup. Koltsov would be armed, just in case this was a setup.

"Do you think there are more nukes out there, Admiral?" the President asked.

Admiral Choe nodded, "I do, Sir. CIA has been hearing rumblings out of the Black Sea for a few weeks now. They think the weapons came out of Tashkent. We've done some research, the Uzbeks held on to at least ten Soviet-era tactical weapons. They tried to test one in 2027, it fizzled. Seems Soviet quality control was as bad as some people thought."

"Would our nukes go off after sitting in storage for years?" Bill Aspinall asked.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Finally the President nodded, "Yes, only one way to determine that, and we agreed with the Soviets to not do that. So, that aside, even if the baddies managed to get one into a city and it fizzled ..."

"That's still going to generate radiation and other bad things. It wouldn't look good." Aspinall said.

Beth Chapman looked at Aspinall, she looked angry.

"You have something to share, Commander?" the President asked.

"Well Sir, if you were nearby when it 'fizzled,"' you'd be dead. There is a lot of high explosives in those damned things. Even if it didn't compress the nuclear material sufficiently to set off a reaction, that's still a big bomb." Chapman explained.

Choe nodded, "A big dirty bomb."

Nakagawa stood up, "Whatever you need, let Mr. Aspinall know, we have to stop this. By any means necessary. Is that understood?"

Three voices said, "Yes Sir," nearly in unison.

¹ The FSB is the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, the successor to the KGB (Committee for State Security).

² See here.

Intel¹

Source

It was a brisk day in October, windy but clear. Beth Chapman was at the Washington Monument, one of her favorite places in DC. Looking out at the Mall, the Capitol in the distance, she could almost forget all of the confusion and outright terror she had experienced over the past few months.

Things were turning "interesting" again. The new FBI Director, Juan Ramirez, a former Lieutenant Colonel in the Maryland State Police, was in the news and in a very big way. He had proposed dismantling the FBI and folding its functions into the Department of Homeland Security. There were a number of Congressmen and women vehemently opposed to that, there were an almost equal number very much in favor of such a thing.

Both organizations had been brought into being by presidents, indirectly Teddy Roosevelt for the FBI and the DHS directly by George W. Bush. The latter organization had absorbed a number of existing agencies after its foundation as the Office of Homeland Security. It began not long after the attacks on 9/11.

Chapman had her doubts as to the wisdom of the move. Obviously the Justice Department was completely against the idea, they would lose much of their power. Which is why many supported the idea. That department had disgraced itself during the recent troubles, the FBI Director going so far as to support insurrection against the established government.

He had paid for that with his life.

Insiders knew that there were many in the DOJ who had opposed Juan Ramirez's appointment to be Director of the FBI, yet the Senate had confirmed him by 97 to 3. One of the naysayers had since resigned in disgrace when discovered to have unreported contacts with a Middle Eastern intelligence service. He was still awaiting trial, having been taken into custody shortly after his resignation.

Chapman was beginning to wonder if she shouldn't just move back home and start a new career. She was still current in helicopters, and there was a growing need for helicopter services around the country. She felt herself too old to go back on active duty, she also knew that her body couldn't withstand the rigors of life as a Navy helo driver.

As she turned to head back to where she was parked, she heard her name. She turned and a wide smile crossed her face, it was Alex Choe.

"Admiral! I haven't seen you in a while, how have you been, how ..." she couldn't help but notice that his uniform now had the broad stripe of an admiral, but now he sported the thin gold stripe above that denoting that he was no longer a Rear Admiral (Lower Half) but was now a two star, Rear Admiral.

"When did that happen?" she asked, nodding at his sleeve.

"Oh, a week ago, the President pushed it through. Said it was needed in order for me to take over the position of Director, National Maritime Intelligence-Integration Office and Commander, Office of Naval Intelligence. He said he likes my instincts, wants me in DC. So ..."

"What happened to Rear Admiral Crutchfield?"

"Uh, shot himself when he was discovered providing intel to the insurrectionists over at the FBI."

"Damn, I didn't know that. Anyway, congratulations. What brings you out here?"

"Uh, couple of things, I heard you were thinking of leaving Homeland."

"Yeah, things are confused at the moment. Heck, I'm confused at the moment. I might go home and start a helicopter business. Flying tourists around, ferrying hunters out to the backcountry, that sort of thing."

"What if I could offer you a job?"

"Where? Doing what?"

"Deputy commander of ONI, I'd be your boss. We worked well together over the past few months, at least I thought so. What do you think, if you need some time ..."

"I'm retired. Medically retired."

"The President wants you, you know what they say, anything can be waived. A return to active duty ..."

"Sorry, Sir, but no, do you realize the pay cut I'd be taking ..."

"Pay cut as an agent of Homeland, or pay cut as a helicopter ferry pilot?"

That made her think, the admiral was right, it would be a pay cut to leave Homeland to go back on active duty, but she was leaving Homeland one way or the other. So, she had no idea how much a helo driver could make in Idaho, maybe this was a good idea.

"If you need time to think about it ..." Choe's phone chimed, "excuse me, I need to take this."

Choe walked some distance away, where no one was nearby. She could tell that the conversation was very animated, then she saw his shoulders slump, as if someone had just dumped something heavy on him. He walked back to her, his face showing determination but with a hint of sadness around the eyes.

"Sorry, Beth, I need to go back to ..."

"When do you want me to start?" she said, without really thinking.

"How's about today? Right now. We can do all the paperwork later, you have the clearance and as I get to decide who has a need to know, you're in."

She nodded, suddenly sure of herself. "So what's going on?"

"The Italian Coast Guard stopped a suspicious vessel leaving Naples, bound for Le Havre. They claim to have found a nuclear weapon aboard. The Energy Department has got their experts heading out there to confirm."

"What's our interest?"

"The Italians claim that the captain of the vessel laughed when the weapon was discovered."

"Laughed?"

"Yeah, an arrogant pirate if there ever was, he told the Italians, 'You think that's the only one?' So, now we're interested."

"Damn."

"Yeah. Let's go, do you have your car here?"

"Yes."

"Okay, follow me to the White House."

Kargin turned off his cellphone, then broke it in half, he'd grab another burner from his desk. Things were going completely off the rails. Damned Obrecht had made his own deal for a nuke with a contact in Tashkent some weeks ago. Now the weapon he was attempting to smuggle into France had been intercepted by the Italians.

The idiot captain he'd hired had actually had to pull into port when his engines began to fail. After the repairs had been made, the man had stiffed the company who had done the work. They reported him to the Coast Guard and ...

Kargin slammed the broken cellphone to the floor then stomped on it. He was furious, time to show those effete fools in Switzerland who the real boss was.

On the bright side, he could go back to Paris when he felt like it, it would still be there.

Unless that Nazi idiot had managed to acquire more than one bomb!

He picked up his office phone and made a call.

He still knew people in the organs of state security, he needed wet work, and he knew just the man to make it happen.

"Slava! How are you? I need a favor, I trust your passport is up to date?" he heard the man on the other end of the line laughing and saying, 'of course, it is'.

"I'm going to send you something, could you look into it? Sure, you're away from the office? Okay, can you access a computer somewhere? Alright, I'll send it there. Thank you, Slava, the job will pay very well I should add. Let me know."

Svyatoslav (Slava) Petrovich Loshchilov logged off the computer at the Russian State Library. He then went to a public phone and called a number, no one answered, but when the line opened, he simply said, "Yes." He assumed that would be passed to Kargin by some modern miracle of technology.

He needed to book a flight to Zurich, there was a chalet not far from there that he needed to visit. He was to pass a "message" to whoever he found there. He understood what Kargin meant, one did not call Slava to pass normal messages, no, this message would be written in blood.

¹ No juvat, not the computer chip manufacturer.

Dinner is Canceled ...

The Four Seasons, Paris
Source

Rodin landed at Le Bourget shortly after 4:00 PM. After taxiing to Kargin's reserved spot, the two men deplaned.

Rodin looked around, Kargin usually had a car waiting for them whenever they arrived in Paris. Today there was no car to be seen. Looking towards his employer, he saw that Kargin was on his cellphone, probably with the car service he used in Paris.

Kargin put his cellphone away and walked over to Rodin, "Most unusual, my car left the garage over an hour ago, should have been here by now."

"Traffic perhaps?" Rodin offered.

"Anything is possible, I suppose." Kargin pulled out his cellphone and made another call.

Pierre Junot was typically a patient man, but the two car fender bender just up the street was pushing him to his limits. The police were nowhere in sight and he was tired of watching these two men arguing over who was at fault. It was a simple accident, the two should have taken photos with their cellphones, exchanged information, and cleared the street, but no, they were still arguing.

Junot got out of his car and walked the short distance up the street. He tugged his jacket into place to make sure his weapon was hidden, though he had a permit, he didn't like to advertise the fact that he was armed.

"Gentlemen, can't you see that you're blocking the street in both directions? Take pictures, exchange insurance information, and go. There is no need ..."

One of the men turned in his direction and told him to "F**k off," the other man simply ignored him. Junot sighed, then looked around. No one was paying any attention to this squabble, this sort of thing happened all the time.

Claude Picard was very drunk, the accident was his fault as he had pulled into traffic without looking. He hadn't hit anyone in his own lane, but he had swung out far too wide and hit a car traveling in the other direction. Slow speed, not much damage, but the other man had jumped from his car and screamed, "idiot" at Picard.

So of course he had returned the favor.

Picard was having a very bad day, he had been fired from his security job that very morning. When he had gone home, his wife had screamed at him and left to go visit her mother, probably permanently. Picard's problem was his drinking, though he didn't see it that way.

So of course, he went to a bar to drown his sorrows.

Junot tried to get the men's attention once more. He'd seen the cops do this to get people's attention, so he opened his jacket and slapped his holstered weapon.

"Hey, asshole! I'm talking to you."

Time seemed to slow down at that point. Junot watched in horror as the man who had initially ignored him turned in his direction, a pistol suddenly in his hand. Desperately reaching for his weapon, he realized that it was too late. He saw the muzzle flash, felt the pain, and then was writhing in the street, drowning in his own blood. He gasped as he tried to put pressure on the wound. Something inside told him it was too late.

He coughed once, then stopped moving.

Louis Jacquinot stared in shock at the man lying on the ground, blood spilling from his opened throat. The guy who had hit his car was staring at the man on the ground as well. Jacquinot took off running, he didn't want to get shot.

Kargin's phone rang, he looked at it for a moment, he didn't recognize the number. He answered anyway.

"Kargin."

What followed was a flurry of French, he understood none of it, though he recognized what might be his name a couple of times.

"Sorry old boy, don't have a word of French, don't suppose anyone there speaks English, or Russian perhaps?"

The flow of words stopped as the man on the phone spoke to another man in the background. Then a new voice came on the line.

"Allo, monsieur, I am speaking the English. There is a problem avec your hired car. The driver has been killed in a, how do you say, un accident de voiture, a car crash."

"Who is this?" Kargin asked, gesturing at Rodin to prepare the aircraft for an immediate takeoff.

"Inspecteur Adolphe Proust, you are Monsieur Kliment Kargin, yes?"

"Yes, yes, this is he. What can I do for you, Inspector?"

"Is it possible for you to come down to our station and identify the body. He has papers on him, which is how I have your number."

"I'm sorry Inspector, I don't know the man personally, he works for a car service I use when I'm in Paris."

"Ah, pardon, where are you now Monsieur?"

"I am at Le Bourget, preparing to return home."

"Home is?"

"Moscow, in Russia."

"Ah, pardon, I know where Moscow is, we French have been there before."

Kargin gritted his teeth at the arrogance of the man. Yes, the French had been there, damned few had returned home. "I'm sorry Inspector, my aircraft is ready to leave, I must depart immediately."

"Ah, very well. We will be in touch later, if it is nécessaire, you understand?"

"Certainly, Inspector, now I really must be off. It's a business emergency."

"Ah, oui, le business, I understand, have a safe journey." And with that the French policeman severed the connection.

Kargin's aircraft lifted off from Le Bourget just before 9:30 PM. Rodin had had some trouble getting his flight plan approved, Kargin made a donation to the airfield's "charity fund" and within minutes they were taxiing.

Kargin was sitting up front with Rodin, his bogus First Officer's certificate was in his jacket pocket. He had half expected the French to make further trouble, but they did not. Kargin stood up.

"I'm going back to the cabin and sleep. If you are hungry I can bring you a sandwich from the galley."

"No Sir, all the excitement has destroyed my appetite. Your driver, he's dead, yes?"

"Yes, the police say a traffic accident, I have my doubts though. Seems far too convenient. I'm guessing the man is in police custody and this is some elaborate ruse."

Junot was indeed in police custody, well, his corpse was. The police were convinced that the man who had killed him was nothing more than a distraught drunkard, fired from his job, his wife having left him, and had snapped when Junot, armed, had confronted him.

It was unfortunate they couldn't talk with the man who had killed Junot. That man, one Claude Picard had killed himself, no doubt in remorse, shortly after gunning down Junot.

When Proust had pulled the firearms permit for Junot, he saw the name Kargin and a contact number. Apparently Kargin was extremely wealthy and very well connected. As a felon, Junot should not have been issued a permit.

Interesting. "Marcel, get me Interpol, would you?"

"Oui, Inspecteur."

Four days later the Interpol report came across Johansen's desk, Declan Watts had alerted him to the Russian name in the report.

"He's suspected in the illicit arms trade out there, isn't he?" Watts had asked.

"Yes, very much so. I think we have a file on him somewhere. Also, use this phone number to pull any phone records there might be in the past few days. Awfully suspicious to fly to Paris, then turn around and leave almost immediately."

"And there's a dead guy involved, an employee of a car service in Paris used by any number of high rollers."

"Hhmm, check them out as well." Johansen looked at the report, saw a name.

"Get me someone who's French is impeccable, Wilson down in Records is very good, isn't he?"

"He is, Sir. You want to talk to the French cop, don't you?"

Johansen smiled, "I'll bet Wilson is already driving back to work, isn't he?"

"Of course, Sir."

"Declan, I don't deserve you."

Watts simply nodded then went back to his own desk.

Decisions ...

The Kotelnicheskaya Embankment Building
Source

Kliment Ilyich Kargin sat in his living room, looking out over the Moskva River, the day was brisk but beautiful. He had just come back from a meeting with some business associates and was deciding where to go for dinner that evening. He was about to call his people at Sheremetyevo to prepare his private jet, he thought that dinner in Paris would be just the thing, when his phone chirped. He looked at the number, and decided it would be best to answer rather than call back.

"Kargin."

"My dear Kliment Ilyich, how are you this fine evening."

"I am well, Johann. How is the weather in Zurich today?" He hated making idle chit-chat but Johann Obrecht was a useful minion, no point in upsetting him at this stage of the game.

"It is beautiful, though winter isn't far away. I'm actually at my chalet in the mountains and we had our first snow last night. Just a little but it reminded me that autumn is coming to a close."

Will the man ever come to the point, Kargin thought to himself.

"But I didn't call to talk about the weather, you were perhaps interested in a real estate opportunity as I understand it?" Obrecht said.

Kargin sat up, "Yes, you've found something?"

"A very nice prospect has presented itself in France, Paris actually."

Kargin went pale, "Paris you say?"

"Yes, Paris, I knew you'd be interested."

Kargin thought for a moment, then said, "Yes, I am. I shall set things in motion on this end."

"Very good, enjoy the rest of your day, Kliment Ilyich." Obrecht then severed the connection.

"Fat bloody chance of that," Kargin muttered.

Paris was one of his favorite cities, why did those assholes choose Paris? He stood up and raged about the apartment for a few minutes. Then he calmed himself and called Sheremetyevo.

"Good afternoon, Mirko. Please prepare my aircraft, I want to go to Paris tonight. Also make arrangements for dinner at Le Cinq, for two, if you'd care to join me. Yes? Excellent."

Now that dinner was arranged, he needed to decide whether or not to go along with Obrecht's plan or force them to choose a different city.

Obrecht claimed to be Swiss, but Kargin knew that the man was German through and through, a bloody unrepentant Nazi to boot. His grandfather had been a Party member, an active SS man, and a friend of Goebbels himself.

Paris, we'll see about that.

The DDO's¹ desk was swamped, his administrative assistant tried his best to keep the Deputy Director's desk organized, the man had a tendency to rifle through the papers on his desk and seemingly pick things up at random. But Declan Watts was constantly amazed at how his boss managed to know where everything was.

"Declan, I just saw that paper on missing Soviet-era nuclear weapons, did you move it?"

"Yes Sir, you wanted Dave Tran to have a look at it, I've got it right here."

"Did Dave look at it?"

"Yup, you can see his notes in the margins. Most of the stuff listed has been accounted for over the years, however, there are at least ten, maybe more, of the smaller, tactical, nukes which haven't been accounted for."

"Seriously?" Ephraim Johansen sat back in his chair and rubbed the thigh of his missing leg, it still ached as if the leg were still there.

"Yes Sir. We've got some intel that most of those went missing in the 'Stans, particularly Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. There were a couple of storage facilities there where the Soviets had stockpiled a lot of their smaller nukes. With an eye towards using them in Afghanistan."

Johansen nodded, he knew about that, but when the Soviet Union had essentially collapsed, a lot of military hardware went missing, not just crates of AKs and RPGs, artillery shells, APCs, tanks, the Soviets had misplaced a lot of things. Current thinking was that the Russian underworld had acquired a lot of that gear, as a hedge against Moscow cracking down on their criminal activities. Which seemed to be working.

"Okay, thanks Declan."

As the man started to leave, Johansen stopped him, "Can you get me in to see the President?"

"Probably, about this?"

"That and I've been hearing rumors of that WEF² offshoot in Switzerland looking to make a splash. I'd like to brief the President on that, with all the shit happening in China, India, and Pakistan, those missing nukes, if they're in the area, pose a substantial risk should some outlaw group get ahold of one or more."

"I thought those clowns were pretty Eurocentric." Watts commented.

"They are, but what better way to take the focus off Europe than another nuclear event in Asia?"

"I'll make some calls, Director, but you're not the most popular guy in this administration."

"I know, but the man did appoint me. He had reservations, but he saw past my recent activities."

"Alright, Sir. I'll make some calls, let you know later today."

Watts stood there for a moment before Johansen made a shooing motion and said, "Go, go, I'll straighten this mess out for you, don't worry."

Mirko Rodin was Croatian, though he told everyone that he was from Zagreb, he was actually from a small village of about fifty souls, Stara Diklenica. The closest city was Bjelovar, another place no one had ever heard of, saying he was from Zagreb was easier than explaining everything. Most people had heard of Zagreb.

He enjoyed working for Kargin, the man was generous and he was fabulously wealthy. As he prepared the man's personal Gulfstream G550 for the trip to Paris, he realized that he had no idea what sort of business his employer was in, not that he cared. The checks didn't bounce and he got to fly the Gulfstream, the perks of the job were huge.

He saw his employer's Ferrari Purosangue coming down the airport access road, he closed up the panel he'd been checking and went inside the aircraft. If he knew his boss, and he did, the man would want to be wheels up shortly after boarding. He was trying to get Mr. Kargin to hire a co-pilot, some days he was lucky to get six hours of sleep, but for now, he was it.

Kargin didn't like being waited on hand and foot, so Rodin stayed in the cockpit to do his preflight checks. When he heard the access door thump close, he turned to see Mr. Kargin standing there.

"Ready to go, Sir?"

"Let's roll, Mirko. Dinner awaits!"

"As many as a dozen tactical nukes?" Bill Aspinall was incredulous, one or two, sure, but a dozen.

"It might not be that many at all, the Soviets weren't really known for their efficiency. Some inventory reports show them all accounted for, but my sources tell me that those reports came from officers with connections to organized crime. Not to mention that many of them were too lazy to actually count the weapons they were supposed to be guarding."

"Wonderful. Just wonderful." The President stood, shaking his head. "What sort of yield are we talking about?"

Johansen brought up a slide with the types of tactical nuclear weapons still extant, "As you can see Sir, smaller ones, like our own W48 have a very small yield, around 0.1 kilotons ..."

"A hundred tons of TNT, right?" Aspinall asked.

"Yes Sir, some of the bigger Soviet tactical nukes were a hundred kilotons."

"Damn, what was Hiroshima,twenty kilotons?" Nakagawa had lost a great-uncle there.

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Damn. Bill, take a memo will you?"

"Certainly, Sir."

"Add all the boiler plate it requires, but in essence, I'm making an executive decision, this threat of tactical nuclear weapons being let loose in Asia is a threat to our national security, and ..."

Johansen brazenly interrupted, "How so, Mr. President?"

Nakagawa, eyes flashing in anger, looked at Johansen, "Do you think a nuclear exchange between India and Pakistan can be contained? What if some terrorist organization gets ahold of one of these things. Do you think they'd be dissuaded from detonating one wherever they felt like it? Could be in New Delhi, could be in Islamabad, or why not Tel Aviv ..."

"Or f**king Boston, think about it, Come on, Johansen, you know how this game is played!" Aspinall was furious. He didn't want his President making a ruling on this.

Nakagawa raised a hand, "It's alright, Bill. I know your question was rhetorical, Ephraim, but you know the stakes. Bill, the memo?"

"Sir."

"I, John Takahiko Nakagawa, President of the United States of America do find that terrorist groups with hostile intentions towards this country may have gained access to nuclear weapons and that the Central Intelligence Agency shall undertake operations overseas to find those weapons and prevent them from falling into hostile hands by any means necessary. If the CIA should find that those weapons have made their way into the United States, then I will promulgate an Executive Order authorizing them to operate within the Homeland."

Aspinall finished writing, "Is that it, Sir?"

"Yes, get it typed up for my signature. Ephraim, go to work."

Johansen hesitated, "One last thing, Sir. Am I authorized the use of deadly force."

"Absolutely. Bill, add that to the memo. Now both of you, get to work."

"Yes, Mr. President."

After Johansen left, Nakagawa wondered if he could trust the man.

"Well, we shall see, won't we?" he muttered as Aspinall returned.

"Sir?"

"Nothing Bill, just wondering who we can trust these days."

"Keeps me awake at night, boss."

"Yeah, we live in interesting times ..."

¹ Deputy Director of Operations, Central Intelligence Agency

² World Economic Forum