The Judas Project

“Our programmers have been upgrading and inserting current data into the Black Judas core for months. Even as we speak they are feeding in even more information, all collected via our own systems, which are extremely versatile. Our team is constantly checking American systems, preparing the way for the day we give the go-ahead. They are permanently monitoring the safeguards and backups that the American institutions maintain to protect their financial world. Taken to the next level, we could conceivably hack into their utility companies and put them out of action. We could turn off America’s lights and plunge it into darkness.”

“How soon will Black Judas become active?”

“Within the next few weeks,” Krushen said. “Final protocols are being written as we speak. Once these have been fed into the core, the project will become viable. Within days of the activation codes being sent out, Black Judas will go online.”

What Krushen did not relay to the committee was the information that had reached him from America that there was some kind of operation taking place aimed at dislodging the sleepers. He had the feeling it had something to do with Karl Federov, but until he could prove it he preferred to keep the details to himself. There were incidents that had taken place that concerned Krushen because they involved Black Judas. He had used his power and influence to keep them under wraps, not wanting to alarm anyone. Some members of the committee might panic if they were brought into the picture. Krushen found it easier to simply deal with the matters and say nothing to anyone who did not need to know.

KARL FEDEROV STOOD at the window, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his thick overcoat. The concrete apron was awash with rain, a chill wind blowing it in rippling waves across the area. The airstrip had once been a Russian air-force base. It had been home to a squadron of SU-27 fighter planes, each armed with a GSh-30-1 cannon and carrying AA R27 missiles. This base had been one of many that encircled Moscow. Now, like many others, it had been closed because of rising costs and military cutbacks. All, Federov thought with some bitterness, in the name of democracy and freedom. He almost laughed out loud at the falsity of the words.

Freedom.

Democracy.

That foolishness was responsible for the breakup of the Soviet Empire and the emasculating of its powerful military might. The Russia he once knew had become another nation ruled by greed and hypocrisy and all the depravity that could grip a nation. Looking deeper, he could see that little had really changed within the isolated corridors of power. Those in control became stronger and increasingly wealthy. The never-ending struggles to stay in positions of power still existed. Those who had reached the higher levels were constantly having to fight off the ambitions of challengers. Mistrust, divided loyalties, plots and counterplots were the order of the day. It was the time of the wolf, a time when each individual had to ensure his own life and expectations were considered above everything else.

Karl Federov was one of those individuals and had already realized the potential riches Black Judas offered to someone willing to reach out and take an offered opportunity. The potential wealth to be gained by utilizing the Black Judas project would be staggering.

Alekzander Mishkin, Federov’s boss, was no exception. The Security Directorate minister had ambitious plans of his own. He was not content remaining in his current position. Mishkin wanted to rise, to attain greater stature. His ministerial appointment had empowered him with wide-reaching authority. It was that authority and the ability to access restricted information that had resulted in Federov discovering the Black Judas file.

Federov had unearthed the secret of the project by sheer good luck. He had been going through old files, long forgotten in one of the basement storage sections in Lubyanka. He had almost passed over the sealed document file. Ready to put it aside, he had paused, something about the package rousing his interest, especially when he saw that it had been filed incorrectly and the stamp on the flap of the cover indicated it had been designated as ultrasensitive. Federov laid the file on the desk, aware that he had discovered something special. When he broke the seal and opened the file and saw the Black Judas legend on the first sheet, he knew he had found something special.

His first thoughts were concerned with how and why the file had been misplaced, but he dismissed the reasoning. Important files had been lost before, mistakenly shelved by some harassed, overworked documents clerk, moved around within the bulk of other files until it became forgotten. The staggering number of files held within Lubyanka’s vaults, the bulk still typewritten and photocopied in the old-fashioned way of the ponderous machine that was the state security system, left itself open to mistakes.

Federov spent the next hour going through the stack of documents and photographs. He quickly realized he had before him the entire Black Judas project, from the overseers to the actual operatives who would be living their manufactured lives in America. The six-man sleeper team, awaiting the day when the call would come to activate the operation. Federov was not a man given to excitable expressions. By the time he realized the potential of the documents in front of him, his head was swimming with almost childish delight and he had a smile on his face that was entirely out of context with his surroundings.

He considered his options.

The first involved his superior Alekzander Mishkin. The discovery of Black Judas would realize Mishkin’s dream of becoming even more important than he already was. He would seize the moment and use it to forward his own career. Taking control of the project and removing it from General Berienko’s control would allow Mishkin to die a happy man. Once Federov handed over the details of Black Judas, any control he had would be taken away from him. Mishkin would become hands-on, wanting to be in charge of every aspect of the project. Federov would be given the task of overseeing the Unit’s demise.

Federov found he didn’t like that idea in any way. He sat and stared at the Black Judas file, lighting yet another cigarette. The ashtray on the desk was already full of half-smoked stubs. Pushing through his ordered thoughts was an alternative, one that even Federov found exciting, scary, full of risks, but if he managed to pull it off it would ensure his future way beyond his wildest dreams.

Understanding the way Black Judas worked had planted a rebellious thought in Federov’s mind. It was based on the “what if” concept. What if he took control of the project and employed it to benefit himself rather than Mishkin? The potential yield from Black Judas was limitless. Instead of destroying the American economy, the project could be diverted to manipulating the financial world for Federov’s gain. The more he considered, the stronger his feelings became.

He could do this. He had control of men, and the finances to fund those men. He thought of his life and things others had that he was denied. Black Judas could change all that.

Federov sobered up, aware of the magnitude of what he was considering. One of the stumbling blocks was Alekzander Mishkin. It was through Mishkin that Federov commanded his power. He would need the protection of Mishkin’s position while he engineered Black Judas. To do that he would need to bring Mishkin into the loop. He would need to inform Mishkin about Black Judas, but not give him full details. Federov’s mind began to work feverishly. While he considered how to gain Mishkin’s approval, Federov was extracting sheets of data from the file, making swift notes on how he could work the information into a saleable item for Minister Mishkin. It took him another couple of hours to create his alternative file. By the time he made his way from the basement, back to his secure office, Federov had it all clear in his mind.

He was going to need time to make copies of the file and transfer data onto a CD through his own computer system. He would create two versions. One version would be of the complete file for himself. The other would be an abridged version, which he would present to Mishkin, with apologies that he needed more time to search for additional details. The minister would be pleased with what Federov had supposedly uncovered, unaware there was more. His gratitude would allow Federov to ask for whatever he needed in personnel and special dispensations. These considerations would let Federov pursue his own agenda, while keeping Mishkin dangling.

Federov spent the next few days transferring the Black Judas files onto his personal computer in his apartment. He scanned the documents and the photographs, building up a full dossier for himself, then edited the information into a presentable form for Mishkin. He made copies of both editions, deleted the data from his computer and shredded the original files. He took his time, not wanting to make any errors by rushing the process. Federov had a personal safe in the wall of his apartment. He placed one of his CDs there. The other copy he deposited in his safe-deposit box at his bank.

Later that same morning he presented himself at Minister Mishkin’s office where he spoke in private, detailing what he had found, then presented Mishkin with the two copies of the Black Judas file.

Federov could still recall the expression on Mishkin’s face as he had read through the data on his computer monitor. His enthusiasm spilled over to the point where he was almost drooling. Mishkin had finally turned away from the screen, staring across at Federov. He did not speak for a while. Federov could see the gleam in his eyes, almost hear the thoughts turning over and over inside his head.

“Who else has seen this, Karl?”

“No one. I did all the checking myself. Kept no written notes. The files I found were removed from the archives so no one else might stumble across them. I scanned everything I located into a computer and saved it to a CD. Once I’d done that I wiped everything from the computer and destroyed the originals. You have the only copies.”

Which actually was not strictly true.

Mishkin was not the only one with high ambition, and Karl Federov was well placed to be able to use information he had found to his own advantage. Mishkin might yet find out he was not as clever as he imagined—not with Karl Federov working against him and not for nationalistic reasons.

“Black Judas,” Mishkin had said. “That project has been guarded for so long, and deniability has been so strongly maintained, even I suspected it was nothing but KGB legend. But it does exist and now the FSB has picked up the baton and is sitting on the damned thing. Why haven’t they activated the sleepers? What are they waiting for?”

“Chenin believes the final countdown is under way. Once the last details are established, the activation codes will be issued to the teams in America.”

“Karl, we have to gain control of that project. If we do, we can write our own ticket.”

Federov nodded in agreement, but for a different reason. His personal reasons. “I agree. The Unit will resist, though. They are still powerful, and we have to make sure we obtain every piece of information about Black Judas before they are eliminated. That’s why I need to keep searching for additional data.”

Mishkin had slapped his hand on the desk. “Damn Krushen’s pack of rabid hounds. If I could get away with it, I would have them up against a wall tomorrow. A swift volley from a squad of our security men would solve that problem. Unfortunately those days are gone. We need to be cautious, however. There are too many unfriendly eyes and ears out there.”

“Leave it to me.”

“Anything you want, Karl, just ask.”

This was working out better than he had ever imagined. Here was Minister Mishkin offering to give him anything Federov wanted. How about your job, Mishkin? Federov cleared his throat. “I have no problem gathering my main team. But if we really want this to work, I need the best.”

Something registered in Mishkin’s eyes as he had glanced across the desk. He suddenly grasped what Federov was intending.

“My God, man, are you sure?”

“Can you think of anyone better to deal with Krushen and his people?”

“I see your reasoning—but…”

“We need him, Minister.”

Mishkin still hesitated. He understood Federov’s request. His urgent need to use the one man capable of dealing with Mischa Krushen on his own terms. The problem was that the man Federov intended to bring on board presented his own problems.

“Minister, you want this to succeed? Then give me what I want. Give me Viktor Kirov.”

CHAPTER TWO

The Russian air-force transport landed on time, despite the inclement weather. Karl Federov watched it taxi along the runway, then turn toward the hangar. He remained where he was as the mobile steps were pushed into place in front of the opened door. A tight group of five men emerged from the plane and descended the steps. Four were carrying submachine guns. The fifth, walking slightly ahead, his shoulders hunched against the bitter rain, barely glanced at the men who had provided the steps as he proceeded in the direction of the hangar.

Someone opened the access door and the group moved inside, away from the rain. They made their way to the office where Federov waited, only now turning from the window. The man they were escorting held his hands in front of him, lifting them when he recognized Federov. Steel manacles circled his wrists. The man held them out to Federov.

“Take them off,” Federov said.

“We were told—”

“To bring him to me and leave him in my charge. You have done that. Give me the key, then you can climb back into your aircraft and leave. You have carried out your orders. He is no longer your responsibility.”

The man in charge of the detail still protested. “Do you realize who he is?”

The manacled man glanced at Federov, a faint smile edging his lips. He was tall, with broad shoulders. His head was shaved, the smooth skull glistening from the rain. He had lost some weight since Federov had seen him last and his face was pale, a little gaunt. Federov saw the big hands flexing. He knew exactly what the man was thinking, what he would do if he was not covered by the SMGs. Whatever else, Federov thought, they have not subdued his personality.

“Yes,” Federov said. “I know exactly who this man is. His name is Viktor Kirov and he is my friend.” Federov’s nostrils flared slightly as he allowed his anger to rise. “Now get out of here,” he yelled, “before I show you what my authority allows me to do.”

The leader of the escort detail took a key from his pocket. He handed it to Federov without another word, turned and led his men from the office. Federov watched them leave the hangar and return to the plane. His own men had returned to the building and remained there as Federov closed the office door. He crossed to the waiting man and removed the manacles, tossing them onto the desk that stood against the far wall.

Viktor Kirov rubbed each wrist where the manacles had chafed at his flesh. He remained where he was, watching as Federov unscrewed the top of a large steel flask and poured hot coffee into a plastic mug. He held it out to Kirov.

“Not the celebration I would have wished for, Viktor, but welcome home, my friend.”

Kirov took the mug, savoring the smell of the coffee. After he had tasted it, he nodded slightly. “An improvement on that cabbage water they gave us to drink and called tea.”

If Federov felt any awkwardness, he hid it well. “Once we get to Moscow, I promise you something even better. I have arranged to have an apartment placed at your disposal. The wardrobe has new clothes in it and the refrigerator is well stocked.”

“Will I find a young woman in my bed, as well?”

“That can also be arranged. I suspect you might have a little tension that requires relieving.”

“A little? My God, Karl, have you forgotten how long I’ve been locked up? Three long, lonely years. Just make sure whoever you send has stamina. She will need it.”

They both laughed.

Kirov watched as Federov drank his own coffee, his hands wrapped around the mug. “Are you cold, Karl?”

“Yes.”

“Compared to my cell this is almost tropical. There even the rats wore overcoats.”

“Dammit, Viktor, I only wish this opportunity had come sooner. You should not have spent so long in that place.”

“I’m not going to argue that point,” Kirov said. “Karl, I know that if there had been any other way, you would have worked something out. I heard how you fought to have me transferred to a better prison. You have been more than a friend, Karl. More than anyone had a right to expect. For that I thank you.”

Federov nodded. “Drink your coffee, then we can get out of this place. We have a long drive back to the city.”

“Plenty of time to talk, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you can tell me who I have to kill for you first.”

For the first time since he had entered the office Viktor Kirov’s eyes glistened with enthusiasm. Seeing the expression on his friend’s face, Karl Federov smiled.

He had his man, the one individual who would help his cause and who would do exactly what Federov wanted without argument, or regret.

Kirov was thirty-two years old. The last three had been spent in a bleak, isolated prison run by the FSB and overseen by guards who were little better than some of the inmates. These were political dissidents, men, and some women, who posed a threat to the regime, as well as recidivists and terrorists, or possible terrorists. The government played no favors. If someone was an embarrassment, dangerous, with agendas that might create an outcry, then the isolationist regime in the prison would either kill or cure. Once the subject was out of the public eye, it became easier to handle.

Viktor Kirov was a special case. He had been trained by the very people who finally locked him away. Kirov was a natural-born killer, a man who had no conscience when he was given his orders. It didn’t matter who the victim was. Man. Woman. Child. Kirov handled them all with the same cold detachment. His training had come from the best, and Kirov surpassed every one of his instructors. His supreme test came when he was given the order to kill one of the other applicants on the training course. The man had failed to reach anything like the required standard. His dissatisfaction turned him sour, and he began blaming everyone at the training academy for his poor achievements. His grievances were looked on with disapproval. He managed to alienate everyone around him. His vehement lack of control drew the attention of the academy director, a man who despised those who showed weakness. The director solved his problem easily. He chose the best pupil from the course to carry out his order.

He chose Viktor Kirov.

He was confident he had picked the right man. Kirov’s performance during the course had been exceptional. The director, who prided himself on his ability to know his trainees, had reached the conclusion that Viktor Kirov was head and shoulders above the rest. Kirov was an individual. Something of a loner. A borderline sociopath. And his instructors had reported that Kirov had that rare quality capable of making him an excellent assassin. There was a cold streak within him, a propensity for violence that he kept close to the surface, contained and controlled until it was needed.

Three days after the failed trainee had quit the academy, the director asked Kirov into his office. He told Kirov what he wanted in no uncertain terms, explaining that he would not allow the man to spread malicious rumors about the academy. An example had to be made. Kirov understood what was being asked of him and accepted the mission without hesitation. The director offered assistance, but Kirov declined.

Two days later there was a small report in the press that a young man had been found dead in a back ally. His neck had been broken during an attempted robbery. No one had seen or heard a thing. The case was never solved and became just another statistic.

The director found the man’s wallet on his desk a day later.

Kirov was immediately recruited into a special section of the FSB and over the next few years his particular talents were well used. He became his section’s chief assassin, traveling extensively to carry out wet work for his employers. Europe, Africa, even the U.S.A. played host to Viktor Kirov. He was never caught. He was that good. Perhaps too good. He began to enjoy his work too much. His masters tried to rein him in, but all that achieved was to make him strike out at them. He began to kill off the books. He turned rogue, killing anyone sent to bring him in.

In the end he was caught. His secret trial was swift, and the verdict all too obvious. He was sentenced to thirty years in one of the department prisons located in the bleak extremes of eastern Russia, a dark, harsh place where the worst of the worst were confined. Not executed, but placed in solitary exile in case the long-term needs of the state might one day require their dubious talents.

Kirov was one of those instances. He had been created and trained by the state as a killer. There was always the need for such skills. So Kirov was hidden away so he might reflect on his aberrations and consider his future.

Karl Federov had been Kirov’s only true friend. Over a number of years an unspoken bond had developed between the two men. Neither could explain it, nor ever tried. During Kirov’s good years in the section, he and Federov spent social times together. Drinking. The occasional female. It was an odd matching, but it worked for them both. Each accepted the other without question.

When Kirov was detained after his rogue episode, Karl Federov was the only one who spoke in his defense. He used his influence in attempts to have Kirov freed. Nothing came of it. In the end even Kirov advised his friend to give up, realizing he was going to be locked up. The day he was taken away Kirov’s last request was to be allowed to speak to Federov, thanking him for his loyalty. For his part Federov said he would get Kirov out of his cell one day.

And now he had.

Kirov would be the ace up his sleeve, Federov’s own secret weapon to be aimed and guided and allowed to use his unique talents against those who stood in Federov’s path as he homed in on Black Judas.

A few nights after Kirov had come on board, Federov drove them around the city while he explained his intentions. Kirov listened in silence until Federov completed his announcement about Black Judas. He had smiled, then actually laughed out loud.

“Karl, you have become even more devious than before I went to prison.”

“Does that mean you are in?” Federov asked.

“Of course. Did you think I would pass up the opportunity to screw the bastards who locked me away? I owe my loyalty to you, Karl, and no one else. In the whole of Russia there was only one man on my side. Karl Federov. My friend.” Kirov peered through the sleet-covered windshield of the car, pointing to neon-lit signs that indicated a bar. “We can use this Black Judas to take back what those bastards owe us. Karl, let’s go and celebrate. Then in the morning we can start to fuck the Kremlin.”

Federov parked the car outside a nightclub. As he led the way inside he laid a hand on Kirov’s shoulder.

“By the way, Viktor, I have a passport and visa for you.”

“Am I going somewhere again?”

“Yes. This time your trip will be much more comfortable and pleasant. The U.S.A. You will go as a member of the Russian diplomatic service. Using the information we have from the Black Judas files, I want you to start tracking down the sleeper teams and eliminating them.”

“Didn’t you explain that these men carry the codes needed to operate the system?”

“Three teams of two men. Only one pair is actually required to activate the project. Now that we know where they are located, we can dispense with four out of the six. It reduces the chances of Krushen gaining control. If we take charge of the surviving team, we have the upper hand.”