Moscow Machination (3 page)

Zhen Zhao
began half-heartedly, “Steve Jobs? Oh wait… Mao? Mao… Mao?”

On her 7
^th
‘Mao’, Zhen Zhao and Chang Chou felt a massive explosion under their sweet
bottoms. Nano seconds later, so did the eight hundred other screaming
passengers on the Shenzhen to Beijing, CRH400A.

The few
unlucky onlookers on the ground and
Koba
watched as the black train
suddenly exploded and began cluster bombing Guangdong.

Without
its dance partner, the CRH300A smashed horizontally into China Rail’s stamping
facility. The lack of combustible fuel and the presence of fine German circuit
breakers prevented any ugly fires or explosions. But that just wasn’t enough to
save the facility from complete devastation.

Meanwhile,
Zhen Zhao was 500 feet up in the air still strapped to her seat. The warm wind,
the industrial scenery and the sudden turn of events made her light headed. But
other than that she was fine. She still had the capability to transmit yellow
fever.

The last
page on the CRH400A’s manual had explained how the train behaved like a fighter
jet’s cockpit. So, in case of May Day situations (not the Communist one), the
pilots just had to chant ‘Mao, Mao, Mao’ and their seats would eject safely
with a parachute.

Zhen
turned her head and noticed that Chang her co-pilot was also floating in the
vicinity. A little further she noticed the 800 or so dumbstruck passengers also
in dangling from parachutes.

 As the
parachutes headed for one of the last patches of rice paddies, Zhen realized
she was still holding onto the operator manual. She quickly flipped to the last
pages of the English, German and French sections. The secret Mao page was missing.

Her relief
was dampened at the thought of Wang’s passengers. Wang could burn… but his
passengers… Chen Chou yelled out, “The early train to Shenzhen… not popular…
mostly Party wives.”

Moscow

Primakov felt
elated as he rushed back to the SVR-SB’s headquarters on the outskirts of
Moscow. On the way he had an animated conversation with Dementyev, a Moscow
State University economist. As he recited the factories hit, Dementyev made rapid
calculations and deduced that the damages accrued were about size the of Rhode
Island’s GDP.

“Just
Rhode Island?” Primakov was sorely disappointed. All that effort and something
that wasn’t even an island and sounded like a chicken.

“Yup.”

“That’s
not enough…”

“Well, how
about ½ of Jacksonville or 3/7
^th
of Portland...”

“Portland?
What is that? Give me big names… New York, Chicago, Philly, Miami… Dallas”

“Err… ok.”

“Seriously
Portland…?”

Lubyanka Square, Moscow

Primakov
drove his Volkswagen Jetta across the Moskva River. It was summer in Moscow and
the better samples of the Federation’s demographics were on display. Usually
seeing a sexy runner in tank tops would have been the highlight of his day,
especially considering he spent most of his time in a half abandoned technology
park out in suburban Skolkovo. But everything was gorgeous today, right from the
traffic to the weather to the Muscovites and especially his sweet mission.

Things
hadn’t felt this way in a long time. He had resigned himself to heading the SVR-SB
and its moronic missions across Siberian shitholes and the raging republics. Even
on the rare ‘stoking a revolution’ missions, the SVR-SB was usually reduced to bombing
sewage treatment plants. Plus, to lay the ground work, one of his men had to
get a job at these places. Modern facilities in Tbilisi and Africa were generally
fine. It was the older ones like Kiev and Helsinki and Warsaw that made his men
squirm.

And
then Crimea had happened.

Ever since
the Russo-Ukrainian split his life had taken a turn for the better. He had been
asked to plan several hypothetical missions in Kiev, ranging from abducting
aerospace engineers to assassinating the neo-Nazi ministers to even modifying
the weather to ratchet radioactive dust from suburban Chernobyl. In the past
year alone, had submitted eighteen plans to the SVR for approval. On a couple
of occasions some SVR Major had even invited Primakov to the SVR headquarters
for further discussions. But in the end nothing had transpired… at least to
Primakov’s knowledge.

Then a
month ago, the SVR had instructed him to meet up with some Japanese dude in a
Moscow café. Three minutes into that meeting, Primakov was stunned by the
insane Japanese man. Perhaps his cute Japanese interpreter was insane. He had
stepped out of the café and made an urgent call to the SVR hotline to report
this Japanese dude and his vixen – for trying to destabilize a friendly nation.
After being put on hold for fifteen minutes, an irritated SVR guy had used unimaginative
language and instructed him to blow the Japanese guy if necessary.

Needless
to say he had returned to the eagerly waiting Japanese duo. The interpreter was
particularly happy to see him come back. Primakov listened to their odd request
again to make sure nothing was being lost in translation.

Essentially
the Japanese dude, who was also the Foreign Minister of the great nation of
Japan wanted another great nation, Russia, to punch China in the balls. “Why
not ask your cuddle buddy America?” Primakov had retaliated. The cute
interpreter relayed “These days they are all about projection of power. Nothing
real Primakov-san.” She had even made an emoji-style sad face, causing him to
spill his tall black Americano. Her fervent cleanup effort with a napkin hadn’t
helped either.

Yada, yada,
yada… the sabotage mission in China’s Guangdong province had cost the Chinese
economy a dollar value that was about 1/4
^th
the GDP of Chicago.

So, here he
was, outside the old Cheka-NKVD-KGB prison at Lubyanka square. Not for treason or
espionage or some lack of belief in the system, but for heroically executing
his mission and exceeding Japanese expectations. The Russian Foreign Minister
was about to present him the ‘
Defender-General Badass
’ medal.

As expected,
parking around Lubyanka was a torture. Primakov cursed and rounded the Lubyanka
prison for the third time in search of a spot as a man in a cool bomber jacket
walked out of a side door and indicated him to stop.

“The fuck
are you up to moron? You are making the snipers jittery.”

“Sorry. I
have an appointment with my boss in 5 minutes… actually I’m receiving the
Defender-General
Badass
medal…” blurted out Primakov.

“Badge?”

Primakov
handed him his laminated ID. The SVR-SB didn’t have badges.

After a
long inspection, the FSB guy gave the nod, “We’ll take your car. Get out.”

Primakov
waited with the fifteen other distinguished men. None spoke. There was a lone
FSB photographer. No media or fanfare. This was the Oscars of high stakes defense.

On the
dais sat the chiefs of the FSB and SVR. Their expressions mirrored those of Cossacks
undergoing coffee colon cleanses. The third chair was empty. Apparently the
Foreign Minister was running late. Something about Latvia and gas pipes. If the
Latvians Ukrained-out, he could always resubmit his rejected, white paper ‘Tunnels
under the Latvian SSR: A scholastic guide to Soviet Union 2.2.3’.

After
about fifteen minutes, there was a shriek outside the hall. 2 seconds later, another
Russian male shrieked. There were sounds of boots slamming and guys going into
attention. As the commotion got closer the FSB guards rushed out. At the sight
of something they too freaked out and parted away.

On the
dais the SVR and FSB heads gasped and sprung up.

In
walked Anna Petrova, the Russian President.

41 year
old Anna Petrova had arrived at the Kremlin under extraordinary circumstances.
The previous president, despite every western analyst’s prediction had stepped
down at the end of his second term. On his retirement speech, President Val had
said, “
… after all these years I have found my true calling… a call of the
wild… I want to become the Crocodile Hunter 2.0… what a great man… as our cold
Russia is no place for these noble beasts, I have decided to go to Brisbane… where
I can learn from the best… and catch some of the best crocs… dammit… one day,
one day I will even have my own TV show on Discovery… Spasibo Bitches.
”

Hoping for
a clean change, the Russian people had barfed at apparatchiks and voted in the fresh
faced female professor from Volgograd State University. Some thought it was a
CIA conspiracy.

And
then Crimea had happened.

Trying to
catch the new President off guard someone had set off the Kiev Maidan. Uncowed,
the naïve President had foolishly sent in the Spetsnaz to take ‘back’ Crimea.
In the process she had lost Ukraine. But then again, Ukraine was already a
basket case… a parasite… it was no Estonia, Latvia or Lithuania where an easy
turnaround was possible. Let Brussels deal with them. Whatever.

The
western backlash and the frosty stances from friendly Beijing and Minsk had
forced the new President to seek out brand-new-old friends… aka friends with
benefits… aka frenemies – Japan and Germany. The Japanese going through their
own lost double decade had been more than willing to mix it up.

Primakov along
with everyone, rose to attention as the Russian President took the dais.

She began,
“I apologize…” wow, a first for a politician thought Primakov. His other brain quickly
evaluated her and wondered why she was unmarried.

“I
apologize… Sergey Luzkhov our Foreign Minister had to go from Riga to Vilnius.
Suddenly the Lithuanians want assurances and guarantees. Ah… what can I say? So
I thought I might step in and surprise you all… hope you all aren’t
disappointed …”

Of course
not. Fuck that conniving Luzkhov. This was an honor. Award from the President… ooh.

“…as you
all know, we are in unchartered territory. And we are going to have to use every
unorthodox tool… to preserve what’s rightfully ours. So I would like to congratulate
you all… for the service you do for the Motherland.”

As the
group applauded, an assistant began calling out the awardees. When Primakov was
called up, he walked up to the President. The President shook his hand and pinned
the ‘
Defender-General Badass
’ medal to his shirt. She then proceeded to
shake his hand.

“Pyotr
Primakov, the Japanese are extremely happy with what you did. Thank you.”

By the
time he had uttered his own “Thank you madam…” he found himself at his seat.
Some anal security guy had whisked him away. Whatever.

Back in
his seat, he looked around and noticed the Japanese Minister Yamazaki and his
interpreter Yuki were seated in a plush corner. As the Minister raised his
drink at him, Yuki smiled emoji style….

Ministry of State Security, Beijing,
China

            “Waterboarding?...hmmm…lie
detectors?... Ok, what about labor camps for their cousins? Even distant
cousins?... hmmm… interesting… deputation to the Congo?... did you try Pyongyang?...
still nothing? Hmmm… tough cookies.”

Head of
State Security Hu Gong, was running out of options.  In his forty years of
service to the party, he had come up against some freaky shit. But the incident
on the Shenzhen – Guangzhou high speed line had been something else. It was brash,
idiotic and pointless. Only a dimwit-poindexter/wannabe-Joker could have come
up with that. Tripping up two trains with a steel cord to unleash havoc... Hu
Gong shook his head.

Hu Gong
was the head of the all-encompassing Ministry of State Security (MSS),
Beijing’s counter intelligence arm. It had been three weeks since the incident
in Guangdong. Despite initial fears, the world’s confidence in China’s
stability as a business partner hadn’t changed. Everyone knew Beijing was
ruthless towards internal bs. Yet for some reason, the
Tokyo Tentacler
and
the Berlin based,
Marx Monthly
, had run identical hit pieces dissing ‘Made
in China’.

Initially,
railway security had discovered a scapegoat, a maintenance engineer who had
turned up fifteen minutes late for work on that day. Despite the railway
authority’s insistence, the Ministry of Public Security (MPS), China’s internal
security arm had come away unconvinced. There were no traitors in China, unless
of course they were Tibetans or Uighurs.

Even after
‘thoroughly’ interviewing the CRH400A’s pilots, Ms. Zhen Zhao and Chang, they hadn’t
find anything amiss. Chou Chang though was fined 1000 yuan for playing games on
her unregistered cell phone. After this lack of progress and pressure from the
Politburo, the Ministry of Public Security had turned over the investigations
to the MSS.

MSS chief
Hu Gong knew that he was the last stop on this deadly game of passing the
parcel. There was no one after him and his MSS. He had to do something. So he
had gotten hold of the suspected maintenance engineer, the pilots Zhen Zhao and
Chang, and put them through his own version of Chinese Horror Story.

Everyone
including himself knew that it was just a just sham… a charade to show, that the
MSS was doing something. Deep down, Hu Gong knew that there were no bad people
in China, unless of course they were from Hong Kong. He preferred Uighurs over
Hong Kongers… even on the day of his daughter’s wedding.

“…so in your
opinion?... mostly harmless?... hmm… have any of them travelled to Hong Kong in
the past year?... no?... ok… well, let them go… release them all… wait… that
pilot… give her some medal, she did figure out the escape hatch… I guess… ok.”

Hu Gong, returned
the pink phone to its cradle and returned his gaze to the two squirming men.
They were from the State SIGINT satellite division.

“Are you
absolutely sure?” Gong goaded.

“Yes sir.
There were three satellites over the area of disaster. Ours, an American and a
Russian. The American satellite has been doing its rounds for over forty years
now, we don’t think it caused anything. It’s most likely the Russian
Koba
…”

“
Koba
huh, weird name for a satellite. What do we know about this
Koba
?”

“Not much.
It was launched two months ago from their old Soviet era Cosmodrome - Plesetsk
up in Arkhangelsk.”

“Not
Baikonur?”

“No Sir.
Baikonur has been relegated to feces transports from the International Space
Station.”

“Because it’s
in Kazakhstan?”

“No Sir. The
Russians are pissed at the Kazakhs for renting it out for a Hollywood movie.”

“Ah, which
one?”

“The one
with the Bullock and George Clooney. Clooney…”

“Ah, the
damsel in distress in space movie. I have seen it. Clooney gets killed trying
to save the bimbo.” Hu Gong continued his rant with, “… Just like Titanic Jack.
So very sad… but you know what?”

“Whats that
Sir?”

“At least
Rose didn’t look like a man.”

After a
few more incisive observations, Gong eventually returned to this new Russian
satellite
Koba
.

“So Russia?
Really? But why and why now? We are the closest thing to an ally right now.”

Hu Gong’s
secretary knocked and peeped in. “Sir, the Foreign Minister and the Finance
Minister want to meet you today.”

“Both?”

“Yes Sir.
At the same time.”

“What? Same
time?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Regarding?”

“Japan and
Germany. They both want a trillion dollars in compensation for their destroyed
factories. Or else they are threatening to move their factories to India or South
Africa.”

“Panda’s anus!”
whispered the chief of the Ministry of State Security.

“Sir?”

“The
Baboon and the Gorilla are fondling the idiot Bear.”

“I’m sorry
to hear that Sir,” replied the secretary, “Is this at the Beijing Zoo or the
Chengdu Zoo, Sir?”

It all
made perfect sense. Other than the United States and maybe Mossad, no one had
the balls to pull off such a flagrant stunt on Chinese soil. The Uighurs?
Please, not those goat herders. Tibetans? Those pacifists? Buddha no. Indians?
Bold democracies didn’t exist. Taipei, Seoul, Pyongyang? No, no and hell no.
But then of course there was the forlorn, forgotten yet capable bear.

There were
four land crossings with Russia, mostly permitting day trips for Chinese
traders and Russian babushkas. Security was pretty lax up there in Siberia.
Russian special agents from the SVR, dressed as babushkas could have easily
slipped in. Or perhaps it was the Asiatic Russian agents. Either way it would
have been easy.

“What?”
responded Hu Gong.

“I’m sorry
to hear that Sir… Or is it the Shanghai Zoo?” persisted the secretary.

“Zoo? What
the fuck are you talking about? Get out. All of you. Tell those morons at
Foreign Affairs and Finance to jerk each other off.”

“Oh. So should
I cancel those meetings, Sir?”

“Are you
deaf? Tell them exactly what I said. And tell the Premier I need to see him now.”

“Yes Sir.”

“And you
nerds,” Hu Gong turned to the SIGINT men, “what the fuck are you waiting for?
Get out. Go.”

Hu seethed
and stormed around his office. He opened his door and barked at his other
secretary, “Get me Liang on the phone.” Liang was his own henchman in the MSS.

43 seconds
later Liang was on Line 3.

“Boss?”

“I want
you to check on the three Siberian crossings with Russia. I want you,
personally, to see every face that came in – Russian and Chinese – and bring me
a list of suspects.”

“Ok. How
far back should I go?”

“Three
months.”

His
secretary popped in, “Sir the Premier is free for the next hour.”

Hu Gong had
already stormed out of his palatial office. The security guard outside his door
immediately signaled the agency’s fleet of armored Audis to get ready. The boss
was out on a hunting trip.