bratva or not.
“Roots in Rhodesia before the unpleasantness. Son was an American Navy SEAL; first name, Raife. They may be connected to another SEAL who interfered in the assassination attempt of the U.S. president last year, the same event that was successful against President Zubarev.”
“Commander James Reece. I know the name. I’ll look into it. Anything else?”
“Yes, status update on the situation in Africa,” he said, referring specifically to the Central African Republic.
“My directorate’s assessment has been forwarded through the proper channels as requested. They will arrive on the desk you specified.”
Aleksandr knew the desk in question was that of the foreign secretary and that the bratva had already exerted the proper encouragement to sign the papers. In this case it was half a million euros in a Swiss bank account and pictures of his grandchildren playing in this very park. The message was clear.
“Good.”
The contract to extract uranium and diamonds from the CAR made the pittance paid to secure it well worth the small investment.
“Anything else?” Aleksandr asked.
Ivan paused. He wanted to ask about Medny Island. He wanted to ask about the rumors he’d since verified that his son was importing prisoners from Africa to hunt in the barrens of the Russian Far East. He wanted to ask his eldest son to join him at the family compound in the heart of Siberia. He wanted to know why his son had such hatred for him.
Instead he answered with a terse nyet before ending the call.
Aleksandr looked at what the American intelligence agencies called a burner phone in his hand. It was an unnecessary precaution. His connection to the bratva was an open secret. In fact, it was the very reason for his rapid ascension through the ranks. One did not cross or insult the son of bratva leadership and expect to be long for the world.
He’d use the phone for the remainder of the month and then drop it into the Moskva River.
His father was getting old. Old men make mistakes. Soon Aleksandr would leave government service with enough information to blackmail half the Kremlin. That intelligence, coupled with the power of the world’s most feared criminal organization, would see the Zharkov family influence solidified over Russian politics and business for another generation.
It was his father’s time to go.
CHAPTER 24
Yaak River Valley, Montana
THE TEAM HAD FILTERED in over the past few days, enforcers from Miami, Los Angeles, and Boston. Dimitry would have preferred that Ivan just hire a team of Wagner Group mercenaries to handle this, but he knew the CIA kept close tabs on those with Wagner affiliations trying to enter the United States.
They split into two teams of six, one led by Dimitry and one by Vitya. To build unit cohesion, each team slept together, ate together, and trained together. A few of the men had military experience but most did not. While Vitya performed his reconnaissance missions on the targets using the tools of his trade, Dimitry created a training schedule to turn these street thugs into something resembling soldiers.
In the mornings, they ran and hiked the trails that surrounded the lake, heading up the relatively gradual incline hills behind the cabin and then into the steeper mountains beyond. These daily journeys ensured that they were all fit to move overland in this terrain and helped them acclimate to the altitude. They were all young and adapted quickly to the physical training.
They would return to the barn each morning, shirtless and covered in sweat, their tattooed bodies on full display. Prison tattoos served like badges on a military uniform in the Brotherhood, with each crude ink design representing a significant crime or event. One could assess the experience of a gang member by their tattoos the way a white-collar employer could read a resume. Dimitry had only served as a senior sergeant in the Russian Army, but he wore the uniform of a World War II field marshal when it came to ink.
After breakfast, Dimitry led them through the process of field-stripping, inspecting, cleaning, and lubricating their rifles so that they would be intimately familiar with their operation. He built a makeshift firing range and personally guided each of the men through the process of zeroing their weapons. Each magazine was fully loaded and tested. Those that experienced stoppages made their way to the bottom of Okaga Lake.
During the afternoon, they practiced small unit tactics. The team learned the basics of fire and maneuver, bounding overwatch, and spent hour upon hour practicing the effective L-shaped ambush.