He personally couldn’t stand Kuznetzov, but their fates had been inexorably tied together for two decades. The man had been in the right place at the right time—at the right price. If Yuri had thought he could have run FIREBIRD after the last Directorate’s purge without the general’s help, he would have encased the rotund man in cement after taking over the program and dropped him in the Baltic Sea years ago. The man had proved instrumental during those early years, systematically migrating all control and evidence of the highly compartmentalized secret program out of the GRU’s hands and into Pichugin’s.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of disappearing Kuznetzov in the years immediately following the handover, but FIREBIRD had proved more difficult to manage than Pichugin had assumed—and the general had led him to believe. They needed the GRU’s long-established and expiring network of illegals to pave the way for FIREBIRD’s second generation. To remove any obstacles from their assigned paths.

Pichugin could have attempted to outsource this work, but the GRU operatives had proved their loyalty and effectiveness for decades. He didn’t see any reason to risk the use of men and women whose sole allegiance rested in a bank deposit when he had an army of well-paid idealogues at his disposal.

Kuznetzov emerged indispensable. Even more so when Pichugin brought FIREBIRD and his revised plans for its use to Putin, a mutual confidant and partner in several enterprises at that point. Putin endorsed FIREBIRD’s repurposing without hesitation, ensuring them access to whatever resources they required to make it succeed. Once Putin linked Kuznetzov’s name and face so intimately to FIREBIRD’s success—the general became untouchable.

“Yuri!” said the general, eyeballing the spread. “You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble.”

“I figured I might need to settle my stomach during our chat,” said Pichugin. “This can’t be good.”

The door shut behind Kuznetzov, the security operative leaving them alone.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” he said, taking a seat opposite him across the table.

Pichugin poured two shots of vodka and handed one to the general.

“Za vstrechu,” he said, and they downed a premier version of Russian Standard. “So. Tell me about this problem we can handle but requires you to fly out from Moscow.”

“Devin Gray made some new friends over the past couple of days,” said the general. “Some very deadly and resourceful friends. Do you remember the name Karl Berg?”

“Vaguely,” he said. “CIA?”

“Ex-CIA,” said Kuznetzov. “Pegged to General Terrence Sanderson’s troublemakers.”

“Now that’s a name I’m more familiar with,” said Pichugin. “Never crossed paths with his people, but the name has come up at the highest level before. I thought there was some kind of understanding in place.”

“There is. But this would fall well outside of that back channel deal,” said the general. “For obvious reasons.”