BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (86)
  1. Foreword
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
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  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
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  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. Afterword

Either version of the cover story worked, but the top brass preferred the penniless translator version. It was cheaper, but it was also more effective. It turned out powerful men were significantly more turned on by a woman who was broke than one who already had everything she wanted.

The trophy-wife version was reserved for operations where access to the target required wealth or status to be plausible.

Like all government agencies, the GRU was a bureaucracy.

And like all Russian bureaucracies, it was on a gargantuan scale.

It lumbered like a T-34 tank. It was not nimble, or reactive, or innovative.

In university, Tatyana heard people debate whether Tolstoy, and Stalin, and Russia, better resembled a hedgehog or a fox. The fox knew many things. The hedgehog knew only one thing, but knew it well.

Tatyana asked the same question of intelligence agencies.

The CIA was a fox. MI5 was a fox.

The GRU was a hedgehog, and no matter how sophisticated its adversaries grew, no matter how large a technological gap they opened up, they would never be able to deny a simple fact the Russians had learned long ago.

That at their core, Westerners were not equipped for war.

They could never truly be warriors because in their hearts they still clung to the promise of peace.

They lived their lives as if those Memorial Day barbecues, those Thanksgiving turkeys, those Christmas presents under the tree meant something. As if they were real, and would go on forever. As if all those quaint, familiar comforts, somehow protected them from the reality of the world.

They were slaves to their delusions as much as any Soviet apparatchik.

When they told their children about Santa Claus, they believed the story they were telling.

They indulged in their weakness. They basked in it.

They enjoyed their lives, and wanted to preserve them.

And it led the GRU to focus intensely on the pursuit of Kompromat. Because the men who led the west slept with their eyes closed. They slept like babies. They let their guard down. They were more afraid of a fight with their wives than the terrors their enemies might bring to their door.

Hence the lists, thousands of names long, of foreigners worth targeting.

Russia knew it couldn’t win in the skies, it couldn’t win in the oceans, it couldn’t win in space, so it won in the bedroom, in the toilet, in the brothel.

Russia knew that no matter how advanced an army became, a photo of a general cock-deep in a Russian whore would stop him in his tracks as surely as the Siberian winter stopped Napoleon, and the Wehrmacht, and everyone else who’d ever thought they could march into it and win.

24

Igor Aralov stood by his office window blowing cigar smoke against the glass. They were building a new shopping mall outside and the workers crawled around the site like ants.