The Killing Ground Read Online Free PDF

E L S , Vladimir Putin sat drinking vodka with General Volkov, his most trusted security adviser, and Max Chekov.
    “So, things are proceeding well with Belov International?” the President said.
    “Of course, Mr. President. Thanks to Belov’s untimely demise, we control oil fields and gas pipelines from Siberia to Norway and over the North Sea to England.” Volkov shrugged. “And we can stop most of those pipelines anytime we want.”
    “Stop go, stop go. Play with them,” Chekov put in. “When you think of all the effort in the old days devoted to the threat of the atom bomb.”
    He shook his head. “Now we can achieve more than we ever dreamed of by just turning off a few taps.”
    “Yes,” Putin said. “It was a wonderful gift, when Belov ended up at the bottom of the Irish Sea, thanks to Ferguson’s people.”
    “What’s happened to Belov’s Irish estate?”
    Chekov said, “Drumore Place. I’ve visited it twice. It has been developed for light industry. There’s a decent runway for light aircraft, and a

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    helicopter pad. A nice little harbor. All in all, a useful property for us to have.” He smiled. “And if you ever want to visit and have a drink, there’s a great pub called the George.”
    “Strange.” Putin, once a KGB colonel, knew his history. “King George was the man who oppressed the Irish peasantry in the eighteenth cen-tury for being Roman Catholic. They hated him for this, so why call their public house the George?”
    Chekov said, “I asked the publican, a man called Ryan, the very question. He answered that it was their pub and they liked it the way it was.
    And let me note: they may all be Catholic by persuasion, but their real religion is the Provisional IRA.”
    “Yes.” Putin sniffed at his drink. “Those former IRA men, so violent—and so useful for certain jobs. Well!” He raised his glass,
    “Let us drink to the future of Belov International.” He nodded toward Chekov. “And to its chief executive officer.”
    The vodka went down and another, then Chekov excused himself.
    Volkov poured another couple of vodkas.
    “What do you think of him?” Putin asked.
    “Of Chekov?” said Volkov. “He’ll be fine. He’s got a good tough army record. The kind who laughs and kills, you know? And he’s so personally wealthy that he seems totally trustworthy from my point of view—and he’s just unlikely to get too greedy.”
    “Good. Now, Volkov, concerning this sorry business with Blake Johnson. You need to check the quality of your staff. Taking on such a pres-tigious target is only worthwhile if success is certain. Failure is not an option. And I keep seeing that damn Dillon’s name popping up everywhere!”
    “Of course, sir, I understand. As for Dillon—he’s an exceptional man.”
    “Are you saying we have no such individuals? Whatever happened to Igor Levin, for example?”
    Volkov hesitated. “He became unreliable, Mr. President. By the end of the Belov affair, he decamped to Dublin with two GRU sergeants, 30

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    Chomsky and Popov. Chomsky, I believe, is studying law at Trinity College in Dublin now. It’s difficult.”
    “You’re wrong,” Vladimir Putin said. “It’s very simple. Tell them their President needs them and Russia needs them. And if that doesn’t work—well, we have ways of dealing with people who ‘decamp,’ don’t we? As for Ferguson and company, I’m sick of them. It’s time to finish it once and for all. Every time we make headway in our goal, they interfere.
    Disorder, chaos, anarchy leading to a breakdown in the social order, this should be our aim. Cultivate our Arab friends, let them do the dirty work. Their favorite weapon is the bomb, which means civilian casualties—that’ll stoke the fires of hate for all things Muslim anywhere in Europe. You have my full authority.”
    Volkov tried to smile. “I’m very grateful, Mr. President, for everything.”
    “I’ll