Vostov sat back in his seat, waiting impatiently. Eventually the chopper descended and settled at the airstrip near the Tu-144. The SBP agents rushed him into the plane. He was barely inside when the hatch shut and the jet’s engines roared, the jet at full power on the runway before he could make his way into the back inner office.
He strapped himself into his chair at the desk and looked up at Pasternak. At the table’s chairs were the same officials he’d arrived with. As the deck inclined for takeoff, he glared at Defense Minister Konstantinov and FSB Chairman Sevastyan. “One of you people care to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Mr. President,” Sevastyan said, “we have a live feed from the GUM shopping mall.” Pasternak helped the FSB chairman project his pad computer on the large flatpanels on the forward bulkhead.
The view showed the plate glass windows fronting the Brunello Cucinelli shop, but the inside was obscured by smoke. A crowd of tactically-outfitted SBP agents and police were crowded in front of the store.
“Maybe the news,” Pasternak said, switching on a flatpanel display to the RT Moscow local affiliate. The announcer was a woman standing somewhere in front of the black-clad police.
“Turn it up,” Vostov said.
The announcer seemed to stumble through her words, seeming shaken by what was happening.
“…in front of the Brunello Cucinelli boutique, where we believe sixteen shoppers and four staff are being held hostage inside by elements of the United Islamic Front of God, who are — who are, apparently, terrorists. We have preliminary word that among the hostages is Larisa Vostov, the wife of the president. The UIF have communicated to the commander of the hostage rescue team that their demands are the release of six prisoners held in Tomsk Prison, each of them in maximum security, serving sentences for murder and terrorism. They have stated that they require an escort from the mall and a helicopter to a private jet, plus ten million Euro, failing which they will execute a hostage every hour until their demands are met.”
“Mute it,” Vostov barked. “Is Anya okay?”
The FSB deputy, Ozols, was speaking on a phone, one hand covering his ear. He looked up at Vostov. “Anya is safe, Mr. President. She’s under SBP guard. She was removed from her school and is arriving at your north dacha now, sir. We have agents inside and outside with roadblocks set up on all roads in the vicinity, and the anti-aircraft units are stationed and ready. Any move against Anya will be met with deadly force.”
Vostov breathed a sigh of relief.
“Mr. President, you have to make the decision,” Deputy FSB Chairman Ozols said, looking at him expectantly.
Vostov looked at Ozols. “What decision?”
“Do we promise to release the prisoners and get the chopper, money and plane? Or do we storm the store and try to rescue the hostages?”
“Everyone leave this office except for Pasternak,” Vostov ordered.
The staff bolted to their feet and hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind them.
“Can I get you a bottle of water, sir? You look white as a ghost.”
“Tonya, what is this? Is this related to what we spoke about before?”
Pasternak didn’t say anything, but just gave him a solemn half nod.
“So, how do the options break down?”
She took a deep breath. “We have to consider the right thing to do given the political situation and our opposition. If we accommodate the terrorists, we look weak to our constituents and the opposition. And to the world.”
“But if I give the order to rush those criminals, it could result in all twenty of the hostages being killed,” Vostov said.
“Correct, sir.”
“I want the ages of every one of the hostages,” Vostov said. “I want to know if children are inside.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Pasternak hurried forward to consult with the FSB officers. While he waited, Vostov unmuted the news channel. There was not much new coming from RT. They were approaching the time when the first hostage would be executed, failing word on the prisoner release, the money, the helicopter and the private jet. Pasternak hurried back in, brushing her hair out of her face.
“Sir, of the sixteen people who aren’t staff, fifteen of them are women between the ages of twenty-one and forty-seven. There is one male, a nineteen-year-old who is the son of the older woman. FSB thinks he will be the first hostage to be executed.”
Vostov leaned back for a moment. “Call for the flight attendant to bring back a bottle of vodka and glasses. Get Sevastyan and Ozols back here. Then put me in touch with the man in tactical command at the scene.”
It took a moment for Pasternak to set up the call. The FSB chairman and his deputy stepped back in and took seats at the conference table. Vostov stood from his desk and joined them at the table.
“The tactical commander is on the speaker phone, sir,” Pasternak said.
“This is the president,” Vostov said to the speaker on the center of the table. “Who am I speaking with?”
“Sir, this Colonel Vanya Nika, GRU, assigned on duty to FSB.”
