It’s a real pleasure to join the blog tour for Moscow X by David McCloskey today and my thanks go to Rachel Nobilo for inviting me to participate. I’m thrilled to have an extract from Moscow X to share with you and, if you live in the UK, a giveaway for a hardback copy of the book.

Moscow X was published by Swift Press on 18th January 2024 and is available for purchase here.

Moscow X

A daring CIA operation threatens chaos in the Kremlin.
But can Langley trust the Russian at its center?

CIA operatives Sia and Max enter Russia to recruit Vladimir Putin’s moneyman. Sia works for a London firm that conceals the wealth of the super-rich. Max’s family business in Mexico – a CIA front since the 1960s – is a farm that breeds high-end racehorses. They pose as a couple, and their targets are Vadim, Putin’s private banker, and his wife Anna, who is both a banker and an intelligence officer herself…

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And now that’s captured your imagination, here’s an extract for you to enjoy:

An Extract from Moscow X

Saint Petersburg

In the first hours of a wet Saint Petersburg evening, a man in a well-cut suit exited a black government Mercedes and entered the lobby of a bank. Though his business that evening was robbery, he carried neither knife nor gun. His weapon was instead a stack of official documents, which permitted him to move a large quantity of gold bullion from the bank’s reserves, held in a vault four stories below the street and minded at that hour by a well-armed team of guards and several clerks, only a few of whom were presently asleep.

The papers authorized the suited man, Lieutenant Colonel Konstantin Konstantinovich Chernov of the Federal’naya sluzhba bezopasnosti, the FSB, Russia’s Federal Security Service, to transfer two hundred and twenty-one bars of gold from the bank to a strategic reserve in the east.

Chernov’s black Ferragamos clacked over the lobby marble, their spotless heels trailed by a large crew of regular policemen pulling carts and crates. The police had been unhappily conscripted by the FSB for an evening of manual labor. The bullion, after all, was heavy: each bar weighed just over twelve kilos. Bank Rossiya’s head of security greeted Chernov in the lobby. The man had been a colonel in the army; he knew the game. The FSB had dozens of spies inside the bank. The FSB made the rules. Chernov would do whatever he wanted.

They exchanged icy greetings. Chernov was dead-eyed and firm but polite, the paperwork was drearily official, and though the mood
was tense there was neither  argument nor bickering, not a voice raised in anger. Chernov had once been soldier and priest, so he knew there was no law but God’s and that God spoke this law through Russia alone. His orders that night would have been considered arbitrary, even illegal, in many societies, but to Chernov they might well have been Godbreathed, no different from Holy Scripture or a Kremlin decree.

Chernov’s features were unremarkable except for his considerable height. He was pale, bald, and rosy-cheeked. His eyes were still and
contemplative. The black suit was Savile Row via the dip pouch and well-tailored to his massive frame. His words were often the first hints of madness, and that evening few had yet crossed his lips.

From the lobby Chernov trailed the head of security to a spacious office overlooking the square. There they rolled through the evening’s first protest: whether Andrei Agapov, the bank’s principal shareholder, should be phoned at that hour to learn of the state’s requisition of a pile of gold bullion valued at nearly two hundred million dollars. “He should at least know what is happening,” the head of security said to Chernov, desk phone clenched in his white hands. He was set to dial Agapov but hung there, awaiting permission. Chernov nodded.

The head of security spoke to Agapov for a few minutes. He read  high points from the papers. He gave Chernov’s name and rank and
department. He asked Agapov for instructions. Then he hung up.

“Are you to refuse us?” Chernov asked, eyes lit with curiosity.

“No,” the head of security said, “but I’m to make it a challenge.”

“Do you feel that is wise?” Chernov asked.

They agreed that it was not. That the head of security would do exactly nothing to delay or complicate the transfer, but if pressed Chernov would insist resistance had been irritating, even formidable. Then they descended into the vault, where Chernov walked the rows, fingers gliding along the cages holding the gold bars, one of the police officers trailing behind to check the serial numbers against the papers they carried to make this robbery legal. Once Chernov was satisfied, his men began packing.

They filled the bottom of each crate, spreading a thick cloth over the gold. They added two more layers until they feared that the gold might buckle the crates. Then they sealed on the tops with wood screws, affixing premade labels to note the run of serial numbers each crate contained. The bank’s security men did not draw their guns; no one touched radios or phones. They stood dumbly at attention. What is to be done when the police are robbing you?

The head of security watched the crates scud by with the forlorn expression of a man watching the burglary of his own home.

And then, unable to help himself, he muttered about Chernov stealing Andrei Agapov’s gold.

Chernov turned to him. “You say this is Agapov’s gold?” His voice was measured, though he could now feel his blood twisting and sloshing through him like mercury. A hint of salt and metal flickered on the tip of his tongue.

The head of security examined his reflection in his shoes, his hands on his hips in anger, but he held his tongue.

“I asked,” Chernov said, “if it is your position that this gold belongs to Andrei Agapov.”

The man raised his head but did not meet Chernov’s eyes. “The paperwork admits as much.”

“Then I ask you this,” Chernov said. “Who owns Andrei Agapov?”

The head of security fiddled with his tie. He was sniffling, Adam’s apple bobbing away.

Chernov sighed. Few understood. “The lawless power of Russia redeems God,” Chernov said. “A failed God becomes one with Russia
through this redemptive work. So it is God, ultimately, who owns this gold. Do you see?”

The man was swallowing harder now, fingers tugging at his tie knot. He did not reply. He did not meet Chernov’s gaze.

Crates slid past.

Chernov led the man by the shoulder toward an empty crate. A policeman was stapling a label onto the wood. Chernov told him to stop, give us a moment. The taste was thick now—had he bitten his tongue? He swabbed his mouth with a finger, but it glistened clean and clear.

“Ideas,” Chernov said, “are the only weapons capable of obliterating history, fact, and truth. As good Russians, you and I understand their power. In the last century millions of our compatriots nobly suffered under the banner of once-obscure ideas. I pray that many more will follow in the one to come.”

Still clutching the man’s shoulder, Chernov motioned to the empty crate. “Get inside.”

“What?”

Chernov’s grip tightened. He peered into the crate and down through the bottom into the dark hole in the Syrian countryside where
they’d stuffed him for months. And he knew that the black vine stretching through his body was what this banker must feel now.

Chernov emerged from Syria to watch another crate slide toward the vault’s freight elevators. “Get in.”

A thin line of sweat dappled the man’s hairline. Chernov’s massive hand softly brushed the man’s earlobe and slid gently onto his neck.

“Please,” the man said. “Please.”

“Get in.”

Chernov’s thumb moved just inside the man’s ear. They looked at each other for a moment.

The man stepped inside the crate.

“Sit down.”

He folded up his quivering legs and sat.

Chernov stooped over him. “My idea of Russia is that of a body. A perfect, God-born, virginal body. Made of cells, just like our own. And these cells have roles. Each its proper function. If a cell does not function, then it must be cut from the body.”

“Please,” the man said. “Don’t.”

“Lie down,” Chernov said, “so you are snug.”

The man did. Then he shut his eyes.

Chernov picked up the top and stood casting a shadow over the crate. He chewed on his cheek until blood at last spurted into his mouth. “I have a message for Agapov from my master: We are worried that your cell no longer functions. That it seeks sinful freedom. That the stubborn former KGB general, the scrappy industrialist, the proud landholder, has become convinced that his own person, family, and money are separable from the Russian state. That Agapov, as an individual with rights and protections under the law . . . well, the old fool imagines now that he can do what he likes. But the loss of this gold tonight should demonstrate that the law is nothing but ritual, it is a glorious gesture of subjugation to our leader. Power and violence trump the law, and violence is what
will come if Agapov continues to put his interests above those of Russia. Evil begins where the person begins. There is only the Russian nation, there are no people. There is no Agapov.”

Then Chernov slid on the top. He took a drill and brought it to full rev and drove the first screw into the wood.

“Oh God,” the man screamed, “oh God.”

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I know that’s going to have gripped you, so let’s have that giveaway:

Giveaway

A Hardback Copy of Moscow X

For your chance to win a hardback copy of David McCloskey’s thrilling Moscow X, click HERE.

UK only and the randomly chosen winner must be able to provide a UK postal address to receive their prize.

Giveaway closes at 23.59 PM on Sunday 4th February 2024. Good luck!

About David McCloskey

David McCloskey is a former CIA analyst and consultant at McKinsey & Company. While at the CIA, he wrote regularly for the President’s Daily Brief, delivered classified testimony to Congressional oversight committees, and briefed senior White House officials, Ambassadors, military officials, and Arab royalty. He worked in CIA field stations across the Middle East. During his time at McKinsey, David advised national security, aerospace, and transportation clients on a range of strategic and operational issues. David holds an M.A. from the Johns Hopkins School for Advanced International Studies, where he specialized in energy policy and the Middle East. He lives in Texas with his wife and three children.

For further information about David, visit his website, follow him on Twitter/X @mccloskeybooks and find David on Instagram and Facebook.

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