The Plot to Kill Putin

by Max Karpov

  The stories linking the US to August 13 felt like calculated fabrications to Anna Carpenter. But she was angered by the White House’s official silence about them, and by the political infighting—among elected officials and, even more rabidly, media pundits—over what had actually happened and what to do about it. On Sunday evening, the White House chief of staff called Anna to ask if she would go on television Monday to talk about the attack. By this point, the protests seemed like early volleys in a war against the United States, fought with stories instead of weapons. Anna was glad to help.

  On the Today show Monday, Savannah Guthrie asked her: “Senator, let me begin by posing the question Americans are asking this morning: Did we do this?”

  “Absolutely not,” Anna Carpenter said. “The United States does not assassinate world leaders—”

  “Although you can’t deny that there have been government-sponsored assassination attempts in the past—Fidel Castro, as just one example. These have been well-documented—”

  Anna winced privately, having walked into that one. “If you’re asking me to defend something that happened more than fifty years ago,” she said, “I can’t. But if you’re asking me did we have anything to do with the attack on Friday, I will. This goes against who we are as a nation. And I would point out that there is no credible evidence—”

  “But at the same time, people do believe this, don’t they, Senator? I mean, you’ve seen the reports: we hear that there was talk within the CIA and at the Pentagon for weeks of a quote preemptive strike on Russia. And a plan that would leave ‘no US fingerprints.’ And now, there are new reports of leaked emails, linking the CIA with this Ukrainian oligarch—”

  “Savannah, it’s important to understand that most of these so-called ‘reports’ originate with the Russian media. They have in Russia a sophisticated propaganda apparatus, including troll factories and bot generators. Troll factories are, basically, opinion factories. They fabricate pro-Russia opinions and circulate them over the Internet. I think it’s possible we’re underestimating what effect some of that is having—”

  “So, just to be clear: You’re saying these allegations are fabrications? That the CIA never even talked about a preemptive strike against Russia?”

  “I don’t believe it was ever discussed seriously, no. Frankly, I think we’ve been caught off guard and we’re spending time now talking about the wrong things.”

  “So let me ask you, Senator: who was responsible for the attack, if not the United States?”

  “That’s what the investigation is for, Savannah,” Anna said. “I don’t think speculating at this point is useful.” She was tempted to tell her what she did believe: that Russia itself was behind the attack on the president’s plane, that it had been devised to have the very effect it was having. But not now. Anna didn’t have the foundation to make that claim publicly. And it would have been insensitive to the families of the twenty-six people who were killed. Telling the truth about what had happened wasn’t her business. Not yet.

  On Tuesday, the story changed again, with an op-ed in the Washington Post by a former US ambassador to the United Nations. Titled “1991, American-style,” it compared the United States to the Soviet Union more than a quarter century earlier. The op-ed, released Monday evening, became Topic A on Twitter and the cable news shows Tuesday morning. And suddenly, the media were teeming with stories about secession—as Jon Niles had predicted in his blog—suggesting that the secession movement in Texas could spark a national trend, catching fire in the manner of same-sex marriage and marijuana decriminalization. “If it ever comes to that,” Texas’s governor told Norah O’Donnell on CBS This Morning, “Texas’s energy resources and independent electrical grid make us uniquely situated to operate as a stand-alone entity.” He cited surveys showing that most eighteen- to twenty-five-year-olds in the state identified themselves as “Texans first, Americans second.”

  In her first interview of the day, on Morning Joe, Anna was asked to respond to the secession story, which struck her as an irrelevant distraction. “Leaving aside the question of whether secession is legal or not,” she replied, “which, based on the Supreme Court’s ruling, it is not—I don’t think it’s realistic. I think it’s just more premeditated hysteria in the wake of last Friday’s tragedy—”

  “But that’s not what I’m asking,” Joe Scarborough said. “Just stay with the editorial, Senator: do you think it’s possible secession will gain a foothold in this country?”

  “I don’t believe so, no,” Anna replied. “Although the fact that you’re asking me, and we’re having this conversation—”

  “So you dismiss the comparisons to 1991, when the Soviet Union broke apart into sixteen separate nations.”

  “I don’t see a comparison, no,” Anna said. “We’re held together in this country by ideas that didn’t exist in the Soviet Union then, Joe, and don’t exist in Russia today. We’re an open, competitive society; they were a closed society and are increasingly becoming that way again.

  “We’re not a perfect union, by any means, but when we do make mistakes we have a system that shines a light on them and holds people accountable. There are other countries—and to a disturbing degree Russia is chief among them—where that light has been snuffed out. But there’s a more general accountability that comes with that. It’s up to all of us to pay attention. If our democracy is being threatened, the first thing we need to do is recognize that threat. Being silent is often the same as being complicit.”

  Anna realized as she walked off the set that she probably sounded more strident than she intended. But she felt good, buoyed by her belief that the US’s system—the world’s oldest democracy—still worked better than any other, despite its flaws. Coming through the midday D.C. traffic back to Capitol Hill, Anna scrolled down her messages and saw that the early response was mostly positive. Some tweeters thought she was setting the stage for a presidential run, which was the last thing on her mind.

  “The president loved it,” Chief of Staff Corey Fishman called to tell her. “He wants to know why you’re not doing more.”

  “I guess because I have this job as a US Senator,” Anna said.

  “He also wants to know if you’ll meet with him for five minutes this afternoon. At 2:45. Can you manage that?”

  “Yes, certainly.” There was something slightly ominous about the request, but Anna was able to put that feeling away. She hadn’t been to the Oval Office in months, and she recognized that this could be her chance to find out why the administration’s response to the August 13 attack still seemed so tepid. And, maybe, even to learn what was really going on with the US and Russia.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, August 17. Suburban Maryland.

  Surfing the newscasts and talk-radio shows in his old Mustang, Jon Niles began to feel as if he were driving through an unfamiliar country, where people really believed this: that some secret group within the intelligence community had hatched a plot to assassinate Russia’s president, and then—in the manner of recent American blunders abroad—failed spectacularly in carrying it out.

  Jon’s attempts to get closer to the truth over the past three days had mostly fizzled. He’d talked with more than a dozen people, but the sources he most wanted to reach—those who’d spoken about the “secret” Russia meetings—were no longer taking his calls. Finally, he decided to track them down where they lived. Literally. Beginning with Congressman Craig Kettles, who’d been the first to confirm to him what 9:15 had said about the “preemptive” strike talks. Kettles was also known as one of the strongest Russia “hawks” in Congress.

  Something about the story of US involvement still felt inherently wrong to Jon, but as new details came out—and pundits argued over them, always along partisan lines—the story also became more confusing. Russia blogs had introduced the phrase “assassination committee” over the weekend and the American media were making it part of the national dialogue.

  Driving the Beltway th
rough the Maryland suburbs, Jon punched on the Rolling Stones to give his thoughts a break. He turned it up: the drum intro to “Honky Tonk Women” carried him into the fast lane, and he stayed there through “Paint It Black” and “Gimme Shelter,” speeding by the slower rush-hour traffic for miles before his thoughts about August 13 began to steer him back into the middle lane. He finally slowed down, realizing that he ought to be looking for his exit.

  Kettles owned a townhouse in a tony section of Potomac. Jon had found him through a county property records search. Kettles was an ambitious, canny second-term Democrat from Mississippi, who had managed to build surprisingly strong alliances in the defense and intel communities during his four years in Washington. He was an educated man, with two master’s degrees, but could talk like a country bumpkin when he wanted.

  Jon parked in front of his house and turned off the engine. The front door of the townhouse was open and Jon saw what he thought at first was a child peering out through the storm door glass. Then he realized it was Kettles.

  Kettles stepped onto the porch, his arms wide like a gunslinger’s. Jon got out and went to meet him. “Mr. Kettles? Jonathan Niles. Sorry, I’ve been trying to—”

  “This is not convenient, okay?” The congressman’s tie and collar buttons were undone; he must’ve been dressing. “If you want an interview, you have to go through my office.”

  “I did, actually,” Jon said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for several days. Since Saturday. I’ll make this quick. I just have a follow-up question on something you told me about this Russia committee . . .”

  Kettles held up a hand to stop him. He had the manner of a large man although he was actually quite short, five foot three or four. Many who’d only seen him on television didn’t know that. “Come on around,” he said and turned abruptly, leading Jon into a tiny walled yard beside the townhouse. He closed the wrought-iron gate. The lawn furniture was wet with dew, so they stood. Kettles crossed his arms as Jon began to explain why he was there.

  “When we first talked about this,” he said, “you told me—off the record, of course—that you’d heard there was a group within the administration, a committee—” Kettles was making a low “mmm mmm” sound to hurry him along. He had dark, intense eyes but otherwise the face of a poker player. “—and you confirmed that they’d discussed, among other things, a proposal to take some sort of covert action against Russia in response—”

  “No.” Kettles raised a hand to stop him. “First of all: I’d never’ve used the word proposal. Okay?” Kettles’s Mississippi accent curled around the word proposal.

  “Okay.” Jon glanced at his notes. “But it was discussed—?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, let me see . . .” Jon flipped back several pages, found the word proposal underlined. “Here we go . . . you confirmed to me that there was a small group within the administration that met several times to discuss Russia. Five people—”

  “I heard.”

  “You heard, right. And you also heard that this group may have opened channels with anti-Putin interests in Ukraine?” Jon took a breath. “Would that be Hordiyenko, the arms dealer?”

  Kettles flashed a smile. “No, look. Let me tell you what’s going on. Or what I hear is going on. Jonathan. Off the record, okay? I’m sure you know that one of the generals was forced to resign the other week for telling the president things he didn’t want to hear. Right?”

  “No. I’m not sure I do.”

  “Okay? Now. You didn’t get that from me, by the way.” He blinked twice and continued, his assertiveness still several times larger than he was, it seemed. “But here’s a question: Is it possible there are forces within this administration that have a Russia policy we don’t know about? That are more concerned about Russia than we think?”

  “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, it’s what I’m asking.” He tilted his head, smiling momentarily. “It is sort of funny, isn’t it, that we haven’t heard an official denial yet from the White House. Why is that, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Respect for the loss of life, maybe?” Jon said. “What do you think?”

  “No idea. But I will say this—and I’m not the only one, as I’m sure you know, who’s saying it. But it wouldn’t surprise me if someone in the administration knew about this. Or was involved.”

  “In shooting down the plane?”

  “I didn’t say that. But, I mean, there’s a kind of logic to it, isn’t there? Considering what’s been going on. All the talk about Russia. If we could somehow eliminate all that in a single afternoon, replace their leader with someone more stable. If there was some guarantee that it’d never be tied back to us—‘no fingerprints’? I mean, sure, there are some people who’d want to at least take a look at that. Don’t you think?” Jon wasn’t so sure, but he said nothing. “I’m not saying they did. But, I mean, bottom line, Geopolitics 101: when we show weakness, our enemies grow stronger. And over the past decade, we’ve in effect helped create a monster. Right?”

  “The United States has.”

  “The West has, sure. We let Russia get away with Chechnya. Let them get away with Georgia. Crimea. Ukraine. We let them go into Syria, Afghanistan. We let them develop cyber capabilities that are a threat to democracies around the world. And what’s happened? They’ve only become a bigger threat. Now, I know some people in power don’t like to see it that way.”

  “But some do.”

  “They should.”

  “But not to the point of plotting to assassinate the Russian president?”

  “Well. You tell me.” He smiled and turned, nodding toward the gate. Kettles was good at talking elliptically, making his points indirectly. Jon closed his notepad. “I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Kettles said, walking to the gate. “As background. And then I need to go in and finish my Cheerios. I’m told this meeting in Kiev did happen. Okay? With the CIA man? And that could prove very damaging to the administration. If the details are ever known.”

  “The meeting between Hordiyenko, the Ukrainian arms dealer, and the CIA?”

  “Very damaging. That’s where the deal was made, I’m told. If there was a deal. I don’t know if there was. But if there was. So I’m told. You’d have to source that elsewhere.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Well. Have you tried to contact any of the five people who were supposedly in those meetings?”

  “I’ve tried Gregory Dial, who won’t talk to the media,” Jon said. “You indicated one or more of the generals was in the room. Rickenbach? Of course, he doesn’t talk either.”

  Kettles waited until they were standing outside the gate, surveying his street. He squinted at the sky, as if thinking very hard, and then said, in a softer voice, “You might ask Maya Coles if she was there. Okay? I’m told she may’ve been.”

  “Really.”

  “Mmm. I’m told. She might’ve been in Kiev, too.” He suddenly began to blink. “But. Of course, that can’t ever be tied back to me.”

  Coles, the undersecretary of defense for national security, had been one of Jon’s sources. But she’d told him she wasn’t involved in discussions about Russia and didn’t know anything about a “Russia committee.” Jon wondered if she was hiding behind semantics, as she often did.

  “This whole thing is drawing denials from the NSC, of course,” Jon said. “And DNI Julia Greystone says the preemptive strike talk is fiction.”

  “Well. Of course.” He squinted irritably. “It’s her job to say that.” He disliked Greystone, as did many in the military, for being too close to the president and at odds with the Pentagon. There was also the fact that she disliked him, or didn’t take him seriously. Kettles kept political scorecards; he had his own standings of dozens, maybe hundreds, of people in Washington.

  “I know you reporters are all tripping over one another right now to find out what happened.” Kettles suddenly flashed a warm, surprising smile, and extended his hand. “Let me
finish my breakfast. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t ever come to my home again.”

  “Sorry,” Jon said. Here’s hoping I won’t need to, he thought. “Appreciate your time,” he said. Jon sat in his car for several minutes, scribbling notes about what Kettles had just told him. The sun was bright now, flaring above the townhouse roofs, burning moisture from the air. Craig Kettles was cunning, pushing an agenda, and at the same time looking out for his own political fortunes. Jon could picture him one day testifying against the president in some special-committee ethics investigation or FBI criminal probe.

  On talk radio, a longtime Republican senator was chastising the Democrats for the “conditions” that had led to the August 13 attack. Internationally, the story didn’t carry such distinctions. This was the United States again, a single entity. It angered Jon that the media had reduced the attack story to politics when the real issue ought to be national security.

  While he’d been talking with Kettles, Jon saw, he’d received a call from US Senator Anna Carpenter, of all people. Christopher’s girlfriend. That was sort of interesting.

  Something about his brother’s attitude in recent weeks bothered Jon a little. He hadn’t returned Christopher’s last couple of phone calls. It wasn’t anything specific, just that his brother seemed a little above-it-all lately, ever since he’d taken the job as a university lecturer. It made Jon sad. But Anna Carpenter he liked. She had a pluck and an intensity that he admired. Not to mention an interesting smile. Before he set off back to the Beltway—and wherever this story took him next— Jon returned Anna’s call.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Southwest of Moscow.

  Andrei Turov had spent much of Monday refining the draft of the president’s speech that he would present to him at the dacha outside of Moscow. But the enthusiasm that Turov felt all weekend had been dampened by the news Anton had brought him that morning.