The Plot to Kill Putin

by Max Karpov

  “Oh.” Jon scribbled the name in his pad. “So why would the White House put out Utkin?”

  “Is the White House putting it out?”

  “Not yet. But I’m told they will be, soon.”

  Roger said nothing for a while. Jon recognized that he had just equated Strickland with the White House and wondered if he was being played: was Utkin a name the White House wanted to float in the media for some reason?

  “Then you’ve posed a good question,” Roger said, and Jon waited through another silence. “But it’s Delkoff, I think, we need to go after, not Utkin. Delkoff.”

  As he drove away, replaying the conversation with Harland Strickland in his head, Jon felt a chill of recognition. A phrase Strickland had just said to him in passing: he suddenly remembered why it sounded familiar. Strickland might have just inadvertently given him the solution to a different puzzle: the identity and motivation of his 9:15 source.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Hotel National, Moscow.

  When he heard Jake Briggs’s voice, Christopher Niles was surprised but pleased. The lunch with Amira Niyzov had gone well, and Jake Briggs was the next step. But then Briggs’s tone became unfamiliar. “Good news and bad news,” he said.

  The bad news was very bad. The good news, he didn’t know yet. But he needed Briggs to not talk about it over the phone. He needed him to leave France right away and join him in Moscow.

  Chris lay on his bed in the Hotel National that afternoon trying to put the change of plans into some kind of perspective. All Briggs’s “bad news” meant was that they had gone off script a little. He’d expected that anyway. He exchanged encrypted emails with Martin Lindgren, Martin asking him to wait before he did anything. There was a document he would be sending, Martin wrote, something Christopher could use for his leg of the operation. Chris asked him to arrange for a rental car and handgun for Briggs through Moscow station, similar to the setup in France.

  Martin complied, but ended their last exchange with, “May need to abort tomorrow, for your own safety.”

  Chris deliberately hadn’t answered that one. He didn’t know what pressures Martin Lindgren was under, but he knew he couldn’t abort the mission. Especially not now, with Briggs en route to Moscow.

  So Christopher waited, watching television, sometimes with the sound off. By then, Russia’s coverage of August 13 had become so predictable he could provide much of the commentary himself: the foreign minister raised his fist, warning that America must face the consequences of what they’d done. “This is provokatsiya!” he declared. Provocation! “Any further escalation by the Americans will create a situation that no one desires.”

  Other world leaders expressed stunned sympathy, saying in carefully worded statements how they would wait for the investigation to run its course before making any comment about the United States.

  When Lindgren’s encrypted document at last arrived, translated from Russian to English, it became clear that Briggs’s good news was better than good: during the final hours of his life, Ivan Delkoff had written an account of what actually happened on August 13, including the names of the planners and participants. He’d written it with the intention of giving—or, more likely, selling—his story to the United States.

  Delkoff’s document was the real thing, the first verification of what Christopher had traveled to Moscow to prove: that Andrei Turov had masterminded August 13. It also told them something more significant: that the operation couldn’t have occurred without the blessing of Russia’s president. Whether they’d be able to convince the world of it was still an open question.

  Christopher read the file several times, sifting through the wording for hidden nuances. But it was all pretty straightforward, and pretty remarkable. Delkoff had written his “Declaration” to record a chapter of history that would otherwise never be known. The juxtaposition of these old-world furnishings, the view of the Kremlin and Red Square out his window, and this document alleging high-level crimes and deceit at the heart of Russia’s government, was hardly lost on Christopher.

  Briggs’s op in France had in one sense been a failure. They’d intended to come away with a clean deal: Delkoff would be granted immunity and Christopher would gain the leverage he needed to negotiate with Turov. It didn’t happen that way, but Briggs had given him what he needed anyway. It was some compensation knowing that Turov had a more pressing problem now than he did. And that Chris could help him solve it. Turov’s mistake had been underestimating Delkoff. He’d gotten Delkoff in the end, just not quickly enough.

  Still, Christopher knew that Russia was more accomplished than the United States was at the art of disinformation. If Delkoff’s document went public, the Kremlin would claim the US had fabricated it in order to steer attention from their own involvement in August 13. And there would be no shortage of conspiracy theorists in the States—and supportive Russian bots—to help the story circulate.

  But Chris didn’t want Delkoff’s document to go public. He had a much better use for it.

  After a small dinner of salmon soup and crab salad in his room, Christopher shut his eyes and tried to catch a nap. He was deep in a dream about wandering through darkened corridors in the Kremlin, lost, hearing Anna’s voice calling to him, when the room phone rang. The sound jolted him to an upright position. It wasn’t late. Just past 8:20. He stared at the night sky for a moment, reorienting himself. Then he reached to answer it. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Christopher Niles.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling on behalf of Andrei Turov.” A male voice, with a heavy Russian accent. “Mr. Turov received your message. He would like to meet with you tomorrow afternoon. He will have a driver pick you up at 2:30. I’m going to give you the location.” He did: a block Christopher knew, on the edge of Gorky Park near the river by the Metro stop.

  Chris stood at the window, watching the domes of St. Basil’s. Tomorrow afternoon. Briggs would be here by then, so the timing was fine. Perfect. The caller, he knew, was Anton Konkin, Turov’s security chief, who made all of Turov’s arrangements.

  “Come alone. Bring no recording equipment or tracking device. No weapons. Do not attempt to have anyone follow you.” He added, “If you violate any of these instructions, the meeting will be terminated. And it won’t be possible to reschedule.”

  “All right.”

  It was several hours later when Chris finally responded to Martin’s email.

  “Give me twenty-one hours,” he wrote. “That’s all I need to finish this.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Southwest of Moscow.

  The secret of wisdom is the systematic pruning away of excess,” Andrei Turov told Anton as they walked back to the main house in the dark. Anton was gripping a bucket filled with ice and four bottles of Baltika #3, his favorite beer. “So when we travel tomorrow, there is no dishonor in each of us carrying a single suitcase.”

  Anton was silent. The security detail and house staff had been sent away the day before, and they were the only two on the property tonight. Together they had locked down the buildings not in use and shut off the water and electricity to all but the main house and Anton’s cottage. Shostakovich’s opera The Nose blared from the house as they worked, adding a surreal accent of whimsy to the darkening grounds.

  Now, at last, they were going to relax. The irony of this day was that they’d received verification of Delkoff’s death just an hour after leaving the president’s dacha. Anton’s men provided images of his bullet-riddled corpse, and an incident report, all of which Turov forwarded on to the president with a personal note. Delkoff’s body would be shipped from France back to Moscow. His computer and communication devices would be turned over to Russia’s foreign intelligence agency, SVR.

  Turov had felt relieved seeing the proof of Delkoff’s death. It would buy them some time. But for practical purposes, it didn’t make a lot of difference. Turov had gone to the president’s dacha expecting to sell him a plan that would earn Putin a new
respect around the world, something he couldn’t achieve on his own. And the president had been clear, as he often was: he did not trust Turov anymore. It was the sort of fissure that could not be repaired.

  So Turov had explained to Anton the operation they would run instead. He instructed him to have two security men deliver the American to a meeting at one of his properties outside of Moscow Wednesday afternoon. And for Anton to prepare to depart Russia with him afterward.

  Anton had phoned Christopher Niles at the Hotel National to arrange the meeting. Turov pictured his American counterpart as the men spoke, recalling their one meeting across a Gorky Park chess table four years ago: Niles watching with his shrewd gray-blue eyes, trying to figure Turov out. It had been an interesting game. It still was.

  “Our president could have made himself a moral example,” he told Anton as they reached the main house. Anton set down his bucket. “But instead he’s chosen the more obvious path. To do what Caesar did when he made himself emperor for life.”

  “It’s a sure way of shortening one’s life, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sadly, that’s right.”

  Turov set up deck chairs on the lawn. They sat and each opened a beer, saying nothing at first. It was a comfortable silence, the shared silence of two friends. Turov hadn’t tasted beer in weeks and the first sips intoxicated him. The air felt exciting as it cooled, stirring memories of Turov’s childhood, and of his children’s childhoods. Of long-ago expectations. The potent drug of nostalgia.

  Anton displayed his usual reserve, not speaking until spoken to. Turov looked over at one point and saw him watching the sky, fighting a smile. “What is it?” he said.

  Anton shook his head. He pointed with the neck of his beer bottle. “Do you think they ever really went there?”

  Turov looked up. The moon was bright through the trees and drifting clouds. You could see shapes on the surface tonight like the earth’s continents. “What—the Americans?” Turov said. “Well, it’s history now, isn’t it? The world believes they did, so it doesn’t matter.”

  Turov knew what he was saying: the story Russians used to tell each other, that the Americans had never really gone to the moon, that they’d created the evidence of their moon walks in a Hollywood studio and fooled the world, using special effects to show how far they’d surpassed the Soviets. “It was a typical American project, though,” Anton said.

  Turov smiled. “Spectacular, but serving no purpose, you mean.”

  “Yes. Billions of dollars spent, and who did it benefit? Money that could have been used on medical research. Or feeding the poor. Or building infrastructure.”

  “But symbolically,” Turov said. “Symbolically, it wasn’t meaningless at all. It changed how the world thought about America. It ended the space race, which, of course, we’d been winning. In some ways, the Cold War ended that day, too. In July 1969, when they planted their flag on the moon. We started that race, by sending the first satellite into orbit.”

  “And then the first man,” Anton said.

  “Yes, that’s right. But America ended it. And afterward, they became the country where you could imagine all sorts of crazy things and make them happen.”

  Anton took a swig of beer.

  “It’s funny,” Turov added. “Several years ago, the Americans admitted that they’d lost the original film of that moon landing. There were some who thought we could take advantage of that, maybe knock a few dents in their armor. Putin even spoke to me about it. Not seriously. But he asked my opinion.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That it was silly talk. In 1969, we were both very different countries. If we were going to tell that tale, we needed to do it then. Now, we have better stories to sell.”

  “The president’s plane.”

  “Yes. That is one. The world believes that now, don’t they?” Turov sipped his beer, feeling a muted pride and then a tingle of apprehension. Another long silence followed.

  “Do you think he’s going to try to stop us?” Anton said. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, watching Turov’s eyes.

  “He’d like to, yes.” Turov looked up as clouds briefly darkened the moon. “I am his friend. But he thinks I am a threat to him now. He’s not family, Anton. He’s not to the end.”

  Anton held the bottle on his right leg, looking at Turov. “Is he going to try to kill us?”

  “Probably, yes,” Turov said. “That’s why we’ve packed our suitcases and are leaving early. It’s why we’re meeting with the American. We’ll be fine, Anton,” he added. “We have something he doesn’t have.”

  Turov felt good saying that, and not having to explain. The breeze was fresh in the trees and smelled faintly of coming rain. Turov didn’t want to talk anymore. He just wanted to savor their last night here, the way he should have savored every day of his life.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The White House. Washington.

  Anna Carpenter’s meeting in the Oval Office was short by design. The president had wedged her in for five minutes, knowing that she was one of the public voices responding to the preemptive strike allegation—and, by implication, one of the voices speaking for the administration. It made sense for the president to have some face time with her.

  Anna did not have a relationship with this president, although she had a deep-abiding respect for the presidency. Before her first visit to the Oval Office seven years ago, one of her political mentors had advised her, “Put it all out when you’re in with the president. Waste nothing.” It seemed particularly good advice today. As a first-term senator, she knew that she couldn’t count on this kind of meeting again for some time.

  The president gave her a warm but slightly awkward greeting, shaking her hand vigorously with both of his. This president was an accomplished businessman, with an ability to make people feel important—or part of something important. But he wasn’t comfortable with the intricacies of international political conflict.

  “I appreciate what you’re doing,” he said. “You’ve been a good ambassador for me and my administration. Even though they tell me you can be a troublemaker.”

  “Not really,” Anna said. They shared a smile.

  “I know you’re going on television again this afternoon,” he said. “I just want to make sure we’re all saying the right things . . . reading from the same script.”

  “Okay,” Anna said, not liking his choice of metaphor. But he’d given her an opening, and she decided to take it. “At the risk of adding to my troublemaker reputation, I guess I just wonder why the White House hasn’t been helping more.”

  He nodded, expecting the question. “That’s why I asked you here,” he said. “It’s a sensitive time right now, I don’t have to tell you that. But I want you to know that we do have good intelligence tying this to the Russian military and to a general named Viktor Utkin.”

  “The coup story, you mean.”

  “Yes.” The president lowered his eyes for a moment. “That’s part of it,” he added cryptically. “I’m sure you’ve seen the stories saying that this administration—or even me, personally—had some involvement in the attack. Obviously, it’s a lie. But a lot of our own people aren’t saying that. A lot of them aren’t helping us out.”

  “What do you mean, that’s part of it?” Anna asked, changing the subject. “What’s the other part?”

  “The other part, frankly, has to do with one of the copilots.”

  Anna frowned. This she hadn’t heard.

  “We don’t have it all confirmed yet, and I can’t comment publicly, obviously. But I can tell you there’s going to be very strong evidence. You may even want to make some reference to it in your interviews.”

  “To the copilot?”

  “Yes. One of the copilots on that plane suffered from—I won’t say mental illness, but depression, severe depression. And may have attempted suicide on at least one occasion. As I say, we’re still confirming all that.”

  Anna said nothing at fi
rst. She didn’t know that she believed him, or what it meant even if it were true. “So, are you saying this may’ve been a suicide mission?”

  “No. We don’t know if it was or not. But we think it’s possible he was recruited by the Russian military and convinced to redirect the plane into Ukrainian air space. That’s all I can say at this point.”

  Anna noticed a momentary hesitation in his eyes. The president was a skilled persuader but also a man of surprising vulnerabilities. “If it was a coup attempt,” she said, “wouldn’t they have known Putin wasn’t on board before they brought the plane down?”

  “That’s something we’re going to have to answer,” he said. “Obviously, the president was supposed to be on board. There were reports that he did board the plane. But remember, something caused that plane to change course. We couldn’t have done that. How could we have done that? So that’s one of the questions.”

  “But what about these other stories?” Anna said. “That there was an ongoing discussion within the IC about regime change? That funds were diverted from CIA-controlled accounts to this Ukrainian oligarch—Hordiyenko? The meeting in Kiev.”

  “It didn’t happen. None of it,” the president replied brusquely. “There was a meeting in July, I’m told. In Kiev. An information-gathering meeting. But there was never talk of assassination. Never. And, by the way, this man Hordiyenko? He wasn’t there. Despite what the media’s reported.”

  “Okay.”

  “People tend to think the worst of Russia, Anna. Often for the wrong reasons. But it’s a very sensitive time right now, as you know.” The president reached for the file folder in front of him and opened it. Then, to her surprise, he began to talk about Utkin and the copilot, sharing the man’s name and details about his background.

  “I can’t tell you everything,” he said. “But I will show you very quickly what we’re dealing with, since you’re here.” He pulled a small map from the folder, which Anna recognized as the Baltic Sea region. “Just so you can see, in general terms: sixty Russian warships, support ships, and submarines left their bases yesterday to perform tactical exercises in here, all within range of Estonia. This is Estonia here. Full airborne divisions, marine units, naval strike forces. Hundreds of units. Thousands. All told, sixty thousand troops, mobilizing for war.”