The Plot to Kill Putin

by Max Karpov

  He watched Christopher Niles finish his phone call and close his eyes. He took a seat across from him and cleared his throat.

  “Talk?” he said.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  The Weekly American offices. Foggy Bottom, Washington.

  It’s one thing knowing the truth,” Roger Yorke said. “Now all we have to do is convince the rest of the world.” Jon Niles smiled to himself: it was almost what Anna Carpenter had said, during their second meeting at Starbucks.

  Liz Foster and KC Walls nodded in agreement. They were all watching the television across the room, waiting for news about Andrei Turov.

  The Weekly American had been the first US media organization to post Delkoff’s “Declaration” online, after reports appeared on German and Ukrainian websites. But so far, the news was playing to a skeptical mainstream audience.

  On ABC, it followed reports of the tornadoes that had ripped through Oklahoma, and the latest “smoking gun” revelations about the CIA: “Meanwhile, there are explosive but unsubstantiated new charges out of Germany about the August 13 attack,” David Muir began. “The newspaper Bild is reporting that a six-page document sent to a journalist by alleged August 13 mastermind Ivan Delkoff claims the assassination attempt on Vladimir Putin last week was a so-called false flag operation planned by a Russian oligarch with the possible cooperation of Putin himself.

  “The Kremlin was quick to refute the report, calling it a ‘laughable fabrication’ and ‘further signs of America’s desperation to cover their crimes at our expense. Russia remains indivisible.’ There has been no official response from the White House. And some in the intelligence community have privately expressed doubts about the veracity of the document . . .”

  “And so,” Roger said, lowering the volume when the segment ended, “if we can’t count on it to prevent a war, then maybe the truth doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Jon glanced at his boss to make sure he was kidding. It was after midnight in Russia and Europe. Jon expected the story would take on a new life with the light of day.

  “You’re joking, I hope,” Liz said.

  “I should be, I guess. Although I am concerned about the public reaching a saturation point. Particularly now, with the White House preparing to come out with its own official version of events.”

  “The coup story,” KC said.

  “Yes.” Roger glanced out the window. “Part of what we’re dealing with now are the limits of the human attention span. Which Russia, no doubt, has factored in. Many people have already made up their minds. Or else they’re so confused—or fed up—that they’re starting to tune out the whole thing. There’s no good reason for them to accept Ivan Delkoff’s version.”

  “Even if his version is the truth,” Liz said.

  “Even if it’s the truth. At this point, I’m not convinced the truth will have much bearing on what Russia does in Ukraine or Estonia,” Roger said. “It’s a little like saying one sports team is better than another because it’s more virtuous. That may be the case, but will it affect the outcome of the game? Russia appears to understand that better than we do.”

  Liz frowned. She glanced at Jon, not getting it. But Jon could see she understood the gravity of what he was saying.

  “I hope I’m wrong on that,” Roger said, his eyes returning to Jon. “Although I’m hearing from Pentagon sources that this is still on the fast track. Russia’s military is positioning for a ‘retaliatory’ strike by end of the week. This story may actually give them a new urgency.”

  Jon recalled what Martin Lindgren had said about the Moscow apartment bombings, how they’d created a sense of outrage and urgency that had led to the Second Chechen War in 1999 and established Putin’s credibility. Jon wasn’t sure if journalism was up to the job of telling a story that revealed “the truth” anymore—or if people were interested. Even the Western media were letting the story of US involvement play out episodically.

  “Going to war on false pretenses wouldn’t be unprecedented,” Liz said, looking at Jon. “It wouldn’t be something we haven’t done.”

  “Which may be part of the calculation,” Roger said.

  “This word indivisible,” KC said. Her face looked strange this afternoon, flushed or sunburned. “Are they pulling that from our pledge of allegiance?”

  “Indivisible.” Roger smiled. “No, it’s sort of interesting. It’s actually an old tsarist slogan that goes back to the start of the twentieth century. It was the rallying cry of Anton Denikin, the leader of the White Army in the Russian Civil War. ‘Great Russia, one and indivisible.’ Russia’s current president—Mr. Putin—has made no secret of his admiration for Denikin.”

  Jon waited for KC and Elizabeth to file out once Roger clicked off the television, KC again showing a little attitude. Jon closed the door after them.

  “I know what you’re saying about our national attention span,” he said. “But I don’t think I agree with the rest of it.” His editor raised his eyebrows and nodded, inviting an explanation. “The part about the truth not having any bearing on winning and losing. I don’t agree. I think this story’s right. And I think it’s going to prevail for that reason. I want to make sure it does.”

  “Okay.” Roger nodded. “So how do you intend to do that? Where do you want to go with this?”

  “I’d like to pursue Turov’s daughter right now,” Jon said. “I don’t know if she’ll talk with me. But I don’t think anyone else in the media knows about her yet. So I’d like to try.”

  “Do you know how to find her?”

  “I do.” David had found Sonya’s home address; Jon planned to go there if he couldn’t reach her through the law offices.

  “All right, then.” Roger showed the edges of a smile. “Just keep in touch.”

  “I will.” It was all Jon needed to hear. Whatever he didn’t know about this story—and there was still a lot, including Chris’s role and what Anna Carpenter wasn’t saying—Sonya Turov Larsen was a part of it that no one else knew. Walking down the corridor to the elevator, he glanced over at Liz Foster’s cubicle, and decided to keep going.

  “Hey!” she called. Jon stopped. She looked sort of radiant, smiling as she turned from her computer. Maybe it was the break with Carole, but seeing Liz Foster melted all his resolve to keep his distance. “You’re doing great on this,” she said.

  “Well. Trying, anyway.” For a long moment they just traded a stare. It was sort of nice. “Maybe go out for a drink sometime?” Jon said. She lowered her eyes and glanced back at her screen. “Or not,” he said. “It’s all right, bad timing—”

  She began to blink. “I guess I ought to tell you,” she said. “I’ve kind of been seeing someone. I’m sorry, I should’ve said something before. Nothing super-serious or anything. But I just probably should let you know.”

  “Oh, okay.” Jon laughed. So it really was bad timing, then. “No. I mean. Congratulations. And. We’ll catch up later,” he said and turned to go.

  The evening air revived him a little as he walked down G Street to the parking garage. With all that was happening, it was easy to pretend the exchange with Elizabeth Foster didn’t hurt. But as he drove away, Jon felt a little like Bogart on the platform in Casablanca, after having his “insides” kicked out.

  “It’s better this way,” he said aloud to console himself. “It really is.” Ten minutes later, he wasn’t even thinking about her.

  Anna Carpenter finally lost her patience with Harland Strickland several minutes after Ming Tsu shut down the outer office. She had been studying the file she found on General Viktor Utkin, from the Senate Select Intelligence Committee archives: sixteen months earlier, a Russian souce had passed the CIA details of “subversive” conversations between two top-ranking officers in the Russian military, one of them Utkin. But the CIA’s counterintelligence chief at the time had written a follow-up assessment calling the source “unreliable.” Had something changed since then?

  Strickland—the man who could answer that
—was still avoiding her calls. But Anna knew things now that might force his hand. She decided it was time to be more direct.

  “I’d like to see you tonight, Harland,” she said to his voice mail. “We need to talk about this Delkoff document.” She paused for a moment, adding, “And Sonya Natalie Larsen. ASAP?”

  Six minutes later, he called back. “What’s this about Natalie Larsen?” he said, using a pseudo-comical tone.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me. Can you meet?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Now.”

  “Give me an hour?”

  FIFTY-SIX

  The address David found for Sonya Natalie Larsen was an apartment complex in Alexandria. Jon swung by his own apartment in D.C. first to pick up a tape recorder. The parking spots along his street were all taken, so he ended up driving around the neighborhood for fifteen minutes before giving up and parking seven blocks away.

  He used the walk to formulate the questions that he would ask Sonya once he found her. It was a pleasant night, the breeze cooling, stirring the trees that were thick with summer leaves. Why had she chosen Jon to call? Who was she really working for?

  After six blocks, Jon noticed an SUV inching along beside him in the shadows. He glanced over several times, but couldn’t see through the tinted glass. All sorts of ideas began to churn in his thoughts. Russia’s security forces were known to chase down threats or perceived threats in other countries now, he knew; journalists and opposition figures had died mysteriously, and some not so mysteriously, in London, Washington, Los Angeles, and the Middle East, not to mention in Russia and Ukraine. In 2006, Russia had passed a law permitting the killing of “enemies of the regime” abroad.

  When the tinted window began to whir, Jon stopped, half-expecting to see a gun barrel poke out over the glass.

  But there was no gun. Instead, a woman’s arm emerged and her hand dangled to get his attention. Her fingernails were painted black.

  “Hey. Why’d you call my office this afternoon?” she said.

  Jon, speechless, scanned the street both ways, then took several steps toward her.

  “Are you planning to write about me?” she said.

  “No,” he said. “Do you want me to?” It was her: Sonya Larsen. 9:15. Thin face, wide mouth, serious eyes, short dark hair, a faint shadow of down on her upper lip.

  “No. I want you not to,” she said. “How did you find out who I was?”

  “Long story.”

  “Do you want to talk and tell me?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “Get in, then. I’m not going to talk here.” Jon hesitated for just a moment. He was half a block from his apartment, but sensed that if he didn’t get in now, she might drive off. As soon as he closed the passenger door, Sonya Larsen sped away through the narrow residential street in the direction of downtown. It wasn’t until they came to the traffic light at Wisconsin Avenue that Jon realized he’d left his cell phone in his car.

  “How did you know who I was? How did you know where to find me?”

  “Research?

  “What does it mean, research?”

  “I found your picture online,” he said. “A party at the Russian embassy. We used facial recognition software to ID you.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have,” she said. “You’ve got me in trouble now.”

  “How are you in trouble?” Jon asked.

  She didn’t answer. She kept glancing at him as she drove, edgy and hopped up, maybe a little high on something, Jon thought, weaving wildly through the traffic on Wisconsin Avenue; running yellow lights, checking her mirrors compulsively.

  “You’ve seen the news, right?” Jon said, when she finally slowed down. “About your father?”

  “I’ve seen the news,” she said. “Of course, I’ve seen it.” She punched her horn at a slow driver in front of them, but not hard enough to make a sound. Then swung her car wildly around him. Several blocks later she made a sharp turn onto a residential street in Georgetown. “I know what happened to my father, yes,” she said, inching down a hill of brick townhouses. “Okay? I know he’s dead. I know who killed him. I know all about that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She made a scoffing sound—“pshh. Don’t be sorry,” she said. “It doesn’t even surprise me. I always knew this would happen: when the time was right, they’d send FSB after him. But the story they’re reporting in the news is all wrong. You know that, right? The media always gets it wrong. Especially about Putin. Always. I could tell you the real story, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “All right.”

  “But I need you to help me. I’m afraid they’re going to be after me now, too.”

  “Okay,” Jon said. “What do you want me to do?”

  They’d come to Connecticut Avenue, where she pulled to the curb outside the Hilton Hotel. “I don’t want to be seen out right now, okay? How about if we get a room here. I’ll talk with you upstairs. Go in first and get the room. I’ll park.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Capitol Hill, Washington

  Anna met Harland Strickland at a bar four and a half blocks from the Capitol. A tiny place with a lot of framed black-and-white photos and eccentric taxidermy on the walls, including a deer’s hind-quarters and the front end of an anteater. It was one of Strickland’s favorite downtown haunts. A Nationals game was on television behind the bar.

  He gave her the once-over as Anna slid into the leather booth, even though she was dressed conservatively in a dark suit. Anna ordered club soda, Strickland a bourbon on ice. He wore a navy pin-stripe suit but had loosened the tie and undone the top buttons.

  They talked superficially about their children at first. But she could see that beneath his well-put-together façade of confidence, Strickland was worried.

  “So what’s this about?” he finally said. “What about Natalie Larsen?”

  “I’ll get to that. Tell me about the Delkoff document first. Tell me what you think about it.”

  “What I think about it.” Strickland shook his head dismissively. “Not a lot. I think it’s a fabrication.”

  “Go on.”

  “I think it’s a little too obvious. And not supported by our intelligence. Frankly, I’m surprised the Russian opposition’s getting behind it.”

  “Are you? I’m not.”

  Strickland flashed her an accusatory look. “What I’m afraid of,” he said, his hands encircling the drink glass, “is that someone in the Russian opposition movement invented this thing out of whole cloth— seeing it as a chance to regain some of their lost glory. Russia’s going to have an easy time debunking it, you know. That’s not just me talking; that’s what our Russia experts think. They don’t buy this at all—”

  “You mean because it doesn’t fit with what you want the president to tell the world tomorrow.” His eyes narrowed. “That this was a coup engineered by the Russian military.”

  “That’s not me, Anna, that’s the IC. Between us? We have solid HUMINT that it was a coup attempt. We had implants on their computer networks, bank transfer records, intel traffic. And—on top of that, we know that this copilot who flew over Ukraine had a history of mental issues. Bottom line, Anna: we can’t afford another half-baked story going out. Like this Delkoff thing. You know that. That’s exactly what they want.” Anna sighed, disappointed at how convinced he sounded. He had a point, she thought. But it wasn’t the right one.

  “We need to change the conversation,” Strickland went on, buoyed a little by her lack of challenge. “I mean—why wouldn’t the administration go out with this tomorrow? If we have solid intel behind it. Which we do. What do we lose?”

  “In the short term, not much,” she said. “In the long term, maybe a lot.” His eyes narrowed again. “I’ve researched this coup allegation a little. Most of the intel on it is old. It came to us from a less-than-reliable Russian asset more than a year ago. A former military intelligence officer. There are some national security reporters who are going
to recognize that.”

  Anna turned on her phone and called up the document she’d found in the intelligence committee files. She rotated the phone and showed him. “I haven’t seen all the intel you have, Harland. But this is where the story about General Utkin originates, isn’t it?”

  He scanned it quickly and pushed her phone back to her. “I don’t know what that is,” he said. “But even if he came on the radar before, so what?”

  “No, you’re right,” Anna said. “Although I was told the date may have been removed or changed on one of the internal memos to enhance what the president saw, which could be a problem. You know how the media is when they get information like that.”

  He grinned, probably suspecting that she was bluffing, which she was. Anna watched him as he took another sip of bourbon. “What about Natalie Larsen?” he said.

  “I’m getting to that. Where did you first hear about this coup plot, Harland? Where did it come from?” He started to speak, but seemed to change his mind. “Don’t you think it’s possible this is the story the Russians want us to put out? So that the media can then prove us wrong?”

  Strickland lowered his eyes, shaking his head, but with less conviction, it seemed.

  “I agree with you in principle,” she said. “We need to change the subject, and turn the blame away from us. But not at the expense of the truth.”

  “There’s that word.” He looked up, forcing a smile. “Okay. And so what is the truth, then, Anna? Tell me about that.”

  “Ivan Delkoff’s version is the truth,” she said.

  “Ivan Delkoff was a crazy warmonger. Have you seen him? The man looks like a reject from the World Wrestling Federation—”