The Kremlin Conspiracy

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Oleg had never heard the man speak this way. Not in private. Certainly not in public. And he was not finished.

  “What did Dostoyevsky say? ‘Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.’” The president stared out the window, and Oleg followed his gaze. The night was dark. The moon was full, but it was on the other side of the plane. The only lights visible were those at the end of the wing, blinking red in the coal-black sky. Luganov set his cigar down and seemed to ponder the words.

  “‘The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth,’” he said again, no longer to Oleg but to himself. “It falls to me to make things right, to cure the sadness of my people. My destiny is to restore the glory of Mother Russia. She must not only be great again, she must be seen as great—strong, proud, indomitable, invincible. This will take great courage. This will take great cunning. Not every step will make sense to the masses or even to some of my cabinet. I will have to take risks that would cause lesser men to stumble, even if this brings us to war.”

  It was quiet for several moments. Oleg briefly wondered if the man was expecting a response, though he had nothing to say.

  Then Luganov turned to him. “I have a mission, a destiny, Oleg Stefanovich, and in this task I dare not fail. The gods have determined that I am to save this great people from deprivation and deepest shame. For this—and for this alone—my name, and that of my family, shall be recorded in the annals of Russian history, like the great princes of our past.”

  Luganov abruptly leaned forward in his chair and motioned for Oleg to come sit beside him. Oleg complied. The scent of the cigar smoke was thick, but Oleg did not mind it. His grandfather had loved cigars, Cubans when he could get them, and the aroma brought back fond memories of sitting in his lap as a child, at his dacha on the Black Sea, listening to him tell stories of the czars and their exploits.

  “The people say I am brutal,” Luganov said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I know it. I hear the talk. And it is true. I won’t deny it. In defense of my nation’s honor, I am more than willing to be brutal—vicious, even—but this is no vice.”

  Once again, Oleg felt deeply conflicted. He had longed to be close to this man, a true associate, an intimate, needed and respected. Yet just at the moment his father-in-law was really drawing him into his confidence, Oleg felt unnerved by the man. He was not a normal leader, and Oleg was uneasy when he considered the amount of power Luganov possessed and his lack of accountability. To whom did he answer? Did he have any constraints at all? This was not what Oleg had anticipated when he’d accepted a position in the government. Yet he understood the price of crossing this man. So Oleg was becoming a master of personal discipline. He could not show the slightest flicker of fear, much less moral disapproval, not unless he first made a careful exit strategy.

  Just then Luganov looked in Oleg’s eyes and said something that nearly made him shudder, as if the man could read his most personal thoughts.

  “A dog can smell fear, Oleg Stefanovich. When someone is afraid, a dog knows it, and he attacks. The same is true with an enemy. If you show the slightest hesitation—fear, doubt, lack of surety—your enemy will think he is stronger, that he has the upper hand. So you have only one option—when the moment is right, you must strike. You must go on the offensive. Hit first, and hit so hard that your enemy will not—cannot—rise to his feet. You must hit him with a crushing blow. And when you take him down, everyone else will be watching. Then they will fear you. Then they will respect you. That’s when you have them. That’s when you know you are the master, and they are the slaves.”

  JAMES J. ROWLEY TRAINING CENTER, BELTSVILLE, MARYLAND—3 DECEMBER 2010

  Looking back, Elena Ryker wished she had just flat out said yes.

  After Marcus left the Marines with numerous medals and commendations—including the Navy Cross to go along with his Purple Heart—and worked in local law enforcement in Colorado Springs for several years, Marcus had asked his wife on numerous occasions if she had any problems with his desire to join the United States Secret Service and eventually protect the president of the United States. There simply weren’t enough high-stakes responsibilities to keep Marcus satisfied in the Springs. Climbing fourteeners, cliff diving, rock climbing, and skydiving didn’t satiate his need for something bigger and more important. And while Elena had never actually said no to the question—as in, “No, I don’t have any problems with you joining the Secret Service”—she could hardly blame Marcus if he thought she had.

  The first time he’d asked, Elena had replied that she wasn’t a big fan of moving to Washington, D.C. Still, she’d quickly added that she loved him and would support him wherever he wanted to go. The next time he’d asked was during the application and interview process. At that point, she’d said she loved the Front Range and the Rockies and wished they could live in the West for the rest of their lives.

  The last time he’d asked her was the day he’d received his acceptance letter in the mail and his start date for training. He’d apparently detected a look of concern in her eyes, which had likely prompted the question. By then, however, Elena concluded it was too late. No, she didn’t like the idea one bit. But she really did love him. She knew better than anyone his thirst for adventure and his love of country. She felt selfish for wanting him to take a less dangerous road just to please her and their young son. And how could she say what she really felt now that he actually had the job?

  If she could only dial back the hands of time.

  Elena slipped her driver’s license under the bulletproof glass and waited. She looked down at Lars. Having celebrated his fourth birthday in June, he looked adorable in his new suit, white dress shirt, and clip-on tie, all fresh off the rack from Sears. That morning at the hotel, she’d made him take a bath, trimmed his jet-black hair, and slicked it back with a bit of the gel Marcus used. She’d even bought him a cheap pair of sunglasses from Walgreens so he could look “just like Daddy.”

  Now their son was beaming, full of anticipation, as he held Elena’s hand and kept asking when they could go into the auditorium. A moment later, Elena was handed back her ID and given two visitor passes. She put one lanyard around her neck and the other around Lars’s. Then they got in line, put their belongings through the X-ray machine, passed through the magnetometers, and entered with the other nicely dressed and freshly scrubbed families.

  Lars picked the seats, in the middle and close to the front, as usual. He was off-the-charts excited about this day, one he’d been anticipating since Marcus had started his training. And Elena remained on her best behavior, keeping her many and growing reservations to herself. Her husband had been selected out of thousands of applicants. He had passed his training with the highest marks. Maybe this really was God’s perfect plan for his life, for all their lives. Who was she to say otherwise?

  The ceremony began precisely at ten that brisk December morning. A senior agent who looked to be in his midforties walked onstage and stepped up to the microphone. He gave some introductory remarks and then introduced the director of the United States Secret Service.

  “Good morning. It is my great honor to welcome all of the spouses and children and families and friends who have traveled, some a great distance, to be with us today,” the director, a silver-haired gentleman in his sixties, began. “I remember this day well, both as the son of a special agent, watching my father take the oath of office in 1967, and years later as a graduate myself, taking the oath to join this elite cadre of America’s brightest and most brave. I remember the pride I felt becoming part of a team dedicated to defending our most sacred national institutions—our leaders and our currency and financial systems. I remember how difficult it was to explain to family and friends why I would be willing to train so hard and work such long hours and be away from home so often and even lay down my life, if necessary, to safeguard our values and our democratic system of g
overnment. But I also remember the pride and sense of accomplishment I felt that day, and every day since, and I see that same sense of pride and devotion in each of your eyes.”

  The director commended the graduates for passing the exhaustive background checks and rigorous testing and demanding physical preparation required to join the thirty-two hundred special agents and thirteen hundred uniformed officers of the Secret Service. He spoke of the history of the organization: its founding in 1865 and its evolving roles and responsibilities over the years. Elena knew Lars would remember none of the words. She likely wouldn’t either. She doubted that even Marcus would. But none of them would ever forget the feeling of being inducted into something special, something honorable and good.

  Then came the big moment. The director asked the trainees to stand, raise their right hands, and repeat after him. Elena lifted Lars up so he could see his father. They were just a few rows behind him, so they had a great view. Lars had chosen well.

  “I, Marcus Johannes Ryker . . .”

  “I, Marcus Johannes Ryker . . .” his wife and son repeated to each other in a whisper.

  “. . . do solemnly swear . . ”

  “. . . do solemnly swear . . .”

  “. . . that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States . . .”

  “. . . that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States . . .”

  “. . . against all enemies, foreign and domestic . . .”

  “. . . against all enemies, foreign and domestic . . .”

  “. . . that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same . . .”

  “. . . that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same . . .”

  “. . . that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion . . .”

  “. . . that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion . . .”

  “. . . and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter.”

  “. . . and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter.”

  “So help me God.”

  “So help me God.”

  So that was that, Elena thought as the room erupted in applause. She was now the wife of a special agent of the United States Secret Service. She had known since the sixth grade that she’d fallen in love with a boy who loved big risks and great adventure. She could hardly hold it against him now.

  Yet truth be told, she did.

  MOSCOW—DECEMBER 2011

  “I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.”

  Dostoyevsky’s line in Notes from the Underground, his 1864 novella, echoed in Oleg’s thoughts as he brewed a pot of chai. Was he becoming the misanthropic civil servant whose notes formed the story? Was he the “sick man, the spiteful man, the unattractive man” of whom the great bard of Russian literature crafted his tale? No, Oleg thought. It was worse. He wasn’t merely a despondent man who felt trapped. He was Ivan Denisovich, sentenced to hard labor and unable to escape.

  When the president asked Oleg to come with him to a G20 summit, Oleg had, of course, said yes. What else was he to do? Marina was angry with him, though, complaining bitterly that he was never home anymore, that he was neglecting his family, that he was neglecting her. In a rare flash of rage, he slapped her across the face, driving her to the floor. “Why don’t you go shopping,” he fumed.

  This was not like him. But rather than apologize, he packed his suitcase and headed outside to the car waiting to take him to the airport. Despite smoking half a pack on the way, he was still shaken by the fight with his wife as he boarded the plane. He was shaken further when Luganov told him to write him a speech that would dazzle the leaders of the Western powers. The president wanted to make a forceful denunciation of all nuclear and ballistic missile programs of the regime in Pyongyang, including a powerful argument for the denuclearization of the Korean Peninsula. Oleg had never written a speech before. He wasn’t sure he could now. He agreed reluctantly. The position Luganov had outlined was one Oleg privately but heartily held, so it would not be difficult for him to make that case. What gnawed at him was the knowledge that he had just been commissioned to draft a speech explicitly designed to camouflage the president’s true position. The man was, after all, actively if clandestinely aiding Pyongyang’s nuclear and ballistic missile programs, not seeking to bring them to a halt.

  Two months later, Luganov asked Oleg to travel with him to Riyadh, Cairo, Amman, Jerusalem, and Ramallah. The president’s trust in him was growing. But so were the tensions between Oleg and Marina. They did their best not to fight in front of Vasily, but the bitter realities of life in this pressure cooker were having a demonstrative and corrosive effect on their marriage. Oleg wondered if the only way to rekindle their love would be for him to stop working for the president and go back to life as a private-sector lawyer, far from the daily pressures inside the Kremlin. But he couldn’t see a way out. To be sure, his moral revulsion was growing, slowly but steadily. Yet there was also something intoxicating about being so close to the vortex of power.

  There were days Oleg resolved to resign and take Marina and Vasily to another city or country to start afresh. Yet he never acted upon such instincts, and then he hated himself for his lack of courage. It was a vicious cycle of revulsion and regret mixed with approbation and advancement, and it was all wreaking havoc on his digestive system. He was having trouble eating certain foods. He was having trouble getting enough rest at night. In time he began battling heartburn and then colitis. Yet it was easier to change his diet and take a growing handful of pharmaceuticals than to confront his wife, much less her father, and take an exit ramp off this road.

  Soon Oleg Kraskin was not simply taking notes but drafting Luganov’s speeches, statements, and various other official communiqués. He was also getting an inside look at how the Russian leader wielded power. With the Arab leaders, Luganov offered state-of-the-art weaponry, financing to build nuclear power plants, and muscular political support for their pet issues at the United Nations. Without being so explicit, he was wooing the Arabs away from Washington and back into Moscow’s camp, where they’d been during the Cold War. Oleg had to admit, if only to himself, it was a supremely seductive performance.

  To the Jews in Israel, Luganov portrayed himself as a man of peace, a fair and balanced interlocutor capable of bringing the Arabs to the table to make a sweeping and comprehensive peace treaty. But all this was a smoke screen, Oleg knew. Luganov’s actual objectives were twofold. The first was to lull the Zionists into a false sense of security while the president earned billions in payoffs from Russian oligarchs arming Israel’s enemies. The second was to entice them to let Russian companies invest in the massive fields of natural gas recently discovered off the Israeli coast, even as he secretly plotted to disrupt or even destroy those projects. The whole performance was both distressing and breathtaking to behold. Oleg was constantly amazed that such rank dissembling could prove so utterly effective.

  Six weeks after the Middle East trip, the two men were jetting off to Berlin, Paris, and Rome. Oleg sat spellbound watching the president wine and dine the highest-ranking European political and business leaders, concluding one lucrative joint venture after another, each crafted in such a way that personally—if always covertly—enriched Luganov. As always, Oleg was in charge of drafting letters and memos on behalf of the president to world leaders and to key figures throughout Russia.

  By the end of 2012, Oleg was unexpectedly awarded a promotion and a new title: counselor to the president. With it, he received a sizable bonus and a hefty pay raise—far too hefty for Oleg, as it happened. He was convinced it was dirty money. But he asked no questions, and Marina was thrilled because her father insisted the couple take a few weeks of well-deserved vacation. Frankly, Oleg hadn’t seen his wife this happy—or happy at all—in quite some time. Sh
e asked if they could go to Monte Carlo for old times’ sake, just the two of them. Oleg was touched by the request and quickly made the arrangements. His parents agreed to watch Vasily. Marina and Oleg flew first class. They ate at fancy restaurants. They danced in nightclubs. Marina spent far too much money shopping. Oleg lost far too much money at the blackjack tables and roulette wheels. It wasn’t quite the same as their honeymoon in Macau, but it was almost as good, and when they got home, they discovered Marina was pregnant again. Oleg hoped this could be the start of a new chapter in both of their lives.

  Sadly, however, Marina lost the baby four months later and developed an infection that nearly took her life. Oleg was away on another foreign trip when she was rushed to the hospital. It was all over by the time he returned to Moscow. Though she never said as much, Oleg was convinced she blamed him somehow. Though he never said as much, he blamed her father, for now the president rarely moved without Oleg at his side.

  Aside from putting a further strain on an already-troubled marriage, Oleg’s rising prominence in the president’s inner circle began drawing the growing attention of the Russian media. Oleg discouraged all of it. He never returned reporters’ calls. He never issued public statements or responded to requests for interviews or profiles. Yet this hardly dissuaded the press from writing about him. To the contrary, Oleg’s caginess only created more mystery around him and his rising influence in his father-in-law’s administration, which led, in turn, to more column inches.

  At one point, a front-page profile in one of Moscow’s most-read daily papers described Oleg as Luganov’s nadezhnyy sovetnik, or “trusted advisor.” Oleg went pale when he first read the story, certain it would infuriate the very man whose trust he most needed and valued. But Luganov loved the story, even with all its factual inaccuracies, and began describing his son-in-law as his nadezhnyy sovetnik to everyone he met.

  Yet even as Oleg’s stature inside the Kremlin was growing, so was his disquietude. While Marina embraced the astonishing wealth her father was amassing, Oleg knew the president’s official annual salary was only $137,000. To shepherd a nation was one thing. To fleece the flock was quite another. And Oleg continued to see a steady stream of Luganov’s political rivals and potential rivals heading for prison or at least under indictment on charges that seemed unsupported by evidence.