The Kremlin Conspiracy

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Marcus had no interest. He didn’t agree with Dayton on almost any issue of domestic policy. He could only imagine what nonsense Pete was going to cook up for him. That said, he did share the man’s concerns about Luganov and found him a credible voice on matters of national security—one of the few in the Democratic Party. He also appreciated that neither the senator nor Miss Stewart had brought up the deaths of Elena and Lars in the conversation. They were treating him as a professional, not out of pity. That was classy and, in his experience, all too rare.

  Standing, he thanked them both for the offer but politely declined. Then he shook their hands and took his leave, heading back up to the roof. He would skip lunch with the vets. He’d already had far more human contact than he’d wanted for the day. To his relief, Carter did not come find him after the senator left to prod him to reconsider or even to invite him to lunch. That gave Marcus a good six more hours on the roof, alone with his iTunes and his earbuds.

  It was well past seven o’clock when he finally headed back to his apartment alone.

  And someone was waiting for him.

  “You look terrible,” Pete Hwang said with a smile.

  “You look worse, believe me,” Marcus replied as he approached the front steps of his building. “I should have expected you’d be here.”

  “You’re losing your edge, old man.”

  “I probably am,” Marcus conceded as he led Pete upstairs, unlocked his front door, and let them both in. “But Dayton? Really? I didn’t take you as that desperate.”

  Pete shrugged. “What can I say? The man made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “But he’s an arrogant gasbag.”

  “He’s a politician.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Fair enough, but at least he’s a principled gasbag.”

  “At least,” Marcus said as he tossed his keys on the counter and urged Pete to make himself at home. “But come on, you can’t really want Bob Dayton to be the next president of the United States, can you?”

  “Point me to someone better and I’ll sign on tomorrow.” Pete loosened his tie, set his briefcase on a chair, and plopped onto the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table.

  Marcus grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, handed one to Pete, and put the other by his La-Z-Boy. Then he went back to the kitchen, found a can of mixed nuts in the pantry, opened it, and set it on the coffee table. He slumped in his recliner and reached for the remote. “For crying out loud, Pete, the man’s a socialist.”

  “He’s not a socialist.”

  “Oh yeah, then what is he?”

  “A progressive.”

  “You mean a liberal.”

  “But an honest liberal.”

  “I grant you that—he’s honest and a good family man—but seriously, does he even have a real shot?”

  “To shape the debate? Absolutely. To win? I don’t know. But hey, he’s rising in the polls. It’s just name ID right now, but if he wins Iowa and picks up a head of steam going into New Hampshire, who knows? Ask me again in a few months.”

  “Well, tell him to drop the bow ties. He looks ridiculous.”

  “What are you talking about? Your father-in-law wears bow ties. I thought you liked them.”

  “Javier Garcia is a highly sought-after corporate trial lawyer, Pete. Nobody cares what he wears, so long as he wins. Your man wants to be the next commander in chief. I’m telling you, drop the bow ties.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good. Now, tell me you didn’t really sign on to do domestic policy for him,” Marcus said, turning on the TV and flipping through the channels.

  “Of course I did,” said Pete, taking his first sip of his beer.

  “Full-time?”

  “You betcha.”

  “And you’re really leaving your practice?”

  “Done.”

  “But why? I mean, after you left the Marines, you became one of the best cardiologists in the country. Why give all that up?”

  “Boredom.”

  “But you’re finally making real money for the first time in your life.”

  “I’m bored out of my mind, Marcus. And with the divorce final, most of what I make is just going to alimony, after Uncle Sam gets his bite, so really, what’s the point?”

  “I’m sorry about Jane.”

  “Hey, what can you do? I should have seen it coming.”

  “You were a good husband and a great dad.”

  “Some things aren’t meant to be.”

  Marcus was silent for a moment. Then he switched the channel to the Nats game. The two men watched the entire second inning without saying anything. The Nats were playing the Texas Rangers, and there was no score yet.

  “So you’re moving to Des Moines?” Marcus asked when a truck ad came on.

  “Actually, I just got an apartment here. Moved in a few days ago.”

  “Here in D.C.?”

  “Georgetown.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “So we’re finally neighbors.”

  “The campaign’s going to be run from here, not Iowa?”

  “The PAC is run from here, and technically that’s who pays me. We’ll see what happens if he pulls the trigger. Right now he’s just in an exploratory phase.”

  “Did you let your apartment in San Diego go? I love that place.”

  “Me, too—no, I’ll hold on to it,” Pete replied.

  “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said so far.”

  “For now, I’m subletting it to one of my nephews. He’s a sophomore at San Diego State.”

  Marcus took another pull on his beer.

  “Look, buddy, you want the truth?” Pete asked.

  His tone had suddenly changed. Marcus had heard it before. He muted the television and turned to look at his friend. “Sure, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter; it’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, man. It’s just that when Jane moved out, she went back to Westport. She’s got custody of the kids. She took the furniture. I tried to keep living in the apartment, but I couldn’t stay. Too many memories. Too many ghosts.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “What can you do?” Pete said again, returning to his beer.

  “Anything but politics,” Marcus quipped.

  “Yeah, right—you spent the best years of your life in the White House.”

  “Not doing politics.”

  “Same difference.”

  “It is different—the Service is scrupulously apolitical.”

  “Okay, but I’ve been scrupulously apolitical my whole life, and where has it gotten me? The country’s in trouble, Marcus, serious trouble. Someone needs to get us back on the right track—or try, anyway. The senator’s offered me a shot on developing serious reforms, especially on health care and the VA. I decided it was now or never.”

  “Go with never.”

  Pete ignored him and changed the subject. “So, I understand you saw Annie today.”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?” Pete asked. “You don’t find her attractive?”

  “Pete, you just got divorced.”

  “Which means I’m back on the market, my friend.”

  Marcus snorted, shook his head, and turned back to his beer and the game.

  “Anyway, none of this is the point,” Pete said, munching on some cashews.

  “So what is?” It was top of the third. The Nats were rallying. They had runners on first and third with only one out.

  “You should come with us. Say yes to Dayton.”

  “Why?” Marcus asked as the Nats’ lead-off hitter came to the plate.

  “To get out of the house.”

  “I get out of the house.”

  “No, Marcus, really out. You need a break, a change of pace, of scenery.”

  “Like you?”

  “Believe me, buddy, you need
it even more than I do.”

  “I’m fine, Pete. But thanks for the concern.”

  “No, Marcus, you’re not fine. You’re depressed and stuck in the mud.”

  Marcus looked at his friend. “No, I’m not—not anymore.”

  “Yeah, you are, and I’m worried about you. You’re not getting past this thing, and you need to.”

  “Getting past it?” Marcus asked, suddenly angry. “My wife and kid are dead. I’m not getting past anything.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry—it’s unspeakable what happened to you,” Pete said. “But it’s not going to get any better by quitting your job, avoiding your friends, dodging your family, and not answering your phone or emails. I mean, seriously, when was the last time you went back to Colorado?”

  Marcus shrugged.

  “When’s the last time you talked to the Garcias? Or your mom?”

  Marcus said nothing at first, just finished off his beer. “It’s been a few months, but—”

  “I get it, okay? I do. I’m a doctor, and I’m your friend. And I’m telling you—you can’t just shut down and hide from the world. When Jane left, I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. And yes, I was devastated and furious. I stopped eating. Lost twenty pounds. But I finally realized I needed a change—a change of scenery, a change of pace, people, everything. And, Marcus, I’m telling you, you need one too.”

  Marcus said nothing.

  He just stared at the TV as batter after batter struck out, stranding two runners on base.

  “The senator called me a few hours ago—he said you told him no,” Pete continued. “I said I’d take another run at you. So here I am. Come on, Marcus. You know Brussels and Berlin better than anyone. You’ve certainly been there with the president and VP enough times over the years.”

  It was true. Marcus thought about the last time he’d done an advance for a G7 summit in London but then stopped as abruptly as he’d started. He looked at Pete. “Us?”

  “Sorry?” Pete asked.

  “You said come with us,” Marcus repeated. “The senator didn’t say anything about you going.”

  “He only asked me after you said no,” Pete admitted, setting down his beer and sitting forward on the couch. “Come on, man, what do you say?”

  Marcus looked back at the television. Now the Rangers were rallying. The first batter up hit a double. The second hit a triple on a high fastball.

  “All right, I’ll go,” he said finally, turning the television completely off and facing Pete directly. “On three conditions.”

  “Who are you? Aladdin?”

  “You gonna hear me out or not?”

  “Fine—name your price.”

  “First, skip London, Brussels, and Berlin—been there, done that. It doesn’t get you anything. Go to Kiev, Tallinn, Riga, and Vilnius instead.”

  “Why?” asked a bewildered Pete. “Most Americans can’t even locate those cities on a map.”

  “That’s precisely why,” Marcus said. “If the senator’s real concern is the threat posed by Russia, then go talk to people who actually feel threatened by Russia. The British don’t. Neither do the Belgians or the Germans. They ought to, but they don’t.”

  “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “Every politician with national ambitions goes to 10 Downing Street, especially if you’re on the Intelligence Committee. But who ever talks to our most exposed and vulnerable allies? I worked on the PPD for years. We never once went to the Baltics. Yet I hear Luganov just ordered exercises in the Western Military District. And the Ukrainians? After the whole thing in Crimea, everyone’s forgotten about them. But the Russians have massed something like fifty thousand troops on the Ukrainian border, maybe more. They’re saying it’s only an exercise, but what if it really is the prelude to an invasion? So get ahead of the story. Meet with the leaders in Kiev. Go see the Ukrainian troops on the front. Take your buddies from CNN and the rest and go make some news.”

  “Interesting,” Pete conceded. “Keep going.”

  “Second, go to Moscow.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. Ask for a meeting with Luganov, in the Kremlin, one-on-one.”

  “Marcus, have you lost your mind? Luganov and Dayton hate each other. Everyone knows that.”

  “All the more reason to meet with him, mano a mano.”

  “Are you going to be the food taster?”

  “If I need to be.”

  “Marcus, this guy once ordered his people to slip radioactive poison in the tea of one of his political enemies.”

  Unfortunately, Marcus knew, that was true. “You want your man to make headlines, right, to show himself a leader?”

  “Right.”

  “Then lead,” Marcus insisted. “No one else has the guts to confront Luganov. So Dayton should get in his face and tell him he’s leading his country down the path of ruin unless he changes course. Then fly to Brussels and meet with the leaders of NATO and tell them that unless they get serious about increasing their defense budgets, they’re inviting more Russian aggression in Europe. Then come back to Washington and introduce a bill that imposes sweeping new economic sanctions on Moscow and that adds another $100 billion to the Pentagon’s budget.”

  “Uh, Marcus, you seem to forget one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My guy is a Democrat.”

  “All the more reason for him to set himself apart from the appeasement wing of his party. You want to make news, my friend? That’ll make news.”

  Pete sat back, trying to process it all. “Why would Luganov ever say yes to such a meeting?” he asked after a moment.

  “To look tough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To squash your guy like a bug.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m serious,” Marcus said. “Who is a bigger Russia hawk in the United States Senate than Bob Dayton? The man constantly sounds like he’s ready to start a war with Luganov. Never misses a chance to denounce the Kremlin when they deserve it and arguably even when they don’t. No one would expect him to ask for a meeting with Luganov, and no one would ever expect Luganov to say yes, which is probably why he will—either to woo him and charm him or to intimidate him and make him look like a deer in the headlights or to try to make your guy look like a hotheaded blowhard prone to hyperbole and overreaction.”

  “Then again, if Dayton walks away looking like a serious statesman . . .”

  “Now you’re getting the picture,” Marcus said.

  Pete finished his beer and looked at his friend. “So that’s what you’ve been doing, all holed up in this apartment.”

  “What?”

  “Everyone’s worried about you, myself included. But maybe you’re not in here grieving. Maybe you’re plotting political strategy.”

  “I have been grieving, Pete,” Marcus said quietly. “Doesn’t mean I’m depressed.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Pete replied. “But whatever you’ve been up to, you’ve given me better ideas in the last five minutes—and for free, mind you—than I’ve given him over the last two months for . . . well, let’s just say not for free. So what’s your third condition? I’m pretty sure the senator’s going to jump at the first two.”

  Marcus smiled for the first time.

  “Promise me that when we get to Moscow, you and I go see Nick and grab a beer.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.—19 SEPTEMBER

  The group took off from Washington Dulles on Friday afternoon.

  They did not fly commercial but rather on a Learjet leased through the political action committee. Joining the senator were his chief of staff, his press secretary, Annie Stewart, Pete Hwang, Marcus, and four former Secret Service members whom Marcus had personally recruited and retained on behalf of the PAC to provide security. Two additional former agents were already on the ground in Kiev, arranging hotel rooms and transportation.

  Marcus knew full well that he and the other former agents
would hardly be able to guarantee the thorough and airtight protection package they all used to provide heads of state. But no American leader as outspoken as the senator on the grave threat posed by Russia could afford not to take at least basic precautions.

  Pete had also convinced Dayton to switch out his bow ties for a good old-fashioned Windsor knot, another small but noteworthy sign to Marcus that Dayton wasn’t simply “exploring” a run for president. He was already flat-out running.

  They arrived in Kiev just after 9 a.m. Saturday, local time.

  The senator and his team were picked up in two armored Chevy Suburbans, driven by the former agents Marcus had sent on ahead, and taken to the Hilton on Tarasa Shevchenka Boulevard. After checking in, showering, and changing, the team drove past several lovely parks along the Dnieper River before passing through security gates, continuing up a hill, and arriving at the enormous and historic Mariyinsky Palace. There, they were taken immediately to the green reception room, as elegant as it was ornate, where they were received by Ukrainian president Dmitri Dovzhenko under a large crystal chandelier.

  “Senator Dayton, thank you for coming to Kiev—you are most welcome,” Dovzhenko began as a small group of Ukrainian and American reporters and photographers recorded the moment.

  “It’s an honor to be here, Mr. President, especially now,” Dayton said as the cameras clicked away.

  “Your support for us in the U.S. Senate means a great deal to us, as does your willingness to come all this way to meet with me. The situation on our eastern border is growing critical, and we need faithful friends like yourself.”

  “In such times as these, we need good leaders with great courage, do we not?” asked the senator.

  “We do indeed.”

  “The words of Sir Winston Churchill come to mind,” Dayton said, playing for the cameras. “‘The belief that security can be obtained by throwing a small state to the wolves is a fatal delusion.’”

  “Hear, hear.”

  “Mr. President,” Dayton continued, “I cannot account for why the White House isn’t doing more to stand with you, but I vow to do my best to push our president and my colleagues in the Senate to do as much as possible. This is why I’ve come.”