“We’re hardly cavorting, Bill, for crying out loud. But we are taking a hard look at a real enemy. You might want to try it.”
“And just what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know very well what it means,” Marcus said, fighting hard to keep his voice down to avoid attracting attention from either the Estonian bodyguards or his own team members stationed up and down the hallway. “Luganov is massing forces on the border of the Baltics, but the president isn’t sending more troops to create a trip wire. Nor has he made a full-throated defense of our allies here. He’s hedging on Article 5. People over here are getting worried, and for good reason.”
“So Dayton’s going to hit the president—again—for not being tough enough on the Russians? Give me a break. Dayton’s a political dead man.”
“I have to say, Bill, you sound awfully defensive for a man in a position to advise the commander in chief to actually get tough with the Russians.”
“Just to be clear, Ryker, have you formally signed on to advise a raging left-wing Democrat, one who very well could end up being the president’s chief rival?”
Marcus was surprised by how personal McDermott was being, and how political as well, especially given the apolitical nature of his job. Marcus decided to deescalate the conversation. There was no point burning an old friend, much less a man in a position so close to the president. Prime Minister Jannsen had been clear that the only reason he’d agreed to meet with Dayton was to enlist him as a leading voice in the Democratic Party to go back and talk to Clarke in private and try to persuade him to do more on a bipartisan basis to bolster NATO forces in the Baltics.
“No, I haven’t,” Marcus said, his voice calmer and his tone more circumspect. “Pete has, but I’m just along for the ride. The senator asked me to put together a security detail for him. Pete wanted to get me out of the house. He’s worried about me, thought a trip like this might be good for me.”
Bill’s tone softened. “Maybe he’s right.”
“Maybe.”
“Fine. Come see me when you get back. Maybe I’ll hire you instead.”
“Hire me?” Marcus asked. “What on earth for?”
“To keep you away from Pete Hwang, for starters,” he laughed. “Take care.”
“You, too.”
And with that, the line went dead.
PULKOVO AIRPORT, ST. PETERSBURG—23 SEPTEMBER
“The war begins in precisely two weeks.”
Luganov said it so matter-of-factly, almost casually, as they boarded the presidential jet for the flight back to Moscow that at first Oleg wasn’t sure he had heard the man correctly.
“October 7?” Oleg asked, aghast but desperate not to show it. “But that’s earlier than we’d discussed.”
“It’s going to be delicious, my son,” Luganov continued as he headed for the back of the plane. “NATO won’t know what’s hit them.”
When they reached the conference room, Luganov asked Oleg to shut and lock the door behind them. Oleg did as he was told as Luganov tore off his jacket and tie, loosened the top buttons of his freshly starched white shirt, and poured himself and Oleg glasses of vodka from the bar behind his white leather executive chair. The president took a swig. Oleg did not. It wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning. He was growing increasingly concerned about how much his father-in-law was drinking, though this was hardly the time to say anything. There were far more urgent issues on the table.
“So it’s true, Father—you’ve decided there is no way forward other than war?” Oleg asked, hoping to appeal to the man as a member of his family, not his staff.
“I have,” Luganov replied, opening the folder in front of him marked CLASSIFIED, scanning the cover page quickly, and then sliding the entire folder to Oleg. “This is the latest draft of the war plan. I’ve made several important changes since last week. But this is it. When I sign it, it will become final. But first I want you to take a look at it. Tell me what I’m missing. I want to leave nothing to chance.”
Oleg took a deep breath, then picked up the folder with cold hands and began to read it carefully. Soon the jumbo jet was rumbling down the runway and lifting into the air. Oleg kept reading. From time to time he looked up at his father-in-law, worried that he was expecting a response faster than Oleg was prepared to give it. Instead, the man seemed oddly and uncharacteristically detached. He was swirling his drink in his right hand while staring out the window at the massive city of St. Petersburg—home to more than five million souls—shrinking in the distance.
Oleg wasn’t trained in the strategies or tactics of the armed services. But he had spent enough time in the company of the president and his generals to perceive that the plan in front of him was flawless. It was built around speed and the element of surprise. To the extent that the West was expecting an invasion of Ukraine, Luganov’s calculus was likely spot-on—an invasion of the Baltic states would utterly blindside NATO leaders. Unless they began airlifting men and matériel around the clock, beginning that very night, it was highly unlikely they could prevent the Russian onslaught that was coming—certainly not with conventional weapons.
There was just one critical issue, but Oleg was terrified to raise it. He had seen the army chief of staff ask the same question, and the man had been immediately dismissed from the position he’d held with honor for five straight years—and not simply dismissed. Luganov had ordered the general arrested and sent into exile to who-knew-where on charges of treason. Did Oleg run the same risk now? He had been asked for his opinion. And he was family. Then again, Luganov had dismissed Yulia, his wife of thirty-four years, without any hint of emotion or regret. To this man, even those closest to him were evidently expendable. Still, Oleg mused, wasn’t it traitorous to his country, to his people, not to ask the question?
Oleg cleared his throat, both to get the president’s attention and buy just a moment more to figure out how best to frame the most crucial conversation of his life.
“From a military perspective, the plan is very impressive in every respect, Father,” he began, treading carefully. “Yet, in all honesty, I cannot shake my concerns about the intelligence informing the strategic concept.”
“How is that, my son?” Luganov said, turning from the window and finishing what was left in his glass.
The president did not seem defensive, so Oleg took another step. “You know I have always had the highest regard for Dmitri Dmitrovich,” Oleg continued, referring to FSB chief Nimkov. “But I have to ask, is he really giving us—is he really giving you—all the facts?”
“To what facts are you referring?”
“I’m just wondering how carefully Dmitri and his team of analysts have truly studied the American president.”
“Andrew Clarke?” sniffed Luganov. “Please—the man is a neophyte, a boorish fool. What more is there to know? He can’t get serious legislation through the congress. He knows nothing of NATO, nor does he care. If he did, he wouldn’t be so cagey about Article 5. He’d be moving troops and tanks into the Baltics. I’ve discussed this at length with Dmitri Dmitrovich. Believe me, there is nothing to worry about.”
“But, Father, there is something here that worries me,” Oleg said, leaning forward in his seat now. “I’m not disputing a single word you have just said, but I do question the psychological profile of Clarke that the FSB has provided. Indeed, I worry that the profile is deeply flawed and thus could be leading us down a very dangerous path.”
“Go on,” Luganov said.
“Clarke is clearly a neophyte; that is certainly true. And he’s obviously made many mistakes, some of which seem astonishing—ridiculous even. But by locking in on Clarke’s numerous weaknesses, his self-inflicted mistakes, and his political weakness, the FSB may be missing the man’s singular strength.”
“Which is what?”
“His capacity to learn from his mistakes.”
“Nonsense,” Luganov said. “He’s the most uninformed and inexperienced leader the Americ
ans have ever elected. This opens up a door to us never unlocked at any other time since our humiliation at the collapse of the Soviet Empire.”
“But what the FSB is not properly weighing is that Clarke was elected,” Oleg calmly but firmly protested, careful to use Dmitri Nimkov as his foil, not targeting Luganov’s own analysis. “The man ran arguably the most disastrous campaign in the history of any country. He foolishly steered into not one political storm but many, yet he found a way to navigate to a safe harbor. He vanquished one opponent after another when no one thought he could. Admittedly, his transition was full of blunders, but in time he corrected those as well. He hired staff that did not serve him well, to put it mildly. Yet, one by one, he has fired them and replaced them. Moreover, he chose an experienced VP and a deeply experienced and rather accomplished cabinet. And for all the rancor, even chaos, in the American political system, certainly in the media, Clarke is getting things done. America hasn’t imploded. The economy is growing. Millions of jobs have been created. And they’re plowing tens of billions into more-robust defenses.”
Oleg could see frustration growing in his father-in-law’s eyes. He had only a few moments more to make his case without losing his job and perhaps his freedom. He had never spoken to the president like this. He could barely believe what he was hearing himself say, and yet he found himself pressing on just a bit further.
“My point is simply this—Dmitri Dmitrovich is asking you to base the entire premise of your invasion of not one but three NATO countries on the absolute certainty that the current president of the United States is a total beginner and has no idea what he’s doing and thus would never launch a counterattack against us using conventional forces and therefore would certainly never order a counterattack using tactical nuclear weapons, much less strategic nuclear weapons, even if you went nuclear first. Perhaps the FSB is right. But what if they are wrong? What if Andrew Clarke is more unpredictable than Dmitri Dmitrovich is giving him credit for? What if Clarke’s ability to course-correct makes him a far cannier opponent than the FSB has adequately considered? What if the FSB’s read on the American president is just wrong enough that this invasion of the Baltics leads us not to glory, but to . . . ?”
“To what?” Luganov asked.
“To ruin.”
At first, Luganov glared at him. But suddenly his entire countenance changed. He burst into laughter and poured himself another drink.
“Oleg Stefanovich, what a vivid imagination you have!” he roared. “My son, you are not a military man. You are certainly no intelligence man. But you are a good and loyal boy, and I truly cherish your capacity to amuse me as well as advise me. Now come—drink up! Drink with me to the coming victory that will electrify the masses and firmly and finally reestablish Russia’s place as the supreme global power.”
Oleg was furious, though he fought not to show it. Luganov was not only ignoring him, he was mocking him. And there was nothing Oleg could do about it. He had to demonstrate his loyalty. So he grabbed the glass of vodka and forced it down with a grimace. As he did, the president signed the war plan, then picked up the secure phone back to the Defense Ministry.
THE GRAND PALACE HOTEL, RIGA, LATVIA—23 SEPTEMBER
“You’re not going to believe this.”
Annie Stewart could barely contain her smile as she found the senator and the team huddled in the back corner of the Pils Bar, its walls covered with the mounted heads of elk and deer and other hunting trophies, in one of Riga’s oldest and most elegant hotels. It was nearly midnight. Most of the patrons had turned in for the night. Even the print and cable reporters covering their trip had paid their tabs and gone to bed. But Dayton and his chief of staff were poring over the latest draft of the senator’s new Russia sanctions bill they’d been working on for the last few days. Pete was returning emails. Marcus was listening to a Nats game on his iPhone. The security detail was standing post by the front and side doors. But Annie had news.
“What’ve you got?” asked the senator.
“I just got off the phone with the Kremlin,” Annie said, instinctively lowering her voice even though the only one within earshot was the bartender, who, as they’d already found out, barely spoke English. “It’s a done deal.”
“What is?” Pete asked, struggling to appear more interested in what she had to say than how attractive she looked in her black cashmere sweater, faded blue jeans, brown boots, and Cartier watch.
“Luganov,” she said. “He’s agreed to a meeting.”
“You’re kidding,” Dayton said.
“No, sir. I’ve been working on it all evening. That’s why I missed dinner with the foreign minister.”
“This is tremendous—great work.”
“So when is it?” Marcus asked.
“Well, that’s the thing—the only time he has to meet is tomorrow at four thirty.”
“Where?”
“In his office at the Kremlin.”
Pete slapped Marcus on the back. “Wow—this is huge!”
“But we’re supposed to be in Vilnius tomorrow,” the senator protested.
“I know,” Annie said.
“I’m supposed to have dinner with the prime minister.”
“It’s your call, sir, but if we decline, I don’t know that we’ll have another opportunity.”
“What do you all think? Pete?”
“I say we do it, sir. Definitely. We can always reschedule with the Lithuanians.”
Everyone else agreed with Pete. Everyone except Marcus.
“What’s the matter, Marcus?” the senator asked. “This was your idea, after all.”
“I realize that, sir—and I still support a meeting with Luganov. But I would recommend against looking too eager.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Decline the invitation for tomorrow,” Marcus continued. “Have Annie call back and explain that you have meetings in Vilnius that cannot be changed, but you could be in Moscow the following day or the day after that.”
“But Annie just said Luganov isn’t available for the rest of the week.”
“Sir, do you think it’s wise to blow off a NATO ally to meet with the enemy? Is that really the message you want to send on this trip? And what if you do and Luganov stands you up when you get there?”
The senator turned back to Annie. “The man does have a point.”
“May I make a suggestion?” she asked.
“By all means.”
“Let me make a quick call to my contact in the PM’s office in Vilnius and explain the situation. If they have a problem with it, then we accept Marcus’s advice. But if they’re okay with rescheduling the meeting, then we proceed to Moscow in the morning. The following day we can fly directly to Vilnius, and you can brief the PM on your meeting with Luganov. How’s that sound?”
Marcus hesitated. He still wasn’t crazy about the idea. But it was the senator’s trip, not his. “Works for me,” he said.
Dayton grinned. “Me, too. Good thinking. Get it done, Annie. This might be the break we’ve been hoping for.”
The Lithuanian prime minister agreed.
They were heading to Moscow.
Dayton and his team landed at Domodedovo International Airport just after 11 a.m. on Wednesday. They checked into the Hotel National a little after one that afternoon. Marcus insisted that they enter from the back and not let the media know where they were staying. He remembered every grisly detail of the suicide bombing that had occurred there, which he’d been briefed about when he’d done an advance trip for the VP a while back. He and his men took the senator up a service elevator to a set of suites on the fourth floor. After making sure the rooms were secure, Marcus posted one man at the main elevators and another by the service elevator. One he put downstairs in the café to keep an eye on the lobby. The rest he posted inside the doors of the senator’s personal suite.
None of them had been permitted to bring their weapons off the jet. But a discreet request to Nick Vinet
ti at the U.S. Embassy had gotten around that. Nick made sure each man on Marcus’s team was given a Sig Sauer automatic pistol from the Marine armory. Nick also loaned them several MP5 machine guns and plenty of rounds of ammunition, plus several Uzis rarely used anymore. What’s more, the embassy was providing three armor-plated black Chevy Suburbans, drivers from the embassy motor pool, and whatever logistics the senator needed. As a prospective presidential candidate, Robert Dayton had no access to the embassy’s official diplomatic resources. But since he was the ranking Democrat on the Senate Intelligence Committee, his trip qualified as a “codel,” State Department parlance for a congressional delegation. And for a codel, it was Nick’s responsibility as deputy chief of mission to make sure everything went smoothly and safely for Dayton and his team.
The time for the Luganov meeting kept changing. When they landed, Annie was told the meeting had been moved back to 7 p.m. Upon arriving at the hotel, she was told it had been moved up to 3 p.m. Yet as Marcus took a quick shower and changed into a suit, he received an urgent text from Annie to the team that the meeting had been postponed indefinitely.
“They’re playing with you, Senator,” Marcus said when he arrived at Dayton’s suite. “Plan for the original four thirty time slot. If the meeting is going to happen at all, I can almost guarantee it will be then. Let’s roll at three thirty as originally planned so we have enough time to clear Kremlin security.”
Dayton was skeptical and visibly agitated. As it happened, however, Marcus had called it exactly right. During the brief ride to the Kremlin, Pete leaned over and whispered to his friend that his stock was definitely on the rise with the senator. Marcus nodded to confirm he’d heard, but privately his doubts were growing about whether any of this was a good idea. They were now deep in enemy territory, and as honest and principled as Dayton might be, Marcus knew the senator was no match for Luganov, the reigning grand master of geopolitical chess.
The three-vehicle American motorcade was escorted by the Moscow police’s VIP unit. This thrilled Dayton’s press secretary and chief of staff. After all, the images of their man entering Red Square and passing St. Basil’s Cathedral and then passing through the gates into the Kremlin itself would look great on CNN and MSNBC that night. But Marcus’s anxiety began to spike when only the lead Suburban—the one carrying Dayton, Annie, Pete, and himself—was cleared to enter and the other two were not. Even without their security detail, Marcus had few concerns for their physical safety. Besides the White House itself, there was no government compound in the world as secure as this one. There was certainly no way President Luganov was going to allow a prominent American senator—especially such a harsh critic—to be assassinated in the heart of the Russian capital. No, Marcus’s real worries were for the senator’s reputation and political viability. The man was entering the lair of a wolf. He would likely reemerge, but the question was, how damaged?
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