The Kremlin Conspiracy

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Oleg said nothing but hobbled into the lavatory and closed and locked the door behind him. He glanced around. There were no windows. Nor would there be any hidden cameras. He turned on the faucet so the men outside would hear water running. Then he unbuckled his trousers. He had duct-taped the small pistol Marcus had given him to his inner left thigh, just below the groin. This was why he’d been limping. He’d never injured his knee. Oleg waited several moments, then reached over and flushed the toilet to mask the sound of tape tearing from his skin.

  Setting the gun on the vanity, he pulled his trousers back up and buckled them again. As he pulled all the tape away and tossed it into the toilet, he stared at the pistol.

  So this was it, Oleg thought. He’d done everything Marcus Ryker had told him. He’d actually made it onto the grounds of the presidential palace—past dozens of armed bodyguards, even past the head of the FSB—with a loaded gun.

  The question was whether he could go any further. Oleg had never killed anyone. Yes, he’d done his time in the army. But after basic training, he’d served as a clerk in the office of the chief counsel. Was he really going to walk through these doors and shoot not just one but two men in cold blood? Neither he nor Marcus had war-gamed a scenario in which a second person would be in the room—certainly not Dmitri Nimkov. Nor had they considered the possibility that the FSB would have actually made the connection between Oleg and Ryker in the Hotel National. Such a development complicated matters enormously. Now there was a very real risk that Marcus—and thus the American government—could be linked to what Oleg was about to do.

  He hadn’t actually been sick to his stomach when he’d asked to be excused. Now he was. Was he really going to do this? Was he going to kill the father of his own wife, the grandfather of his only son? And even if he tried, would he be able to shoot the president before Nimkov could draw and fire back at him? Was it better to take out Nimkov first?

  Doubts surged through him, but there was precious little time for indecision. Marcus had been clear—once he was alone in a room with Luganov, he should ask permission to use the restroom, retrieve the gun, and then come back into the room with the pistol drawn and fire immediately. Marcus had insisted he use the element of surprise to maximum advantage.

  Oleg wanted to live. He wanted to see Marina and Vasily again. He wanted to hold them and grow old with them. But these were no longer options. Not if he went out of this room, gun blazing. For a moment he considered taking his own life right there in the lavatory. But that wouldn’t stop the war. And it was the coward’s way out.

  Oleg thought again of Solzhenitsyn. How could he keep silent in the face of evil? How could he live with himself by burying the truth so deep or ignoring it so completely that it could “rise up a thousandfold in the future”? To do nothing might save his life, but did it not condemn millions of others? Only one thing would stop this terrible war from being set into motion and wreaking such mournful havoc on the whole of the Russian nation, to say nothing of the rest of the world. Oleg was the one man in a position to change the course of history. He knew that.

  Yet, looking at himself in the mirror—at his exhausted, bloodshot eyes and the dark circles under them—he wondered. Could he pull the trigger? He wanted to, but was he fooling himself? Surely Marcus Ryker could do it. But could Oleg Kraskin?

  Nimkov started pounding on the bathroom door.

  “Oleg Stefanovich, that’s enough. I have more questions, as does your father.”

  It was time to face his accusers and his fate. Oleg flushed the toilet one more time. He washed his hands and his face and dried them with a plush towel. Then he took off his tie, rebuttoned his suit coat, and opened the door.

  Nimkov was standing there waiting for him.

  “Before you say anything, Dmitri Dmitrovich, I am ready to talk,” Oleg said, holding up his hand. “In fact, there is much I want to tell you. Perhaps you will call it a confession. I don’t see it that way.”

  Nimkov said nothing but did step aside to let Oleg reenter the study. Oleg did so, careful to continue limping, then turned to look directly at his father-in-law.

  “I am ready to talk, Father, and I am ready to face the consequences. I have not done what I have been accused of. I am not a traitor. But there are things I must say, and I will say them to you.”

  “Very well, Oleg Stefanovich,” the president replied. “But first, let me say that I have spoken with Marina, and she confirms your story in every detail except one.”

  “What is that, Father?”

  “She says at one point in the night in question, you asked her to step into the bathroom with her iPod and her headphones and to wait there—listening to music—until you told her it was safe to come out. She did not question you. But I must.”

  “I understand,” Oleg said softly.

  “Good.” Luganov took his seat and ordered Oleg and Nimkov to take theirs as well.

  Nimkov did. Oleg did not.

  “If it’s all right with you, Father, I would like to remain standing,” Oleg replied, holding his sides. “I am very nervous—terrified, actually—and my stomach is weak, and honestly, I’m not sure I could remain still if I were sitting.”

  “Sit, stand—it makes no difference to me. But start talking,” Luganov said. “Start with last Wednesday night at the Hotel National. What did you do from the moment you sent Marina into the restroom?”

  Oleg could see both men were still angry. They’d taken a few steps back from the brink, but he had to calm them down, put them at ease. That might not be possible, but he had to try.

  “If I may, I would like to begin with what I did not do,” Oleg said. “I did not betray Mother Russia. I did not betray the Russian people. But there was business I had to attend to that night that could not wait, business of the highest order that related to the security—indeed, the very future—of our country.”

  “You made contact with Marcus Ryker,” Nimkov interjected. “You knocked on his door. You woke him up. You made contact with the American, and you told him what the president—your own father-in-law—was planning. Admit it, Oleg Stefanovich. No more lies. We have neither the time nor the patience for—”

  At this Oleg erupted. “Silence, Dmitri Dmitrovich—silence. I told you I would tell you my story, and I shall. But you don’t even have the decency to hear me out. You’ve already been proven wrong once today. I was not having an affair. I was not being lured into a honey trap. I was not doing anything at that hotel for which I should feel guilty or ashamed. Now I’m ready to tell you more, but all you have are accusations, and slanderous ones at that.”

  Nimkov was turning red and about to rise out of his seat but Oleg exploded again. “No, you will sit down, you will be quiet, and you will let me speak uninterrupted, Dmitri Dmitrovich!”

  There was a knock at the door. It was Agent Kovalev. “Is everything all right, Your Excellency?” the bodyguard asked through the door. “May I come in?”

  “No—I said no interruptions,” Luganov shouted back. “Disregard me again and I’ll have your head!”

  Kovalev apologized profusely. The door to the study remained closed, and after a moment, they heard the second door—the one to the hallway—close as well. With Kovalev back at his post, Luganov ordered Oleg to continue.

  During the interruption, Oleg had turned away from the two men and was staring out the bulletproof window at the snow falling in the courtyard, all lit up by a series of outdoor lamps ringing the colonnade. He nodded to confirm that he would continue, but he needed a moment to catch his breath and quiet the blood pounding in his head. His eye landed on a birdbath in the center of the courtyard that had at least two or three inches of snow piled up on it already. During the rest of the year, there was typically patio furniture set up around the pool. Now the pool was drained and covered.

  Oleg remembered happier times out there. How many summer days had he and Marina swum laps or played with Vasily in the shallow end? How many truly lovely meals had the
y shared with the first couple before all the tensions with Yulia had reached the tipping point, before Yulia had been sent away and Katya Slatsky had entered the picture permanently?

  Oleg’s life in this family had never been idyllic. He knew that all too well. There had been some moments he could cherish and wanted to hold on to, but they were far too few, and it was clear there could never be any more. Not where the president was taking Russia. The house was not yet burning, but the match was lit.

  “Here I am, in your home, Father,” Oleg said softly. “The home of your daughter, my wife, a home I once thought was mine as well.”

  He turned back around but could not bear to look at Nimkov. He looked only at Luganov, fighting to keep his voice calm and measured.

  “I remember when the people elected you president. I remember standing at your side when you took the oath of office and swore to protect the people and lead us wisely—I remember every word. ‘I swear in exercising the powers of the president of the Russian Federation to respect and protect the rights and freedoms of man and citizen, to respect and defend the Constitution of the Russian Federation, to protect the sovereignty and independence, security, and integrity of the state, to faithfully serve the people.’ What happened to all that, Father? What happened to all that you promised us?”

  The question hung in the air for a moment. Then Oleg unbuttoned his jacket, drew the pistol, and fired directly in Luganov’s face. A puff of red mist filled the air. Then Oleg pivoted to Nimkov, whose eyes were wide with shock, and pulled the trigger a second time.

  Blood was everywhere. Oleg was covered in it. He stared at the two bodies slumped in their overstuffed chairs. When he saw one of Luganov’s legs twitch, he refused to be calmed by the possibility that this was merely a death spasm. Instead, Oleg stepped closer to the man who had believed himself a czar, placed the barrel of the pistol directly to his forehead, and fired again.

  True to Ryker’s word, the gun had made almost no noise.

  Both Luganov and Nimkov had been so stunned by Oleg’s attack—and had died so quickly—that neither of them had made a sound either. Thus neither Kovalev nor any of the agents stationed outside came bursting into the room. They’d been ordered not to enter the study until the president informed them he was ready. That, at least, bought Oleg some time.

  Trembling slightly, yet far more calm than he would have imagined, Oleg walked over to Luganov’s desk and picked up the blood-splattered phone. It was time to set the rest of Marcus’s plan in motion.

  “This is Oleg Stefanovich Kraskin,” he said softly when the palace operator greeted him. “I’m here with the president, and he has several requests he’d like me to pass along. First, His Excellency and Mr. Nimkov need to head back to the Kremlin and would like to depart at precisely 8 a.m. Please advise the flight crew and his security detail to be ready at that time.”

  Oleg waited for her to get that down.

  “Second, the president has ordered me to go to Brussels, so I need you to contact the head of flight operations and have a plane fueled up and waiting for me at Domodedovo Airport. Please inform the pilot of my helicopter that I need to get to the airport right away. I’ll be at the helipad in three minutes. Once at Domodedovo, I’ll need a secure lounge to place calls and make preparations for my trip. Got all that?”

  Again he waited.

  “There is one more thing,” he concluded. “The president needs Miss Slatsky to meet him at the Kremlin, but please let her know that she will not be able to travel with him. Kindly inform her that she can fly with me. Once they drop me off at the airport, the pilot can take her the rest of the way. Is that clear? Good. If you need anything, text me. In the meantime, please continue holding all calls into the president’s study and make sure all staff—all of them—know not to disturb His Excellency or Mr. Nimkov until it’s time to leave for the Kremlin. . . . Right, you know the drill—war preparations, etc. . . . Yes, and you as well. Good day.”

  Hanging up the phone, Oleg walked back across the room and closed the drapes. Then he switched on several lamps around the study and went through his mental checklist. Ah, yes, the mobile phones. He turned to Luganov, searched around, and finally found his phone in his back pocket. He used it rarely, mostly when he wanted to have unrecorded conversations with Katya. Next he patted Nimkov down until he found his mobile phone in the right pocket of his suit jacket. He was tempted to steal them. Both phones—particularly the FSB chief’s—had invaluable intelligence on them. But Marcus had been explicit. Silence them so they could not ring, but do not take them. Mobile phones could be tracked. Lifting one would trigger suspicion and a response.

  Oleg checked his watch. He needed to get moving. He stepped back inside the restroom and calmly washed the blood off his hands and face. He wiped off his suit and his shoes, then dried his hands. Taking a fresh towel with him, he returned to the study. Now he retrieved his raincoat and put it on. This would cover the blood on his clothes. Then he grabbed his briefcase, wiped it down, and pulled out the digital recorder. He pushed Stop to end the recording and plugged earbuds in to listen in privacy. It took a moment of rewinding to find where he had exploded at the president and FSB chief. This part, and everything that followed, he erased. Then he rewound to the beginning, yanked out his earbuds, set the device on the desk, and pressed Play, turning up the volume so that it would sound—from the hallway, anyway—like people were still talking in the study.

  He looked around one last time to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. He hadn’t, but he suddenly remembered one more element of Marcus’s instructions. He pulled out his personal mobile phone and sent a one-word text to a Russian mobile number Marcus had given him. Хорошо. “Kharasho” in Russian meant “good.”

  He put on his leather gloves and scarf and walked out the door of the study, through the short hallway, out the second door, and into the care of an armed escort ready to take him to his helicopter. No one hovering around the door struck Oleg as suspicious. But as they walked briskly to the helipad, his thoughts turned to Katya Slatsky. She was going to be furious to be leaving the palace with him and not her lover. He was going to need to say something to calm her down, and Marcus had given him nothing. He’d only insisted Oleg find a way to keep her away from Luganov, lest she find his body before his detail and scuttle any chance, however small, of a safe escape.

  Yet Katya was the least of his problems. When he reached the north entrance, Oleg realized that he had completely forgotten about the fact that he would be assigned a new security detail. Apparently Marcus had too. Now six large and well-armed men were waiting to board the helicopter with him and Katya for the short hop to the airport.

  “Commander, I need you and your team to meet me at the airport!” Oleg told the head of the detail over the whining rotors. “The president has an important message he needs me to share with Miss Slatsky. I’m afraid it’s of a very sensitive, personal nature, and we need to be alone.”

  “That would be highly irregular, sir, especially after what happened to you this morning,” the agent shouted back.

  “These are the express orders of the president,” Oleg replied. “But you’ll never make it in time on the roads. Order another chopper, and I’ll wait for you there. And don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  Oleg did not wait for an answer. He pulled the side door of the helicopter shut, locked it, and ordered the pilot to take off for Domodedovo immediately. The pilot did as he was told. Katya, however, erupted with a torrent of profanity.

  “Quiet, quiet, please, Katya. I have good news,” Oleg told her. “I’m sorry you’re feeling hurt and that we had to move so quickly. I truly am. Please know that. But the president cannot be disturbed by anyone right now, for reasons that you’ll understand very soon, I promise.”

  “But I keep calling him, and he doesn’t answer,” she cried, her mascara running.

  “He can’t—not right now—but I have to tell you something very important.”

&nb
sp; “What?” she pressed. “What is it?”

  Oleg took a deep breath, pulled off his gloves, and took her shivering hands in his own, leaning close to her ear. “The president—I can’t believe I’m telling you this; he swore me to secrecy—but I just have to tell you.”

  “What is it, Oleg Stefanovich? Stop torturing me.”

  “Okay, I will,” he said, and he leaned in even closer. “The president . . .”

  He took a deep breath.

  “. . . is about to propose to you.”

  Katya’s eyes went wide.

  “It’s true,” Oleg assured her. “He showed me the engagement ring he bought for you. It’s enormous, gorgeous.”

  “Are you serious? Aleksandr Ivanovich is really going to ask me to marry him?”

  “I think it might even be tonight,” Oleg added. “He didn’t tell me where or how, but I got the impression it just might be tonight.”

  Katya squealed with delight.

  “I beg of you, please don’t tell him I told you,” Oleg pleaded. “But I could see how upset you were. I didn’t want you to think ill of the president. He has so many burdens on him right now, but he needs you to know he loves you and that you’ll never be parted.”

  Katya couldn’t speak. She was overwhelmed with emotion and collapsed into Oleg’s arms, weeping with joy and tremendous relief.

  DOMODEDOVO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MOSCOW—29 SEPTEMBER

  The G4 had to be deiced again.

  That took another twenty minutes. The temperature was dropping and visibility was poor and worsening with the driving snow. Then Oleg’s text came in, and everything changed.

  “It’s him,” Marcus said, staring at the screen of the mobile phone.

  “And?” Morris asked, double-checking the gauges on the console one more time.

  “He’s on his way.”

  Morris looked up at her partner. She was still angry with him. He could only imagine what she’d be like if she knew the whole story.