The Kremlin's Candidate

by Jason Matthews

  “We have our own triumphs,” said Putin, distractedly.

  “Of course. I’m only emphasizing that DCIA Alexander Larson is an activist director who is not only accelerating operational tempo against us in the field, but also, in my view, putting together a covert action to stimulate regime change in our country, modeled after their successes in Ukraine and Georgia. He must have leverage to persuade the administration to permit it, perhaps with support from congressional hawks.”

  Gorelikov spoke calmly. “You know I speak openly to you.” Putin nodded. “I say to you with confidence that Larson and his Agency are working to destabilize our country. Why now? Suppression of dissidents may have been the catalyst, Crimea, the alliance with Iran, or ten other factors. But the threat is real, and we will have a crisis unless we act.”

  Putin poured himself more tea. “You’ve had a day to think on it. What do you propose?”

  “I have considered multiple options. Only one recommends itself.”

  “Tell me.”

  A gust of wind-driven snow made the plate-glass window flex in its frame—Shaitan knocking to be let in. “That we eliminate the Director of CIA,” said Gorelikov, softly. A log collapsed in the fireplace, spewing sparks into the room where several embers glowed on the pine floor. Shaitan was in the dacha now.

  Putin stared at Gorelikov, who continued, almost in a whisper. “His death—it must appear accidental—will derail this covert action against the Rodina. His agency will be demoralized and in shock, its case officers vulnerable and disillusioned. The US administration will hitch up their skirts in panic, and Congress will blubber until it is time for them to go into their next recess.”

  Putin had not blinked once. “The hand of Russia will of course remain invisible, even though the world will suspect, no, will marvel, at the utter imperturbability of Vladimir Putin and Novorossiya,” said Gorelikov, wondering if he was laying it on too thick, but deciding it could never be too thick for V. V. Putin.

  “How would you undertake such an action?” said Putin. “The CIA Director is protected at all times.”

  Gorelikov sipped his tea. “I will examine the pieces to see how they might fit. None of our usual organic compounds; no forensic toxicology is acceptable. An indisputable accidental death will forestall open hostilities between our services.”

  Putin nodded. “Put all your energies into the plan,” he said, curtly. The president of the Russian Federation had just green-lighted the assassination of the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. “Do you need anything?”

  Gorelikov looked at the flames of the candles. “What do you think of including Egorova in the planning? She knows the field, has a cool head, and will not shrink from extreme measures.”

  Putin shook his head. “Only the two of us. No one else. I insist on that condition. We will refer to the project henceforth as Kataklizm.”

  “Understood,” said Gorelikov. The two men fell silent, and Anton knew the president—slayer of tigers, accomplished horseman, skilled jet pilot, and master of judo—appreciated the enormous risk of attempting to assassinate the American DCIA.

  “With your approval,” said Gorelikov, “I would like to posit an additional refinement for your consideration. Any of our unicellular colleagues in FSB or the armed forces could have arrived at the solution of assassinating the head of CIA in five minutes. This, however, can only be the beginning of a larger plan that is infinitely more consequential and far-reaching.”

  Putin dunked his black bread into the stew, waiting. Refinements. This is why he liked Gorelikov.

  “Since MAGNIT’s recruitment I have been monitoring her career,” said Gorelikov. “As you know, she was recently promoted to vice admiral and is what one could call the US Navy’s senior flag-rank science manager. She has access to technologies, research and development, and the navy labs. Even though she is recognized for her brilliance, she is still generally considered meshkovatyy, awkward, pouchy, and three-cornered—without a political network outside her limited naval orbits. Accordingly, when she retires, the technical-reporting-asset MAGNIT disappears. For the last two years I have steered her to balance her scientific career with duties that would burnish her political bona fides; she is ambitious and followed my instruction with her characteristic quantitative precision. She was recently assigned to a position on the Bureau of Navy Personnel advisory board, which wields considerable influence. This year she was also considered for adjutant to Admiral Richards, the Chief of Naval Operations, but was not selected, I suspect due to her lamentable lack of what the Americans call front-office appeal. I fear MAGNIT will never have that quality; she could not acquire it any more than you or I could master her particle physics.

  “But there has been more recent progress. She has been selected as a briefer to the Joint Chiefs because of her ability to explain science theory clearly and concisely to unschooled superiors. Part of these briefing duties includes accompanying the chairman to the White House every week. We are collecting some interesting national security intelligence now, which is the transition I wanted MAGNIT to make. You see, I have an endgame in mind, it’s—”

  Putin put up his hand for silence. The corners of his mouth lifted microscopically, which for him suggested barely suppressed mirth. “What of her preference for lohmatka, for women?” he asked.

  Gorelikov was not fazed at the interruption; he expected the inevitable question from the president. “Her addiction is aperiodic and controlled,” he said. “She indulges her appetites during discreet annual vacations abroad when under my supervision. She occasionally loses control with her partners, which I attribute to her social narcissism and pent-up sexual repression, a result of psychological conflict during childhood with an abusive father.”

  “Loses control how?” asked the president.

  Gorelikov shifted uncomfortably. “Frenzied lovemaking, too-rough use of sex aids, biting, and slapping.”

  “Have you filmed this behavior for later control?” asked Putin, who was once a spook himself.

  Gorelikov shook his head. “Coercion is not a motivating factor with MAGNIT. Apart from her initial—and short-lived—refusal to collaborate during her recruitment, she has grown into a model agent—her narcissism fuels her spying. The only film ever taken of her was during the original polovaya zapadnya, the honey trap in the Metropol, nearly twelve years ago.”

  “Do you have the recording of that encounter?” said Putin.

  Gorelikov shrugged. “I have no idea where it is. I suppose somewhere in the archives.”

  “My loyal counselor, you wouldn’t be protecting your protégé Egorova, would you? She was the Sparrow in question.”

  “Mr. President, you are referring to your next Director of Foreign Intelligence, or have you changed your mind? I will admit I am a supporter of Colonel Egorova. I think she shows enormous promise.”

  It was enough that he had twanged one of the unflappable Gorelikov’s nerves. Putin had already seen all of Egorova’s Sparrow-vintage films. She indeed showed enormous promise then, as now. He was itching to get at her. “I agree,” said Putin. “Now, tell me about your additional refinement.”

  The wind outside howled. “It goes without saying that when a sitting DCIA passes away, the administration must select replacement candidates for consideration, one of whom will be put forward as the final nominee for congressional confirmation.”

  Putin knew what was coming, but stayed silent so Gorelikov could finish spinning his web.

  “I have instructed MAGNIT to dangle herself conspicuously in front of the president during briefings in the Oval Office, especially when she is the sole briefer on the occasions the chairman cannot come to the White House for the weekly brief. I have coached her to interject comments that would suggest she is politically aligned with the president, that she agrees with his defense and intelligence policies, and that she looks forward to working on his team, either before or after her retirement.”

  “You believe these
blandishments will work?” said Putin.

  “Analysts in the Americas Department posit that the president is driven by ego and ideology, and that now, in the fifth year of his presidency, is increasingly thin-skinned to criticism, and as a result surrounds himself with sycophants. If MAGNIT can establish herself as a sympathetic ally, and the DCIA position is suddenly empty, I predict her name would be one the president at least would consider. The notion of naming a brainy, liberal woman, an admiral from the navy, to undo Alexander Larson’s bellicose legacy and unsettling covert action, would appeal to him.”

  “Too bad we don’t have that other president, that rasputnik, that satyr, still in the Oval Office,” said Putin. “MAGNIT could have solicited the DCIA job on her knees. But this scheme appears extremely tenuous—the chance that MAGNIT would be tapped for the position is remote.”

  Gorelikov counted on his fingers. “We endeavor to influence outcomes—often with no guarantees—and hope for the desired results. The utter implausibility of making MAGNIT the DCIA is the hallmark of the perfect zagovor, an exquisite conspiracy without Russian fingerprints. She has no high-profile civilian patrons, no covert sponsors, so there are no invisible strings. MAGNIT, the brilliant but unlovely stork, solidly partisan, able to manage the challenges of technology and the new cyber age, is the perfect candidate. If she is selected, you, Vladimir Vladimirovich, will own the CIA.”

  More sparks flew from the fireplace as Shaitan flew around the massive pine rafters of the dacha, mightily pleased.

  * * *

  * * *

  Just beside the Situation Room under the West Wing of the White House was a smaller briefing room with a short walnut table and three plush armchairs on each side, POTUS’s chair at the far end under the presidential seal. Unlike the spacious, mahogany-paneled SitRoom with seating for twenty—including chairs for backbenchers—and multiple teleconferencing flat screens along the walls, the small briefing room featured only two compact screens on the far wall, above which were six digital clocks: one that displayed the time in Washington; a clock labeled “President,” indicating the time wherever the president was located; one for Zulu time; and three additional time-zone displays, today labeled Baghdad, London, and Kabul.

  Vice Admiral Audrey Rowland had just concluded a solo briefing to the president, his national security adviser, and the deputy NSC adviser on tests conducted by ONR on cavitation propulsion for littoral combat ships, an in-the-weeds subject usually not of interest to this commander in chief, whose idea of power projection was to enlist the tepid support of prevaricating allies, and to sign treaties with hostile states that had no intention of honoring any diplomatic concordant. POTUS, however, was taken by the smaller, more lightly armed, and relatively inexpensive vessels as good examples of “nonconfrontational naval platforms.” One could hear admirals’ teeth grinding in the Pentagon all the way from the South Lawn.

  The briefing concluded, Admiral Rowland told the president that his notion of a more restrained US military footprint, a more inclusive internationalist US foreign policy that would abandon nineteenth-century practices of nation building, regime change, and gunboat diplomacy (Audrey couldn’t remember the other talking points Anton had drilled her on) were critical concepts in an unstable world. His feet characteristically propped up on the table, showing the soles of his shoes to the others—a grave insult to foreigners, but merely boorish in the conference room—POTUS said he was glad to hear her views. Audrey hastened to add that, from her perspective, restraint likewise applied to intelligence collection—whether DIA, navy intel, or CIA.

  “We just acquired a Russian antiship missile—I don’t know the source—and we’ll assess its capabilities and develop countermeasures, against which the Russians will develop counter-countermeasures,” said Audrey. “And the process will continue, endlessly, with enormous cost, with so many other domestic priorities facing us.” Anton had coached her to invoke inferences that would appeal to the president’s well-known social progressivism.

  “Mr. President, my retirement window is opening in a year. If I at any time can be of any assistance to you and your team (she nodded at the slack-jawed NSC adviser, then at the slug of a deputy), it would be my singular honor to continue to contribute.” Audrey stopped there, not wanting to overdo it. POTUS thanked her, and he and the NSC adviser left the room, but the young deputy stayed behind and stared at Admiral Rowland as she packed up her briefing materials.

  “Don’t you really know how the CIA got that missile?” he said. He was short, balding, with a round face that perpetually hovered somewhere between mean and deceitful. He had the dark eyes of a hanging judge.

  Audrey closed her Kevlar portfolio and secured the zipper pull under the lockable clamp. “No, and it really frosts me,” she said, with her carefully chosen prim vocabulary, which would, said Anton, bolster her Vestal image. Anton constantly considered such details, thought Audrey. “I know I’m in the science end of things, but I could really add value to the requirements process.”

  Young Caligula shook his head. “They never told you, a three-star admiral, about COPPERFIN? You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

  In three minutes he had told MAGNIT about the COPPERFIN network, and about some of the reporting in the compartment.

  MAGNIT knew she had to cauterize the leak. “Listen, don’t tell me any more. It sounds pretty restricted. I’ve already forgotten it.” The ferret’s eyes narrowed, realizing he shouldn’t have mentioned anything, but he knew the admiral would be discreet. He’d keep his mouth shut too.

  He shrugged, trying not to acknowledge his mistake, and changed the subject. “Sounds like you’re looking for a job.”

  “The navy’s been good to me, but I’m ready for a new challenge. I have the science thing down, and cyber’s the next big hurdle. Intel would be a good fit.”

  “Let me talk to the president,” he said, puffing up, the White House kingmaker. “It’s an interesting idea.”

  Audrey smoothed her uniform coat and extended her hand. “I’m glad we talked. It’s good to feel connected to someone downtown with real pull.”

  The deputy nodded, as if validating Newton’s three laws of motion. “I’ll be in touch.”

  LAMB STEW KORMA

  Crush cloves, peppercorns, and cardamom seeds into a powder. Sauté chopped onions with spices until golden brown. Stir in cumin, cinnamon, turmeric, chopped coriander, and paprika. Add crushed garlic and grated ginger, and continue cooking until fragrant. Add peeled tomatoes with their juice, simmer, then add boneless lamb chunks and continue cooking. Add water and yogurt, and cover and simmer until lamb is tender. Serve with basmati rice.

  5

  Welcome to the Club

  As Benford began his morning blaspheming about moles in Washington, there was an icy late-afternoon meeting in progress seventy-eight hundred kilometers away, around another conference table in the Kremlin. This room, right off the president’s office in the Senate building, was immaculate, carpeted in blue and paneled in rich wood. The polished walnut table had dark mahogany inlays in a star pattern—a five-pointed Soviet star—an antique kept in use for reasons of nostalgia. It was the president’s conference room after all, and he liked the discreet reminder of the past glories of the USSR.

  The meeting was called and directed by the goateed Anton Gorelikov, elegant in a blue suit from Brioni, a light-blue spread-collar shirt from Turnbull & Asser, and a maroon seven-fold silk necktie from E. Marinella in Naples. His silver hair was combed straight back.

  Gorelikov’s duty was to advise the president on foreign and domestic affairs, national security, and manipulating world events in favor of the Russian Federation, a modern-day Mikhail Suslov, who had been the Chief Ideologue of the Soviet Communist Party. He had graduated from the Faculty of Law at Saint Petersburg State University in 1975 with Putin, both with law degrees, and both had joined the KGB, Putin in foreign intelligence, Gorelikov in analysis. When Vladimir ascended in politics during the boo
zy last days of Yeltsin, he tapped his friend from law school to join his political satrapy, and thanks to Anton’s poise, acumen, and foresight—as well as a studied avoidance of all Kremlin intrigues—eventually attained chief of the Sekretariat. He had never married, was agnostic in matters of sex, trusted nobody, and was an astute and suspicious observer of human reactions. He had the president’s confidence (as far as Vladimir Putin conferred his total trust on anybody) chiefly because he never sank to sycophancy. He occasionally reminded the president that surely there were moles in the Kremlin, just as Russia ran agents in Washington.

  Anton Gorelikov knew Putin’s Russia was atrophying slowly from within, buoyed only by her poorly managed natural resources and the geopolitical misadventures that kept Putin on the world stage. But like a chess master brilliantly defending a losing game until an advantage revealed itself, Gorelikov reveled in the intrigue, in the manipulation of events, and in the wielding of power. His putative allies were Bortnikov of the FSB, Patrushev of the Security Council, and, he hoped, Egorova, the rising star who had already been noticed by the Kremlin. Gorelikov was quietly maneuvering for her elevation to Director of SVR. It would be a tall order for a woman to be appointed Director of SVR, but the resourceful Gorelikov was known as a volshebnik, a conjurer, who could turn water to wine. There was no rush.

  Aside from acting as Vladimir’s Machiavelli, Gorelikov was an aesthete. He collected paintings, bronzes, and antique maps, and was an immaculate clotheshorse. He appraised the incomparable beauty of SVR Colonel Dominika Egorova, who was sitting on one side of the table, a thin file folder in front of her. Her blue eyes were extraordinary, her hands in repose were serene, and that face could launch a thousand ships—if the rotting Russian Red Fleet had that many left. Gorelikov knew Egorova’s personal and service history, where she lived, how many times she had been posted or traveled abroad (quite a lot for her age and rank), and the more spectacular episodes of her career, including her service as a Sparrow. One thing he did not know was that the beautiful Colonel Egorova was assessing the cerulean halo around his head, the luminous blue halo of the sophisticated thinker.