by Max Karpov
The story he’d brought her alleged that a small group of “senior US military intelligence officials” had met “secretly” on at least three occasions to discuss allegations that the Kremlin was planning an extensive disinformation operation to damage US credibility. The discussions had included “an option for Russian regime change,” the story claimed, citing “sources speaking on condition of anonymity.”
“They sent it over for an official response,” Strickland said. “We’re not giving them one. The DNI is urging them not to run it, naturally,” he said, meaning Julia Greystone, who oversaw all seventeen US intelligence agencies. “Everyone can smell the shit-storm this would cause.”
“You’re not saying it’s true?”
“Of course it isn’t. There were no secret meetings.”
“So? Where’s it coming from? Why are they taking it seriously?”
“We don’t know. I was thinking maybe you could tell me.” The glint in his dark eyes reminded her for a moment of a drawn sword.
“Sorry,” Anna said, closing the folder, understanding now why he was here. “I just got back in town last night. I don’t know anything about it.”
He nodded, but didn’t believe her. “This isn’t something that’s come up in your committee, is it?”
Anna felt a bristle of anger, but summoned a smile. He was talking about the ongoing political tension between a group of analysts in the Defense Intelligence Agency, the external intelligence service affiliated with the defense department, and the White House. Several analysts felt that their recommendations for a harder line on Russia were being routinely discarded by a White House that often acted without the input of experts; two had asked to meet with members of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence to air their grievances. It was garden-variety partisan politics, Anna thought, more about hurt feelings than anything else. Strickland was suggesting the analysts had leaked—or invented—this story to undermine the administration, and that Anna was somehow complicit.
“This is bullshit, Harland. You know that. Don’t tie the analysts’ beefs to me. We met with them once, at their request. This never came up. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
She pushed the folder toward him; he pretended not to notice. Strickland was one of the craftier people Anna knew in the intelligence community, although his moral anchor sometimes dragged a little, she’d found. He personified what was wrong with Washington: the maze of secrets, the insiders who treated intelligence as high-stakes poker, the bloated government that fed on itself and allowed the game to go on. Harland enjoyed being a player, talking with reporters off the record, then seeing how their stories shook out in the morning papers. It might have been largely harmless if not for the influence he seemed to have in this current administration, which far exceeded his job description.
“The trouble is,” he said, showing a practiced smile, “this makes it sound like it’s risen to the NSC level. Which is roughly the same as saying it’s risen to the White House—”
“But you said it’s not true.”
“Right, it’s not. Those socks have no elastic. Even though there are some in the Pentagon who would like to see us take a tougher stand on Russia. But no, there’s never been any talk about preemptive action or ‘regime change.’ Believe me.”
“So, why are you concerned?”
“Well, because. You know how the media twists things.” Strickland’s real concern wasn’t the story, in other words; it was what the media would do with it. His nonverbals were still implying she had some knowledge of where this story came from. “And also, we obviously have disloyalty somewhere in the administration. Which, yes, concerns me.” He tried a smile. “I’m just saying, we need to be together on this. Better having them inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in. To quote somebody.”
“LBJ.”
“Right. Anyway,” he said, taking the hint. “I didn’t know if you’d heard.”
“Sorry I can’t help you on this, Harland.”
He winked, to show that he didn’t take things too seriously; although, of course, he did. “Anyhow,” he said, patting his knees before standing, his way of closing the conversation. He took the folder back and tucked it under his arm, conceding this round. “Welcome home, Anna. You’re looking good. Really. Vacation suited you. We’ll talk soon.”
When he was gone, Anna swiveled her chair to face the computer. She wished that she could discuss this with her father, the way they used to talk at length about Russia when she’d worked at the State Department. But that was no longer possible. Anna’s parents lived in North Carolina now, and her father suffered from advanced Alzheimer’s. Although they still spoke once or twice a week, he was never lucid for more than a few seconds at a time. Like all US Senators, Anna Carpenter had her pet issues, among them cybersecurity and climate change. But her father’s disease had also made her a champion for funding Alzheimer’s research, treatment, and prevention.
Anna found Jonathan Niles’s blog and clicked today’s entry. “There’s a strange mood in Washington this week . . .” it began,
. . . particularly in the intelligence community, where officials are comparing notes about a so-called “Russia threat.” This on the heels of an outrageous story circulating over the weekend that Russia may be “sponsoring” a series of terror attacks this fall on American universities. A few of Washington’s “Russia hawks” have grabbed hold of this unsubstantiated story, calling it further evidence of US weakness against the escalating threat of Russian aggression.
At the same time, a more legitimate concern has emerged: that Russia’s ongoing military escalation may be the prelude to a move on Latvia, Estonia, or Belarus. There has even been talk among some in the IC about a US “preemptive” move to head off such an attack. One intel official—while strongly denying the claim—expressed concern that the allegation might leak to the media and be used for “political purposes.”
Anna smiled. Okay. Now Harland’s comments made more sense. She looked out the window at the massive Calder sculpture Mountains and Clouds in the atrium and made a mental note to call Jon Niles. She had only met Christopher’s half brother three or four times and still had trouble squaring his reporting with his demeanor—which struck her as aloof, scruffy, and a little fragile; he was Christopher’s opposite in some ways. He reminded her a little of her son at times, someone who lived his life in a minor key. Chris had alluded several times to the sibling “rivalry” between them, although it often seemed more like a sibling cold war.
Six hours, she thought, glancing at her desk clock. Six hours and Christopher will be home.
SIX
As the Continental flight began its descent to Dulles International Airport, Christopher Niles closed his MacBook and gazed out the window, thinking how fortunate he was to have Anna Carpenter waiting for him. Anna had awakened in Chris thoughts and feelings that had been dormant for much of his life. She had encouraged him to live differently, to cultivate a healthy poverty in his thinking, so that finding simple things could be exciting again. He was more than ready now to pick up where they’d left off.
Christopher had given Martin Lindgren his “ten minutes.” In the morning, he would hand over his report on Max Petrenko and put Andrei Turov in the rearview mirror for good. He’d decided all that in London: he was going to stay retired from the Turov business this time, regardless of what Martin had in mind. He cared too much about Anna to allow Turov into his head again.
Besides, Chris didn’t think that he was the best man for the job anymore. Not since Petrenko had identified Ivan Delkoff as the organizer of the so-called “children’s game.”
He gazed down at the Virginia countryside, recalling another late-summer afternoon at Dulles. September 14, 2001, a Friday. Chris had flown on one of the first D.C.-bound commercial flights from Europe after 9/11. He’d been on assignment in Paris then, scheduled to return on the twelfth. But no planes flew to Washington on September 12 that year. He remembered how th
e passengers had spontaneously broken out in applause as the plane touched down safely on that afternoon. Many people of Christopher’s generation had never before experienced the raw, gut-level patriotism they felt in the hours and days after 9/11. Many had never imagined that just the idea of America could be so threatening to anyone.
Every time he’d returned to Dulles since then, Chris felt the ghosts of that day, and recalled the audacity of what nineteen Middle Eastern men had pulled off, to the surprise of the entire American intelligence community. Using US commercial airliners as their weapons, they’d bombed the military and financial power centers of the United States, after months of training for their operation right here at US flight schools. There’s weakness in numbers. Martin was right about that.
This time, the plane landed without applause. Seatbelts clicked, cell phones chimed. The sounds of life going on. There was a new generation coming along that was learning about 9/11 as a history lesson. That worried Chris a little.
He walked out toward the concourse with his carry-on, feeling that small lift he got every time he entered an American airport: the sail of his imagination filling with something that felt like American ingenuity, mixed with the mundane sights and sounds of the airport, the smells of Cinnabon and Dunkin’ Donuts. Christopher had visited seventy-nine countries in his life; he was happy every time he returned to this one.
Seeing Anna, wearing a white skirt and black sleeveless blouse, made it better: the smart smile, the slightly wild quality in her green eyes.
“Welcome home, stranger,” she said.
“Do I know you?”
“If not, we better to get to know each other. My name’s Anna.”
“Chris,” he said.
They hugged for a long time, and walked to the baggage claim holding hands. Christopher knew then that they were okay, even if there was ground to make up.
As they walked through the concourse, he began to notice that something was different at Dulles tonight: there were armed tactical units in the corridors and an increased presence of uniformed police.
“So?” she said. “How was the ten minutes?”
“Good. I did what I was supposed to do.”
“And . . . what comes next?”
“Nothing comes next,” he said. “I meet Martin in the morning. He may want me to do something else, he may not. But if he asks, I’m going to tell him no. That was it.”
“Really.”
“Really.” He felt her hand tighten in his, always a good sign.
While they waited for his luggage, Chris told Anna in general terms about the Petrenko meeting. “I don’t know that there’s much I could do, anyway,” he said. “I’m going to recommend he bring in someone else, who knows more about this than I do.”
“Someone in particular?”
“Jake Briggs.”
“Oh, okay.” Anna was not a fan of Jacob Briggs, who was rough-edged and unpredictable, kind of a military cowboy. But that wasn’t going to be their concern.
“We left some unfinished business back in Greece, didn’t we?” he said, as they walked to the exit. “I wonder if we could make up for it now?”
“I think we ought to.”
Chris heard a hollow echo in the silence that followed, though, and he felt angry at himself that he’d been so easily drawn back into Andrei Turov’s world. A canine enforcement team passed them going the other way; as they reached the exit doors, a TSA officer, leaning against a railing, gave him the once-over.
“Wonder what that’s all about.”
“Unspecified chatter,” Anna said. “I noticed the same last night.”
The exit doors slid open. It was warm outside. His glasses fogged with humidity as they came into the night air of Virginia. A black Chevy Suburban pulled forward and stopped. The driver came around to open the back door for them.
Anna relayed the news from Washington while they rode away from Dulles, down I-66 toward the D.C. Beltway: all of the vague allegations flying around about Russia, and the online claims that the US was considering a “preemptive” move. Chris said nothing, absorbing it all.
“I was reading your brother’s blog this afternoon,” she said. “He seems to know more about this than I do. It makes me wonder who’s talking to him.”
“Jon’s always had his sources,” Chris said. “It’s a strange talent he has. People talk to him. He’s pretty good at what he does, actually. For a liberal, he’s not such a bad guy.”
Anna laughed quietly in the dark. “You haven’t talked to him in a while.”
“No, I guess I haven’t. I think Jon may be in one of his phases, actually, where he waits a week or two before returning my calls.”
“Wonder why.”
Chris sighed. Beyond politics, it was a complicated relationship and he didn’t feel like going into it now. Jon and Chris had the same father but different mothers, and Jon had always been fiercely private toward his older brother; there were rooms of his personality he had never let Chris see, and probably never would. “I sort of understand it,” he said. “When I worked for the Agency, I’d do the same thing sometimes. I’d avoid his calls because I knew he was going to ask about my work. Now he probably thinks I want information from him.”
“You each want something the other has,” she said.
“I guess.”
“That’s classic sibling rivalry,” Anna said. “Going back to Genesis.”
“Is it? Okay. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s much I can do to change it.” They dropped into a brief silence. Anna had a knack for drawing Chris out on subjects he wouldn’t discuss with anyone else. Especially this one. Sometimes he felt an anxious pang when he thought of his quirky brother. Knowing that what was in Jon was also in him: a restless quality looking for a place to land. Sometimes it felt healthy to talk about it; sometimes not.
“I remember when Jon first decided he was going to be a journalist,” he said, recalling a conversation he hadn’t thought about in months. “Our father said, ‘If you’re going to pursue this, then you have to do it right. Tell stories that mean something, that can help your country. Write a story someday that’ll change the world.’”
“That’s setting the bar a little high,” Anna said.
“Yeah. It’s not the standard advice they give out in journalism school,” he said. “It ignores the realities of having to get up each day and go to work, interact with people, and earn a living. His mother always understood the more practical side of life better than our father.”
In truth, their parents had instilled in them both a sense of curiosity. But they were curious in different ways. Chris, who was four years older, looked at the world and tried to figure it out on his own. His brother asked questions, which had made journalism the natural career choice. Asking questions had also become Jon’s style of social interaction. One of Chris’s football coaches used to call him “the man with the questions.”
“Would you mind if I called him?” Anna asked.
“Jon?”
“I wanted to ask about his column. Maybe we could even help each other,” she said.
“Sure, if you’d like.” Chris felt a moment’s resentment, and waited for it to pass. It was fine. Right now, Jon was one of hundreds of journalists in D.C. chasing the same story. Maybe Anna could help him find what other reporters were missing; maybe she could put the story in a context he hadn’t considered.
“Sure,” he said again. “But let me try him first.”
SEVEN
Thursday evening, August 12. Suburban Maryland.
Jon Niles eased up on the gas pedal, reminding himself that he wasn’t really going anywhere tonight. He was killing time, driving his old Mustang down an unlit two-lane rural road in a part of the county that hadn’t changed much since he was a kid. He’d told his girlfriend Carole Katz that he’d be working late again, which was technically true. Some of his work involved thinking and some involved waiting. He was doing both tonight.
For as lo
ng as he’d been a reporter, Jon liked to go out driving after work, to take stock and give the day some perspective, occasionally blasting out of his thoughts with music—the Stones from the late sixties, or Springsteen from the late seventies. Or something newer, like Lana Del Rey. When he was younger, he’d often have a tall can of Budweiser between his legs. These days, he waited until he got home.
But there was a more specific reason he was on the road tonight: Jon was hoping to hear from the anonymous caller he had come to think of as his “9:15” source. 9:15 was a woman who seemed to read his blog and Twitter feed faithfully, and who’d twice called to share insider information about US military strategy. Both times she’d called within a minute of 9:15. Jon had no idea who she was. Over the years, he had cultivated sources this way: he took blind phone calls, anyone who rang his number. Occasionally, it paid off.
9:15 had put him on to a potentially big story: what she claimed were high-level discussions within the US intel community about a “preemptive strike” on Russia. Some of what she told him checked out, but there were still big holes in the story, and allegations that had been met with denials or awkward silence by his sources in intelligence and national security. He’d twice alluded to it in his blog, thinking someone might come forward. But no one had; not yet. Jon hoped to find more tonight, as he’d hoped each night since 9:15 first called. But that would be up to her, not him.
His eyes went to the dash clock: 9:07. One minute since he’d last looked. Jon still had faith in his chosen profession, even if there were lots of reasons he shouldn’t. People didn’t read newspapers much anymore, and they didn’t have a lot of patience for lengthy, in-depth reporting. They were “getting their news,” as pundits liked to say, from social media now; except it wasn’t really news they were “getting.” The information they absorbed was increasingly filtered and customized, telling them what they already knew, confirming views they already held. When the media uncovered ethical wrongdoing these days, the wrongdoers could dismiss the reporting as “biased” and were sometimes given a pass. On cable “news,” the prosaic tradition of objective reporting had been replaced with the highly competitive game of peddling opinions to create consensus. When it was done well, viewers became convinced that they cared about things that didn’t really interest them at all. All of which was creating what Jon thought of as a bigotry of indifference toward those things that really mattered.