The Children's Game

by Max Karpov

  She watched the screen, waiting for Coffman to respond. It was no secret that Rickenbach and Greystone didn’t care for each other. Rickenbach did not like the fact that a woman had the top intelligence post in the country, working for a president he only grudgingly respected.

  “Also, the plane obviously shouldn’t have been flying that route,” added the vice president. “It shouldn’t have been anywhere near Ukrainian air space.”

  “That’s correct,” Coffman said. He called up a map on the adjoining screen, with a simulation of the plane’s flight path. “The route to Sochi should have been well clear of this,” he said, pointing to where the plane had veered west over Ukraine. “To answer the director’s question, the Ilyushin is equipped with infrared SAM missile defense systems and radar jamming. Safeguards, of course, aren’t foolproof.”

  General Rickenbach’s assistant was crouched beside his chair whispering to him, Anna noticed, interrupting the presentation. “Okay,” the general said, as the assistant stood and began to walk away. “I’m told these are just coming in now—” New, clearer images filled the monitors: a sequence of four still photos showing the presidential plane coming apart in sequence. “These were taken by a sunflower farmer, supposedly, in the Donbas.”

  Anna glanced at Harland Strickland down the table, who wouldn’t look at her, remembering again the allegations he’d brought to her office. She saw him exchange a glance with Craig Kettles, the second-term congressman from Mississippi, perhaps the most ardent anti-Russia voice in town.

  “If I may,” the vice president said. “Recognizing this is all preliminary: What are the possible/probable scenarios? What are we looking at?”

  The general yielded to Dan Borrell, the NSC’s senior director for Russia, a small, gaunt man who’d led the Russia studies program at Harvard for several years.

  “Motivationally,” he began, clearing his throat, “I would suggest five possible scenarios. With the obvious caveat that this is still very early,” he said, sounding like the nervous academic he was. “First, we can’t rule out the possibility that this was a terror attack. Chechen rebels, or jihadist groups from Chechnya associated with ISIS, would have had the motivation certainly, although it’s unlikely they could’ve carried out something with this level of sophistication. Second, there are right-wing, pro-nationalist factions within Ukraine, and within the Ukrainian military, in particular, who may have had access to these weapons. There are also forces outside the military—Ukrainian oligarchs who run private militias in eastern Ukraine, for example—who could have acquired the equipment through back channels. The problem with those scenarios, of course, is that they don’t explain why the plane was in Ukrainian airspace.

  “A fourth possibility,” Borrell continued, “which would address that, is what Director Greystone suggested, that the plane was brought down by forces within Russia, either the military or the security services. Given the complexity of the attack, this would be the more likely scenario, in my view. There is a small faction—which includes at least a couple of cabinet members and several of the generals—that regards the president’s policies as dangerously destabilizing; that privately favors—favored—regime change.”

  “A coup, in other words?” the vice president said.

  “Yes,” Borrell said. After a pause, he added, “And then, finally, there is the possibility of a lone wolf internal sabotage, although that would seem less likely.”

  “Explain, please?” Julia Greystone, the intelligence director, raised her eyebrows and gave him her steely look.

  “Meaning: the possibility that this was a solo suicide mission. That a crew member, a pilot, or a passenger was able to smuggle some sort of explosive device on board. Although this looks more like a missile than a bomb.”

  “So in your estimation, the most likely scenario—”

  “—is that this was a coup, an internal operation, carried out by forces within the Russian military. But tailored to look like something else.”

  There was a long silence as everyone stared at the sequence of the plane blowing apart.

  “Unfortunately,” said the vice president, “I don’t know how many of you are picking up on this yet, but there’s another story that was starting to circulate as we came in here. And that’s that we did this. There are even specific details, or allegations, linking us—CIA or the NSC—to a Ukrainian oligarch—”

  “Dmitro Hordiyenko,” Anna said. “He’s been an outspoken critic of Putin for years. He helped fund opposition movements in 2011 and 2012, during Putin’s reelection campaign.”

  “Okay, yes, thank you,” the vice president said, showing a surprised smile. “I don’t know how much traction that’s going to have. But it’s out there. The idea being that we had information Russia was planning something big against us and preempted it with this.”

  Anna listened to the humming silence in the room. There’s one other possibility, she thought. And Anna was a little surprised it hadn’t come up yet.

  She glanced again at Harland Strickland, who was leaning now toward Maya Coles, one of his allies, an assistant secretary of defense and one of the administration’s “Russia hawks.”

  “And we do have confirmation that the president was on board now, is that correct?” Director Greystone asked.

  Suzy Carson, the special assistant to the president for Homeland Security, responded in her incongruously high voice, which always surprised people who didn’t know her. “Not officially. Although there are photos now of him arriving at the airport in the afternoon. And there is an unconfirmed report of Putin boarding the plane. So. Still waiting on that.”

  “What’s the mood inside Russia?” the vice president asked.

  “We’re getting reports that officials have been taken to secure sites,” Carson said. “They’re claiming new intelligence is warning about additional attacks . . . and there have been some spontaneous demonstrations, supposedly, in Moscow. People holding up Russian flags and pictures of the president.” She looked down at her phone, processing several things at once. “They’re not playing Swan Lake yet,” she added, referring to the old Soviet practice of televising a loop of the Russian ballet when a leader died. “But it’s getting to that.”

  The official silence from Moscow felt ominous, Anna thought, a sign that the president probably was dead. On one of the wall screens, Coffman, the Eurasian commander, said, “What I can add, from here, is that the president was flying with staff and a small group of businessmen. And we have the list of names now. Unofficially.” He began to read them. Some Anna recognized, most she didn’t.

  Coffman was on the tenth or eleventh name when Suzy Carson interrupted, waving her hand frantically like a middle school student in class. “Okay, sorry,” she said. “Here we go: a source in the Russian foreign minister’s office is now confirming it: President Putin is dead. We have a source confirming. The president was on board the plane.”

  Anna glanced around the table as a stunned silence filled the room. The vice president was the first to speak, a lilt of emotion in his voice: “I would just say, to everyone, that we obviously need to be very diligent about making any comment—or responding at all—until we have this confirmed officially.”

  His eyes settled surprisingly on Anna. There had always been a slightly distant bond between her and the vice president. Long before they were in their current jobs, Anna used to see him at church on Sundays in Bethesda and they’d often exchange a few words. “Anna, were you going to say something?”

  Anna sat up straighter and cleared her throat. She wasn’t going to say anything, but would if he wanted her to. “I’d agree with the vice president,” she began. “And I might add, in light of the allegations of Ukrainian involvement: we should at least be aware of the possibility that Moscow may use this as justification for a retaliation in the region. Whether the story’s true or not. But I agree, at this stage, our response needs to be very measured.”

  She quickly scanned the faces around th
e table. General Rickenbach worked his mouth as if there was an unpleasant taste on his tongue. Emotions were raw; Russia was a topic that elicited strong opinions. Anna glanced at her phone: Where’s Christopher?

  “I won’t disagree with the senator,” Rickenbach said, without looking at her, “but I do think we need to be prepared to respond forcefully if Russia is going to make accusations that we did this. Let’s not forget that we’re dealing with a severely wounded animal right now in Russia, regardless of who’s in charge. They’re a country that sees military power—hard power—as their best means of buying political advantage. Underestimating that would be a huge mistake.”

  Anna noted the half dozen or so subtle head-nods around the table. But some of the reactions struck her as odd: the similar blank faces of Congressman Kettles, Maya Coles, and Harland Strickland. Along with Rickenbach, the Russia “hawks” in the room. As if concealing some shared knowledge. Was it possible that the US was involved in some way?

  “Anna?” the vice president said, nodding to her again. “Anything to add?”

  Anna shook her head, thinking again of the explanation that no one had mentioned. And seeing a more complicated problem ahead: a problem that didn’t involve Russia at all, that was much closer at hand, right here in this room.

  “No,” she said. “Not yet.”

  THIRTEEN

  Southwest of Moscow.

  Andrei Turov received the news at his country home thirty kilometers from Moscow. He was seated behind the old mahogany desk in his office, a converted nineteenth-century dacha, talking with Olga Sheversky about her trip tomorrow to Switzerland, when he noticed Anton Konkin coming up the trail beside the lake, the early evening sun gleaming through the leaves off the top of his bald head.

  Normally, Anton came to his office twice a day, arriving with the precision of a train, at 10:00 in the morning and 5:00 in the afternoon, laptop tucked under his right arm. Anton was Turov’s buffer, and his liaison to the offices in Moscow and St. Petersburg. He was also the most loyal man that Turov had ever known. Possibly the most loyal man alive.

  This unscheduled appearance took both Turov and Olga by surprise, although Olga’s surprise was more genuine than his.

  Turov had quietly been laying the groundwork for his retirement for several months, shipping selected valuables to his vacation home in Switzerland, where Turov’s daughter and grandchildren had relocated nine days ago. “August 13” would be his last operation based in Russia. The Kremlin understood that, although they hadn’t yet given permission for him to leave the country. He expected that by week’s end.

  Turov’s spread in the country comprised more than seventy-nine acres. He also owned four office buildings in Moscow and three in St. Petersburg, as well as properties in Switzerland and France. He held stock in several of Russia’s largest natural gas and oil companies. His network of security businesses had been valued at close to a billion US dollars. Turov enjoyed the game of Russian business and he played it well. But he also understood that all he owned could be stripped away in an instant. These days, his greatest concern was ensuring that his family was provided for when he was gone. His own possessions had become less and less interesting the older he got, for the obvious reasons. He often took refuge these days in a quote from Solzhenitsyn, which he kept in a small picture frame on the top shelf of his bookcase here: “Own only what you can always carry with you: know languages, know countries, know people. Let your memory be your travel bag.”

  Turov’s greatest loyalty was to his family, which now included Olga and Anton. A family did not have to be blood, but it had to be for life, he believed. He had told his daughter Svetlana that he was retiring here to the country on doctor’s orders; that he’d been warned he might suffer a stroke if he didn’t. In part, this was true. But the greater threat to his health had become political. There were men in Putin’s circle now who did not particularly want Turov to survive, who did not trust him.

  For years, Turov’s life had been so entwined with that of Russia’s president, and the greater good of their country, that he had suppressed many of his own personal desires. He wished sometimes now that he had made these moves years earlier. But, as Olga liked to say, “We get old too soon and smart too late.” It was the condition of being human.

  In addition to serving as caretaker of his country property, Olga was Turov’s personal assistant and occasional lover, a simple, sensible woman he’d come to rely on and care for. When he had first met her, Olga reminded him of one of those darting sea birds he’d watched as a boy by the Black Sea, bobbing their heads as they competed for breadcrumbs. Turov used to pick out the smaller, less confident birds; Olga had been one of those. But she could be tenacious when given a chance, and he’d done that for her. In exchange, she had taught him many things about life that his upbringing had neglected.

  Anton stood in the doorway of the office, looking past Olga to Turov, waiting to be acknowledged. “I am sorry, boss,” he said, stepping in the room as soon as Turov spoke his name. “There’s been some news. I thought you should know as soon as possible.”

  His presence caused Olga to lower her eyes and dutifully withdraw. Anton could be an imposing figure, not because of his size or appearance but because of his abrupt manner. Both Anton and Olga played key roles in Turov’s life but they remained strangers to each other, like two animals who competed for an owner’s affection. If they’d had fur on their backs, it would’ve stood up when they crossed paths.

  “The president’s plane,” Anton said, once they were alone.

  “Yes?”

  Anton waited until he saw Olga walking on the sun-dappled path back to the main house before giving him the details of what had happened in eastern Ukraine.

  “It’s done, then,” Turov said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been monitoring the reaction.”

  “The reports tying the attack to the United States are widespread and gaining credibility,” Anton said. “The Americans are responding predictably. I spoke to our man in Washington. Ketchler. I’ll have a report for you in the morning.”

  “Very good.” For Turov, the news meant that the second move in “the children’s game” had been played successfully, and the third was now under way. The game still depended on a fourth move, though; but that would be up to the Kremlin. “Thank you, Anton,” he said. “You are important to me. I will see you at ten o’clock, then?”

  “Yes.”

  They shared a formal smile before Anton turned to go. And then Turov called Olga back to his office to tell her the news, summoning the appropriate emotion in his voice.

  Olga glanced several times at Putin’s portrait on the wall behind his desk as Turov spoke. It was the same picture that hung on the walls of thousands of Russian offices throughout the country, in the Kremlin and in every town hall and municipal tax office: the steady blue eyes, the firm set of his mouth. She glanced, too, at the photo on his desk, of Turov and Putin, a decade earlier, sharing an intimate laugh.

  Tears filled Olga’s eyes, and Turov stood to hold her, feeling the warmth of her face against his neck, the gentle heaving of her chest. He thought of his old friend, the president, knowing that what had happened a thousand miles away—what Turov thought of as “The Catalyst”—would forever change the way that people thought of Putin. Turov had first met Vladimir Vladimirovitch when they were students together at Leningrad University. He knew him to be a prinicipled and moral man who understood the unique responsibilities of the “Russian soul,” as the political philosopher Ivan Ilyin had called it. The real purpose of Turov’s operation—despite the elaborate fiction he had told Ivan Delkoff—was to win for Putin the respect that the West had denied him. The West’s propaganda machine found malicious intent in nearly everything Putin did. Every action, however benign—the simple act of going to church, as Volodya had done on Sunday in Moscow—became the calculated machinations of a madman, in their view. The annexation of Crimea, rightfully seen by Rus
sians as the reclaiming of a sacred land, the baptismal site of Saint Vladimir, who brought Christianity to Russia, was portrayed as an “illegal” land grab. The president’s motives in the Middle East, which reflected a deep concern for the persecuted Christian population there, were seen as geopolitical strong-arming.

  The Western media refused to even acknowledge the great reforms the president had brought to Russia or the remaking and reawakening of Moscow he had helped orchestrate. They had denigrated the spectacular Sochi Olympics before the Games even began and spread false rumors in 2016 about state-sponsored blood-doping in an effort to destroy Russia’s athletics programs. To many in the West, the president was unstable, a militaristic dictator, a twenty-first-century Stalin, whose ambition was to reconstitute the Soviet Union at any cost. This was the dirty game the West—and its arrogant leader, the so-called “United” States—played, against anyone who threatened them.

  “We’ll be okay,” he said, as Olga dabbed the tears from her face. She was looking out at the green meadow. Turov looked, too. Until ten days ago, his twin grandchildren had raced through the wild grasses here each evening, playing a made-up game, a hybrid of hide-and-seek and tag. Turov missed them enormously now.

  “Was it the Americans?” Olga asked, her wet brown eyes flashing anger.

  “Yes. We think so,” Turov said. “But, of course, it’s going to be hard to prove.”

  Olga crossed herself privately. “The West has removed God from their culture,” she said. “And this is the result.”

  “Yes, that is true. You have said that for many months.” Turov sighed, anxious to log on to his computer to observe the reaction himself. “I’ll see you later this evening, then. Let me finish my work now.”

  Breeze rustled the oak leaves as she walked away, carrying a subtle perfume of wild strawberries through the screen. It was ironic: Turov’s assignments for the Kremlin often involved uncovering information about other people’s weaknesses. Kompromat. But since meeting Olga, he had come to see weakness in a different light than the Kremlin did. Weaknesses were what made people such as Olga appealing.