by Max Karpov
“So,” he said, “you’re suggesting we do an end run around the entire intelligence community?”
“Someone has to,” Chris said. Martin broke into a rare full smile. “Give me six days. If I’m wrong, you don’t lose much. If we wait until the administration figures this out and builds consensus, it may be too late.”
“And what does Anna do?” It was clear to Chris that he wanted Anna involved. They’d worked together once before, he knew, during her years at the State Department, although Anna had never really talked about it. Chris averted his eyes now, letting her tell him.
“We were talking in Greece, after you left,” she said, “about Russia waging a non-linear, non-military war. A war of perception.”
“The Gerasimov Doctrine,” Martin said.
“Yes.” They shared a quick, knowing look. The Gerasimov Doctrine was Russia’s vision of twenty-first-century warfare, a form of combat that relied primarily on the tools of emerging technologies rather than traditional military weapons. “That war’s already started, I think,” Anna said. “They’ve just created the narrative for it. We need to create a better one. I’ve got a few ideas how to do that.”
Martin gave Anna a long look, as if this were a conversation to be continued later. Despite his somewhat jaded demeanor, Martin Lindgren was an optimist, who believed what Anna did: that the US was fundamentally a good nation, with deep reserves of decency, but sometimes, because of that decency, it was a country that didn’t anticipate evil very well. It didn’t foresee the extent of dishonesty and deceit driving its enemies or know how best to respond. Its dishonesty was less sophisticated than Russia’s. “When do you start?” he said.
“Now,” Anna said.
Chris nodded. “Russia’s going to shut down to Americans very quickly, I suspect. I’d like to fly over tomorrow. That would get me there on the afternoon of the fifteenth.”
“And what if we’re already ahead of you?” Lindgren’s blue eyes seemed to momentarily sparkle.
“I don’t know. Are you?”
Now it was Martin’s turn to surprise. “You’re going to Moscow to research a story,” he said. “You’re a college instructor researching a piece you’re writing for an online think tank. About the changing role of the Russian Orthodox Church. We’ve lined up two interviews in Moscow. A historian at the Carnegie Moscow Center and an Orthodox priest. Beyond that, you’ll be on your own.”
Christopher said nothing at first. They had already prepared a cover for him, not expecting it would be needed so soon. Knowing the Orthodox church was a subject that interested him. “They’re not going to buy that, of course,” he said.
“Probably not. But we can’t have you going over as a CIA contractor, can we?”
Martin shared a smile with Anna.
“And what made you think I’d be doing this?” Christopher said.
“Hope springs eternal.”
“I guess it does.”
So. It wasn’t only Russia that was good at deception, Chris thought.
Anna and Christopher walked across the parking lot to their cars without speaking. The warmth and humidity had seeped from the air in the last hour of daylight; the leaves seemed to synchronize in a long, slow rustle. When they reached her car, Anna turned and touched his face tenderly. Christopher looked toward the city, and he recognized the act of faith they were all sharing by doing this: they were rejecting almost categorically the possibility that the United States had been involved in an assassination attempt on the president of Russia.
“Race you home,” he said.
SEVENTEEN
The Weekly American offices. Foggy Bottom, Washington.
I guess I’d like to know more about your mystery source,” Roger Yorke said to Jon Niles. The longtime editor sat on a corner of his desk with his long legs crossed and patted absently at his mop of gray hair. “We all would,” he added.
“Right,” Jon said, feeling three sets of eyes on him: those of Roger and staff writers Elizabeth Foster and KC Walls. KC was the magazine’s new political reporter, a talented, ambitious twenty-seven-year-old with unruly red hair and freckles, who had ninety-seven thousand Twitter followers and appeared occasionally as a guest commentator on MSNBC. Jon sensed that she was angling for a way in to the Russia story, even though it wasn’t her turf.
“Last night, you told me about this ‘no fingerprints’ business,” Roger said. “Now the same words are all over the Internet, and our country’s credibility is being challenged.”
“I know.”
“That’s kind of, like, a big deal, isn’t it?” Elizabeth said, her eyes shifting from Jon to Roger. Jon felt an inexplicable clutch in his chest. Liz had been his girlfriend for two years, and she still got to him: just that habitual widening of her eyes, the way her voice quivered slightly on isn’t it? “It’s almost starting to remind me of Iran–Contra,” she added, looking to Jon for a nod of approval.
“From what KC was just telling me,” Roger said, ignoring Liz’s comment, “someone at the NSC level is confirming what your source said—that there was a discussion of preemptive action, which would leave no US fingerprints, quote unquote. We need to find who that was.”
Jon sighed. KC, he suspected, was fudging a little.
“Actually, I probably shouldn’t say this,” KC said, scooting forward, her eyes staying with Roger. “Because it was said in confidence. But, for the sake of the story: I heard that the Post may also have an anonymous source on it. A woman. So it’s possible the same source has been calling multiple media outlets.”
“A telephone source?” Jon said.
“I think so,” she said. Speaking to Roger.
“And maybe they’re having the same conversation we’re having?” Liz added, irrelevantly.
“Can you find out any more on that, then?” Roger said, his eyes gesturing to KC. “If you’re comfortable with it.”
“Sure.”
Jon huffed, almost involuntarily. Roger, he suspected, had invited KC to this meeting as a way of kicking his ass a little, shaking off some of his cynicism about journalism. Occasionally, these Weekly American staff meetings felt almost like interventions. But he didn’t need that today. After his conversation with 9:15, Jon was fully engaged.
“It’s interesting,” Roger said, looking distractedly out the picture window. “The academics talk about Russia as a country in search of an idea. But I think they have one. Two, really, which go hand in hand. The first is to position themselves as a moral leader for the rest of the world, an alternative to what they call the decadence of the West. Us. And the second is to create a Eurasian alliance that diminishes the importance of our alliances. That’s what’s behind BRICS and the Shanghai Cooperation Organization, which they see as alternatives to NATO and the IMF. And now they’re talking about creating a new international apparatus to fight terrorism, which would bypass military blocs such as NATO.”
“But—so what else are you hearing about the preemptive strike thing?” KC asked, scooting forward. Roger’s tangents made KC uneasy.
“What I’m hearing,” he said, “is that preemptive action was discussed, as Jon said, but probably not as a real option.” He glanced at Jon. “Although what really concerns me right now is something else; it’s the story the administration is starting to tell internally, that the attack was a coup. That it was the Russian military that shot down the president’s plane.”
KC frowned.
“What concerns you about it?” Liz said.
“What concerns me is that no one seems to know exactly where it’s coming from. There’s a feeling I’m getting—from a good source now—that it may be based on very weak intelligence,” he said. “Or worse.”
“Oh,” KC said, getting it.
“In other words, some senior officials are worried that we may be about to push a story forward just to slow down Russia’s story about us,” Roger said. “Generally, fighting disinformation with disinformation is not a good idea. Especially on thi
s scale.” He peered at his bookshelf, which was stuffed with history and philosophy texts. “The concern is, if we rush out a story that doesn’t hold, then we look like we’re covering something up.”
“Which would only strengthen the Russian version,” Jon said, noticing how KC’s eyes widened at the words “covering something up.”
“It’s not possible we are covering something up, is it?” Liz asked.
“Well. I would hope not.” Roger gave her what Jon thought of as his paternal look. “There is a group within the administration, of course—and Jon has written about this—that’s been saying Russia is an underrated threat. And there’s also been the suggestion, online, that this might have been carried out by some sort of star-chamber group within the administration, independent of the White House.” Jon saw Liz mouth the word Wow. “But I would place that in the category of unfounded conspiracy theories at this point.”
KC watched Roger Yorke attentively. But Roger’s thoughts had moved on. “It’s funny, I’ve always thought Russia’s need for autocratic control was a result of its unwieldy size,” he said, glancing out the window again. “It gives them a perpetual inferiority complex. Eleven time zones, two hundred nationalities. Eleven percent of the world’s landmass.”
“But a population less than half the size of ours,” Jon offered.
“Yes.” Roger let his eyes rest on Jon’s for a moment. “And so: let’s go at this full throttle and see what happens.” He nodded to Elizabeth and KC, in turn, which was his way of thanking them but also dismissing them. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk with Jon for a minute.”
KC wasn’t pleased by this. Jon could see it in the flippancy of her body language as she rose and strode stiff-legged from the room. Her mood shifts could be abrupt, and not always synced properly with her personality. Liz, following behind, turned in the doorway to trade a smile with him. Jon got up to close the door.
“I do want to keep you on this,” Roger said, playing with the knot on his loosened tie. “Assuming you’re interested.”
“Of course I am.”
Roger’s face crinkled in a preparatory way, which meant he was about to reveal something candid. “Just so you know, KC’s a fine reporter, on congressional politics and the environment, but this isn’t her bailiwick. I know who her source is. So don’t worry. This is your story. But I do think we need to shift to a higher gear now.”
“It’s complicated by the fact that there are competing accounts out there. Noise at the expense of comprehension, as you like to say.” He fixed Jon with his most direct look, which was always a little disconcerting. “What can you tell me about your sources on these Russia meetings? You’ve heard it now from three people?”
“Including my 9:15 caller, yes, three and a half,” Jon said. Roger nodded for him to explain. “9:15 was the first. Then Craig Kettles, the congressman, talking off the record, who told me there’d been discussion of preemptive action, although he claims he wasn’t in these meetings. Then 9:15 called a second time and used the word ‘strike.’” Roger nodded almost imperceptibly. “I then went to two people in the IC who confirmed the meetings happened, but wouldn’t discuss details. Then one of them walked it back when I brought it up again on Tuesday.”
“When you say walked it back—”
“Denied it,” Jon said.
“Denied preemptive action was discussed? Or denied the meetings happened?”
“Both. Said I misunderstood his answer. Now he won’t return my calls.”
“Mmm.” Roger nodded as if all of this were making sense to him. “Okay, so—three and a half, I see.” He looked toward the Mall, his eyes receding slightly in the light. “The one who walked it back—would that be Harland Strickland, possibly?”
Jon frowned. “How—?”
“He did the same with someone else. Strickland’s the main driver, I’m told, behind this coup narrative,” Roger said, his eyes back with Jon.
“I need to talk with Strickland again, then.”
“Yes. Good.” He studied Jon. “How much help are you going to need on this?”
“Help? None,” Jon said. “Let me pursue my sources for a couple days, see what I can find.”
“Good.” Roger Yorke seemed to like that. Jon wondered if this was the real purpose of today’s meeting. “All right, then,” he said, smiling faintly. “Just keep in touch.”
“I will.” Jon walked out of Roger’s corner office fired up, ready to exorcise the Jon Niles who drank beer every night and wasted his evenings. Roger was nudging him to something better. Nudging him awake . . . Maybe that’s your story, 9:15 had told him. No, maybe you’re the story, Jon thought.
He glanced over at Liz Foster’s cubicle as he passed and nodded hello. Liz gave him a double thumbs-up. “Big stakes,” she said.
“Yep.”
“Call me later, if you want to talk about it or anything, okay?”
“Oh? Okay.” Jon hesitated for a moment, wondering what she meant by that. It was still hard to read Liz Foster sometimes. Normally, he would have stopped and tried to feel her out. But this time, he didn’t. This time he kept going.
EIGHTEEN
Western Virginia.
Growing up, Jake Briggs had always been aware of the shadowy corners of American life, look-the-other-way places where illicit deals went down: the edges of parking lots, back rooms, clearings in the woods; places where drugs and weapons were sold, where trysts were carried out, fights fought; city blocks that became floating red-light districts or open-air drug markets after dark. Places every city and community had, which managed to survive by a kind of unnatural selection, staying a few steps ahead of the law.
Ivan Delkoff was like one of those places, Briggs thought. A law unto himself, inventing his own rules as he went along. A man who probably thought that by carrying out the August 13 attack, he’d been a defender of Russia. But then again, Russia itself was like one of those places.
Briggs set out driving to Dulles that morning with Ivan Delkoff in his head. He’d gone through data searches for more than four hours and reviewed his files from the mission in Estonia, where he met Delkoff. He’d learned all he could about Delkoff’s past, his family, his temperament, his bad habits, his singular skills, his failures and successes.
Thinking like the enemy had become a cliché in intelligence circles. But for the most part, it was more a theory than a practice, an idea the bureaucracy of the IC wasn’t really built to sustain. Thinking like the enemy—really thinking like the enemy—meant allowing a demon into your head and letting it live there for a while. It wasn’t a nine-to-five job. To really think like the enemy, you also had to feel what the enemy felt; and once you’d given those feelings a space in your psyche, it could be hard to get them out. That was the part of his work Briggs didn’t like so much. Christopher Niles had that problem, too, he knew; when he worked a case, he was all in, there were no half measures. Washington didn’t always respect that. But it was okay. You could love the country without having any love for the government.
Briggs would have preferred doing this op more conventionally: going after Delkoff with a team, using a helicopter rescue unit to extract him from wherever he was hiding. But Chris had made it clear this wasn’t that kind of job. The op for Briggs was simple. He needed to find Ivan Delkoff, make contact, and give him an incentive to come in. That’s what Lindgren’s division did: small, off-the-books operations. Drug deals, Briggs called them.
It was two and a half hours from Briggs’s home in western Virginia to Dulles International Airport, where he was supposed to meet Niles and Lindgren in a conference room at ten o’clock. Donna had gotten up early to fix him a breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage. “This really isn’t much,” he’d tried telling her. “I’m being hired to find someone and talk with him, that’s all.” It wasn’t hostage rescue. It probably wouldn’t even involve weapons.
He watched the lines on the road now, the spooky early morning light rising from the fi
elds. Missing his children already. How would this week fit in their lives; where would the events in Ukraine settle in their memories? Would he ever be able to tell Jamie what he’d done in the days after the Russian president was blown out of the sky? How he’d tried to help fix things?
The countryside brightened as he approached Dulles, and his thoughts were all with Ivan Delkoff again. Briggs had a pretty good idea now where Delkoff was: he’d already mapped the escape route he’d likely taken out of Ukraine. It was not a route that CIA or anyone else would be looking at. Not right away. Lindgren, he was pretty sure, would place Delkoff in Belarus or on the outskirts of Moscow. But those locations, Briggs knew, were too obvious.
He chugged the last of his Red Bull, seeing the airport signs, feeling energized. When Briggs was working, caffeine became one of the essential food groups.
The way to get to Delkoff—assuming he was alive—was to offer him something he wanted. And Briggs knew that he could do that. He understood Ivan Delkoff. He even saw some of himself in him, although he didn’t like thinking that. Delkoff was a stoic man who had put himself on the front lines of a people’s war, a narod, fighting for an idea rather than for land or politics. Ukraine was one battle in that war. He’d also fought in Chechnya, where he’d suffered a shrapnel wound, and in Georgia and Transnistria. And Crimea, where he helped force the referendum that enabled Russia to annex the peninsula, much to the chagrin of the West. He’d given his life to the war, and lost his only son last summer to the fighting in eastern Ukraine.
But there was something less tangible, too, about Delkoff’s war. Briggs understood that human beings were by nature among the most aggressive creatures on the planet. Most people channeled those impulses into careers or sports or hobbies; some, who weren’t so fortunate, fought with them all their lives, or deadened them with drugs and alcohol. Delkoff accepted his human nature head on and tried to give it a larger purpose. Briggs liked that about him. Above everything, Delkoff wanted to believe that the sacrifices he’d made for his country, including his son and family, had not been in vain. That was what Ivan Delkoff most wanted, he sensed: to play some role in Russia’s destiny. And that’s where Briggs could help. That’s exactly what he could give him. Briggs did not even know, yet, that Christopher Niles was thinking the same thing.