The Children's Game

by Max Karpov

  “And in the meantime,” Briggs said, this time to Martin, “it would help if we could seem interested in Belarus. Make contact with some of the people he knows there, in Gomel and Minsk. His girlfriend, his ex-wife. And it would be helpful if none of what we’re talking about is ever discussed at National Security level.”

  “It won’t be,” Martin said.

  They spent another ten minutes going over details of the op. Then they closed their respective folders and briefcases. Christopher had left out one key detail: a woman he knew in Moscow named Amira Niyzov, who would serve as his “secret weapon.” Amira would plug right in to his cover as an academic researching the Russian Orthodox Church. But it wasn’t something he could talk about yet, not even with Martin Lindgren.

  Anna Carpenter read Jon Niles’s blog as she sat in the waiting lounge at a vacant gate:

  Random observations: Supposedly it took the Civil War to change the “United States” from a plural to a singular—as in “The United States is” instead of “The United States are.” As much as we think of our country as a single entity now—with shared values, laws, and favorite television shows—the August 13 attack is showing us how divided that entity can be. With a growing number of people convinced the US did have a hand in last Friday’s assassination attempt, look for secession movements to rise up in two or three states, beginning with Texas and California. . . . Meanwhile, there are strong divisions within the administration over how to respond to the allegations, with some pushing the story that Friday’s attack was a Russian coup attempt. The conflicting stories seem straight out of the Russian playbook. Noise at the expense of comprehension. Or what the Russians call maskirova—little masquerade . . .

  Anna looked up from her tablet. Briggs, Martin, and Christopher were at last coming out of the conference room: Briggs first with that thick-legged wrestler’s walk, checking his phone; then Martin and Christopher. She watched as they said their goodbyes, a study in contrasts: Briggs compact and tense, even his laugh had attitude; Martin and Chris more at ease, Martin with his thin, graceful gestures, Chris in the moment, operating on a higher plane than when he went in, in the service of big ideas again. She had fallen in love with him in part because of that look, and the promise that came with it—a life that combined passion with the pursuit of emotional and intellectual growth. And for the most part, that’s what they were living—or had been, until Martin came for him in Greece. Anna was drawn to independence, to people who competed with themselves more than with others, a tendency that had made it difficult at times for her to form binding ties. She’d been attracted to the independence in her husband, too, although he was a very different sort of man: a Foreign Service officer who became a local politician and then, late in their marriage, decided he wanted to open a restaurant. Anna had supported him through all that, and they’d made the marriage work. She had been teaching law when they met, expecting a career in academia. But she found herself pulled increasingly toward public service. Daniel had trouble adjusting to that. He was never comfortable accompanying Anna to events where she was known and he wasn’t. She’d thought it was just another problem for them to solve. But they never did. In the end, Dan had tunneled out of the marriage, carrying on with a young woman he’d promoted from waitress to manager at his restaurant. Anna had recently learned from David that they’d finally broken up, and that he was solo again.

  “Grab a cup of coffee?” Chris said, as they walked away down the corridor.

  “I think I’m getting tired of airports,” Anna said. “How did it go?”

  “Martin’s on board with Briggs. More than I expected. Of course, he’s not risking a lot. Just two of us,” he added, trying to make a joke.

  Anna didn’t smile.

  “Sorry.” They walked in unison for a few steps, but otherwise felt out of sync. He wasn’t going to tell her a lot, Anna knew. His thoughts had gone somewhere else.

  “I have an idea how to do this,” she said. “I figure we’ve only got a window of a few days to respond. After that, our lack of response becomes our response.”

  Anna wanted to discuss his brother’s blog, and the media’s role in all this. She wanted to tell him that Jon and his magazine were part of the plan she was starting to formulate. But she could see that Christopher didn’t want to talk about that now. He had his own agenda. And that was okay, too.

  They ordered coffees and sat at a tall round table by the corridor. Chris was catching a United flight to Paris that afternoon, connecting on to Moscow. Anna watched him gazing down the concourse, distracted with his mission. She waited for his eyes to return to hers. When they did, he reached across the table and took her hands. Anna squeezed.

  “When I get back, how about we get married?” he said.

  Anna smiled, and felt her eyes moisten. Chris was still able to surprise her. “You know, I’ve always hoped you would propose to me in an airport fast-food restaurant,” she said.

  “Only the most romantic spot will do.”

  She leaned over to kiss him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Southwest of Moscow.

  The message from the Kremlin was brief and unambiguous: the president wanted Andrei Turov to travel to Novo-Ogaryovo, the presidential residence outside of Moscow, to help him prepare the speech that he’d deliver to parliament—and the world—on Friday.

  This was welcome news, even if it meant delaying Turov’s trip to Switzerland and the start of his “retirement.” Friday’s speech would be a turning point for Russia. It would be the president’s chance to explain how the US’s idea of globalism had failed, creating a culture of dissension and terrorism around the world. The president would then introduce his plan for an international anti-terror security network, to prevent future August 13s from ever happening, and render obsolete politically based military blocs such as NATO. It would be a giant step toward the eventual eradication of Americanism—with its unbounded greed, reckless militarism, and cheap sentimentality. The world was ready for something better.

  The meeting would also give Turov a chance to shore up his own relationship with the president, which Anton had confirmed was strained because of the whispering campaign by some of Putin’s advisers. Turov would remind his friend of the importance of the “fourth move” and reassure him of his loyalty.

  The request from Moscow also eased some of the loneliness that had come with the departure of Svetlana and the twins. And now Olga. Turov was relieved to have the president’s speech to focus on for a few days. He rehearsed lines in his head as he walked the grounds and swam laps in his indoor pool, knowing that the president, too, did his best thinking on his morning swims. And all weekend Turov played videos of Putin’s greatest speeches, jotting ideas, stimulated by the conviction and power of Volodya’s words.

  Four times he watched the groundbreaking Munich speech from 2007—when the president had surprised the world with his sharp warnings about the US’s global ambitions, in the midst of their Iraq debacle. “The United States has overstepped its national borders in almost all spheres,” he’d said. “Who could be pleased with that?”

  Turov’s favorite, though, was still the president’s address to the Valdai International Discussion Club, on October 24, 2014, which he watched over and over again Saturday afternoon. This was the speech where Putin made the case for a new Eurasian power base to replace the Western model, an alliance that would join Russia with China and India, keeping Moscow at its center. In the same speech, he had rebuked the US’s clumsy efforts to “reshape the world to suit their own needs and interests. Pardon the analogy, but this is the way nouveaux riches behave when they suddenly end up with a great fortune, in this case in the shape of world leadership and domination.”

  He’d gone on to describe—forcefully and eloquently, Turov thought—how, through its ill-advised interference in the Middle East, America had inadvertently created Al Qaeda in the 1980s and ISIS in the 2010s. “I never cease to be amazed by the way the Americans just keep steppin
g on the same rake, as we say here in Russia,” Putin said.

  Turov marveled at how persuasive his friend sounded. After Brezhnev’s slurred diction and the nodding manner of his successors, after Yeltsin’s pitiful, clownish behavior and Medvedev’s bumbling efforts to mimic Putin, the Russian people had a real leader, a strongman. A man destined for greatness if he wanted it. The Americans had missed the transformation Putin had undergone in 2008 when he’d trained for months with speech coaches to prepare for what was coming. The Americans, with their comic-book culture, missed a great deal.

  Fortunately, the stories about the US’s role in August 13 were more convincing than even Turov had anticipated. And the Americans were causing some of the damage now themselves, with their internal confusion over what to do.

  As he worked, Turov occasionally glanced out at the grounds, expecting to see the grandchildren, or his daughter, or even his little friend Boris, Svetlana’s cat, who used to perch on the windowsill and look in at Turov with his symmetrical black-and-white face. But all of that was gone. There was a funny new dynamic in its place: a feeling of sadness seemed to linger like a stubborn melody over his time alone.

  At two minutes before five o’clock on Sunday, Turov put aside the speech as Anton approached for his afternoon meeting. Turov was expecting an update on Ivan Delkoff.

  He waited as Anton set up his computer. First, Anton showed him the latest charts compiled by the Moscow office, ranking dozens of US media organizations on their coverage of Russia. The rankings ranged from “1” for “Very Unfriendly” to “10” for “Very Friendly.” The median continued to climb slightly above the “Friendly” line, Anton pointed out, even though many of those companies would probably dispute their rankings if given the chance.

  Anton then called up the most recent footage that his men had sent from the Donbas, showing the launch site and the charred aftermath of a warehouse fire.

  “The command base was established adjacent to the launch site,” Anton told him. “It was set on fire after the operation. We have confirmation that two men died inside. One of them, we believe, was Delkoff.”

  “So he’s dead.”

  “We think so. My man believes that Pletner may have set the fire. I will have a more complete report for you tomorrow.”

  Turov frowned. This did not sound right. “Pletner?”

  “Yes.” The two men locked eyes, but Turov was silent. “Do you think the president will ask about it when you meet with him?” Anton asked.

  “No,” Turov said, studying the steady eyes of his loyal assistant. “He’s made it clear he’s not concerned about details. Thank God. So long as there were no problems. No, he’s more concerned about his speech on Friday. As I am. But I’m glad you’ve brought me this, Anton. At least we can assure him that Delkoff is dead.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Northwest France.

  But Ivan Delkoff was not dead. Wearing a skull cap and paste-on goatee, oversized dungarees and a dark jacket, he had arrived in Riga on Sunday afternoon, carrying his fatigues and personal effects in a duffel bag. His cousin Dmitri arranged a room for him there overnight. Delkoff had passed the time reading an adventure novel by Fyodor Berezin, the writer who was being heralded as “the Russian Tom Clancy,” a reference Delkoff did not get, and his old university history book, which Delkoff preferred to the more current, Westernized-propaganda histories.

  On Monday, using a forged passport, Delkoff had boarded an afternoon airBaltic flight to Paris. It was onboard that he took a small sip of vodka, the first drink he’d allowed himself in fourteen and a half months. Immediately a door opened in Delkoff’s head, to a place that he’d nearly forgotten. When Delkoff was a young man, alcohol had been his “fuel for adventure,” he used to call it. But eventually the adventures came to interfere with his life, as they did with anyone who grew to enjoy alcohol too much. Now he was feeling the good part and wondering why he’d ever stopped. He ordered a second drink as he pondered the question, deciding to take this one more slowly than the first. His thoughts were clearly on an elevated level by then—he’d begun to imagine new routes of escape that he hadn’t considered before.

  What had happened was incredible. They’d shot the Russian president out of the sky. And yet life went on. People were reading books on the airplane and watching movies, as if nothing had happened. Quietly tapping their phones or sleeping. The muted nature of the response even made him laugh at one point, which caused a tall man several rows in front of him to swivel his head and look. The alcohol had taken Delkoff to a refuge, where he could rest with his thoughts for a few hours. Before starting over in a different country, under a different name. Someday, Turov’s men might stop hunting for him. And maybe—a year from now, perhaps longer—it was even possible that he could return to Russia and be welcomed as a hero.

  Delkoff blocked out the noise around him as he walked into the concourse at de Gaulle. He averted his eyes from the people gathered below a television set. Fighting the stimuli, the sounds and smells, the knowledge of what city he was in: all of it conspiring to stir his appetites—for conversation, for a large meal, for female companionship. Delkoff had to rely on his own internal disciplines now.

  He bought a liter of vodka at the duty-free shop, careful not to engage with the clerk, and then carried his purchase and his duffel bag to the open-air car park to meet his cousin. If he could keep his vices to vodka tonight, he would be fine.

  Little Dmitri looked the same as always, small and stout, wearing baggy old blue jeans, an open gray jacket, and an untucked flannel shirt, his brush-like mustache slightly lopsided, and walking in that determined straight-ahead way he had, the way he went through life. Delkoff loved him.

  “Well,” Delkoff said, trying to slow him down. “We did it.”

  But Dmitri didn’t want to discuss it now. “We’ll talk when we get there,” he said. He had a worried look on his face. But then, Dmitri always wore that look. “We can’t say anything in front of Artem, all right?”

  “Of course.” Artem was Little Dmitri’s driver and bodyguard, a former Russian soldier from the North Caucasus region who was nearly as big as Delkoff. Delkoff had been around him a few times before, but they’d never had a real conversation. Artem wasn’t much for small talk.

  Delkoff settled in the back seat of the SUV, feeling insulated as they pulled away from the terminal. Watching the airport parking lots and runways skim past, the lights of the Paris suburbs beginning, and then seeing the darker points of the countryside, Delkoff sipped from his vodka. The drive to the coast would take two and a half hours, Dmitri said. Delkoff was looking forward to seeing the ocean again, breathing the night sea air. It had been too many months.

  A CD of Russian folk music played quietly through the speakers, and no one spoke. It was not the sort of music Delkoff would ever play. But he began to hear familiar melodies and they reminded him of his parents, and the cooking smells from his old childhood kitchen in Kapotnya. Hearing the well-worn rhythms of “Kalinka,” Delkoff instructed Dmitri to turn it up. He began to tap along with his hand on the top of his thigh.

  “Play it again,” Delkoff said when it finished. Four more times they listened to the Russian folk song, Delkoff sipping his vodka and nodding his head in time.

  But even as he enjoyed the music, Delkoff wondered why they weren’t listening to news. Didn’t they want to know what was happening in Russia? Even if they weren’t able to talk about his operation, didn’t they want to know? Or was Dmitri overcompensating, as he often did?

  “Kalinka” ended for the fifth time and Delkoff asked Dmitri to turn it off. He wanted to think for a while. They rode for several kilometers in silence, Delkoff knowing by then that something was wrong. He should have asked Dmitri for an explanation straightaway, while they were still at the airport. He should have stopped him outside the terminal building and demanded that he tell him what he’d heard.

  He waited until they were on the westbound A13, a dozen or so kilom
eters outside the city. Then Delkoff leaned forward and tugged his cousin’s jacket collar.

  “Pull over,” he said. “Tell him to pull over. I need to piss.”

  Artem put on his flashers and pulled off to the hard shoulder of the highway. They sat there for a long moment as traffic whooshed by. Then Delkoff got out and stood waiting for his cousin. Dmitri came out with his jacket flapping in the wind.

  “Well?” he said. Delkoff turned away from the traffic, leading his cousin off the pavement. “What is it? What’s wrong? Has someone found out about me?”

  Little Dmitri just looked at his cousin, his eyes glistening in the night air. Delkoff breathing the exhaust from the SUV. “You don’t know?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Dmitri glanced at the dark countryside. He seemed to be summoning the courage to tell him. “The president,” he said. “You don’t know what happened?”

  “Of course, I know,” Delkoff said. “We shot his fucking plane out of the sky.”

  Dmitri’s eyes seemed to turn in on themselves. “The president,” he said. Then he began the sentence again: “The president wasn’t on board. He never boarded the plane. You don’t know that?”

  Ivan Delkoff stared at his little cousin as the traffic rushed past. He asked him to repeat what he had just said, because it didn’t make sense. Hearing it a second time, Delkoff grabbed Dmitri by the front of his jacket and lifted him off the ground. He felt so angry that he was tempted to carry his cousin to the highway and toss him into traffic. “What are you talking about? You’re lying!”

  “No, why would I be lying?” Dmitri said. “He’s still alive. They say he was given some warning at the last minute, telling him not to board.”

  Delkoff let go of his little cousin. This wasn’t the place to discuss it, but Dmitri tried anyway, his quavering voice drowned out by a passing truck. Delkoff turned away, letting out several profanities. He looked at the faraway glints: farms, houses; rooms where people were watching news of the Russian president on their televisions. He turned in place, looking several directions for somewhere to go. His life suddenly seemed like a cage.