The Children's Game

by Max Karpov

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling on behalf of Andrei Turov.” A male voice, with a heavy Russian accent. “Mr. Turov received your message. He would like to meet with you tomorrow afternoon. He will have a driver pick you up at 2:30. I’m going to give you the location.” He did: a block Christopher knew, on the edge of Gorky Park near the river by the Metro stop.

  Chris stood at the window, watching the domes of St. Basil’s. Tomorrow afternoon. Briggs would be here by then, so the timing was fine. Perfect. The caller, he knew, was Anton Konkin, Turov’s security chief, who made all of Turov’s arrangements.

  “Come alone. Bring no recording equipment or tracking device. No weapons. Do not attempt to have anyone follow you.” He added, “If you violate any of these instructions, the meeting will be terminated. And it won’t be possible to reschedule.”

  “All right.”

  It was several hours later when Chris finally responded to Martin’s email.

  “Give me twenty-one hours,” he wrote. “That’s all I need to finish this.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Southwest of Moscow.

  The secret of wisdom is the systematic pruning away of excess,” Andrei Turov told Anton as they walked back to the main house in the dark. Anton was gripping a bucket filled with ice and four bottles of Baltika #3, his favorite beer. “So when we travel tomorrow, there is no dishonor in each of us carrying a single suitcase.”

  Anton was silent. The security detail and house staff had been sent away the day before, and they were the only two on the property tonight. Together they had locked down the buildings not in use and shut off the water and electricity to all but the main house and Anton’s cottage. Shostakovich’s opera The Nose blared from the house as they worked, adding a surreal accent of whimsy to the darkening grounds.

  Now, at last, they were going to relax. The irony of this day was that they’d received verification of Delkoff’s death just an hour after leaving the president’s dacha. Anton’s men provided images of his bullet-riddled corpse, and an incident report, all of which Turov forwarded on to the president with a personal note. Delkoff’s body would be shipped from France back to Moscow. His computer and communication devices would be turned over to Russia’s foreign intelligence agency, SVR.

  Turov had felt relieved seeing the proof of Delkoff’s death. It would buy them some time. But for practical purposes, it didn’t make a lot of difference. Turov had gone to the president’s dacha expecting to sell him a plan that would earn Putin a new respect around the world, something he couldn’t achieve on his own. And the president had been clear, as he often was: he did not trust Turov anymore. It was the sort of fissure that could not be repaired.

  So Turov had explained to Anton the operation they would run instead. He instructed him to have two security men deliver the American to a meeting at one of his properties outside of Moscow Wednesday afternoon. And for Anton to prepare to depart Russia with him afterward.

  Anton had phoned Christopher Niles at the Hotel National to arrange the meeting. Turov pictured his American counterpart as the men spoke, recalling their one meeting across a Gorky Park chess table four years ago: Niles watching with his shrewd gray-blue eyes, trying to figure Turov out. It had been an interesting game. It still was.

  “Our president could have made himself a moral example,” he told Anton as they reached the main house. Anton set down his bucket. “But instead he’s chosen the more obvious path. To do what Caesar did when he made himself emperor for life.”

  “It’s a sure way of shortening one’s life, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sadly, that’s right.”

  Turov set up deck chairs on the lawn. They sat and each opened a beer, saying nothing at first. It was a comfortable silence, the shared silence of two friends. Turov hadn’t tasted beer in weeks and the first sips intoxicated him. The air felt exciting as it cooled, stirring memories of Turov’s childhood, and of his children’s childhoods. Of long-ago expectations. The potent drug of nostalgia.

  Anton displayed his usual reserve, not speaking until spoken to. Turov looked over at one point and saw him watching the sky, fighting a smile. “What is it?” he said.

  Anton shook his head. He pointed with the neck of his beer bottle. “Do you think they ever really went there?”

  Turov looked up. The moon was bright through the trees and drifting clouds. You could see shapes on the surface tonight like the earth’s continents. “What—the Americans?” Turov said. “Well, it’s history now, isn’t it? The world believes they did, so it doesn’t matter.”

  Turov knew what he was saying: the story Russians used to tell each other, that the Americans had never really gone to the moon, that they’d created the evidence of their moon walks in a Hollywood studio and fooled the world, using special effects to show how far they’d surpassed the Soviets. “It was a typical American project, though,” Anton said.

  Turov smiled. “Spectacular, but serving no purpose, you mean.”

  “Yes. Billions of dollars spent, and who did it benefit? Money that could have been used on medical research. Or feeding the poor. Or building infrastructure.”

  “But symbolically,” Turov said. “Symbolically, it wasn’t meaningless at all. It changed how the world thought about America. It ended the space race, which, of course, we’d been winning. In some ways, the Cold War ended that day, too. In July 1969, when they planted their flag on the moon. We started that race, by sending the first satellite into orbit.”

  “And then the first man,” Anton said.

  “Yes, that’s right. But America ended it. And afterward, they became the country where you could imagine all sorts of crazy things and make them happen.”

  Anton took a swig of beer.

  “It’s funny,” Turov added. “Several years ago, the Americans admitted that they’d lost the original film of that moon landing. There were some who thought we could take advantage of that, maybe knock a few dents in their armor. Putin even spoke to me about it. Not seriously. But he asked my opinion.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That it was silly talk. In 1969, we were both very different countries. If we were going to tell that tale, we needed to do it then. Now, we have better stories to sell.”

  “The president’s plane.”

  “Yes. That is one. The world believes that now, don’t they?” Turov sipped his beer, feeling a muted pride and then a tingle of apprehension. Another long silence followed.

  “Do you think he’s going to try to stop us?” Anton said. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, watching Turov’s eyes.

  “He’d like to, yes.” Turov looked up as clouds briefly darkened the moon. “I am his friend. But he thinks I am a threat to him now. He’s not family, Anton. He’s not to the end.”

  Anton held the bottle on his right leg, looking at Turov. “Is he going to try to kill us?”

  “Probably, yes,” Turov said. “That’s why we’ve packed our suitcases and are leaving early. It’s why we’re meeting with the American. We’ll be fine, Anton,” he added. “We have something he doesn’t have.”

  Turov felt good saying that, and not having to explain. The breeze was fresh in the trees and smelled faintly of coming rain. Turov didn’t want to talk anymore. He just wanted to savor their last night here, the way he should have savored every day of his life.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The White House. Washington.

  Anna Carpenter’s meeting in the Oval Office was short by design. The president had wedged her in for five minutes, knowing that she was one of the public voices responding to the preemptive strike allegation—and, by implication, one of the voices speaking for the administration. It made sense for the president to have some face time with her.

  Anna did not have a relationship with this president, although she had a deep-abiding respect for the presidency. Before her first visit to the Oval Office seven years ago, one of her political mentors had advised her, “Put it all
out when you’re in with the president. Waste nothing.” It seemed particularly good advice today. As a first-term senator, she knew that she couldn’t count on this kind of meeting again for some time.

  The president gave her a warm but slightly awkward greeting, shaking her hand vigorously with both of his. This president was an accomplished businessman, with an ability to make people feel important—or part of something important. But he wasn’t comfortable with the intricacies of international political conflict.

  “I appreciate what you’re doing,” he said. “You’ve been a good ambassador for me and my administration. Even though they tell me you can be a troublemaker.”

  “Not really,” Anna said. They shared a smile.

  “I know you’re going on television again this afternoon,” he said. “I just want to make sure we’re all saying the right things . . . reading from the same script.”

  “Okay,” Anna said, not liking his choice of metaphor. But he’d given her an opening, and she decided to take it. “At the risk of adding to my troublemaker reputation, I guess I just wonder why the White House hasn’t been helping more.”

  He nodded, expecting the question. “That’s why I asked you here,” he said. “It’s a sensitive time right now, I don’t have to tell you that. But I want you to know that we do have good intelligence tying this to the Russian military and to a general named Vicktor Utkin.”

  “The coup story, you mean.”

  “Yes.” The president lowered his eyes for a moment. “That’s part of it,” he added cryptically. “I’m sure you’ve seen the stories saying that this administration—or even me, personally—had some involvement in the attack. Obviously, it’s a lie. But a lot of our own people aren’t saying that. A lot of them aren’t helping us out.”

  “What do you mean, that’s part of it?” Anna asked, changing the subject. “What’s the other part?”

  “The other part, frankly, has to do with one of the copilots.”

  Anna frowned. This she hadn’t heard.

  “We don’t have it all confirmed yet, and I can’t comment publicly, obviously. But I can tell you there’s going to be very strong evidence. You may even want to make some reference to it in your interviews.”

  “To the copilot?”

  “Yes. One of the copilots on that plane suffered from—I won’t say mental illness, but depression, severe depression. And may have attempted suicide on at least one occasion. As I say, we’re still confirming all that.”

  Anna said nothing at first. She didn’t know that she believed him, or what it meant even if it were true. “So, are you saying this may’ve been a suicide mission?”

  “No. We don’t know if it was or not. But we think it’s possible he was recruited by the Russian military and convinced to redirect the plane into Ukrainian air space. That’s all I can say at this point.”

  Anna noticed a momentary hesitation in his eyes. The president was a skilled persuader but also a man of surprising vulnerabilities. “If it was a coup attempt,” she said, “wouldn’t they have known Putin wasn’t on board before they brought the plane down?”

  “That’s something we’re going to have to answer,” he said. “Obviously, the president was supposed to be on board. There were reports that he did board the plane. But remember, something caused that plane to change course. We couldn’t have done that. How could we have done that? So that’s one of the questions.”

  “But what about these other stories?” Anna said. “That there was an ongoing discussion within the IC about regime change? That funds were diverted from CIA-controlled accounts to this Ukrainian oligarch—Hordiyenko? The meeting in Kiev.”

  “It didn’t happen. None of it,” the president replied brusquely. “There was a meeting in July, I’m told. In Kiev. An information-gathering meeting. But there was never talk of assassination. Never. And, by the way, this man Hordiyenko? He wasn’t there. Despite what the media’s reported.”

  “Okay.”

  “People tend to think the worst of Russia, Anna. Often for the wrong reasons. But it’s a very sensitive time right now, as you know.” The president reached for the file folder in front of him and opened it. Then, to her surprise, he began to talk about Utkin and the copilot, sharing the man’s name and details about his background.

  “I can’t tell you everything,” he said. “But I will show you very quickly what we’re dealing with, since you’re here.” He pulled a small map from the folder, which Anna recognized as the Baltic Sea region. “Just so you can see, in general terms: sixty Russian warships, support ships, and submarines left their bases yesterday to perform tactical exercises in here, all within range of Estonia. This is Estonia here. Full airborne divisions, marine units, naval strike forces. Hundreds of units. Thousands. All told, sixty thousand troops, mobilizing for war.”

  “And how is NATO responding?”

  He sighed. “Frankly? NATO’s not prepared for this. I hate to say that, but it’s true. As you know, there’s great support within Russia right now for retaliation. The Russian people actually want it. And the media there is reporting that more attacks may be coming.”

  “By us?”

  “By us. By Ukraine.” He closed the folder. “You know, people use the chess analogy to describe our relationship with Russia, Anna—if I can call you Anna. But chess is the wrong game. The game we should be talking about—and I’m told this by our generals, who know—is poker. A good poker player bluffs with a weak hand. And, sometimes, he can win with a weak hand. That’s what Russia is doing. Trying to do.”

  He pushed the folder to the side and looked at her soberly, as if debating whether to say more. “There’s one other consideration, frankly, that we have to weigh. I shouldn’t be talking about it. But I’ll just mention this so you know what we’re dealing with, before you go on television. In fact, I’m going to give you kind of a scoop right now.”

  “All right.” Anna forced a smile to meet his.

  “We’ve also, frankly, been given warnings, privately,” he said, “about how this might escalate if we aren’t careful. We do have open channels with the Kremlin and are talking to them about a possible deal. But there’s one threat on the table that—well, obviously no one wants to see, and, frankly, I’m working to make sure doesn’t happen.”

  She could read in the flatness of his eyes what he was saying. “You’re talking about the use of limited-range nuclear weapons,” she said. “Is that the threat?”

  He continued looking at her, and finally nodded slightly. “It would be the first-ever use of them in warfare, I’m told. And the only wartime use of nuclear weapons since 1945. I don’t want that to happen. Nor does the Russian president. But, you understand, this is a war they have the public’s approval to launch. The Russian public. And I’m frankly not so sure it’s our business to get in the middle of that.”

  “It’s the world’s business, isn’t it?” Anna said.

  “It may be.” He frowned at her tone. “Although, frankly, we have other enemies besides Russia, as you know.”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean, Russia is not our only enemy.”

  “Okay,” Anna said. “By other enemies—you mean, ISIS? North Korea?”

  “North Korea, maybe, but I mean internally, too. Who’s to say we don’t have enemies right here at home? People don’t like to talk about that, but it’s true.” His eyes seemed momentarily distracted. Anna recalled what Chris had said about a spy in the house helping the Russians; she wondered if it was possible the president himself was that person, or one of them. But her gut told her no. She wasn’t even sure that the president really bought the coup story. It was possible that he was only backing it because his advisers had presented it to him convincingly. Anna wasn’t going to work against the president, she decided. But she was going to work against this story.

  “Anyway, it’s a sensitive time right now,” he said, closing down the conversation. They’d gone nearly twelve minutes. “And I hope we can count on
you.”

  “I appreciate it, sir,” she said, reaching to shake his hand as he grabbed at hers. “I’ll do what I can to help.”

  Harland Strickland had called while Anna was with the president. The self-assured tone of his voice message touched a raw nerve in her. Strickland was the reason she had been summoned to the Oval Office, Anna suspected. He was among the most influential people in the intel community right now, and likely the driving force behind the coup story. There was a well-oiled rhythm of insincerity in his voice, which she knew well. But Anna had her own agenda now. She’d wait before calling him back.

  First she contacted her son David, who was working from home today. “I need to ask you something in confidence, honey. Remember what you said about Russia doing unto others as they think others want to do unto them?”

  “Okay.”

  “I wonder if you could put everything on hold for a couple of hours and check something for me—what Russia’s doing right now. Is that possible?”

  “Anything’s possible, Mom. You told me that,” he said.

  Anna smiled. She gave David the names of the Russian pilot and General Victor Utkin and asked if he could run deep data searches on both, looking for any connections between them. Anna talked quickly, echoing the resolve she’d heard in Strickland’s voice, wanting to get it done before she changed her mind. Wondering if she was crossing a line of loyalty by pursuing this. “I’ll stop over tonight,” she said. “We can talk then.”

  Finally, she called Harland Strickland. But, as often happened, she was sent to voice mail and left him a message. As she was signing off, Anna heard a familiar voice in her outer office. It took a moment to place it: Martin Lindgren.

  Ming was laughing with uncharacteristic abandon, charmed by Martin’s flattering manner. Martin seemed out of context here, though, almost as much as he had on the beach in Greece last Tuesday. In fact, it occurred to her that Martin had never been to her office on Capitol Hill before. Why now?

  THIRTY-NINE