The Children's Game

by Max Karpov

  “Yes. I know.” Gregory Dial smiled unevenly. “Once it got out in the media that maybe we were involved, he began telling people it wasn’t true. I don’t know why. But I guess it’s reasonable to assume he’s covering something up.”

  “And your guess would be—?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Anna. I think, candidly, it’s possible that we were involved. That we did provide assistance, as the stories are saying. I hope that isn’t true. But you asked me.”

  Either way, that’s going to be the appearance, Anna thought. “Would you talk about any of this off the record?” she said, thinking of Jon Niles again.

  Gregory Dial was shaking his head before she finished her question. “We used to have a saying, Anna. The more you stir something, the worse it smells. I came here as a courtesy, because I wanted you to know the score. I regret having been involved in this, frankly. But I’m not going to get into a shit-fight with Harland Strickland or anyone else. I don’t think that would serve any useful purpose. And I know it wouldn’t do anything for our country.”

  “But we can’t let this go out just because we’re afraid of getting into a fight, can we?” she said, feeling a surge of anger. Greg Dial showed no expression. That’s how he did things. “Will you think about it?”

  “If you’d like me to, Anna, of course I will,” he said, sounding gentlemanly as he lifted his satchel. “But I’m not going to do it,” he added. “Say hello to your father for me.”

  Anna felt betrayed and a little numb. She stared out the window for a long time after Gregory Dial said goodbye. Finally, she called Jon. “Where are you?” she said, as if it mattered.

  FORTY-THREE

  Jon Niles needed a drink. His girlfriend Carole Katz had left him another voice message during his meeting with Roger Yorke. That made three calls from her that he hadn’t returned. Responding now felt more complicated than it would have if he’d just returned the first one.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her, walking to his car. “I’ve been kind of buried in this story.”

  “I can imagine. I was watching on television. How about we meet for a drink later?” she said. “Can you get away?”

  “Oh. A drink? Sure. Why not?” That was easy, Jon thought. He let Carole pick the spot: a tapas bar downtown, near the Shakespeare Theatre, a place Jon had never been to and wouldn’t have imagined she knew about. As he drove off, he thought of their early days together, after the improbable meeting at a checkout line in Safeway. It’d been sort of “cosmic,” she used to say, how much they had in common back then, not just similar interests, but the same favorite lines in songs and films. The trouble was, mutual interests alone weren’t the basis for a lasting relationship. Not that Jon was exactly a relationship expert. He’d gone through a series of girlfriends over the years, pursuing women—or letting them pursue him—mostly for the wrong reasons, following his curiosity often more than his common sense; sometimes pursuing women who were completely wrong, or out of his league. Women like Anna Carpenter.

  Speak of the devil. There she was, calling for him as Jon made the turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” Anna said. “Where are you?”

  “Me? Driving. Downtown,” Jon said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m headed over to my son’s for dinner. Listen. I need to tell you a few things.”

  “Okay. I do, too.” Jon coughed, expecting that she wanted to talk about Delkoff’s “Declaration.” Or maybe there was news about his brother.

  “I just met with Gregory Dial,” she said.

  “Oh,” Jon said. “He called you back?”

  “No, he came by my office. I can’t talk about it over the phone, but there’s going to be more coming out and—”

  Processing that, Jon didn’t notice a red light until he was into the intersection. Horns blared. Brakes slammed. He took a deep breath after reaching the other side. “. . . but he also mentioned Strickland,” Anna was saying. “Something about his personal life that I can’t—”

  “Strickland?”

  “So we need to talk in person, okay? Actually: what are you doing now?”

  “Right now?”

  “If you’d like, you could come over and join us for dinner. You could meet my son. He might even be able to help you on your story.”

  “Well, I’d like to,” Jon said, catching what sounded like a flirtatious intonation in her voice again. He glanced at the dash clock, feeling his heart begin to race. He was just three blocks from the restaurant. “I do have another appointment this evening. Could we talk later? After your dinner, maybe?”

  “Sure. Later’s fine,” she said in her poised, pleasant tone. Jon seriously thought for a moment about skipping Carole and calling Anna back as he came to the parking garage. He hit a button to get out of talk radio. Thinking of two roads diverging in a wood: how his life might be different if he chose to meet Anna Carpenter tonight instead of Carole Katz. He thought about what Roger had called the “smoking gun”: evidence that the attack was supported, if not engineered, by the US government. Did that involve Gregory Dial?

  He pulled into a space and parked, keeping his engine running. And then, incredibly, the guitar and harmonica opening of “Visions of Johanna” came on. It was Carole’s favorite song—one of them, anyway. Jon turned it up, indulging himself for a few moments—Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re tryin’ to be so quiet? We sit here stranded, though we’re all doin’ our best to deny it . . . before shutting it off.

  Carole was already seated at a small window table by the entrance, watching for him. She looked good, a little dressed up in a thin black jacket and a royal blue dress shirt. She rose to give him a quick kiss and they sat. She’d already ordered Jon a beer, Budweiser in the bottle. Odd she wanted to meet here of all places, he thought, glancing around the restaurant. Jon decided that he was going to open up with Carole tonight; share some details of the story, let her into his life a little more.

  “You look great,” he said.

  She smiled but kept on her serious face. Carole was thirty-nine, a graphic designer and illustrator. An earthy, intelligent woman, with thick dark hair, pale skin, fullish breasts, and a surprising laugh. But she was idiosyncratic: comfortable around men more than women; nervous in large chain stores; nearly always dressed in black. She straightened her napkin. Jon thought about her bowl of matchbooks.

  “I know it’s a busy day for you,” she said. “I saw the news. A lot happening.”

  “There is. I’m really glad to see you, though,” he said, making his tone a little more measured, to meet hers.

  “I just thought it might be nice for us to talk,” she said. “It’s been so hard reaching you.”

  “I know. And I do apologize.” Jon could see as he cleared his throat that he should have done the apology first.

  “No biggie,” she said. “I actually like that you’re so involved in this. I think it’s good for you. With the way this story’s going and everything else—”

  “Mmm hmm. So—Wait, you’re not going to say you want to break up, are you? That’s not what this is about?”

  “No.” She showed him a hard, unfamiliar expression. “But I think it wouldn’t hurt if we allowed each other a little space for a while.”

  “Oh.” Jon glanced at the television, saw the Breaking News banner. What timing. There was something new going on with the Ukrainian oligarch—Hordiyenko.

  “You said the other day how you ought to be spending more time with this story,” Carole said. “I just feel like I’m keeping you from it. From who you want to be.”

  “No. I didn’t—I mean—”

  “But you know what? Maybe it’s keeping me from what I want to do, too,” she said, nailing him with her eyes. “We do spend a lot of time sitting in the yard drinking beer and getting high. And a lot of nights I just sort of wait for you to show up. Which is strictly my own fault, I know—” This made her tear up and look away. Jon
glanced again at the TV: there was a blurry shot of Ivan Delkoff now, a big, brutish man with a flat expression, large ears, and nonexistent lips. “It’s like we’ve become each other’s bad habits in a way.”

  She was right about that, Jon knew. He was actually impressed that she had the guts to call them out on it.

  “I remember, you told me once that the one thing you do well is journalism, and you’re not so good at anything else.”

  “I wish you hadn’t remembered that,” Jon said. “Because it’s really more—”

  “And I just don’t want to stand in the way of what you love. Which I feel I’m doing.”

  “Mmm mmm.” Jon felt a slow storm of anger forming, the natural reaction to rejection. But at the same time, he wondered if this Breaking News story was anything; he debated for a moment asking the bartender to turn it up. “Is this open at all for discussion?” he said, trying to sound steady. “I mean, is there any middle ground?”

  “I’d just like to take some time apart,” she said, gazing at the backs of her hands. “I’m not saying we can’t stay in contact, or be friends.”

  “Okay.” It felt like a high school breakup now, the part about staying friends.

  “Let’s just see how it goes,” she said. “Nothing has to be etched in stone.”

  “Right.” What timing, he thought again: we’re potentially three days away from World War III and she wants to break up? “Why’re you dressed up, anyway?”

  “I’m meeting some people from work at the theater,” she said. “No biggie.”

  She did this on occasion: went out to a show or dinner with “people” from work. She reached across the table for his hands. Her deep brown eyes glistened. Her fingers felt warm and fleshy around his.

  “Let’s talk again tomorrow or the next day. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  “Good.” She pulled her hands away and looked at her watch. “I better go. Call me if you want.”

  “Okay. Right.” Tomorrow or the next day. Jon walked her out front. The Shakespeare Theatre was on the corner and she didn’t seem to want him going all the way. He wondered if the “people” she was meeting was really one person. If so, it was strange asking to meet Jon here. But so was Carole.

  “Enjoy the show,” he said. She gave him a kiss on one cheek and turned. He watched her walk down the block with an independent hitch to her step, a very lovely stranger all of a sudden.

  The waitress gave Jon a dejected clown-face look when he walked back in, as if she’d heard the whole conversation. Jon ordered another beer and his check, watching CNN. Missing Carole already. He sat for a long time, it seemed, waiting for the check, thinking about where he might stop on the way home to buy a pint of Old Grand-Dad for a nightcap. Then he saw Anderson Cooper talking about Texas secession and felt himself pulled back into the story.

  He stepped up to the bar, turning sideways so he could hear the TV. “What do you think’s going to happen?” he asked the bartender when it went to commercial. She’d been staring at the TV but seemed surprised by the question; he could see she hadn’t been paying attention.

  “Nuclear annihilation,” a man at the bar said. “Texas will be the only state left standing.”

  Jon smiled. Something was playing on the edge of his consciousness, though, like a vaguely familiar song, tickling at his memory and fading before he could figure what it was. There: a raised voice, out of context, saying, “You cannot be serious.” Cannot instead of can’t.

  Back at the table, Jon glanced discreetly around the restaurant, trying to stay cool as he waited for his check. The familiar voice seemed to be coming from a table of four across the room. But when he heard it again, it was behind him: “No, you don’t even want to talk about this.” Pronouncing “this” with a faint accent, so it almost sounded like “dis.”

  Where is my check? Jon stood and flapped his arms, but no one noticed. He walked around the bar looking for his waitress. But, also, listening. The familiar voice had faded out again like a late-night radio signal. Of course, it was possible Jon was imagining this. It might even be some kind of weird meltdown he was having, triggered by what Carole had just done.

  But seated again, finishing his beer, Jon heard the voice more clearly. He looked at the doorway and saw the woman passing right by him, out into the street—young and slim, in a knee-length black dress, accompanied by a heavyset older man in a dark suit.

  And that’s when he felt certain: it was her. The voice belonged to Jon’s mystery source. 9:15.

  He left a twenty on the table and rushed out, pulling his cell phone as a prop. He began to follow, staying a dozen paces behind as they walked down the street past the theater. But it didn’t matter: they were carrying on an animated conversation, too engaged to notice him. The woman was average height, but thin-hipped, well-dressed, with short dark hair and a slightly labored walk, as if her shoes were too tight. Not at all how he’d pictured her.

  They stopped in the next block, and their argument suddenly flared up: the woman gesturing emphatically, her right hand poofing open in front of the man’s face at one point, as if she were casting a spell on him, or maybe a curse.

  Jon gazed at his cell phone as he strained to hear what they were saying. The woman was young—not much more than twenty, he guessed. The man was at least twenty-five years older, heavy-jowled, gray, wearing a slightly oversized suit, no tie. Maybe her father.

  They went two more blocks, saying nothing. Then the woman stopped beside an old model Jaguar parked at the curb. The man rounded the back of the car and opened the door for her. The woman glanced quickly Jon’s way, and he saw the unusual cast of her face—tall cheekbones and a wide mouth; smooth skin, like the face of a child.

  Jon began to memorize the license plate number, watching as the car jerked away from the curb. Then he made his first phone call.

  The DMV registration on the Jaguar came back to a man named Michael Ketchler. Forty-nine years old, home address a residence in Fairfax, Virginia. It took just a few minutes of online sleuthing for Jon to learn that Ketchler was a Washington attorney, a partner in the firm of Carrick & Carson Associates. There was a Russian connection, too: Ketchler had lived in Moscow during the mid-2000s, according to one bio, and worked for a year or so as a company attorney for Sputnik, the Russian news organization based in Washington.

  Jon remembered what Anna Carpenter had said earlier about her son. David Carpenter was, among other things, a “penetration tester,” who sought out vulnerabilities in computer networks. But he could also negotiate his way around the dark web and access databases that Jon couldn’t. His next call was to Anna.

  “Sorry to bother you so late,” he said.

  “It isn’t late. What’s up?”

  “Remember when you asked me about my sources on this story?” Jon said.

  “Kind of.”

  “I have an anonymous one,” Jon said. “She was the first person who told me about the preemptive strike discussion. 9:15, I call her.”

  “9:15?”

  “Yeah. Each time we’ve talked, that’s when she’s called. 9:15 in the evening. She’s the one who told me about the ‘no fingerprints’ thing,” he said.

  “All right.”

  “My editor, Roger Yorke, thinks that finding 9:15’s motivation might be the real story here.”

  “Hard to do when she’s anonymous.”

  “I know. Except that kind of just changed. I think I just saw her.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t have a name yet, but I just got an ID for the man she was with. I was wondering if maybe your son could help me dig a little deeper. I know he has access to databases. I don’t know, I just thought, if he could run some searches, the magazine will cover whatever—”

  “Oh.” Anna laughed, her good nature immediately contagious. “Of course, he’ll help. He’d be glad to.”

  “Good.” Jon took a breath. “So. I was wondering: how could I reach him?”

  “David
? I’m sitting next to him. He’d be delighted to help you. But call on his phone,” she said, and she gave him the number.

  Jon looked out at the street, the night shadows, the pieces of sky among the buildings. David Carpenter answered on the first ring.

  “Hey,” he said, receptive in a gruff, low-energy sort of way. Not exactly “delighted.”

  He listened silently as Jon explained what he now knew about Michael Ketchler.

  “Anything you can add to the picture would help,” Jon said. “Especially if he’s married or has a girlfriend. Or a daughter.” He described the woman he had seen earlier with Ketchler: early twenties, thin, short dark hair, five foot five or six. “Any images you can find of him with women matching that description would be helpful.”

  “All right. I’ll have something for you by six, then,” David said, his tone surprisingly matter of fact.

  “Six—?”

  “A.m. I work at night,” David explained. “It’s quieter. I’ll send you a file in the morning.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Wednesday, August 18. Moscow.

  Jake Briggs walked across the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge toward Red Square, stopping at the spot where Boris Nemtsov had been murdered in February 2015. He looked out at the river and the crazy-colored onion domes of St. Basil’s, the famous cathedral built by Ivan the Terrible in the sixteenth century, now Moscow’s most recognizable tourist site.

  Briggs knew the story about Nemtsov’s murder: the former deputy prime minister turned opposition leader was shot here on a Friday night while walking home from dinner with his girlfriend. Two weeks before the killing, Nemtsov had written on a Russian blog, “I’m afraid Putin will kill me.” They were crossing the bridge at 11:40 when a car stopped behind him; a gunman got out and shot Nemtsov four times in the back. Nemtsov had been planning to lead an anti-Putin rally in Red Square that Sunday; he’d also been finalizing a report on Russia’s clandestine military role in Ukraine. The killing turned Sunday’s rally into a memorial and sent the opposition movement into retreat.