by Max Karpov
“Malika made you some crabbies,” Kevin said, hesitant, it seemed, to come inside. “They’re in the refrigerator.”
“Okay, good.” With both dogs satisfied, Anna stood. Kevin often brought over Malika’s famous “crabbies”—crab meat mixed with cheese-and-horseradish spread, heated on baked bread rounds—knowing that Anna loved them.
“Want to come in and have one with me?”
“No, I can’t stay. Early meeting tomorrow,” he said, summoning his deeper, more declarative voice.
“All right, then.” After seeing him off, Anna poured an inch of scotch with a splash of water and sampled one of Malika’s crabbies. Delicious, as always. She went into Christopher’s study with her drink and checked messages for a while. The room was immaculate, as he’d left it; same as the small apartment Chris still kept downtown. She imagined where he was right now—a hotel room in London, asleep probably—and wondered what he had learned today about Andrei Turov.
She skimmed several of the sites David had given her, and discovered a few on her own, browsing through posts claiming that the US was planning “covert action” or a “BIG MOVE” against Russia. Several posts contained similar misspellings and grammatical errors, suggesting they came from the same source.
She found two emails in her in-box from Harland Strickland, the administration’s senior director for counterterrorism, and a friend. Strickland had left the same message twice: “Call ASAP when you return. We need to talk.” Anna decided it could wait until morning. Strickland was a presidential adviser with an inside track on upper-tier intelligence issues. But he was also something of a character. His “ASAP” was rarely as urgent as it sounded.
Before preparing for bed Anna studied the framed photo of Christopher on the bookshelf. It was one of her favorites, a candid moment caught last spring on a hiking trail in the Blue Ridge Mountains: Chris turned, half-smiling at her over his shoulder. Seeing the clarity and peace in his blue-gray eyes, she wondered what their life would’ve been like if they had discovered each other twenty years earlier. If he had become an academic instead of a spy.
She took a hot shower, pulled on pajamas, flossed and brushed, then crawled into bed. She lay awake for a while in the darkness, listening to a light rain in the trees through her open window. Thinking about Christopher and Greece, about how the sunlight had sparkled on the Aegean so promisingly Tuesday morning. About Russia. And the strange apprehension she’d carried home to Dulles. What had that been about?
Anna knew she couldn’t talk to anyone about Christopher’s assignment, but what David had told her tonight was a different business. Over the past two decades, she had built up a network of good contacts in the intelligence and military communities. Anna was looking forward to calling on some of them in the morning.
FIVE
Thursday, August 12. Capitol Hill, Washington.
By late morning, though, it was no clearer to Anna Carpenter what was going on with Russia than it had been the night before. She’d gone in early to her tiny “hideaway” office in the basement of the US Capitol, savoring the quiet and the chance to spend an hour by herself working the phone. But no one had told her anything she didn’t already know.
She was back in her office on the fifth floor of the Hart Senate Office Building at lunchtime, finishing a phone call, when Anna heard a familiar voice in her outer office. She looked up, surprised to see Harland Strickland, the counterterrorism adviser to the president, chatting with Ming. Anna recalled the messages he’d left her the day before: Call ASAP when you return. We need to talk.
“Greetings!” he announced, strolling in with his easy, loose-jointed stride as soon as she set her phone down. “Heard you came back early. Sorry to surprise you. Bad time?”
“No, good time. I tried to reach you earlier.”
“I saw your call.” She gestured for him to sit but Harland was already helping himself, pulling at the creases of his pants, stretching out his long legs. Harland Strickland was in his mid-sixties but looked ten years younger, his once-boyish face grown more authoritative with age and with the rakish salt-pepper goatee he’d added last year. “So— how was the trip?”
“While it lasted: perfect,” Anna said.
“Good, good.” He set the dark green file folder he was carrying on her desk, and gave Anna his customary once-over, as if she were wearing a low-cut blouse. Anna dressed conservatively; there wasn’t much to see. Strickland was a charmer, with a self-confidence that was set a notch too high, Anna sometimes thought. When she was in the midst of her divorce, they’d gone out for drinks a few times. Sometimes now he acted as if their relationship were more personal than it really was. “Talk in private?” he said, glancing at the door.
“If you’d like.”
“Have you heard about this?” He pushed the folder across her desk.
Anna opened it. Inside was a two-page printout, a news story, dateline Washington. Anna began to read, with growing surprise. After two paragraphs, she looked up. “What is this?”
“It’s the story the Post wants to run tomorrow. The Weekly American has the same thing. It was alluded to in Jon Niles’s blog this morning. As you may know.” He gave her a sober look and let it linger, implying that she had some sub-rosa connection to Christopher’s little brother. Anna continued reading.
The story he’d brought her alleged that a small group of “senior US military intelligence officials” had met “secretly” on at least three occasions to discuss allegations that the Kremlin was planning an extensive disinformation operation to damage US credibility. The discussions had included “an option for Russian regime change,” the story claimed, citing “sources speaking on condition of anonymity.”
“They sent it over for an official response,” Strickland said. “We’re not giving them one. The DNI is urging them not to run it, naturally,” he said, meaning Julia Greystone, who oversaw all seventeen US intelligence agencies. “Everyone can smell the shit-storm this would cause.”
“You’re not saying it’s true?”
“Of course it isn’t. There were no secret meetings.”
“So? Where’s it coming from? Why are they taking it seriously?”
“We don’t know. I was thinking maybe you could tell me.” The glint in his dark eyes reminded her for a moment of a drawn sword.
“Sorry,” Anna said, closing the folder, understanding now why he was here. “I just got back in town last night. I don’t know anything about it.”
He nodded, but didn’t believe her. “This isn’t something that’s come up in your committee, is it?”
Anna felt a bristle of anger, but summoned a smile. He was talking about the ongoing political tension between a group of analysts in the Defense Intelligence Agency, the external intelligence service affiliated with the defense department, and the White House. Several analysts felt that their recommendations for a harder line on Russia were being routinely discarded by a White House that often acted without the input of experts; two had asked to meet with members of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence to air their grievances. It was garden-variety partisan politics, Anna thought, more about hurt feelings than anything else. Strickland was suggesting the analysts had leaked—or invented—this story to undermine the administration, and that Anna was somehow complicit.
“This is bullshit, Harland. You know that. Don’t tie the analysts’ beefs to me. We met with them once, at their request. This never came up. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
She pushed the folder toward him; he pretended not to notice. Strickland was one of the craftier people Anna knew in the intelligence community, although his moral anchor sometimes dragged a little, she’d found. He personified what was wrong with Washington: the maze of secrets, the insiders who treated intelligence as high-stakes poker, the bloated government that fed on itself and allowed the game to go on. Harland enjoyed being a player, talking with reporters off the record, then seeing how their stories shook out in the morning papers
. It might have been largely harmless if not for the influence he seemed to have in this current administration, which far exceeded his job description.
“The trouble is,” he said, showing a practiced smile, “this makes it sound like it’s risen to the NSC level. Which is roughly the same as saying it’s risen to the White House—”
“But you said it’s not true.”
“Right, it’s not. Those socks have no elastic. Even though there are some in the Pentagon who would like to see us take a tougher stand on Russia. But no, there’s never been any talk about preemptive action or ‘regime change.’ Believe me.”
“So, why are you concerned?”
“Well, because. You know how the media twists things.” Strickland’s real concern wasn’t the story, in other words; it was what the media would do with it. His nonverbals were still implying she had some knowledge of where this story came from. “And also, we obviously have disloyalty somewhere in the administration. Which, yes, concerns me.” He tried a smile. “I’m just saying, we need to be together on this. Better having them inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in. To quote somebody.”
“LBJ.”
“Right. Anyway,” he said, taking the hint. “I didn’t know if you’d heard.”
“Sorry I can’t help you on this, Harland.”
He winked, to show that he didn’t take things too seriously; although, of course, he did. “Anyhow,” he said, patting his knees before standing, his way of closing the conversation. He took the folder back and tucked it under his arm, conceding this round. “Welcome home, Anna. You’re looking good. Really. Vacation suited you. We’ll talk soon.”
When he was gone, Anna swiveled her chair to face the computer. She wished that she could discuss this with her father, the way they used to talk at length about Russia when she’d worked at the State Department. But that was no longer possible. Anna’s parents lived in North Carolina now, and her father suffered from advanced Alzheimer’s. Although they still spoke once or twice a week, he was never lucid for more than a few seconds at a time. Like all US Senators, Anna Carpenter had her pet issues, among them cybersecurity and climate change. But her father’s disease had also made her a champion for funding Alzheimer’s research, treatment, and prevention.
Anna found Jonathan Niles’s blog and clicked today’s entry. “There’s a strange mood in Washington this week . . .” it began,
. . . particularly in the intelligence community, where officials are comparing notes about a so-called “Russia threat.” This on the heels of an outrageous story circulating over the weekend that Russia may be “sponsoring” a series of terror attacks this fall on American universities. A few of Washington’s “Russia hawks” have grabbed hold of this unsubstantiated story, calling it further evidence of US weakness against the escalating threat of Russian aggression.
At the same time, a more legitimate concern has emerged: that Russia’s ongoing military escalation may be the prelude to a move on Latvia, Estonia, or Belarus. There has even been talk among some in the IC about a US “preemptive” move to head off such an attack. One intel official—while strongly denying the claim—expressed concern that the allegation might leak to the media and be used for “political purposes.”
Anna smiled. Okay. Now Harland’s comments made more sense. She looked out the window at the massive Calder sculpture Mountains and Clouds in the atrium and made a mental note to call Jon Niles. She had only met Christopher’s half brother three or four times and still had trouble squaring his reporting with his demeanor—which struck her as aloof, scruffy, and a little fragile; he was Christopher’s opposite in some ways. He reminded her a little of her son at times, someone who lived his life in a minor key. Chris had alluded several times to the sibling “rivalry” between them, although it often seemed more like a sibling cold war.
Six hours, she thought, glancing at her desk clock. Six hours and Christopher will be home.
SIX
As the Continental flight began its descent to Dulles International Airport, Christopher Niles closed his MacBook and gazed out the window, thinking how fortunate he was to have Anna Carpenter waiting for him. Anna had awakened in Chris thoughts and feelings that had been dormant for much of his life. She had encouraged him to live differently, to cultivate a healthy poverty in his thinking, so that finding simple things could be exciting again. He was more than ready now to pick up where they’d left off.
Christopher had given Martin Lindgren his “ten minutes.” In the morning, he would hand over his report on Max Petrenko and put Andrei Turov in the rearview mirror for good. He’d decided all that in London: he was going to stay retired from the Turov business this time, regardless of what Martin had in mind. He cared too much about Anna to allow Turov into his head again.
Besides, Chris didn’t think that he was the best man for the job anymore. Not since Petrenko had identified Ivan Delkoff as the organizer of the so-called “children’s game.”
He gazed down at the Virginia countryside, recalling another late-summer afternoon at Dulles. September 14, 2001, a Friday. Chris had flown on one of the first D.C.-bound commercial flights from Europe after 9/11. He’d been on assignment in Paris then, scheduled to return on the twelfth. But no planes flew to Washington on September 12 that year. He remembered how the passengers had spontaneously broken out in applause as the plane touched down safely on that afternoon. Many people of Christopher’s generation had never before experienced the raw, gut-level patriotism they felt in the hours and days after 9/11. Many had never imagined that just the idea of America could be so threatening to anyone.
Every time he’d returned to Dulles since then, Chris felt the ghosts of that day, and recalled the audacity of what nineteen Middle Eastern men had pulled off, to the surprise of the entire American intelligence community. Using US commercial airliners as their weapons, they’d bombed the military and financial power centers of the United States, after months of training for their operation right here at US flight schools. There’s weakness in numbers. Martin was right about that.
This time, the plane landed without applause. Seatbelts clicked, cell phones chimed. The sounds of life going on. There was a new generation coming along that was learning about 9/11 as a history lesson. That worried Chris a little.
He walked out toward the concourse with his carry-on, feeling that small lift he got every time he entered an American airport: the sail of his imagination filling with something that felt like American ingenuity, mixed with the mundane sights and sounds of the airport, the smells of Cinnabon and Dunkin’ Donuts. Christopher had visited seventy-nine countries in his life; he was happy every time he returned to this one.
Seeing Anna, wearing a white skirt and black sleeveless blouse, made it better: the smart smile, the slightly wild quality in her green eyes.
“Welcome home, stranger,” she said.
“Do I know you?”
“If not, we better to get to know each other. My name’s Anna.”
“Chris,” he said.
They hugged for a long time, and walked to the baggage claim holding hands. Christopher knew then that they were okay, even if there was ground to make up.
As they walked through the concourse, he began to notice that something was different at Dulles tonight: there were armed tactical units in the corridors and an increased presence of uniformed police.
“So?” she said. “How was the ten minutes?”
“Good. I did what I was supposed to do.”
“And . . . what comes next?”
“Nothing comes next,” he said. “I meet Martin in the morning. He may want me to do something else, he may not. But if he asks, I’m going to tell him no. That was it.”
“Really.”
“Really.” He felt her hand tighten in his, always a good sign.
While they waited for his luggage, Chris told Anna in general terms about the Petrenko meeting. “I don’t know that there’s much I could do, anyway,” he said. �
�I’m going to recommend he bring in someone else, who knows more about this than I do.”
“Someone in particular?”
“Jake Briggs.”
“Oh, okay.” Anna was not a fan of Jacob Briggs, who was rough-edged and unpredictable, kind of a military cowboy. But that wasn’t going to be their concern.
“We left some unfinished business back in Greece, didn’t we?” he said, as they walked to the exit. “I wonder if we could make up for it now?”
“I think we ought to.”
Chris heard a hollow echo in the silence that followed, though, and he felt angry at himself that he’d been so easily drawn back into Andrei Turov’s world. A canine enforcement team passed them going the other way; as they reached the exit doors, a TSA officer, leaning against a railing, gave him the once-over.
“Wonder what that’s all about.”
“Unspecified chatter,” Anna said. “I noticed the same last night.”
The exit doors slid open. It was warm outside. His glasses fogged with humidity as they came into the night air of Virginia. A black Chevy Suburban pulled forward and stopped. The driver came around to open the back door for them.
Anna relayed the news from Washington while they rode away from Dulles, down I-66 toward the D.C. Beltway: all of the vague allegations flying around about Russia, and the online claims that the US was considering a “preemptive” move. Chris said nothing, absorbing it all.
“I was reading your brother’s blog this afternoon,” she said. “He seems to know more about this than I do. It makes me wonder who’s talking to him.”
“Jon’s always had his sources,” Chris said. “It’s a strange talent he has. People talk to him. He’s pretty good at what he does, actually. For a liberal, he’s not such a bad guy.”
Anna laughed quietly in the dark. “You haven’t talked to him in a while.”
