The Plot to Kill Putin

by Max Karpov

  The other two turned and saw Delkoff stagger briefly, then topple forward like a felled tree. And then both of their bodies began to jerk savagely from what Briggs knew was a barrage of gunfire. Moments later, the two killers emerged calmly from the side of the house, emptying their automatic weapons into the three men.

  Briggs shifted gears. He felt the pump of adrenaline in his chest as he sped past the small private cemetery and cluster of cottages toward the coast, monitoring the undulating road behind him in the rearview mirror. Falling back on his training: he had to shut down his emotions now and think his way out of this. He couldn’t fight it. Not here. Briggs was in a one-man op. And the op had just been compromised.

  It wasn’t until he’d tucked into the stream of traffic on the two-lane coast road past the village, headed south, that he allowed himself to consider what had happened. And it was then that he first realized Ivan Delkoff had just saved his life.

  He drove through the coastal towns for twenty minutes before feeling comfortable enough to pull off at a rest stop. What Delkoff had left in his shirt pocket was a flash drive. Maybe it contained the information he would’ve given him on the drive to Paris. Maybe not. He parked beside a restroom and activated his mobile Wi-Fi device. Protocol was to contact Martin Lindgren first. Then Christopher. It was still the middle of the night in Washington, one hour later than France in Moscow.

  Briggs typed an encrypted message to Lindgren. Mission aborted, he wrote. Then he plugged in the device, downloaded the files on the flash drive, and transmitted them.

  He called Christopher later, from the outskirts of Paris, on his scrambled mobile device. “I’ve got good news and bad,” he told him. “The bad news is that I fucked up.”

  But Christopher, as he should have expected, didn’t want to hear about it.

  “Come to Moscow,” he said, before Briggs could explain. “ASAP.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday afternoon, August 17. Outskirts of Moscow.

  People give too little thought to the way things end,” Andrei Turov said as Anton drove them through the midday birch shadows on Rublyovka highway, nearing the presidential dacha. “The Greeks understood that: regardless of what a man achieves in his life, the way it ends can cancel out everything that came before.”

  Anton hummed his acknowledgement, focused on the road. He knew that Turov was talking about Russia’s president now, not the ancient Greeks. Anton played various roles for Turov—corporate manager, head of security, confidante. Listening was part of his job, and he was used to the peculiar turns of his boss’s thought process. He preferred when they spoke of Russia’s future or poked fun at people. But he could be a receptive audience, as well, when Turov turned philosopher.

  The news that Anton’s men had located Ivan Delkoff added a certain octane to Turov’s thinking this afternoon. There was no confirmation yet that he was dead, but they would have it by the end of day. And he didn’t need proof for his meeting with the president. Just knowing was enough. Turov was thinking of bigger things now. He was thinking of legacies. It was four days since the plane had been shot down over Ukraine. The news that the Americans had carried out the attack was spreading quicker than he dreamed, taking on a life of its own. Much of the world now believed the story that Russia was telling. Journalists were dutifully repeating the phrases that Turov had sent through the pipeline—“preemptive strike,” “assassination committee.” Even many respected American pundits now believed the United States had been involved. It presented Russia with a great opportunity.

  An opportunity to change his legacy. Turov was offering Putin the elusive quality that his old friend could never achieve through force of will or political maneuvering: global respect.

  He read Anton the draft of the speech as they drove, and Anton responded predictably. Turov shared nearly everything with Anton, although there was one aspect of “the children’s game” he had decided to keep to himself—at least until after his meeting with the president.

  Anton was curious, naturally, about his own future. Turov understood that. Anton had a girlfriend now, a German who spoke Russian and lived in Zurich, and he had moved his three children to Switzerland. But Anton also understood the requirements of loyalty.

  “Your speech will give him the ending he deserves,” he said, trying to sound encouraging. “No one else can do that.”

  “Thank you, Anton. Let’s just hope he is receptive.”

  Anton glanced at his boss. “You think he won’t be?”

  “I think he should be,” Turov said. “It will be a great opportunity for him. So long as he doesn’t listen to the wrong people.”

  Seeing the twenty-foot brick walls around the president’s property, Turov was struck—as he always was on this approach—by how far they had come: from the scrappy streets of Leningrad, where he and Volodya had grown up, to the heights of Russian power. Through it all, Putin had kept his earthy humor and his uncompromising values, which many of the intellectuals disliked but the common people loved. “He has the potential now to be a man for the ages,” Turov said. “So long as he continues to look at the long view, rather than his day-today survival.”

  “Yes,” Anton said. “He’s a better tactician than strategist.”

  “That is correct.” Turov smiled. Anton often repeated things Turov said, sometimes weeks or months later. He had an outstanding memory. And he was right: sometimes the president reminded Turov of Scheherazade, needing to invent a new story every day just to survive.

  When Turov was alone with the president, the two of them came up with remarkable plans for their country; they sent idea balloons into the sky and marveled at how exquisitely they rose. But in between, the president consulted with his other advisers, men who tugged him in strange directions, and he was never quite as receptive to Turov the next time they met.

  Turov’s concern all along had been that Putin might be persuaded to turn the “fourth” move over to his military commanders, those unimaginative men who had been preparing for war in the Baltics for years. A war that Russia could win—but at enormous cost. He could move into Latvia and Estonia, if he wanted, or even annex eastern Ukraine, as he’d done with the Crimea. In the current environment, he might get away with it. But if he did, his chance to be great would be compromised. And so, Turov was thinking of endings—strategies instead of tactics. For Putin, and for himself.

  Anton Konkin pulled the Mercedes sedan to a stop at the neoclassical gates. Turov and Konkin were searched, and then they continued down the fir- and birch-tree-lined road to the dacha grounds, past the residential buildings, the stables and greenhouse. Konkin stopped on the drive in front of Putin’s country house, a two-story English Gothic columned mansion built in the 1950s.

  Getting out of the car, Turov was met by a security man from the Federal Guard Service, who escorted him inside the grand doors of the mansion. He walked down the hallway to the parlor, a tall-ceilinged, paneled room dominated by an antique billiard table. Another guard brought him a bottle of water and made some small talk. It was a man Turov knew slightly, from past visits, a former security agent who’d broken his nose once playing ice hockey against the president. It had been his job to let Putin score several goals each game.

  The president did most of his business here in the country now, which kept him away from the trappings of the Kremlin. But this mansion contained its own trappings, which concerned Turov a little. Volodya was still a young, energetic man, an athlete. Yet there was a feeling here of retreat and isolation, as there was at his palace on the Black Sea. What was the job really doing to him? The president was not a family man anymore. His ex-wife Lyudmila had suffered nervous problems for years—as Turov’s own wife had, of course. He had a younger girlfriend now, although he didn’t talk about her and was reluctant to speak of his two daughters. But there was something else that bothered Turov: his friend had become a little less disciplined out here. Turov noticed it each time he visited.

  As he waited, T
urov opened the binder and read through his draft of the president’s speech, reciting how he would start: In this time of great tragedy, we also have a great opportunity. It was time to talk tough about terrorism. To set the foundation for Russia’s next decade. During the four-year interval when Putin had given up the presidency to serve as prime minister, they had managed—cleverly, with little controversy— to extend the presidential term in Russia from four years to six, so that he could remain in office until 2024. It was a lot of time to work with, if they used it properly. American leaders did not have such luxury.

  Last winter, the president had given his nod to the August 13 project in a meeting here at Novo-Ogaryovo. “This will be the catalyst,” Turov had told him. “A new door to Russia Mir, to taking back lands that are rightfully ours . . . But also, a legacy project. For Russia, and for you.”

  The president had nodded periodically as Turov explained, making it clear that he was interested in outcomes and less so in details. Turov had built his plan to the president’s idea of strategic relativism: we become stronger by weakening those powers that seek alliances against us. And by building counter-alliances, which circumvent the US dominance of global trade. In five to ten years, voila: the US-centric notion of the world has become obsolete.

  The president had listened attentively as Turov explained the four moves of “the children’s game,” which would elevate Putin, and their country. The first move had been infiltration, creating an infrastructure through a network of deep-pocketed foundations, social media campaigns, and cyber-monitoring; by putting spies in the house. Second was the event itself, August 13, the catalyst. Third was the aftermath, engineering the shift in world opinion.

  The president had seemed tired by the time Turov got to the “fourth move.” Maybe it was just the timing. “These ideas show great initiative,” he had said. “We’ll talk about it again later.”

  Later was now.

  Turov waited forty-six minutes this time for the president to summon him. Journalists sometimes sat for three hours in the parlor before their ten- or fifteen-minute audience with Vladimir Putin, so he counted himself fortunate.

  The office was large and spartan. The president’s desk was bare, as usual, except for a marble pen set, several folders stacked to his left, and a single document in front of him. On top of the folders was a leather-bound security service binder embossed with an eagle.

  They shook hands, exchanging greetings and then regrets about the national tragedy of August 13. The president’s handshake felt firmer than he remembered. The guards who had kidded with Turov in the parlor became meek choirboys in the presence of the president, lowering their heads and shuffling from the room as Turov sat.

  Alone with Putin, Turov immediately began to feel the odd gravitational pull of his old friend’s personality: there was always that temptation while in his presence to think as Putin did, to talk as he did, to chase the dreams he was chasing, rather than your own. Everyone felt it.

  “I’m saddened, naturally,” the president said, shifting in the chair, thrusting his left shoulder forward in that aggressive way he had. Turov, who had not seen Putin in several months, was struck by how his face seemed to have fleshed out a little. Putin no doubt noticed a change in him, as well. “But I am pleased by the support we have been getting,” the president said. “I’ve seen the polls.”

  “Yes. It gives us a remarkable opening,” Turov said. “For Russia and for you.”

  “There is more coming, I am told?”

  “Yes.” Turov explained to him what Anton had briefed him on that morning. “There will be a cache of leaked memos and emails confirming the ‘no fingerprints’ discussion and the transfer of funds to Kolchak, the Ukrainian, from a US-controlled account. In addition, I’m told there will be new photos from the meeting in Kiev.”

  “Evidence of direct CIA involvement?”

  “That is correct. Clear attribution.”

  The president made a sour face, pretending to be upset. “It’s a lucky thing I received warning not to board that plane. How could they do such a thing?” he said. “We must bring these people to justice.”

  “Yes.”

  “And is there any news yet on these secession movements you were talking about?”

  “That is coming,” Turov said. “Beginning in Texas. And California. It is being coordinated in Washington.”

  “By Ketchler.”

  “That’s right. Once it catches on—” Turov opened his fingers in an explosion gesture. “It will be like their homosexual marriage, or legalized marijuana. No stopping it.”

  “Our friends with the goatee beards,” the president said, which was how he often referred to liberals and intellectuals.

  “Yes,” Turov said. “But that will take more time.”

  The president pulled the document closer and leaned forward. “I am interested in this new poll I have just seen,” he said, with a casual authority. He began to read the findings aloud, his lips glistening with enthusiasm. Turov felt his face flush, but otherwise hid his response. He had seen the poll, too, showing that a majority of Russians believed their country would be justified in retaliating against Estonia and Ukraine for August 13. Turov had not expected it to be a topic of this meeting.

  Putin finally pushed the document away and nodded at Turov. “So, what do you have?”

  “You wanted to discuss your speech.”

  He nodded impatiently. Turov pulled out the draft from his binder and passed it to the president. “We need to talk about the fourth move,” Turov said. “This shift in opinion is an opening for the country, but more importantly, for you. To be an example for the rest of the world, as we’ve discussed.”

  The president paged through the draft of Friday’s speech as Turov talked about his legacy. “We can’t risk going back to the kinds of protests and riots we’ve seen in the past,” Turov said. “After all we’ve invested, we can’t lose this chance . . .”

  Turov saw the president glance at his expensive watch several minutes later and knew that he’d stopped paying attention. Finally, his old friend raised his index finger to stop him. “Okay,” he said. “We’re not ready for that discussion now. I will review this, and we will talk later.”

  Putin reached for the binder to his left. “I do have one other, more pressing concern,” he said. He opened the leather folder. Turov recognized the insignia of the GRU, Russia’s military intelligence service, on the top sheet. “My security services tell me that there was an unexpected development in the Donbas on Friday,” the president said, leaning forward again. “Before Delkoff’s men reached the border.”

  Turov felt a prickle on his scalp. “Yes. But that’s now been taken care of.”

  “I don’t want all the details,” the president said, as if he hadn’t heard. “But I am concerned, as you are. I did not want to involve security forces.” Turov nodded. This he hadn’t expected. There had been general parameters, not put in writing, and this was one: the less the president or Russia’s secret branches know, the better. Turov was an outside contractor, an independent patriot. “How soon before it is resolved?”

  “It has been. We have notification that all three of the men are dead.”

  “Including Delkoff.”

  “Yes. All three. Trust me.” Turov took a deep breath. Putin continued to look at him with his hard blue eyes and Turov understood that this wasn’t good enough. “I will have verification for you by the end of the day.”

  The president closed the folder. Turov had misjudged his friend. Volodya had little interest in talking about the televised speech, after all. Or even in the “fourth move.” The president’s concern was Ivan Delkoff, and what damage Delkoff might now cause for Russia. “Once this matter is taken care of satisfactorily,” he said, “and I have your report, then we can talk about your other business. We will meet again in two days.”

  “All right.”

  The president stood. There was an abrupt, unfamiliar tension between the
m, and Turov was reminded of the toxic effect he’d seen the president have on other men: the power to cripple a man’s confidence with just a few words. Putin could be very generous to those in his orbit; but if he stopped trusting you, he could ruin your life very quickly.

  “I do want you to spend some time away, with your family, Andrei, in Switzerland, before we move on to other things,” he said, speaking more softly as they walked through the hallway. “If anyone deserves it, you do. But we’ve got to make sure this is finished first, before you leave the country. Then we will help with your arrangements.”

  The president’s tone carried an ominous undercurrent. And Turov knew, before they reached the front doors of the house, that he would have to change his game. The president was his friend, but he was not family. They walked down the stone steps side by side, like two diplomats emerging for the cameras. Anton sat waiting behind the wheel of the Mercedes. A large black dog, Putin’s labrador, ran toward the car and stopped, as if knowing better than to get too close.

  Putin leaned in to his old friend, speaking in a low voice at the bottom of the steps, his expression no longer synchronized with his words: “You should have had him hung by the balls, Andrei,” he said. “And taken pictures of it for me.”

  Turov said nothing. He had heard these words before: the president had used them in speaking of Mikheil Saakashvili, the former governor of Odessa in Ukraine. Putin gave a quick, cordial nod to one of his FSO security men, the man who’d suffered a broken nose playing ice hockey.

  Turov and the president smiled as they shook hands, firmly and impersonally. And then Turov got in the passenger side of the sedan. Anton could see that the meeting had not gone well. But he knew better than to say anything. They rode in silence through the long stretch of birch woods, past the giant brick wall, the sunlight dappling across the forest floor. Sometimes things changed with the unexpectedness of an Arabian fairy tale, Turov thought. It was a line from Dostoevsky, a line that got stuck in his head on occasion. He thought longingly of his daughters, and the twin grandchildren. He thought of the coming season—the beauty of the first frosts in the morning on the meadow outside his office, the rain of falling leaves on autumn afternoons. He was going to have to make his own move, then; without Putin. This meeting had been a warning call. Turov even began to feel a little sorry for his old friend as they rode on into the afternoon. Knowing that any move the president made at this point involving the military would ultimately be self-destructive. And destructive to Russia. God help the president.