by Max Karpov
First, though, Turov needed to take care of his new responsibility. He needed Anton to verify that Delkoff had been killed in France, and prepare a report on it. Once the report was filed, they could begin Turov’s fallback, with a return call to the American. Christopher Niles. All along, there had been two possible fourth moves. Now there was one.
“Well?” Anton finally asked. “What did he say?”
Turov looked at his colleague. He wondered how much time had passed since they’d left the brick walls of the president’s residence.
“We have some new business to discuss, Anton,” he said. “And we’re going to need to pack our suitcases. Things have just changed, I’m afraid.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Capitol Hill, Washington.
I’ve been reading your column,” Anna Carpenter said. “I just thought we might talk. It’s sort of funny, actually, that we’ve only ever met in passing.”
Jon Niles nodded and shrugged simultaneously. They were seated in Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue, three blocks from the Capitol. Jon had arrived first and ordered a Frappuccino. He was using the lid as a coaster.
“I agree with what you wrote in your blog,” Anna said. “About noise at the expense of comprehension. And about who’s causing that noise. But I also sense, reading between the lines, that you’re not entirely sure we didn’t do this.”
“Well. ‘We’ is a pretty vague term,” Jon said, allowing a smile. Anna nodded, studying him. Physically, the brothers were opposites—Christopher tall, blond, stylish; Jon average-size, darker, his shirt sleeves rolled up haphazardly, one of his collar points sticking out. They’d shared a privileged upbringing in the D.C. suburbs, and it showed in Chris on first look; with Jon, it was harder to see. “Although I think it’s possible,” he said, “that there was someone on our side who knew what was happening.”
“And why do you think that?” she said, recalling what Christopher had said about “a spy in the house”—someone on our side helping the Russians.
“A hunch. Things I’ve been told.” There was a slight flinch in his face when he began to speak, an odd sideways tilt of the head that was sort of appealing. “You don’t think so?”
“I don’t,” Anna said. “I don’t believe that we—our government— had anything to do with shooting down the plane.”
“So this story about the CIA official—Gregory Dial—meeting with the Ukrainian arms dealer—?”
“I don’t believe that story.”
“You think this was the Ukrainian military, then. Or Russian secret services?”
Anna took her time. “Off the record?” she said. “I think there’s another possibility that no one’s mentioned yet. A story the media are all sort of missing.”
“All right.” One of the cashiers kept walking past, her head down, sneaking glances at Anna as if she were some celebrity. She’d be disappointed if she knew the truth. “So what is it the media’s missing?” he said.
“The possibility that they did this themselves.”
Jon seemed unsurprised. “A coup, you mean. A military coup. And, in the process, they managed to set up the United States—”
“No, not a coup,” Anna said.
“Not a coup.” His eyes stayed with her, curious. “You’re saying, what—that Putin knew about it? That he was somehow involved?”
“I believe it’s possible, yes.” Anna’s phone pinged once; she ignored it. “Russia thinks in ways that we don’t. They were pioneers in the use of social media to spread false information, as you know, and to create false consensus. This idea of a post-truth culture that people keep talking about? Russia’s been living in that culture for years.”
“Okay,” Jon said, with a note of skepticism. “So, I guess, all we’d need, then, would be proof, right? I mean, people have spun conspiracy theories about Putin for years. That he’s had dissidents and journalists killed. But no one’s been able to prove it.”
“That may be true,” Anna said. “And maybe this is our chance to change that.” Jon narrowed his eyes. She could see the interest in his face. There was a muted sense of outrage in Jon’s writing that Anna liked. He cared that a false story was being passed off as the truth. He understood—unlike many of her fellow politicians—that truth wasn’t a point of view; that it was an edifice, carefully built, fact upon fact. And he cared that the White House wasn’t responding to this “preemptive strike” story the way it should be.
The cashier walked by again, sneaking glances as she wiped off a table.
“Do you know about the Lisa Affair?” Anna asked.
“In Germany,” he said. “Where Russia used a story about the gang rape of a Russian girl by immigrants to undermine Angela Merkel’s party in regional elections.”
“A rape that never happened.”
“Right.”
“The fact that the story was fabricated didn’t matter,” Anna said. “Russia ramped up its propaganda machine and tens of thousands of people poured into the streets to protest Merkel’s immigration policy. The result was large losses for her party in the elections.” She added, “Russia does that kind of thing often. And very well.”
Jon watched her, one eye squinting more than the other. “Okay,” he said. “So tell me this. If the story isn’t true, why hasn’t the administration come out and directly refuted it?”
“That I can’t answer,” Anna said. “Except to state the obvious: it’s infected with politics.”
“Okay.” He glanced off for a moment. “And. An unrelated question: Does your meeting with me today have anything to do with my brother? Is that why we’re here?”
Anna pretended not to be surprised. “No, I’m not on a mission for your brother. I called you on my own. Because—as I said—what you wrote in your column got my attention. And because I’m angry about what’s happening, as you are. I think we’ve been caught flat-footed, as we were on 9/11, and if we don’t respond properly, I’m afraid that the lie that’s being perpetuated wins. Russia wins.”
“9/11,” Jon said. He gave her an inquisitive frown. “That’s an interesting comparison.”
“I think it’s apt.” She hesitated for a moment before explaining. “On 9/11, we were the victim of a kind of warfare that our intelligence community hadn’t anticipated. Something similar is happening now. In a subtler way, of course. This time the target is bigger and less visible, but just as vulnerable, and not very well protected. And this time, the attack is harder to see.”
His expression seemed to flatten. “You’re talking about propaganda now,” Jon said. “Information warfare.”
“That’s part of it. But a very sophisticated propaganda. Weaponized storytelling: telling a story so convincingly, with enough simulated corroboration, that people believe it. As we’ve become increasingly fragmented, there’s a hunger for some big, unifying story. Russia understands that. And they’re preparing to tell it, at our expense.”
“What did I say in my column that interested you?” Jon said.
Anna smiled. “That someone in the administration was nervous about this preemptive strike talk getting out to the media. I won’t ask who that was,” she added. “But I’ll just say: when I read it, I immediately thought of a colleague of mine. A man you probably know: Harland Strickland.”
Jon Niles’s jaw muscles clenched slightly; clearly, she’d caught him by surprise. “So,” he said, “what are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that maybe we could work together to counteract it,” Anna said. “To tell a better story than they’re telling.”
Anna’s phone pinged: a text reminder from Ming that she had appointments.
“You know what? I hate to do this, Jon, but—how about we continue with this later,” Anna said, remembering her afternoon meeting in the Oval Office. Jon shrugged his mouth as if it didn’t matter. But she could see that it did. Very much. “Let me get through the next few hours,” she said, picking up her phone. “I think we may have a lot to talk about.”
Jon Niles always had a weakness for the offbeat—in music, film, books, and people. Until this morning, he never would’ve put Anna Carpenter in that category. On television she came across as pretty mainstream: self-assured, bright, a classic overachiever. Maybe a little too outspoken at times, but a politician, comfortable with the compromises that came with her job. This woman he’d met for coffee at Starbucks was a different story, bearing only the slightest resemblance to the Anna Carpenter he knew from television—headstrong, impatient, mischievous, and attractive in ways he’d never noticed before. It had even seemed—briefly, at least—that she might’ve been coming on to him a little, although Jon had an overactive imagination when it came to that.
Beyond his interest in Anna Carpenter’s personality, he was intrigued by the prospect of working with her to figure out what really happened on August 13. And, in particular, by what she’d said about Harland Strickland. Jon had a strange feeling about Strickland, a persuasive, influential man who was interesting to talk with but hard to pin down.
Driving away from Capitol Hill, he decided that Strickland would be his next stop. With a little detective work, Jon was able to track him to the Wheel House, a dark, leather-boothed restaurant and pub in Tysons Corner, not far from the National Counterterrorism Center, where Strickland worked when he wasn’t at the White House. Jon had made it his business to learn as much about his sources’ personal lives as he could, and Strickland, he knew, had a handful of midday haunts where he liked to hold informal lunch meetings.
Jon stepped in and let his eyes adjust, scanning the restaurant booths. He finally found Strickland seated in a back booth with two other men in business suits and loosened ties. Strickland was talking as Jon approached, his arms animated, the other men laughing politely. With his exotic features and insistent eyes, Strickland seemed more like a character actor than a counterterrorism official, Jon had always thought. His newly added goatee enhanced the effect.
He turned his head as Jon approached, and his eyebrows jutted up theatrically.
“Mr. Strickland. Jon Niles. I’m sorry—I just wanted to ask you a question.”
Strickland exaggerated a grimace, trading looks with the men across the table. Then he smiled in that accommodating way he had, casting sprays of wrinkles around his eyes, and stood, extending his hand.
“I’m sorry,” Jon said again as they walked toward the bar. “I’ve been trying to reach you for several days. I don’t know if you got my messages—”
“I didn’t, no. What can I do for you?” he said good-naturedly, placing a guiding hand on Jon’s back.
“Just needed to clarify something.”
“All right.” Strickland stopped in the corridor by the restrooms.
“When I talked with you last week, you confirmed to me that this Russia committee had discussed some sort of preemptive action by the US. But the last time we talked, you said that there hadn’t been any discussion of it.”
“That’s correct.”
“So I’m confused. Because I’m getting confirmation elsewhere now that the conversation did happen. I’m sure you’ve seen these latest reports—”
“Well, no, I think we’re talking about two different things here.” He stifled a smile, as if it were all a misunderstanding. “This is because of the paper, right? The editorials?”
“No,” Jon said. “I’m talking about our conversations. You were very specific the first time we talked about it. You said this discussion happened—”
“No, no. Look.” A wide grin creased his face. “Whether there ever was a conversation to that effect or not—and I think we’re talking about two different conversations, but that isn’t the point—the real question is, was there ever serious talk about regime change? And the answer is, unequivocally, no, there wasn’t.”
“So, in other words, you’re not denying there was a meeting at which regime—”
“I’m not denying anything,” he said. “I’m denying it matters. Okay?” Strickland had begun to breathe through his nose, Jon noticed, a sign he was becoming agitated. They moved sideways against the wall to let a man pass, coming out of the men’s room. Strickland summoned a gentler tone and continued: “What I’m denying, and you can quote me on this if you’d like, although I’d prefer you didn’t, is that there never was a plan—or knowledge of a plan—to take any sort of preemptive action on Russia. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And that’s it, basically.” He glanced at his watch. “But look. I need to get back to the office. You can walk with me to the parking garage if you’d like.”
“All right.”
He took his time paying the bill and saying goodbye to his friends, a cordial man whose graciousness made Jon feel like a predator. Strickland led the way out into the August heat, walking with his loose-limbed, self-assured stride, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“We’re off the record here, right?”
“If you want.”
“So, look. Again. Just to clarify: there never was any discussion of a preemptive move against Russia. Okay? And that’s it, basically.”
“Never a serious discussion, you mean.”
“Right. Or any discussion. But you see how these things get twisted?” He stopped and faced Jon in the shadows of the garage entrance. “As you know, there are people who think we’re taking Russia too lightly. I understand that. Eighty-five percent of NSC meetings over the past twelve months have been on the Middle East. Okay? Unpredictability: that’s the hallmark of Russian foreign policy. And frankly, we could take a lesson from them.”
“And what about this ‘no fingerprints’ allegation?” Jon said, hearing a familiar echo in what Strickland had just said. “Where did that come from? Wasn’t that discussed in one of these meetings?”
“I have no idea where that came from. None. All right?” He turned and began to walk the incline to his car. “Unless it was something one of the generals said,” he added. “But it would’ve been in the context of war-gaming.”
“Rickenbach?”
“I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t in the room. But I mean, even if someone said it, so what?” He smiled, shifting his tone again. “And, of course, if you report that, you’re only drawing thunder from the real story.”
“Which is what? What is the real story?” Jon said.
“The real story”—Strickland stopped walking again, surveying Jon—“is that Russia’s military did this, okay, and I guess—from what I’m hearing—they’re blaming us now? Which is how they do it. And a frightening prospect, considering the nuclear arsenal they’re sitting on. Do you know, our two countries make up less than seven percent of the world’s population but control ninety-three percent of its nuclear weapons?”
“Yes, I do,” Jon said.
“And so that’s where this is headed, frankly. And that’s why the White House has been careful. They’re getting their ducks lined up. As they should.”
“To say it was a coup attempt?”
“Coup attempt, right. Their generals, not ours.” Strickland began walking again. “Look, don’t make this more complicated than it is. What we have—will have—is incontrovertible evidence. As I say, they’re in the process of dotting all the i’s right now.”
“Evidence of—?”
“What you just called it: a coup. A plot that did involve this oligarch Hordiyenko. Hordiyenko, as you know, plays both sides. It would’ve been easy for the Russian generals to do business with him and set this up to look like a Ukrainian operation.
“Putin’s security detail evidently caught on at the last minute and kept him off that plane, as you know. The man leads a charmed life, doesn’t he? I’d hate to see what becomes of those generals,” he added, smiling.
Strickland pointed his key fob at a Lexus sedan. The locks slid open. The story was beginning to feel confusing again and Jon wondered if that was the idea. Noise at the expense of comprehension. But whose idea?
“You’re not getting any of this from me,” Strickland said, seeming anxious to go, “but I can tell you a name. That might give you a little leg up on the competition. It’s going to be out in a few hours anyway.”
“Okay.”
“The man in the Russian military who ordered the attack, I understand, is named Utkin. General Viktor Utkin. As I say, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.” He winked. “Now, do this country a favor and report that and stop trying to blame us, okay? Give America a break.”
Jon nodded and tried to apologize again, but Harland Strickland was already pulling at the creases on his pants legs, getting into the car. He waved to Jon as he drove away.
As soon as Strickland was gone, Jon walked back into the sunlight and called his editor Roger Yorke.
“I’ve got a name,” he said. “Supposedly the Russian general who ordered the attack.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Roger’s voice had its familiar neutral tone.
“The name I was given was General Utkin, Viktor Utkin,” he said. “Is that a name you’ve heard?”
There was a long silence, Roger making his odd purring sound, an indication there might be a problem with this information. “I’ve heard it, yes,” Roger said. “But I don’t know that it’s the right one. Utkin. There’s actually an old story about Viktor Utkin.” Jon waited. “I’m getting a different name, actually,” he said. “The name I’m getting is Ivan Delkoff. He’s kind of a renegade colonel in Russia’s military intelligence branch, the GRU. Important figure for Russia in eastern Ukraine, supporting the rebels. He was called back to Moscow in the spring, evidently, and may have hired the men who carried out the attack.”
