The Plot to Kill Putin

by Max Karpov

  “So, we did meet with Hordiyenko. The meeting in Kiev—?”

  “The meeting in Kiev happened,” he said. “As you can see.”

  “And the secret meetings in Washington—about regime change?”

  “The Russia Strategic Planning Group, we called it. I was there for those, too, yes.”

  Anna dropped her gaze to the photos again, trying to imagine some benign explanation. “But it wasn’t an assassination committee, as the media are calling it. You weren’t meeting to discuss regime change in Russia?”

  He exhaled audibly. “No. It was never called that. But we met. And we discussed regime change. Among other things. Many other things. The meeting in Kiev came out of those discussions. I was sent there, along with Maya Coles.”

  So was this why the administration was pushing the coup story? Anna wondered. Was it just to keep the real story out of the news? Did the president know all this? And was Greg Dial the spy in the house, who’d assisted the Russia plot?

  “Help me understand, then,” she said. “What happened at this meeting exactly? I was told it was exploratory, part of an information-gathering mission.”

  He shrugged. “‘Information-gathering,’ okay. We were looking at ways of dealing with the Russia threat in Ukraine. That was the information we were gathering. As you know, Russia is very threatened by what’s going on there. If Ukraine succeeds as a sovereign nation, Russia’s role in the region will be greatly diminished.”

  “So you went there and you met with Hordiyenko, Delkoff, and this Ukrainian military commander.”

  “No. We met with Hordiyenko’s agent. Hordiyenko wasn’t there.” Anna felt a momentary relief. The president was right about that, anyway. “Hordiyenko is aligned with anti-Russian interests in Ukraine. He’s someone we thought we might cultivate a relationship with. That’s all it was. We met in a private room at a restaurant in Kiev. And discussed various things: politics, where the economy of the Donbas is headed, Russia’s efforts to set up control there—replacing Ukrainian street signs with Russian street signs, for instance.”

  “But nothing was said about assassinating the president.”

  “Not in Kiev, no. Not a word.” Anna sighed. “Of course,” Greg said, “looking at it now, I see the whole thing must’ve been staged, to produce this.” He tapped one of the images.

  “You didn’t know your picture was being taken?”

  “No, of course not. Until this morning, I had no idea. Not until this showed up at my office and I received the call from Associated Press.” Anna recalled something Christopher had told her once: how Russia was winning at games we didn’t even know were being played. “Hordiyenko’s man contacted us about a meeting,” he said. “We went. Delkoff sat across from me for all of five minutes. He didn’t say a word. Then he left. Kolchak, the missile captain, was with him. I asked at the time why they were there. No one had a good answer. Now I know.”

  “We can’t just let this go out,” Anna said. “We need to respond, to say what it really is.”

  “Perhaps,” Dial said. “But that isn’t my job.” He began to gather the images. “I spoke earlier to the president’s chief of staff. I spoke to the DNI. I’m now speaking with you. I’m not going to push it beyond that,” he said. “I hear now that the White House wants to send out a different story,” he added. “A counter story.”

  “Yes, apparently.” Counter story? Was that what the coup allegation was? Anna thought about Turov: how he arranged simple but potent deceptions. If Ivan Delkoff was working for Turov, it would’ve been easy to put him in a meeting with an American intelligence officer long enough to have their photo taken together. A tactic from the Russian playbook.

  “Tell me how this started,” Anna said. “Tell me about the meetings of this secret committee. There were five people in the room, I was told.” Dial lifted his chin, affirmatively. “Maya Coles. Edward Sears from the State Department. You. Two military?”

  “One military.”

  “Rickenbach.”

  “Mmm.”

  “All right. And so who was the fifth?” She stared into his face, waiting, understanding why Gregory Dial would have been chosen: a loyal intelligence veteran with connections to Russia and the former Soviet states, an ability to work back channels, an aversion to publicity.

  “The fifth man in the room was the head of our little committee,” he said. “He was also the man who set up Kiev. Our contact point with Hordiyenko.”

  Anna’s heart began to beat faster. Dial looked at her a long time. He was waiting for Anna to say it. “Not Harland Strickland?”

  He moved his head just enough for her to see that his answer was yes. “I don’t know how far you want to take that, Anna,” he said. “I have issues with Harland, which pertain mostly to his personal life.”

  “Personal life?” But she could see that he wasn’t going to explain that. “What role did Harland play in this? He called the meetings? Was he part of the setup?”

  “Strickland called the meetings, yes. Candidly? It was his committee. And he was our liaison with Hordiyenko. The idea of regime change: it was his.”

  “So, he contacted Hordiyenko?”

  “No. I said he was our liaison.”

  “In other words, they contacted him?”

  “That’s what I understand. But I can’t tell you the rest of it. I don’t know what was driving him, if he was acting on the president’s directive or someone else’s. Or if he was working with Russia. And I don’t know if he was part of the setup, to answer your question.”

  “But since Friday,” Anna said, “he’s denied—to me and others—that these conversations ever happened. Or that he was on this committee.”

  “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 Sh
akespeare 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 k
iss 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.